When I opened my eyes, I was thrust straight into the climax of a toxic alpha-male fantasy. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth, pointing a manicured finger at the illuminated world map on the mahogany wall. “Finance,” he barked, his voice dripping with that manufactured baritone of a man who watched too many Wall Street movies. “I want a hostile takeover of this multinational conglomerate by noon. Money… is no object.” I blinked against the glaring morning light. I looked down at the iPad in my hands, pulling up the master corporate account ledger. Current available balance: $34.50. A laugh ripped out of my throat—a harsh, entirely unladylike snort that echoed in the cavernous penthouse office. “Money isn’t the object?” I asked, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. “The object is that we have no money. Even that pre-embargo Cuban you’re smoking to look intimidating? I put that on my personal American Express yesterday.” God, what a nightmare. I had somehow woken up trapped in the body of a punching-bag Chief Financial Officer in a trashy, male-gazey corporate romance novel. The plot was infuriatingly predictable: the arrogant billionaire protagonist, desperate to impress the doe-eyed female lead, casually orders his CFO to mobilize three billion dollars in ten minutes to destroy a rival company. In the original story, the CFO couldn’t produce the money, was fired for “incompetence,” blacklisted from the entire financial sector, and eventually died of exhaustion working minimum-wage delivery jobs. It was the kind of toxic narrative that made me want to get my stomach pumped. 01 “That’s impossible! My company is valued at a billion dollars! How could we possibly only have thirty-four dollars?” “Valuation is valuation. Cash flow is cash flow,” I said, my tone as flat and cold as the marble desk between us. “Preston,” I continued, leaning back in my ergonomic chair. “Last week, to celebrate Madison’s birthday, you rented out every digital billboard in Times Square. That was four million dollars.” “The week before that, you decided to take Madison to see the penguins in Antarctica. The non-refundable deposit on the Gulfstream G650 was seven million.” “And before that, you said you were feeling ‘existentially unfulfilled’ and blew twenty-five million at the roulette tables in Vegas.” With every line item I listed, Preston Harrington’s perfectly tanned face darkened by a shade. “Shut up! That’s pocket change! I am the CEO. What’s the problem with spending a little money?” Humiliated and furious, he brought the cigar to his lips, a desperate attempt to regain his dominant posture. I gave him a dead-eyed stare. “That box of cigars was nine hundred dollars.” Preston’s hand froze. He offered a disdainful sneer. “What? You want a puff? I don’t mind throwing you a bone.” I calmly pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, opened the Amex app, pulled up the itemized receipt, and slid it across the desk until it bumped against his knuckles. “No. What I mean is, you forced me to put it on my personal card last night because the corporate card was declined. Since the company account currently holds the exact price of a cheap lunch for two, I need you to reimburse me that nine hundred dollars. Today is my billing cycle cutoff, and I refuse to let my credit score take a hit because you wanted to play mob boss.” “Natalie! You—!” Preston hurled the cigar onto the floor, the expensive tobacco instantly crumbling into a messy, pathetic heap on the Persian rug. “You dare nickel-and-dime me? You want reimbursement for this garbage? I can see you don’t want to work here anymore! Get out! Pack your desk and get the hell out of my building!” Ah, there it was. The classic line. I didn’t move a muscle. Instead, I reached into my leather briefcase, pulled out a thick, beautifully bound copy of my executive employment contract, and slammed it onto the desk. The crack of the heavy paper hitting the wood was deafening, far more impactful than his little temper tantrum. “You can fire me,” I said, my voice dropping into a register of absolute calm. “I am the CFO. I’ve been here three years. My base salary is six hundred thousand a year.” I tapped the contract with a manicured fingernail. “According to the termination clauses we negotiated, along with state labor laws regarding wrongful termination without cause, you owe me my full severance package, unvested stock options, unused PTO, and overtime. Let’s round it down to be generous. Four million, five hundred thousand dollars.” I opened my palm and held it out toward him. “Cut the check, and I’ll walk out that door right now.” “Short me a single penny, and I will file a lawsuit so fast your head will spin. And while I’m at it, I’ll file an injunction to freeze your personal assets. Including that matte black Ferrari downstairs that you haven’t even registered yet.” Preston froze. He was an arrogant trust-fund baby, and his brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders, but even he understood the words ‘freeze the Ferrari.’ “What the hell is wrongful termination? I own this entire company! I can tell whoever I want to get lost! The law? In this building, I am the law!” It was then that Madison finally seemed to realize what was happening. She peeked out from behind Preston’s broad shoulders, her large, doe-like eyes brimming with perfectly calibrated, shimmering tears. “Miss Natalie, how can you talk to Preston about money right now? It’s so… tacky.” She placed a delicate, trembling hand on his chest. “We’re all here because we believe in a dream. Preston is just a little stressed. Can’t you just apologize and soften up a bit?” I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I might permanently damage my optic nerves. “A dream? My dream is getting paid my contractual salary to not deal with this circus.” I leveled a glare at her. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Natalie’ like we’re sisters. My mother only had one child, and she certainly didn’t give birth to a manipulative little pick-me girl.” “You…” Madison’s lower lip quivered. She swayed, looking like a frail Victorian woman about to swoon. Preston looked absolutely heartbroken for her. He pointed a shaking finger toward the heavy oak doors and roared, “Security! Security! Get this greedy, money-grubbing bitch out of my sight!” The heavy doors swung open. Davis, the head of security, marched in, flanked by two burly guards. Preston pointed at me. “Her! Throw her out!” Davis puffed out his chest and took a step toward me. I didn’t flinch. I just took a slow, deliberate sip from my coffee. “Davis,” I said smoothly. “Payroll is two weeks behind. If I get physically removed from this building today, there’s no authorized signatory left in the finance department. That means your paychecks are permanently stalled.” I paused, letting the silence stretch out in the room. “Oh, and as everyone here just heard, the corporate account has exactly thirty-four dollars in it. If you boys want to see your rent money this month, I suggest you think very carefully about whose orders you follow.” Davis’s expression shifted instantly. The aggressive set of his shoulders dropped. He slowly turned around, facing Preston, and gave a stiff, formal nod. “Mr. Harrington. As long as the CFO is still officially employed here, we cannot lay hands on her. It’s against corporate policy.” Without waiting for a response, Davis turned on his heel and marched his men right back out, quietly and politely clicking the door shut behind them. Preston looked like a blood vessel was about to burst in his forehead. In a blind rage, he grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray off his desk, rearing his arm back to hurl it at my head. I immediately raised my phone, the camera already recording. “Throw it,” I said softly. “The moment that leaves your hand, it’s aggravated assault. Plus, you’ll be destroying company property. That’s a Baccarat crystal ashtray. Four thousand dollars. Corporate asset.” His arm hung suspended in the air. He was paralyzed—too proud to back down, too terrified of the consequences to throw it. Finally, desperate to maintain his alpha-male facade in front of the whimpering Madison, he slammed the ashtray back down, yanked open a drawer, and violently scribbled onto a piece of company letterhead. “Here! An IOU for four point five million! Payable in seven days! Now, can you get the hell out?” I plucked the paper from his fingers. I checked the date, the signature, and the corporate seal. I gave the paper a satisfying flick. “I’ll accept the promissory note, Preston. But I’m not going anywhere.” “Are you playing me?” he snarled. “No. I’m protecting my investment.” I stood up, slowly smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in my tailored blazer. “Given the extreme volatility of this company’s financial situation, and to prevent you from liquidating assets or fleeing the country before my check clears, I will be anchoring myself to the CFO’s desk. I will monitor every single cent that flows in and out of this building.” I looked down at him, my expression blank. “Meeting adjourned.” 02 For the sake of my four-and-a-half million dollars, I became the most dedicated employee in the history of Harrington Enterprises. I literally pulled a chair up to the door of the finance department. Every single reimbursement request had to physically pass through my hands. Early the next morning, Madison ran out of the finance corridor in tears, sprinting straight to Preston’s office. Five minutes later, Preston stormed over to my desk, a stack of crumpled receipts in his fist. He slammed them down right in front of my keyboard. “Natalie! You’re deliberately trying to mess with us, aren’t you? Why the hell did you deny Madison’s expense reports?” I took my time. I slowly leaned forward, picked up the receipts, and smoothed them out. I didn’t raise my voice, but I made sure it carried across the open-plan office where dozens of employees were suddenly pretending not to listen. I began to read them aloud. “Five Hermes Himalayan Birkin bags. Unit price: One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Memo line: Office Supplies.” “Three Bulgari Serpenti diamond necklaces. Unit price: Ninety thousand dollars. Memo line: Occupational Safety Gear.” I held up the receipt for the Birkins, waving it lightly in the air between us. “Preston. Are you planning on sending our mid-level sales reps door-to-door carrying limited-edition Hermes? Or did you want the cleaning staff wearing Bulgari diamonds while they scrub the toilets?” “Are you seriously classifying this as office supplies? When the IRS audits us, how exactly do you want me to spin this fairy tale to the federal government?” A muffled snicker echoed from the cubicles behind us. Preston had skin thicker than a rhinoceros. He just jutted his chin out, looking entirely justified. “I am the CEO. If I say it’s office supplies, it’s office supplies! Who the hell does the IRS think they are? Tell the director of the agency to come see me personally!” “The director of the IRS is probably a little busy to meet with you,” I said, the amusement draining from my voice, leaving only cold, hard reality. “But the federal investigators from the Criminal Investigation division will be thrilled to make your acquaintance.” I slapped the receipts back onto the desk. “This is called corporate fraud. With an amount exceeding a million dollars, the mandatory minimum is three years in federal lockup. Maximum is ten.” “If you want to spend the next decade making license plates in an orange jumpsuit, be my guest. But leave me out of it. I am not signing off on this.” Madison appeared behind him, sniffling into a tissue. “Miss Natalie, how could you say such awful things about Preston?” she cried, her voice pitching up into that cloying, breathless register. “This is all for the company’s image! When I carry a nice designer bag to client meetings, people respect Harrington Enterprises more! How is that not an office supply?” “Client meetings?” I looked her up and down. “Madison, the only ‘business’ you successfully negotiated last month was booking two AMC movie tickets for you and Preston.” “For that kind of business, a reusable grocery tote would be a flex.” Madison let out a loud, theatrical sob, buried her face in her hands, and ran away. Preston’s heart bled for her. He pointed a furious finger at my face. “Fine! You won’t approve it? I have my own money! I’ll authorize the transfer myself!” He yanked out his phone, his thumbs flying aggressively across the screen to initiate a wire transfer. I casually glanced over at the account number on his screen and offered a helpful, quiet warning. “Preston, that’s the restricted capital injection account. You might have override access, but those funds were strictly earmarked by the board of investors for the new tech acquisition. You use that to buy your secretary a purse, and you’re crossing the line into gross embezzlement.” “Shut your mouth! This is my family’s company! I’ll spend the money however I damn well please!” “I’m going to have to report this financial risk to your father.” At the mention of ‘your father,’ Preston’s thumb actually twitched. But the arrogance quickly seeped back into his posture. “My father is skiing in Gstaad. He doesn’t give a shit about this trivial administrative garbage! Stop trying to act like you have power over me! Transfer successful!” He shoved the screen in my face. “Let’s see what you can do about it now!” The phone chimed with a crisp ding. The funds had cleared. Preston looked at me with triumphant, childish glee. I just nodded, my face completely impassive. I sat back down at my computer, opened my email client, and attached the audio recording of our conversation I’d just taken on my Apple Watch. I added the screenshots of the transfer logs, and the scanned copies of the absurd Hermes receipts. I bundled it all into a zipped folder titled: Preston Harrington Liability Documentation. Recipient: Arthur Harrington, Chairman of the Board. BCC: Natalie (Personal Email). Dear Chairman Harrington, Please find attached documentation regarding a direct override of restricted funds initiated by CEO Preston Harrington today. Given the severe nature of the unauthorized expenditure and the associated federal tax and criminal liabilities, I am formally logging this incident. Furthermore, the CEO explicitly bypassed finance department approval protocols to execute this transfer. This is an official notice of record. I clicked ‘Send.’ As long as the paper trail was faster than the crime, the fallout would never touch me. 03 The third day brought a catastrophe that made the handbags look like child’s play. Desperate to prove he was a visionary leader who didn’t need my oversight, Preston secretly opened negotiations with our biggest rival, Mercer Holdings. Mercer sent over a drafted contract. When I finally managed to get my hands on a copy and read it, my vision actually blurred. I had to grip the edge of my desk to keep from passing out. There were more hidden landmines in this single document than in an active war zone. The penalty for breach of contract was ten times the total agreement value. And the delivery deadline for the manufacturing order? Tomorrow. They might as well have printed “WE ARE GOING TO BANKRUPT YOU” in bold red letters across the header. I burst through the heavy glass doors of the boardroom just as Preston was raising the company’s official corporate seal to stamp the signature page. “Stop! Do not sign that!” I lunged forward, slamming my hand down over his wrist. “Delivery by tomorrow? Unless you have a time machine, it is physically impossible to manufacture that volume! The liquidated damages are three hundred million dollars! You could sell your own organs on the black market and it wouldn’t cover the interest!” Preston shoved me away so hard I stumbled back, my shoulder hitting the oak paneling of the wall. “You lack vision, Natalie! Rules don’t apply to me when I’m operating at this level of dominance!” “I sign this, and I’ll have the factory floor run twenty-four hours straight. If the workers can’t keep up, I’ll fire them all and ruin their lives! Let’s see who dares to slack off!” “The factory workers haven’t been paid since last quarter,” I stated, the cold truth dropping like a lead weight in the room. “The only things guarding the manufacturing plant right now are three stray dogs.” “Shut up! If you don’t want to work here, quit! Stop standing in the way of my empire!” Madison, hovering near the espresso machine, looked at him with starry-eyed devotion. “Preston looks so incredibly masculine when he signs contracts,” she breathed. “Is this that ruthless billionaire charm I’ve read about?” High on her adulation, Preston practically vibrated with ego. He raised his pen again, ready to sign his life away. I let out a long, heavy exhale. I reached inside my blazer and pulled out a different document, placing it gently on the table next to the Mercer contract. “Since you’ve made up your mind, Preston,” I said, my voice shockingly gentle, “before you sign that corporate death warrant, do me a favor and sign this one first.” He glared at it. “What the hell is this?” “Transfer of Fiduciary and Legal Liability.” I uncapped my own Montblanc pen and offered it to him, my expression a picture of pure sincerity. “You’ve been complaining that I’m too controlling, that you want absolute, unquestioned authority over this enterprise, right?” “If you sign this, you become the sole legal guarantor and fiduciary of the company. From this moment on, whatever contracts you sign, whatever funds you transfer, my signature is no longer required. My oversight is removed. You answer to no one. You are the absolute king.” It was my carefully crafted ‘Golden Parachute of Plausible Deniability.’ Once he became the sole legal representative, when the company inevitably defaulted and the FBI came knocking, he would be the primary target. As a mere W-2 employee and CFO, I would be legally insulated. Preston’s eyes lit up with arrogant delight. “Really? You can’t micromanage me anymore?” “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You will be the one and only master of your domain.”

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My husband and his younger sister loved to spoil me. It was our little tradition: once a month, they’d treat me to a shopping spree, and they’d make a game out of who got to foot the bill. On the FaceTime call, my husband, Nathan, was grinning triumphantly, holding up his credit card, while his sister, Maddie, held the phone, laughing and cursing him out for beating her to the punch. I sat in my wheelchair, soaking in the envious glances of the other shoppers in the boutique. A husband who worshipped the ground I couldn’t walk on, and a sister-in-law who treated me like blood. I had it all. What more could a woman possibly ask for? When it was time to ring up the next item, Maddie shoved her phone’s Apple Pay screen right up to the camera. But as the screen blurred into focus, a banner notification dropped down from the top. “This month’s veterinary meds are filled. Same routine—put them in the supplement bottles?” My breath hitched. I was the only one in our house who took supplements. … The message vanished in the blink of an eye, so fast I almost convinced myself it was a glitch. A hallucination. On the other end of the screen, Maddie was still giggling. “Well? Did it go through? Did I beat him?” The young boutique clerk looked a little dazed by the digital shouting match. “Um, yes. Approved,” she said tentatively. The screen exploded with cheers. “Hear that, Nate?! I win!” Maddie flashed a smug peace sign at the camera. “Grab whatever you want, Sophie! It’s on me!” Beside her, Nathan let out a theatrical sigh of defeat, which earned him a playful shove from his sister. My mind was white noise. The notification echoed on an endless loop in my head. I didn’t snap back to reality until the clerk gently handed me the crisp, heavy shopping bag. Her eyes drifted down to my legs, soft with that familiar, cloying pity. I followed her gaze downward. Three years. Three years ago, my right leg was crushed in a horrific car accident when I threw myself in front of the steering column to shield Nathan. I spent three months in the hospital. I was supposed to make a full recovery, but somewhere along the line, my legs just stopped working. Irreversible nerve damage, the doctors eventually concluded. We flew across the country. We saw specialists. We tried grueling physical therapy. Nothing worked. Eventually, it was Maddie who knelt by my chair, holding my hands. “Sophie, being in a wheelchair isn’t the end of the world. Nate and I are going to take care of you for the rest of your life. Your only job is to relax and let us love you. Don’t worry about anything else.” And they did. Nathan negotiated a permanent work-from-home setup. Maddie switched her college classes to online and practically moved into our guest room. They anticipated my every need. They fed me, bathed me, entertained me. But gradually, the invisible walls of my life began to shrink. They stopped letting me go outside. Whenever I mentioned wanting fresh air, Nathan would break down. Tears welling in his gorgeous, devastated eyes. “It’s too dangerous out there, Soph. If anything else happened to you… I wouldn’t survive it. I’d die.” At first, Maddie provided the logical backup. It’s too cold, the icy sidewalks are a hazard, the doctor said you need absolute rest. Then, Nathan installed a smart-lock system on the front door. Fingerprint access only. Mine wasn’t registered. When the claustrophobia finally pushed me to my breaking point—after I shattered three coffee mugs against the wall and refused to eat for two days—they finally compromised. We agreed that on the last weekend of every month, I could go out to an accessible shopping center by myself, and they would fund the excursion. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come meet you, Soph?” Maddie’s voice filtered through the phone, pulling me back to the present. “It’s your first time out alone. I’m just a little anxious.” I forced a smile and shook my head at the screen. “No, I’m fine. I’m just going to browse a bit more and head home.” I hung up. Pushing the joysticks on my motorized chair, I rolled slowly toward the exit. Just as the automatic doors parted, my peripheral vision caught a flash of familiar faces near the valet stand. Maddie and Nathan. They saw me at the exact same time. Maddie froze for a fraction of a second before her face broke into a radiant smile. She jogged over, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “Sophie! Oh my god, what are the odds? Nate and I were just running an errand a few blocks over and figured we’d swing by to pick you up.” Nathan walked up right behind her, seamlessly sliding his hands over the push-handles of my chair. “Tired yet, sweetheart? What are you craving? Let’s grab dinner.” I stared at them. What are the odds? “You guys… were in the neighborhood this whole time?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly level. “Yeah, just a quick meeting,” Maddie said, completely unbothered. She pressed a plastic cup into my hands. “Here. Iced matcha latte with oat milk. Your favorite. Still freezing cold.” I took the cup. The condensation slipped against my palms. I didn’t take a sip. I had hung up the FaceTime call barely five minutes ago. How were they already here? The rest of the evening played out like a perfectly choreographed play. Nathan pushed my chair. Maddie fluttered around us, grabbing the check, carrying my bags, constantly peppering me with questions. Are you tired? Are you thirsty? Are you cold? It was identical to every other outing we’d ever had. Only this time, a cold, heavy stone had settled in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn’t swallow it down. On the drive home, I leaned my head against the passenger window and closed my eyes. Nathan’s warm hand covered mine. “Wiped out?” I kept my eyes shut, letting my breathing slow into the rhythm of sleep. The car was dead silent. When we got back to our condo, Maddie gently shook my shoulder. I opened my eyes, realizing with a spike of adrenaline that I had actually drifted off. “You just chill, Soph. I’ll go get your water,” she said, breezing toward the kitchen with practiced ease. My wheelchair sat in the center of the living room. On the coffee table in front of me sat my lineup of wellness bottles. Multivitamins, calcium, fish oil, and my bone density supplements. Neatly arranged. Perfect. I stared at them. Maddie returned with a glass of water in one hand and a small, white plastic pill bottle in the other. My daily doses were always pre-sorted by them. It’s just easier this way, they’d said. “Here you go, Soph. Today’s batch.” I took the bottle, pushed down on the child-proof cap, and tipped the pills into my hand. “Bone density stuff. Gotta take it every day,” Maddie said. She dropped into a crouch beside my chair, looking up at me. Her eyes were massive, bright, and swimming with affection. “Come on, take them before the water gets warm.” “Maddie,” I said. “Yeah, Soph?” “That notification on your phone today—” I stopped. My thumb had brushed against the label of the pill bottle. It felt thick. Uneven. Like a sticker placed over another sticker. She blinked, her smile faltering for a microsecond before returning at full wattage. “What notification?” “The one about your coworker asking you to pick up meds? For her dog? Is everything okay with it?” “Oh! Yeah, poor little guy has a stomach bug. Nothing serious.” “Right.” My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I tossed the pills toward my mouth and took a long swig of water. She stood up, affectionately smoothing my hair. “Don’t overthink things, Soph. Get some rest. I’ll be over tomorrow to hang out.” “Okay.” She grabbed her purse, picked up her keys, and walked out the front door. The heavy door clicked shut. The condo plunged into a suffocating silence. Slowly, I slid my hand down into the gap between my thigh and the wheelchair cushion. While taking the water, under the guise of tossing the handful of pills into my mouth, I had palmed the smallest one. Now, I brought it up to the light. It rested in the center of my palm. Small. Chalky white. Completely odorless. Outside, the sky had turned a deep, bruised purple. Nathan hadn’t come upstairs yet; he was probably parking the car or chatting with the doorman. Using my fingernail, I picked at the edge of the pill bottle’s label. I peeled it back, centimeter by centimeter. Beneath the glossy white label for “Advanced Calcium Blend,” there was a second, matte sticker. The medical terminology was a jumble of syllables, but directly beneath it, printed in stark black ink, were two words: For Veterinary Use Only. There was more text beneath it, but the adhesive was too strong, tearing the paper when I pulled. My hands began to shake violently. I reached for my phone, desperate to pull up Safari and search the drug name. The browser spun. No Internet Connection. I switched off the Wi-Fi to use cellular data. The signal bars in the top right corner were completely empty. I frowned, bringing the screen closer to my face. The bars weren’t empty. The little SIM card icon was gone. The front door unlocked. I shoved the pill into my pocket and smoothed the label down just as Nathan walked in, carrying a bag of fresh fruit. “Maddie head out?” he asked casually, toeing off his loafers. “Just left,” I said. He took the fruit to the kitchen island, then walked over to me, kneeling by my wheelchair just as his sister had. He looked up at me, his face a portrait of devotion. “You exhausted yourself today, didn’t you? First time out for that long.” He took both my hands in his, kissing my knuckles. “Let me just go with you from now on. I can’t stand worrying about you.” I looked into his eyes. They were so incredibly kind. So full of aching, overwhelming love. “Okay,” I whispered. He smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to my forehead. Then he stood and headed back to the kitchen to wash the fruit. “Nate, my phone’s not connecting to the internet,” I called out, keeping my tone light. He walked back in with a plate of sliced apples. “Oh, yeah, the building group chat said there’s a fiber optic outage in the neighborhood. Probably take a few days to fix.” He set the plate on my lap. “Oh, and I realized your data plan was getting ridiculously expensive, so I called Verizon and got you a new eSIM. It’s in a transition period, so it might take 48 hours to activate.” He picked up a slice of apple and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth and let him feed it to me. “Sweet?” he asked. “Very.” He chuckled, ruffled my hair, and went into the master bathroom to shower. I set the apple down and rolled my chair over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Down below, Chicago was alive. People walking their dogs, couples holding hands under the warm glow of the streetlights. The world was spinning on, entirely normal. At 9:30 PM, Nathan helped me wash my face, brush my teeth, and carried me to bed. He slid in beside me, pulling me against his chest. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. Big day.” I closed my eyes. I didn’t move a muscle. Behind me, his breathing gradually slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic drawl. I lay there in the dark, my eyes wide open, staring at the sliver of amber streetlight slicing through the curtains. Sleep was impossible. About two hours later, the screen of Nathan’s phone lit up on the nightstand. He was awake instantly. He grabbed it, slipped silently out of bed, and left the bedroom. The door clicked shut, barely making a sound. Through the drywall, I could hear the low murmur of his voice in the living room. He sounded furious. Then, another voice answered him. Maddie. Before I could even process why she had come back at midnight, the hushed voices spiked in volume. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you?” Nathan hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “Can you be careful about what you send?!” “How was I supposed to know she’d be staring right at the screen?” Maddie snapped back, equally defensive. I gripped the bedsheets, my knuckles turning white. “Did she ask you about it?” “Yes. I gave her the dog excuse. She bought it.” A heavy silence fell over the condo. “Alright, fine. Just drop it,” Nathan muttered, sounding exhausted. “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake her.” Footsteps padded toward the bedroom. The door eased open a crack. I relaxed every muscle in my face, letting my mouth fall open slightly, breathing in deep, slow pulls. Maddie’s voice drifted through the crack, barely a whisper. “Is she really sleeping that deeply?” “She took the pills. What do you think?” Nathan replied, his tone devoid of any warmth. “Good.” The door shut. I lay paralyzed in the dark until the first grey light of dawn touched the window. The sheer magnitude of the truth was suffocating. I didn’t know what to do. The front door was locked with a fingerprint scanner I couldn’t bypass. I had no internet, no cell service. I couldn’t move my legs. Call the police? With what? And even if I found a landline, what would I say? My husband and sister-in-law are poisoning me to keep me paralyzed? Where was the proof? A ripped sticker? A single white pill? I had been locked inside this beautiful apartment for three years. Every friendship I had before the accident had slowly withered away into silence. The bedroom door opened. Nathan slipped out of bed, heading to the kitchen to make breakfast. I squeezed my eyes shut, faking the slow grogginess of waking up. A few minutes later, Maddie bounced into the room, holding a paper bag from my favorite bakery. “Morning, Soph!” she chirped, dropping into her signature crouch by the bed. “Sleep well?” “Like a rock,” I said. She held out the familiar plastic bottle. “Meds first, then croissants.” I took the bottle, pushed down the cap, and shook the pills into my hand. Vitamins, fish oil, calcium. And one tiny, chalky white pill. “Bone density. Every day,” she smiled, her eyes crinkling. I looked right at the white pill, tossed them all into my mouth, and drank the water. She watched my throat swallow, satisfied, before heading to the kitchen to help her brother. After breakfast, Nathan announced he needed to swing by the corporate office to grab some files. Maddie said she had a brunch date with a friend downtown. “You going to be okay by yourself for a bit, Soph?” Maddie asked, pulling on her coat. “I’ll be fine.” “We’ll be back before lunch.” They walked out together. The second the deadbolt clicked into place, the condo fell silent. I dragged my body up, transferred into my wheelchair, and started tearing the house apart. In the bottom drawer of Nathan’s nightstand, buried beneath old charging cables, I found a small lockbox. I jimmied it open with a pair of tweezers. Inside was a stack of faded receipts. I flipped to the very bottom. A receipt dated three years ago, just weeks after my accident. It was from a pharmaceutical supplier. The drug name meant nothing to me, but the header was unmistakable. Veterinary Anesthesia & Sedatives. I folded the receipt into a tiny square and shoved it deep into the crevice of my wheelchair cushion. I rolled into Nathan’s home office. His Mac was password protected. I started pulling out the desk drawers. They were packed with tax returns and mortgage documents. But in the very bottom drawer, pushed all the way to the back, was a thick manila envelope with my name written on it in sharpie. Click. The sound of the front door unlocking echoed down the hall. My blood ran cold. They hadn’t even been gone forty-five minutes. I panicked. I didn’t have time to put the envelope back in the drawer. I kicked it under the desk with my heel, grabbed the wheels of my chair, and rolled out into the hallway just as the front door swung open. Maddie stood in the entryway. She saw me. She stopped. “Sophie? What are you doing in the office?” “Looking for a book,” I said smoothly, forcing my heart rate to slow. “Why are you guys back so soon?” “Forgot my wallet,” she said, her eyes darting past me, scanning the office. “Did you find one? A book?” “No. The shelves are too high for my chair.” I backed up, giving her space. “Can you check the top shelf for that thriller I was reading last month?” She stared at me for two long seconds. “Yeah. Sure.” She walked into the office. I watched from the doorway as her gaze tracked downward, landing instantly on the space beneath the desk. A single corner of the manila envelope was peeking out. My stomach plummeted. She bent down and picked it up. “What is this…?” she asked, turning to face me. I tilted my head, putting on a mask of mild confusion. “No idea. Must have fallen out when I bumped the desk.” She opened the clasp, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and flicked through them. “Why would you be digging through this, Sophie?” “I wasn’t.” She slipped the papers back in and tossed the envelope onto the desk. Her eyes were dark, calculating. “You wouldn’t be keeping secrets from us, would you, Soph?” My heart skipped a beat. “Of course not. We’re family.” “Good.” Her bright, bubbly smile snapped back into place like a rubber band. She walked behind me, taking the handles of my wheelchair. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s get you out to the living room.” She parked me in the center of the living room, sat down on the plush sofa opposite me, and pulled out her phone. From the corner of my eye, I watched her thumbs fly across the screen. I only caught the final text she sent to Nathan before she locked the phone. Just finish her off. At 5:00 PM, Nathan came home. Dinner. Face washing. Pills. I palmed the white pill and swallowed the rest. At 9:30 PM, he carried me to bed. “Sleep well, sweetheart.” “You too.” He got into bed beside me. Within twenty minutes, his breathing leveled out. I kept my eyes open, staring at the ceiling until the digital clock read 1:00 AM. My wheelchair was parked next to the bed. I slowly, agonizingly, dragged my upper body toward the edge of the mattress and hoisted myself into the seat. I pushed the wheels by hand, making no sound as I glided out of the bedroom and down the hall to the front door. The digital keypad glowed in the dark. I had spent weeks secretly watching Nathan type it in. I knew three of the numbers, I just didn’t know the order. I prayed. I punched in a combination. Beep. Red light. I tried again. On the fifth try, the light flashed green. The deadbolt slid back with a soft, mechanical hum. I froze, waiting to hear if Nathan had woken up. Silence. I pushed the door open. The hallway was dimly lit. The elevator was at the far end of the corridor, but I knew it was useless. Nathan had told me yesterday they reported it out of service for maintenance. I rolled myself toward the door marked with a glowing red EXIT sign. The stairwell. I pushed the heavy fire door open and stared down the concrete abyss. How does a woman in a wheelchair go down six flights of stairs? I looked at my lifeless legs. There was no other way. I locked the brakes on the wheelchair, grabbed the armrests, and lowered my body onto the freezing concrete landing. I reached up, collapsed the chair, and pushed it against the wall. Then, placing my palms flat on the rough concrete, I dragged my hips forward. Down one step. Thud. Pain shot up my spine as my tailbone hit the edge of the stair. My legs dragged behind me like dead weight. I used my triceps to lift my torso, moving my hands to the next step down. Thud. Every impact sent a shockwave of agony through my body. Black spots danced in my vision. Sweat dripped into my eyes. By the time I reached the third floor, my palms were raw and bleeding, and the knees of my sweatpants were soaked in something sticky. Sweat, or blood. I couldn’t tell. When I finally hit the ground floor, my entire body was violently convulsing from muscle fatigue. I dragged myself toward the heavy glass lobby door, using the wall to push myself into a semi-upright slump. Outside, the streetlights cast long, eerie shadows across the empty pavement. It was 3:00 AM. The doorman wasn’t at his desk. I pushed the door open and half-crawled, half-dragged myself out onto the freezing pavement of the courtyard. Where do I go? I looked back over my shoulder at the building. Up on the sixth floor, a single light flicked on. My bedroom. Nathan was awake.

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The door wasn’t locked. I stood on my own welcome mat, my suitcase heavy in my hand, the keys still buried somewhere in my purse. The door was cracked open. Just an inch. The living room lights were on. On the coffee table sat a half-empty glass of water, a ring of milky residue clinging to the rim. I had been out of state for three months. This house was supposed to be empty. From the direction of the master bedroom, a cry broke the silence. A baby’s cry. I didn’t have a child. The crying paused for a second, followed by a woman’s voice. Soft, cooing. “Shh, don’t cry, sweetie. Daddy will be home soon.” Daddy. I set my suitcase down. The wheels knocked against the doorframe with a dull thud. In the master bedroom, the woman’s voice abruptly stopped. 1. The shoe cabinet in the entryway was open. The top row was exactly how I had left it—my running shoes, my heels, my fleece house slippers. They were all there, but they had been shoved aggressively into the corner. The middle two rows were filled with shoes I didn’t recognize. Women’s shoes. Pink fuzzy slippers, a pair of thick recovery grip socks, some flats with little bows. The bottom shelf was entirely dedicated to a baby. Tiny socks and soft-soled booties, folded with sickening neatness. I stared at the pink slippers. The soles were worn down. Whoever they belonged to hadn’t just moved in. The master bedroom door creaked open. A woman walked out, bouncing a baby in her arms. She was young, her hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing a faded, oversized sleep shirt—the kind that had been washed a hundred times. She saw me and froze. “Who are you…” I looked at the infant in her arms. A newborn, swaddled in a pale blue blanket. The swaddle was brand new. But the small knitted throw draped over the baby? I recognized that. It was a wedding gift from a friend. I had kept it stored on the top shelf of my closet. “This is my house,” I said. She took a step back. “Greg said… he said you two were already divorced.” I didn’t say a word. I walked past her, into the living room. Next to the milky glass of water on the coffee table sat a tin of baby formula, a pack of wet wipes, and a bottle sterilizer. The sterilizer was plugged into the wall, its power light glowing a steady, cheerful green. The TV I bought. The sectional I picked out. The bookshelves I spent three weekends assembling. Everything was still here. It just wasn’t mine anymore. I turned my head toward the kitchen. A piece of paper was pinned to the fridge, held up by the decorative magnets I bought in Maine. The paper read: Baby’s Feeding Schedule — 7:00 AM Formula, 10:00 AM Puree, 12:30 PM Egg yolk… The handwriting was bubbly, complete with a little hand-drawn sun in the corner. I reached out and ripped the paper down. The magnet clattered to the hardwood floor. The woman stood paralyzed in the hallway, too terrified to step closer. The baby started crying again. “What month did you move in?” I asked. She hesitated. “…April.” April. I left for my work trip on March 15th. Two weeks. He only waited two weeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Greg’s name lit up the screen. I didn’t answer. It rang three times, then went silent. A second later, a text popped up: Hey honey, did your flight land? I have to stay late at the office. I’ll be home a bit later. Honey. Stay late. Home. Which home? I locked my phone and walked into the master bedroom. The bedsheets had been changed. The slate-gray linen duvet cover I had put on before I left was gone, replaced by a cheap pink floral pattern. On the nightstand sat a baby monitor, a tube of nipple cream, and a bottle of postnatal vitamins. I pulled open my closet. The left side used to be mine. Except, it wasn’t anymore. Every hanger was occupied by clothes I had never seen in my life. Sundresses, nursing tops, oversized cardigans. Where were my clothes? I yanked open the heavy bottom drawer of the dresser. There they were. My clothes had been hastily folded and violently jammed into the bottom drawer, packed so tightly the fabrics were deeply creased. Sitting right on top of the crushed fabric was my marriage certificate. I pulled it out. I opened it. In the photo, Greg and I were leaning into each other, smiling at the camera. I ran my index finger along the edge of the heavy paper. It was sharp. It left a fine, stinging line of red across my skin. A paper cut. I snapped the certificate shut. Out in the living room, the woman was on the phone. She was whispering frantically, but I caught one sentence: “…she’s back.” I walked out of the bedroom. I walked straight to the balcony. Clothes were hanging on the drying rack. Adult clothes, baby clothes, a whole row of them swaying slightly in the AC breeze. I had installed that drying rack myself. I stood on the balcony for a long moment. My phone vibrated again. Greg. This time, I swiped to answer. “Harper—” “How long until you get home?” A beat of dead silence on the other end of the line. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tight. I stared at the row of clothes that didn’t belong to me. “Tell me when you get here.” I hung up. A few minutes later, the screech of tires echoed from the street below. Then, the heavy slam of a car door. Rushed. Frantic. The elevator pinged in the hallway. I sat on the living room sofa. A $400 sectional from IKEA. I had hauled the heavy flat-pack boxes from the warehouse to the car all by myself because he told me he had to work late that Saturday. The front door burst open. Greg stood in the doorway, chest heaving. He looked at me. Then his eyes darted to the woman cowering near the bedroom hallway. Then, he did something I truly didn’t expect. He turned around and closed the front door. He closed it incredibly softly. Gently pulling it until it clicked. Like he was terrified the neighbors might hear. “Harper, please, just let me explain.” When he said those words, he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at her. He was shooting her a desperate, silent look. I saw it all. 2. I didn’t stay in that house a minute longer. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the door. Greg yelled my name—”Harper!”—down the hall, but I didn’t stop. As the elevator doors slid shut, I heard the baby start to wail again. I booked a room at a cheap motel right across the street from our subdivision. I sat on the edge of the stiff mattress. My suitcase was still zipped shut. Inside that suitcase was a navy blue windbreaker. Greg’s size. I had seen it on sale at an outlet mall near the project site in Phoenix and bought it for him. There was a bag of artisanal dark roast coffee beans. He had mentioned wanting to try them. There was a pair of new house slippers. He told me before I left that his old ones were wearing thin. I unzipped the luggage and pulled out the slippers. He already had new slippers at home. Pink ones. I shoved them back into the suitcase. Zipped it shut. My phone was vibrating violently against the nightstand. Call after call from Greg. I flipped the ringer switch to silent. The screen just kept flashing in the dark room. Lighting up, going black. Lighting up, going black. The text messages flooded in. Harper please don’t do anything crazy, let’s just talk. Tell me where you are, I’m worried about you being out there alone. It’s not what you think. Not what I think. What the hell was it, then? I opened my Instagram app and scrolled back. Three months ago. March 14th. The day before my flight. He had posted a picture of a sad-looking frozen pizza on a plate. The caption: Wife is out of town for three months. Guess I’m fending for myself starting today. Followed by a laughing-crying emoji. I looked at the comments. His coworker wrote: You’re gonna waste away without Harper cooking for you man lol. Greg replied: I know right, unsupervised bachelor life is rough. March 14th. I flew out the very next morning. Two weeks later, that woman moved into my home. I kept scrolling. Further back. February. Valentine’s Day. He had posted a selfie of us at a nice Italian place. The caption: Year four. Still going strong. I remembered that night clearly. After he paid the bill, he held my hand across the table and said, “Next year, let’s look at upgrading to a bigger house.” I had laughed at him. Told him we were still paying off the mortgage on this one, that we didn’t need fancy dinners, that we should just make pasta at home next time. He had wrapped his arm around my shoulders in the parking lot and kissed my temple. “You work so hard for us, honey. I appreciate you.” I appreciate you. On February 14th, he appreciated me. On March 15th, I left. By April 1st, another woman was sleeping in my bed. I tossed the phone onto the mattress. The motel blanket was painfully thin. The AC unit in the window rattled and hummed. I had flown three hours from Phoenix. Landed, took the train back to the suburbs, forty minutes. I had been on that construction site for three months. Eighty-seven days. Working twelve-plus hours a day in the blistering Arizona sun. The UV index was so high my face had peeled twice. We delivered the project ahead of schedule. The client gave us a massive bonus, and my cut was $20,000. I had been riding that high all day. Because I thought—I honestly thought—I could use that money to take a massive chunk out of our mortgage principal. The mortgage. I opened my banking app. This month’s payment had already cleared. $2,400. Deducted automatically from my checking account. Just like the previous thirty-five months. Autopay. I had set it up myself. From the very first installment, every single cent of that mortgage came out of my account. Had Greg ever transferred money into it? I pulled up my deposit history. No. Thirty-six months. $2,400 a month. I paid every dime of it alone. Outside the motel window, the neon sign flickered over the wet asphalt. It was 11:00 PM, and cars were still speeding by. I dialed my best friend, Sarah. “Hey,” she answered. “What’s wrong? You sound weird.” “I’m back.” “Wait, didn’t you say your flight was tomorrow?” “I came back a day early.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “When I opened my front door, there was a woman living in my house. Holding a baby.” Dead silence on the line. It lasted for a full three seconds. “I’m on my way. Drop your location.” When Sarah arrived, she was carrying a plastic grocery bag with some oranges and a bottle of water. She didn’t demand details. She just sat on the edge of the bed, peeled an orange, and handed it to me. I held it in my palm. Didn’t eat it. “She was wearing an old sleep shirt,” I said to the empty room. “Yeah.” “It wasn’t new. It had been washed a hundred times.” “Yeah.” “There was a baby food schedule on my fridge.” “Yeah.” “My clothes… they shoved my clothes into the bottom drawer.” Sarah didn’t say anything to that. She gently took the orange out of my frozen hand, broke off a wedge, and pressed it to my lips. “Eat something first.” I chewed the orange. It was incredibly sour. My phone screen lit up again. This time, it wasn’t Greg. It was my mother-in-law, Barbara. Harper, Greg just called me. Please don’t overreact. Come home tomorrow and we can all sit down and talk this through like adults. Talk this through. I flipped the phone over, screen down. Sarah watched me. “What are you going to do tomorrow?” I stared up at the water-stained ceiling. “I’m thinking about something.” “What?” “He practically forced me to take that project in Phoenix.” Sarah frowned. “What do you mean?” “When the firm asked who wanted to go in early March, no one volunteered. Three months on-site. Brutal heat. Awful hours.” “And?” “Greg was the one who pushed me. He told me, ‘You should take it. A massive commercial build like that will guarantee your promotion to Senior PM. Three months will fly by. I’ve got things covered at home.’” I paused, letting the memory settle over me like ash. “I’ve got things covered at home.” I repeated the words slowly. Sarah reached out and squeezed my hand hard. “Go to sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.” She turned off the lamp. I lay on the motel bed, eyes wide open in the dark. All I could see in my mind were those pink fuzzy slippers. The worn-down soles. They weren’t new. She hadn’t just arrived. She had been living my life for a very, very long time. 3. The next morning, I didn’t go looking for Greg. I went straight to the bank. I waited in line for forty minutes and requested three years’ worth of bank statements. Eleven pages of standard A4 paper. I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the lobby, going through them line by line. Mortgage: $2,400. Automatically deducted on the 15th of every month. Thirty-six transactions. Next to each one, the memo line read: Mortgage Auto-Pay. All of it from my account. Did Greg ever transfer money to me? Yes. I found them—at the end of every month, he would send a small, random amount. The highest was $400. The lowest was $100. The memo line always read: Groceries. A few hundred bucks. My mortgage was two-point-four thousand. He gave me a few hundred bucks. I kept tracing my finger down the pages. In November, I spotted a massive withdrawal. I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t the mortgage, and it wasn’t a credit card payment. $4,000. Flat. Transferred to an account under the name “Bethany Clark.” I didn’t know that name. Wait. I did. Yesterday, standing in my master bedroom, the woman holding the baby… Greg had called her Bethany. November. I hadn’t even left for my work trip yet. What was I doing in November? I pulled up my phone’s calendar app. November 18th, project review. November 25th, a three-day business trip to Chicago. It was during those three days in Chicago. Four thousand dollars. I kept scrolling down the pages. December: Transferred to Bethany Clark, $2,500. January: Transferred to Bethany Clark, $5,000. January also had another transfer: Transferred to Barbara Zhou, $15,000. Fifteen thousand dollars. To his mother. The memo line was blank. I dropped the papers onto my lap and leaned my head back against the wall. The AC in the bank lobby was blasting, freezing the sweat on my neck. A little kid was running in circles near the teller line, his exhausted mother trailing behind him, whispering, “Slow down, please slow down.” I remembered something. In January, Greg had come home looking defeated, telling me his company had slashed end-of-year bonuses. He said he barely got a thousand dollars. He had sighed, rubbed his temples, and said, “The economy is just brutal right now. Everyone’s taking a hit.” And that exact same month, he wired fifteen thousand dollars to his mother. And five thousand to Bethany. Twenty grand. From a guy whose bonus was “barely a thousand dollars.” Where did that money come from? I kept reading. February, March. The frequency of transfers to Bethany skyrocketed. In March alone, there were three separate wires. Totaling $9,000. March. The month I left for Arizona. Nine thousand dollars wired directly to her. In that same exact month, my account was drained of $2,400 for our house. While I was out in the desert sun working myself to the bone, getting chemical burns from cheap sunscreen and drywall dust, he was funding another woman’s life. I neatly folded the statements and slipped them into my tote bag. I walked out of the bank. Took about fifteen steps down the sidewalk. Stopped. I turned around and marched right back inside. I asked the teller to print the statements for the joint credit card. Technically, it was a supplementary card under my primary account, but I had given it to Greg to “make grocery runs and paying the utility bills easier.” The printer whirred. I scanned the charges. A purchase at a high-end baby boutique: $850. January. A charge at a private women’s clinic: $400. December. December. The clinic. I was home in December. I was sleeping in the same bed as him. He would go to “work” during the day, and come home at night to eat the dinners I cooked. I even remembered a specific night in December when he came home incredibly late. I had asked him if everything was okay. He had loosened his tie, looking exhausted. “Team dinner. Had a couple of beers.” I had gotten up from the couch to pour him a glass of warm water. He drank it, smiled, and said, “Thanks, honey.” Thanks, honey. He had just come back from the maternity ward. I folded the credit card statements and shoved them into my bag, too. I stood on the sidewalk outside the bank. The sun was blinding. Late June. Suffocatingly hot. I pulled out my phone and texted Sarah: I need you to recommend a lawyer. The best divorce attorney you know. Before I could lock the screen, a notification popped up. My mother-in-law, Barbara: Harper, come over to our house for dinner tonight. We’re a family, we need to sit down and talk this out. Don’t sit in some hotel room letting your mind go to dark places. Dark places. She thought I was having a breakdown. Another text immediately followed: Bethany isn’t a bad girl. At the end of the day, she gave our family a grandson to carry on the name, and that— I didn’t even read the rest. I screenshotted the messages. Saved them to a hidden folder. Then I typed three words and hit send: I understand perfectly. I didn’t go to dinner. That night, alone in my motel room, I spread the three years’ worth of bank statements and credit card bills across the cheap bedspread. And I read every single line.

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Good news: I slept with an absolute goddess. Better news: We successfully turned it into a regular weekend arrangement. Bad news: She’s my newly appointed boss. My life is officially over. 01 “Again.” The warm weight of her body pressed against mine, skin sliding against skin. “Again?” I frowned, my voice gravelly. My mouth was saying no, but my body was embarrassingly honest. I turned my head and captured her lips. Victoria and I had spent the entire weekend tangled in her sheets, losing track of day and night. Even now, on Sunday evening, she looked deliciously insatiable, her eyes dark and heavy with intent. I dug through the chaotic pile of clothes on the rug, pulling out my shirt with a monumental sigh. “I can’t. Early morning all-hands meeting tomorrow. I absolutely cannot be late. We’ve got a new CEO coming in, and I need to make a good impression.” She lay back against the pillows, her pale, elegant neck exposed to the dim light. A slow, lazy smile curved her lips. “Fine. See you next week.” “Count on it.” Monday morning. I was suffocating in a stiff suit, my corporate ID practically burning a hole in my chest as I sat in the conference room. Paige, the team lead from the adjacent desk, leaned over, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Rumor has it the new CEO is gorgeous, young, and utterly terrifying.” I couldn’t care less about the new CEO’s aesthetic appeal. “I just pray to God she’s an actual human being.” Our previous boss had been a tyrant who treated us corporate drones like disposable batteries. It took a miracle for him to get transferred out. I just wanted someone who didn’t feed on misery. The boardroom doors swung open. The room erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause as the new CEO stepped into the spotlight. I looked up. My pupils dilated so fast the room blurred. It was Victoria. My weekend arrangement. The world is a sick, twisted joke. I wanted the floorboards to open up and swallow me whole. Mercifully, the room was packed. She hadn’t noticed me yet. I sank lower in my chair, my chin practically grazing the mahogany table. Suddenly, an elbow jabbed my ribs. Paige hissed, “Miles. Ms. Mercer is calling on you.” “Who is Miles?” The voice was crisp, commanding, and hauntingly familiar. I sucked in a sharp breath and dragged myself to my feet. The moment her eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of genuine shock shattered her icy, corporate composure. I felt a cold sweat prickle my spine. I had every reason to be terrified. When we met, I’d told her my name was Preston Miles. She stared at me. Two agonizingly long seconds ticked by. Then, a slow, predatory calm settled over her features. “Mr. Preston,” she said softly. “I understand your team is handling this project. Walk me through it.” 02 I delivered the shortest, most frantic presentation of my career. Victoria only asked two brief, pointed questions. The second the meeting adjourned, I bolted from the room like the building was on fire. I wasn’t kidding. During that excruciating sixty-minute meeting, I had drafted, revised, and finalized my resignation letter in my head. But then reality hit. The economy was a nightmare. I had a mortgage, a car loan, and a bi-weekly deep-tissue sports massage habit I couldn’t survive without. I decided I could just cover my ears, close my eyes, and keep cashing my paychecks. Paige burst out of the conference room, practically vibrating. “Oh my god. She’s mother. Did you see her? The waist, the legs, that lethal gaze? She’s the absolute ceiling of female perfection.” “If we have to be corporate slaves, at least we get a view,” she sighed dramatically. “I forgive the universe for three seconds.” I managed a weak laugh. “Girls appreciate beautiful women too, huh?” “Obviously!” Paige swooned. “Even in that tailored suit, you can tell her body is ridiculous. Her aura is off the charts.” Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it. It was flawless. And the way she felt under my hands was even better. But the mere thought that the woman who had been whispering my name into a pillow twenty-four hours ago was now holding my career in the palm of her hand made me want to evacuate the planet. The sharp click-clack of heels broke my spiraling thoughts. Rachel, the executive assistant, stopped at my desk. “Miles. Ms. Mercer would like to see you in her office.” I stood up. I was a dead man walking. Could a meteor just strike the earth now? Please? 03 The corner office was sprawling, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping, indifferent view of the city skyline. “Ms. Mercer. You asked to see me?” Victoria looked up from her laptop, her dark eyes lazily raking over my rigid posture. “Miles?” “Yes, Ms. Mercer.” She arched a single, perfect eyebrow, a wicked amusement dancing at the corners of her mouth. “Preston?” I played dumb. It was my only defense. “I’m sorry, Ms. Mercer. Who is Preston?” She let out a soft, breathy laugh and leaned back in her leather chair, studying me like a particularly interesting puzzle. “Drop the act. There aren’t two men on this earth with the exact same face and the exact same little mole.” My hand twitched. “What mole?” Victoria raised her hand, her manicured fingertip lightly tracing the skin just behind her own ear. The gesture was dripping with an intimacy we both remembered perfectly. Damn it. I have a small mole right behind my ear. The same spot this high-powered executive had been pressing open-mouthed kisses against just yesterday. My face froze. “Victoria Mercer is my real name, by the way,” she said, her voice dripping with irony. Well, the jig was up. She knew I’d given her a fake name. I threw my hands up in defeat, offering a dry, hollow chuckle. “Small world, Ms. Mercer.” She smiled, low and dangerous. “So, I’m the new CEO you needed to impress. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let you leave my bed yesterday.” I practically put my hands together in prayer. “Victoria, please. At the office, can we just pretend we don’t know each other? Strictly professional. No personal matters.” She looked at me for a long moment before giving a single, reluctant nod. I fled the office before she could change her mind. 04 My relationship with Victoria was supposed to be purely physical. Friends with benefits. A transactional escape. Six months ago, the girl I’d spent years quietly pining over finally got a boyfriend. I was crushed. I took my bruised ego to an upscale cocktail lounge and ended up sitting next to Victoria. She looked like she was having an even worse night than I was. To make matters worse, some creep at the bar had tried to slip something into her drink. I’m a decent guy. I warned her, helped her out of the bar, and flagged down a cab. But she wasn’t just grateful; she was aggressive. Her hands were instantly on me. I was vulnerable, mesmerized by her breathtaking face, and, honestly, thinking with my lower half. One thing led to another, and we ended up in her bed. That first time had been chaotic—two strangers fumbling in the dark. But we figured each other out quickly, tangling together until the sky turned a bruised purple with the dawn. Afterward, we established the ground rules: No feelings. Just bodies. Once a weekend. We were ridiculously compatible in that department. Every time we met, it felt like we were trying to break the furniture. It was the ultimate, mind-numbing release from the exhausting grind of my life. We never asked about each other’s private lives. I naturally assumed she was just another overworked professional like me, surviving the corporate machine Monday through Friday and needing an outlet on the weekends. Never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine she was a CEO. And not just any CEO—my CEO. God. 05 For the first time in my life, I was dreading the weekend. And because I was dreading it, the week flew by with terrifying speed. Victoria was buried in transition meetings. We only crossed paths once in the lobby café, and I immediately pretended to take a phone call to avoid making eye contact. Friday at noon, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Victoria. [Where are we doing this weekend?] We never used the same place twice. Sometimes a hotel, sometimes the backseat of her car, sometimes, when we were feeling reckless, somewhere secluded outside the city limits. I typed out the excuse I’d been rehearsing for three days: [Sorry, Ms. Mercer. Heading out of town for my mom’s birthday.] Victoria: [Alright. But I thought we agreed to keep things separated? When it’s personal, call me Victoria.] Separated. Right. Like that was even remotely possible. Especially not when, just that morning, I watched her verbally eviscerate the lead of the marketing team. “Did you use your dick to think of this proposal?” she had asked, her voice dropping the temperature in the room to absolute zero. The silence in the boardroom had been deafening. The marketing lead looked like he wanted to cry. And honestly? Knowing his usual performance, it definitely wasn’t a long thought. When it was my turn to present, I felt like I was walking on a tightrope over a canyon of active volcanoes. Victoria had listened, her face an unreadable mask, before offering a cool: “The theoretical framework is stunning, Mr. Preston, but did you bother to consider the actual logistical execution?” I had stood there, speechless. Seriously, how was I supposed to sleep with her now? I’d rather take a vow of celibacy. 06 Another week passed. Right on schedule, her text arrived. [Where to this weekend?] Me: [Friend’s wedding. I’m a groomsman in the next state over.] Victoria: [You don’t have a single hour of free time?] Was it true what they said about women in their thirties? Her appetite was terrifying. Me: [Nope. The drive alone is seven hours round trip.] There was no wedding. I was just a coward. Two weeks of forced celibacy was starting to claw at my sanity. On Saturday, I tried to take care of things myself at home, but it was useless. My mind inevitably drifted to Victoria, to the arch of her back and the taste of her skin, and I only ended up more frustrated. Desperate for a distraction, I grabbed an Uber to the office. Making money was the only cure for misery. But the moment I swiped my keycard and pushed through the glass doors, my soul left my body. The universe hated me. Victoria was there. She walked out of the breakroom, a mug of coffee in hand. She stopped, leaning against the doorframe, and arched an eyebrow. “The next state over? Groomsman?” I let out a dry, panicked laugh. “The wedding was… unexpectedly canceled.” She let out a short, sharp laugh, completely devoid of humor. “Miles. You are hiding from me.” 07 I sat rigidly at my desk, plotting an escape route. But Victoria had already anticipated my flight response. My desk phone rang. “Bring the Q3 projections into my office,” she ordered, and hung up. I grabbed the folder and knocked on her heavy oak door. It swung open before I could finish the second knock, and a hand grabbed my lapel, yanking me inside. The door clicked shut. Victoria shoved me against it, her mouth crashing into mine. She tasted like dark roast coffee and expensive mint. For a split second, I tried to push her away, my hands coming up to her shoulders. But then the familiar, intoxicating heat of her washed over me. Rationality snapped. I dropped the folder. My hands tangled in her hair, kissing her back with a starvation I hadn’t realized I was harboring. She hooked a leg around mine, her hands already working the buttons of my shirt. Pieces of perfectly tailored corporate wear hit the floor. Her voice, husky and wrecked, brushed against my ear. “I didn’t think we’d unlock the corner-office achievement so soon.” I groaned. I was never going to be able to look at her oak desk or those floor-to-ceiling windows the same way again. Outside, the city lights flickered to life. Somehow, the afternoon had bled into the evening. Damn it, Victoria. I came here to work! When she emerged from her private executive washroom, her dark hair was damp, and a very distinct, reddish bruise marred her collarbone. “There’s a great spot downstairs. Let me buy you dinner,” she offered, adjusting her watch. I knelt down, gathering the scattered, thoroughly crumpled Q3 projections. “I’m not hungry.” Right on cue, my stomach let out a traitorous, echoing growl. Victoria let out a low, muffled laugh. “Come on. We’ve been working late. We deserve a meal.” I glared at her. She had entirely redefined the concept of working overtime. 08 The restaurant was a dimly lit, violently expensive place I only ever dared to visit with Paige and the team on payday. Victoria barely touched her food, instead using her chopsticks to continuously place prime cuts of meat onto my plate. It made my skin prickle with anxiety. “Ms. Mercer, please, eat. You don’t need to serve me.” Her chopsticks paused in mid-air. “We are off the clock. Use my name.” I kept my mouth shut, an uncomfortable knot tightening in my chest. Over the past six months, we had eaten together occasionally, but it was always rushed takeout in bed between rounds. Sitting across from her in a quiet, upscale restaurant, fully clothed, felt deeply intimate. It felt… real. And I hated it. I focused entirely on destroying the steak in front of me, chewing like my life depended on it to avoid the silence. By the time we walked out, a torrential downpour had overtaken the city. Victoria jingled her keys. “I’ll drive you.” I already had the ride-share app open. “No need. I’ll get an Uber.” Current wait time: 100 people ahead of you. Victoria glanced at my screen. “It’s pouring. You’ll be waiting an hour. Let’s go.” I walked toward her sleek black Bentley, instinctively reaching for the rear door handle. She stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Do I look like your chauffeur?” I definitely wasn’t going to treat my CEO like a driver. I moved toward the driver’s side. “I’ll drive.” She laughed, a genuine, chiming sound. “Get in the passenger seat, Miles.” The drive was silent, filled only with the rhythmic thrum of the windshield wipers. I stared out at the blurred city lights, my mind racing. Sleeping with Victoria had been the single most rebellious, uncharacteristic thing I had ever done. I liked the borders of my life drawn in thick, unyielding ink. Work was work. Pleasure was pleasure. Victoria had been a beautiful, localized storm I could step into on weekends. She knew my body, but she didn’t know me. That anonymity made it safe. But now she was the sky I worked under every day. Could I ever look at her across a boardroom table without remembering the sounds she made? If people found out, my career would be a punchline. I despised the unknown. As the car pulled up to my building, I unbuckled my seatbelt and forced myself to meet her eyes. “Victoria. We need to end this. We shouldn’t see each other on the weekends anymore.” Her expression shifted, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her face. “Why? Just because I’m your boss now?” I couldn’t say yes. I still had to report to her on Monday. “I just think it’s time to stop. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement.” The warmth drained from her face, replaced by a cold, impenetrable mask. I practically threw open the door and bolted into the rain. My chest felt tight, an uncomfortable, hollow ache settling behind my ribs. I shook my head, letting the cold rain hit my face. You’re just going through withdrawal, I told myself. You’re just going to miss the sex. 09 Monday morning. I had barely set my bag down when Paige rolled her chair over, her face a portrait of utter tragedy. “It’s over for us,” she whispered dramatically. “The Queen is taken.” “What?” “She has hickeys on her collarbone! Dark ones. Someone was going to town on her.” I choked on my own spit. Paige sighed. “I mean, a woman that gorgeous was bound to be off the market, but it still breaks my heart.” For the rest of the day, the internal office chat was a warzone of speculation about the CEO’s mysterious, feral boyfriend. [Whoever he is, he’s aggressive. There was more than one mark.] [I bet he bit her. And she didn’t even try to cover it up!] [Honestly? Good for her. Get it, Ms. Mercer.] [It feels like a flex. Half the VPs in this building have been drooling over her.] I stared at my monitor, my vision swimming. Guys, please. Have some dignity. It was me. I was the feral boyfriend. Even though no one knew, the paranoia alone was enough to shave years off my life. Thank God I was flying to Chicago tomorrow for a site visit. A whole week of not looking at Victoria Mercer’s collarbone. Tuesday morning. Airport terminal. I pulled my carry-on toward the VIP lounge, whistling softly as I looked for Mr. Mitchell, the VP I was traveling with. I froze. Why was Victoria sitting there, casually sipping a latte with her assistant, Rachel? Victoria was dressed down in an effortlessly chic cashmere sweater, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. She looked up, her eyes locking onto mine with terrifying precision. “Morning, Miles.” I looked around frantically. “Where is Mr. Mitchell?” “A sudden, severe stomach bug,” she said smoothly. “I’m stepping in.” My ears rang. The sky was falling again. 10 I had to admit, Victoria wasn’t a bad travel companion. She immediately upgraded Rachel and me to First Class without a second thought. Working closely with her over the next few days, I realized she was actually a phenomenal leader. She didn’t waste words. She was objective, ruthless when necessary, but always fair. She was a million times the executive our last boss had been. Since she took over, my job had actually become manageable. It made me want to protect my career even more. The negotiations in Chicago went smoothly until the final dinner. It was time to sign, but the client, a sleazy guy named Carlson, decided to throw his weight around. At the dinner table, he kept pouring me shots of Baijiu, demanding we drink to “cement the partnership.” I hated the stuff, but I braced myself, raising the glass. A pale hand reached out and clamped over my wrist. “Mr. Carlson,” Victoria said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’ll drink with you.” “I can handle it,” I muttered, trying to pull my hand back. Her grip tightened. It was an iron command. My heart did a strange, traitorous little stutter. By the end of the night, the contract was signed, but Victoria was obliterated. I practically carried her back to the hotel. She leaned all her weight against me, her eyes hazy, muttering curses under her breath. “Filthy… disgusting prick.” “Who?” I asked, struggling with the room key. “Carlson. If Madeline didn’t care so much about this merger, I would have drowned him in his own liquor.” “Who is Madeline?” Silence. The woman draped over my shoulder had passed out entirely. 11 With the contract secured, our flight was booked for the next afternoon. Riley, my oldest childhood friend, happened to live in Chicago. We met up at a dive bar to catch up, trading embarrassing stories and throwing back cheap beers. By the time we stumbled out onto the sidewalk, it was past eleven, and we were arm-in-arm, laughing hysterically. “Miles, you corporate sellout! Don’t forget the little people!” Riley shouted. “Never, Ri! You’re my ride-or-die!” We took two unsteady steps before our path was abruptly blocked. I blinked, my eyes focusing on a figure standing under the streetlamp. It was Victoria. Her face was carved from ice. “Victoria?” I slurred slightly. “What are you doing here?” “Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice tight. “Back to the hotel.” Riley’s apartment was an hour away in the suburbs, so the plan was for her to crash on my hotel sofa for the night. Victoria’s eyes darted to where my arm was wrapped around Riley’s shoulders. The ice shattered, revealing something raw and terrifying. She stepped forward and physically shoved Riley away from me. “You’re going to sleep with her?” Victoria’s voice cracked. She looked devastatingly betrayed. “You can sleep with her? But not me? Is her body better than mine? Is she better in bed? Are you more compatible?” I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer wind force of her jealousy. “Huh?” She was looking at me like I was the ultimate scumbag who had just broken her heart. It took me three minutes of frantic, sobered-up explaining to convince her that Riley and I had been friends since we were in diapers, and that the thought of sleeping with her was medically repulsive to both of us. Only then did the storm clouds in Victoria’s eyes part, her rigid posture finally relaxing. 12 Victoria insisted on walking back with us, helping me drag a now-unconscious Riley into my hotel room. Victoria stood at the foot of the king-sized bed, staring down at my snoring friend with a deep frown. “She is a woman, correct?” Victoria asked flatly. I nodded. “Yeah. Why?” Victoria turned to me, her logic impenetrable. “You are a man. Sleeping in the same room as a woman is inappropriate.” I stared at her. Riley and I had taken baths together when we were toddlers. She was essentially my sister. But trying to argue with a drunk, stubborn Victoria seemed like a losing battle. “Fine. I’ll go down to the lobby and book another room.” “No need,” Victoria said, not missing a beat. “You’ll sleep in my room.” Wait. We were a man and a woman. Wasn’t that also inappropriate? But she didn’t give me time to process the hypocrisy. She grabbed me by the shoulders and marched me down the hall into her executive suite. I was too exhausted to fight it. It wasn’t like we hadn’t shared a bed before. I grabbed a bathrobe and headed into the bathroom. A second later, the door clicked shut, and Victoria stepped inside.

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Seven years together. Every time I brought up marriage, my boyfriend suddenly developed hearing loss. That is, until the day I was scrolling through a local Reddit thread. “Deliberately giving my girlfriend the cold shoulder so I can surprise her with a proposal on her 30th birthday. Any advice?” The location tagged was the exact restaurant we were currently sitting in. The next second, the lights went out. My boyfriend took two steps forward and dropped to one knee. My breath hitched in my throat. The words I do were already trembling on the tip of my tongue. Then, a three-tiered cake fell from the sky, smashing directly over my head. My boyfriend’s female best friend leaped out from the shadows. She giggled, a sharp, piercing sound. “Happy dirty thirty, future wifey!” “Love the little surprise your good boy and I planned for you?” 1 The crowd erupted in cheers. Confetti cannons blasted overhead. Glitter mixed with thick, sugary frosting, sliding down my face in clumps. The “effortless, no-makeup” makeup look I had spent three hours perfecting was, in an instant, reduced to a total joke. But Blair wasn’t done. On the restaurant’s projector, she threw up a slideshow of my most tragic high school photos. The girl on the screen had her head bowed timidly, her frame frumpy and her face violently broken out in cystic acne. Blair let out a bark of laughter and slapped Cameron hard on the shoulder. “Damn, Mommy’s little boy, am I seeing things? Is that your gorgeous future bride on the big screen? I thought it was a before-picture for a tragic makeover show.” Cameron’s frat brothers exchanged glances, snickering behind their hands. “That’s brutal, man,” one of them muttered. Cameron kicked the leg of Blair’s chair. “Who told you to dig up these photos?” Blair put her hands on her hips, looking entirely unbothered. “Oh, so we’re getting an attitude now? You’re yelling at your creator?” “I seem to recall a certain someone who couldn’t aim straight into the toilet when we were kids. I basically had to potty-train you. Now you get a girl and suddenly you forget who raised you?” Cameron slipped one hand into his pocket and flicked her forehead with the other. “Are you insane?” The words were a reprimand, but the trailing edge of his voice dripped with an undeniable, sickening indulgence. “Where’s the lie?” Blair twisted her head to look at me. “Seriously, Jo, you don’t believe me? When we were kids he used to see who could pee the farthest—” Before she could finish, Cameron clamped a hand over her mouth. “Will it kill you to shut up for two seconds?” “Mmph! No!” They were practically tangled up in each other’s arms, half-wrestling, half-embracing. Bickering back and forth. The body language was electric, intimate. Anyone walking into the room would have assumed they were the couple. “Cameron! Let me go, or I’m suing for harassment.” “With that flat chest? Please, who’d want to harass you?” “Yeah, yeah, go touch your ugly bride.” “Watch your mouth.” “Blah blah blah~” I stood there, staring at the absolute absurdity unfolding in front of me. My chest felt like someone had pressed a heavy, scalding wet towel over my lungs. Suffocating. Humid. I couldn’t drag in a breath. I grabbed my purse. “You guys have fun. I’m done.” 2 Cameron took two quick strides and blocked my path. “Don’t take it to heart, Jo. She’s been living in Europe for too long, she just doesn’t have a filter anymore.” “We’re just messing around.” I shoved his arm away. “A joke is only a joke if the person being laughed at finds it funny.” The velvet ring box in my palm was pressing so hard into my skin it ached. I had it all planned out. If he didn’t take the initiative tonight, there was no shame in a woman proposing. I had replayed the exact sequence of the proposal in my head a thousand times. Will you marry me? I had practiced those five words for half a month. I had imagined a million different outcomes. But I never, ever imagined this. I never imagined he would use the very concept of a proposal as a punchline for a prank. A sharp, acidic burn flared in the back of my nose. By the time I realized what was happening, hot tears were already spilling down my frosting-covered cheeks. A flash of panic crossed Cameron’s eyes. He kicked one of his friends in the shin. “Hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up.” “What are you idiots standing around for? Get over here and apologize to Jo.” The guys shuffled over, looking properly chastised. They mumbled reluctant apologies. While Cameron was lowering his voice to coax me, Blair suddenly snapped. “Why are you apologizing to her? We worked our asses off to plan this surprise. If she’s too stuck-up to appreciate it, fine, but what is this dramatic little performance?” “Throwing a tantrum over nothing. Women are so much drama. Next time you guys go out, don’t even bother inviting me.” Before she stormed out, she made sure to leave one final ultimatum hanging in the air. “It’s me or her. Choose.” Cameron froze. But his eyes remained locked on Blair’s retreating figure. Frantic. Anxious. I watched the way he looked at her. And suddenly, the agonizing throbbing in my chest just… stopped. It went completely still, like a pool of dead water. “If you want to go after her, go.” “I’m not stopping you.” 3 Having received his permission, Cameron practically sprinted out the door after Blair. Terrified he wouldn’t catch her in time. I went back to our apartment alone. A hollow shell, I curled my knees to my chest inside the porcelain bathtub. The frosting and the cheap confetti from the cannons had formed a concrete-like paste in my hair. The more I scrubbed, the more tangled it became. Eventually, my arms gave out. I collapsed into the murky, lukewarm water. My body temperature plummeted, then began a slow, feverish climb. As the bathroom tiles began to spin, the buzzing vibration of my phone echoed against the porcelain. I dragged myself up to answer it. The voice on the other end sounded distant, repeating my name with mounting urgency. “Cam?” I murmured instinctively. “Jo, it’s me,” my coworker corrected, her voice thick with second-hand embarrassment. I stared at the wall for a few seconds, then whispered an apology. “I forwarded the client feedback to your email. We’ve got a briefing in ten.” “Jo, you don’t sound right. Are you okay?” “I’m fine. Give me five minutes.” Trembling, I pulled myself from the tub. I tore through the medicine cabinet for Advil, but found nothing. Desperate, I dialed Cameron’s number. Usually, even in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, he would answer my calls on the first ring. Especially on the nights I was home alone. He used to stay on the line with me until the sun came up. But now. A dozen calls went straight to voicemail. Maybe the fever was making me delirious. Or maybe the crushing weight of seven years of repressed emotions was finally suffocating me. The more he ignored me, the more obsessive I became. I mashed the call button until my thumb bruised. Until a notification popped down from the top of my screen. An Instagram story from Blair. A mirror selfie. She was wearing a massively oversized white button-down. No pants in sight. The caption: [Who’s a good boy doing Mommy’s laundry? ~] The next slide was a Boomerang. Cameron, bent over the sink, vigorously scrubbing a pair of her blood-stained underwear. And right there, resting at the bottom of the sink, sinking beneath the frothy, pink-tinted water… was the custom platinum band I had bought for him. I stared at the screen for a long, long time. My hand, which had been suspended in the air, finally went slack. It fell to my side. 4 Cameron vanished for ten straight days. I only knew he was alive because of Instagram. Blair opened her boutique bar. From mixing drinks to seating VIPs, Cameron was doing it all himself. Cameron, the heir to a tech empire, a man who usually looked down on the world from a glass penthouse, was currently wearing a tight black bartender’s uniform, complete with a collar and cat ears, drawing in a crowd at the front door. One of his frat brothers texted me, telling me not to overthink it. [Bros help bros out.][Cam doesn’t even see her as a girl. Think about it, they grew up together, they’d take a bullet for each other. If they were going to hook up, it would’ve happened long before you came along.] I let out a single, cold laugh. I locked my phone and boarded my flight. For half a month, I ran on fumes. Business trips, endless meetings, rewriting proposals. I used work as an anesthetic. On the day of the final contract signing, Cameron, who had been MIA for weeks, suddenly materialized. He leaned against my office doorframe, spinning his Porsche keys around his index finger, an eyebrow cocked. “Why the shocked face? Isn’t today your big signing day?” Right. In the past, Cameron had always used his family’s connections to smooth the way for my deals behind the scenes. He would drive me to the client’s office himself. The moment the clients saw Cameron’s license plate, even the most stubborn executives would suddenly find a reason to give me a fair hearing. But I didn’t need that anymore. While he was burying himself in a hipster bar, I had closed the deal myself. It wasn’t until the client nodded and reached for the pen that I finally realized it. I could survive without him. “Go back and keep Blair company,” I said, brushing past him to grab my trench coat. “Baby.” Cameron softened his voice, hooking his index finger around mine. When the cold metal of his ring dragged against my skin, my mind violently flashed to that sink full of dirty, pink water. A wave of pure nausea rolled through my stomach. “Don’t touch me!” Cameron recoiled, genuinely taken aback by my shout. “What is your problem?” “Are you still throwing a fit because I didn’t come home for a few days?” “Didn’t I explain this over text? My bro was opening a bar, I had to be there to help out. I have my own life, Jo. I can’t orbit around you 24/7.” Bro? The absurdity of his word choice almost made me laugh out loud. For the past few days, my timeline had been flooded with videos from our mutual friends. Blair sitting in his lap, tipping bourbon into his mouth. The amber liquid sliding down his throat as he demanded another round. The most damning video was them playing Suck and Blow with a playing card. Their lips pressed together, separated only by a paper-thin barrier of cardboard. He calls that a bro? Hilarious. “Whether you were ‘helping out’ or just screwing around with Blair, you know the truth.” My words hit a nerve. His voice dropped an octave. “Enough. I’ve told you a million times, Blair and I are like guys. Why do you always have to make her the villain?” “Then stop doing things that make me cast her as one.” I finished gathering my files. He blocked the doorway, refusing to budge. “I said, I’m driving you.” The air pressure in the room plummeted. A standoff. I took a deep breath. Whatever. There was no point in arguing with a madman. The contract was what mattered. “Where’s the car?” 5 Inside the Porsche, the silence was suffocating. The passenger seat had been readjusted. It dug uncomfortably into my lower back. “My mom wants you to come over for dinner tonight.” “I don’t have time. I have a client dinner.” “I’ll have someone cover for you.” “No need.” The light turned red, and he slammed on the brakes. The tires shrieked against the asphalt. I had no idea what I had said to set him off this time. He whipped his head to face me, his eyes dark, his tone dripping with acidic sarcasm. “Jo, when does this end? You’re the one who was practically begging to get married, and now you’re the one refusing to see my parents.” “You’ve been picking fights for weeks. This is all because I didn’t play into your little hints about a ring, isn’t it? You didn’t get your way, so you took it out on Blair, and now you’re taking it out on my mother?” His face was slightly distorted with rage. So he knew. He knew the whole time I wanted to marry him. That unnamable, hollow ache rushed back into my chest. I thought of my Nana, lying in the ICU back in my hometown. That frail, shrinking silhouette. Smiling through the oxygen tubes, telling me she just wanted to see me settled and happy before she let go. I didn’t want her to leave this world with regrets. That was the only reason I kept bringing up marriage. During those brutal weeks she was in the hospital, I would finish work, rush to the airport, fly back home, and then catch a pre-dawn flight back to New York just to make it to the office. Six hours of commuting, day in and day out. I remembered one specific evening, stranded in the rain during rush hour, unable to hail a cab to the airport. Standing on a crowded Manhattan street, I was so desperate I could barely breathe through the tears. In my most helpless moment, the moment I needed Cameron more than anything. Where was he? He was throwing a massive welcome-back gala for Blair. New York City banned private fireworks. So he rented hundreds of drones, lighting up the night sky to mimic falling stars. Then, the drones rearranged themselves to form a glowing portrait of Blair’s face against the clouds. The crowd gasped in awe, holding up their phones to record the spectacle. And I was left standing on the wet pavement, staring up at that familiar face in the sky. I knew that face. It was the girl from the photo he had carefully cut out of his high school yearbook and hidden away for a decade. “Here’s the prenup. Read it over, and when you’re done acting out, sign it.” Cameron’s voice snapped me back to the plush leather interior of the car. “You have three days. After that, the offer expires.” 6 Cameron pulled over an entire block away from my office building. I knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to teach me a lesson. To force me to lower my head and come crawling back in the rain. He had no idea. Today was just a formality. Whether it was my career, or the rest of my life. I didn’t need him anymore. In the corporate conference room, the ink dried on the contract. Both my boss and I let out a massive sigh of relief. The company’s numbers had been slipping lately. This was one of the few lifeline accounts we had landed. My boss leaned back, asking me what I wanted as a reward. A massive year-end bonus, or a month-long vacation in Europe? I thought about it. “We just opened a new branch in Syracuse, right? I want to go.” “But aren’t you and the young Mr. Cameron—” My boss stopped mid-sentence, catching the look in my eyes. He smoothly pivoted. “Going back to your hometown is a great idea. Spend some time with family. The new branch is desperate for senior leadership anyway.” I took a sip of my black coffee. The bitterness coated my tongue. “Let me give you a heads-up now. Once Cameron and I are officially over, his family’s connections to our firm might take a hit.” My boss waved a hand dismissively. “Look, those CEOs gave you meetings because of the Cameron name, sure. But they aren’t stupid. They sign the checks because you do the work.” “That last client specifically requested you for the next quarter. Honestly, I’m less worried about his family pulling strings and more worried you’re going to take all my best clients with you to upstate.” “But… are you absolutely sure about this? You guys haven’t been dating for a year or two. It’s been seven years, Jo. A woman only gets so many seven-year stretches in her life.” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the towering glass spire of Cameron’s family tech empire. The LED billboard on the side of the building was currently running a looped teaser for Blair’s upcoming birthday bash. I smiled. A genuine, weightless smile. “There’s nothing left to hold onto.” “I’ll just consider those seven years fed to the dogs.” 7 I had never actually planned to date Cameron for seven years. In the beginning, everyone assumed I was just a novelty to him. I thought the same thing. He used me to experience how the other half lived; I used his last name to lock down clients. A transactional arrangement. Nobody owed anyone anything. So, the first time I walked into my cramped studio apartment and found him wearing an apron, cooking pasta and doing my laundry, I thought he had been possessed by a demon. My best friend Harper’s assessment was blunt: “He’s just bored of being rich. He’s playing house—slumming it for fun. Give it a few months, he’ll crack.” I agreed completely. But no one expected the months to turn into years. He kept doing the chores. My cold, empty rental slowly filled with the warmth of another human being. I started to get greedy. The expiration date on our “arrangement” kept getting pushed back. In our third year together, my parents were killed instantly in a horrific car crash. Cameron, a spoiled, entitled trust-fund kid who had never flown commercial in his life, followed me onto a train, then a rusted Greyhound bus, and finally a pickup truck, just to reach my rural hometown to help arrange the funeral. I knelt by their caskets for three days and three nights. He stayed right beside me, never leaving my shadow. I forced myself to play the adult. I made polite conversation with distant relatives. I refilled the urns of coffee, set out the trays of stale cookies, and managed the condolences. Everyone in town praised me for being so capable, so composed. Everyone told me: You’re the oldest. You have to be strong. You can’t break down now. Cameron was the only one who saw the fractures in my armor. I expected him to offer some hollow, cliché comfort like, You don’t have to be strong around me. But he didn’t. That night, we were crammed onto a narrow, creaking twin mattress. He gently rubbed my back. And with his terrible, off-key pitch, he slowly, haltingly sang the lullaby my mother used to sing to me. The heat radiating from his chest bled through his thin button-down, chasing away the bitter chill of the November night. The emotional dam I thought I had reinforced so perfectly just… shattered. I wept like an animal. Snot and tears smeared all over my face, soaking his shirt. I don’t know how long I cried. Hovering between sleep and waking, I whispered into the dark, “Cam. I don’t have parents anymore.” He kissed the top of my head, his voice a soft rumble. “Then you marry me. From now on, my parents are your parents.” I opened my swollen eyes. Moonlight was spilling through the frosted windowpane, catching the lines of his face. His eyes were as bright as the stars. To say I didn’t fall in love with him in that moment would be a lie. But the tragedy was, the moment I finally surrendered my whole heart to him… He took a step back. 8 Handing over my accounts took three days. In my downtime, I gathered every designer bag, every piece of jewelry, and every pair of shoes Cameron had ever given me. I scheduled a luxury consignment service to come to the apartment. Exhausted, I slumped down onto the hardwood floor. A sudden draft sent a chill down my spine. I turned around. The front door was wide open. Cameron was standing in the living room, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear. His face was thunderous. Three of his frat bros hovered behind him. The air in the room instantly felt like a tribunal. “Care to explain?” I furrowed my brow, confused. Explain what? Was he mad I was packing up the things he bought me? Did he want them back? “Still playing dumb?” Cameron pulled a piece of glossy paper from his pocket and threw it at my feet. He leaned down, casting a dark shadow over me, his voice laced with venom. “When did you learn to play such cheap, manipulative tricks, Jo?” I picked it up. It was a sonogram. The one Harper had accidentally left on my coffee table last week. How did he get it? His friends muttered behind him: “I thought a girl like her would at least be decent. Didn’t know she was such a gold-digger. Refuses to sign the prenup, refuses to see your mom, and tries to trap you with a fake pregnancy instead.” “Women know women. Blair called it. What a psycho.” Before, they were just bros. Now that it was convenient, she was a woman who knew other women? A harsh laugh escaped my throat. Cameron’s expression darkened even further. “Get up. We’re going to the clinic.” “You are not keeping this.” I violently slapped his hand away. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Did I ever say this was yours?”

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I was the eternal runner-up, the shadow to the golden boy’s light, until the day the Exchange System bound itself to my soul. Neon-bright commentary—visible only to me—began to scroll across my vision like a live stream chat from hell. [It’s over. This bitter, villainous side character has always been jealous of the male lead. He’s definitely going to use the System to steal the lead’s SAT scores!] [Thank god the male lead can hear the System, too. Now he can just coast, enjoy his youth, and sleep through the exams!] [Let the villain scheme. What does it matter? He’ll end up with a zero, and the lead will just get a building donated to Harvard in his name. Sweet justice!] Villainous side character? Me? I almost laughed. Who said I wanted to swap his test scores? What I wanted was something far more expensive. … [Congratulations, Host. You have been bound to the Exchange System. You have exactly one opportunity to initiate a trade.] I asked, internally, “Can I trade anything? Even exam scores?” [Of course. Please designate your target.] “Paxton Wentworth.” The moment his name left my lips, Paxton, standing a few lockers away, stiffened. His hands balled into fists. When he turned to look at me, his gaze was a cocktail of contempt and amusement. So, the commentary was right. He could hear us. Paxton Wentworth. The Valedictorian presumptive. The golden boy. And then there was me. The scholarship kid. The charity case. The eternal Salutatorian. He came from old money, a dynasty of wealth. My mother, Debbie, was their housekeeper. Debbie loved to remind me of my place. “Master Paxton is like fine china,” she’d hiss, cigarette smoke curling from her lips. “You’re just a paper plate. What makes you think you deserve to sit at the same table?” When Paxton’s entourage locked me in the gym locker room overnight, Debbie didn’t bat an eye. “You must have upset him. He wouldn’t discipline you without cause. You were born with a wretched fate, Dustin. Stop whining.” I used to think she was just terrified of losing her job, that her sycophancy was a survival tactic. Then the floating comments told me the truth: [The side character is actually tragic. He’s the real heir, switched at birth. His housekeeper ‘mom’ is actually Paxton’s biological mother…] [Tragic? Please. He deserves it. Who told him to be a snake and try to steal Paxton’s scores? Thank god Paxton is prepared. He’s going to tank the test on purpose so the villain gets nothing!] [Exactly. Once the villain is revealed as the biological son, the Wentworths will be too embarrassed to claim him. Paxton will crush him. Isolation, depression… he has it coming.] Isolation? Depression? Suicide? Sorry to disappoint the audience, but that’s not in my script. Because I’m not swapping grades. I’m playing for higher stakes. Between classes, Paxton sauntered over to my desk, that signature effortless smirk plastered on his face. “Dustin. Still clinging to second place, I see. Need a tutor?” Dustin. My mother named me that. I once asked to change it, telling her the kids called me “Dustbin.” She’d laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “You don’t like it? You ungrateful little brat. Your father died right after you were born—you’re bad luck. ‘Dustin’ is better than you deserve.” That name was the weapon Paxton’s friends used when they cornered me in the bathroom, forcing my head toward the toilet bowl. “You’re a Dustbin, right? Let’s see if you like the smell of garbage.” Paxton had watched from the doorway then, wearing the exact same smile he wore now. I kept my eyes on my textbook. “No thanks, Paxton. Your time is money. Focus on yourself.” “Aww, looking out for me?” Paxton chuckled, leaning in. “Let me let you in on a secret. I’m done with school. The teachers here are too slow. My parents hired five Ivy League consultants for private coaching at the estate. By the time finals roll around, the gap between us is going to be a canyon.” He beamed, radiating confidence. The floating text went wild. [Paxton is a genius! The fake tutor story will convince the villain to go through with the swap!] [Meanwhile, Paxton is going to party his way to graduation. The villain is going to swap for a blank sheet of paper!] [Who cares about grades when you’re a Wentworth? He can buy his way into Yale. This is the alpha energy we need!] True to his word, Paxton stopped coming to class. Guided by the commentary, I once followed him to a high-end club downtown. I watched from the shadows as he downed shots with girls who looked like Instagram filters come to life, disappearing into a private room for the night. I didn’t judge. We were eighteen. Choices were made. I chose to wear my oversized uniform and stick to my routine. Library. Desk. Sleep. Repeat. Without Paxton’s daily torment, I had more time to sharpen my mind. I knew he had spies in the classroom, so I played my part. I feigned exhaustion. I let my head hit the desk. But the moment the final bell rang, I vanished into an abandoned janitor’s closet in the basement to study until my eyes burned. If Paxton wanted a performance, I’d give him one. I was just dying to see the look on his face when he realized the swap never happened. Examination Day. The culmination of twelve years of hell. I walked to the testing center alone. At the gates, a black SUV pulled up. The Wentworths emerged, looking like royalty. And there, trailing behind them, was Debbie. They fussed over Paxton, adjusting his tie, handing him water. Debbie looked at him with a hunger, a desperate, fawning adoration she had never once shown me. She hadn’t been home in six months. She’d left me in our crumbling apartment in the worst part of town to live at the manor, catering to Paxton’s every whim. She didn’t leave a dime. If I hadn’t saved money from working nights at the diner, I would have starved. But it was better this way. When Debbie was home, the noise was constant. The abuse was physical. She looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out. I never understood why. Now, watching the live comments and the tableau before me, the puzzle pieces locked into place. [I almost feel bad for the villain… his foster mom treats him like a dog and worships her bio-son. Even when he gets revealed as the real heir, his bio-parents won’t want him. A life without love…] [Whatever. He’s a cheater. If he wasn’t trying to steal the score, we wouldn’t get the satisfaction of the face-slap!] [Wait… is he actually going to swap? He looks calm. Focused. Paxton looks… hungover.] I suppressed a smile. Finally, a smart observer in the chat. Paxton caught my eye and waved, loud and obnoxious. “Dustin!” The crowd turned. “What are you smiling for? Feeling lucky?” He strode over, radiating toxic charisma. “I’m alright,” I said flatly. “You?” “Me? I’ve had those gold-medal tutors, remember? You’ve never beaten me before, and you certainly won’t start today.” He was baiting the trap. I looked him dead in the eye. “Paxton, take the test seriously. Good luck.” He sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Oh, for your sake, I will take it very seriously.” “Alright, that’s enough!” Debbie rushed forward, placing herself between us like a human shield. “Dustin, you gutter rat, don’t you dare distract Master Paxton with your bad juju. Get lost!” Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth approached, wrinkling their noses at my frayed collar. “Paxton, darling, don’t engage with the help. Focus.” This was the first time I stood so close to my biological parents. Thanks to the spoilers in the air, I felt nothing. No longing. No hope. No expectation meant no disappointment. I turned and walked into the exam hall. I had held my breath for eighteen years. Today, I would finally exhale. I attacked the exam with surgical precision. When the final pencil dropped, I felt like a samurai sheathing a blade. Meanwhile, the comments updated me on Paxton. [Paxton is a legend! He slept through the whole thing! He literally drooled on the answer sheet!] [I can’t wait for the swap! The villain is going to inherit a nap!] [Wait… why did the villain write so furiously? That didn’t look like someone expecting a free ride…] Paxton had ignored my warning. He had closed the academic door on himself. Good. I had already locked the other exits. A week later, the school held a projection assembly to estimate scores before the official release. Paxton stood up, chest puffed out. “I’m calling it. 1580.” The class gasped. A near-perfect SAT score. “That’s higher than your mocks!” the guidance counselor exclaimed. Paxton winked at me. “I had a breakthrough.” He turned the spotlight on me. “What about our runner-up? What’s your estimate, Dustin?” “About the same,” I said quietly. Paxton roared with laughter. “The same? You? Dreaming big today, aren’t we?” “Just telling the truth.” He didn’t believe me. He thought I was posturing, preparing for the swap. “Well,” Paxton announced to the room, “It looks like we have a rivalry. Dad’s already called the press. On results day, we’re going to live-stream the moment. You game, Dustin?” I nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Especially since I knew that results day was the exact date Debbie had chosen for the big reveal. The day she planned to claim her retirement fund. Results Day. The classroom was a circus. Cameras, parents, students, and curious onlookers squeezed into the space. Paxton had done a great job hyping the “Battle of the Geniuses.” The comments were buzzing. [Paxton’s Harvard acceptance is already bought and paid for, but this is about dominance!] [The villain is going to be humiliated live on camera. I have my popcorn ready!] Students began logging into the portal. “1250! Yes!” “Damn, 1080… my mom is going to kill me.” “1420!” The camera swung to us. “We have two students predicting near-perfect scores. Gentlemen?” Paxton shot me a look of pure arrogance and typed in his ID. The screen refreshed. The room went silent. 0. (Incomplete/Void) “Zero? How is that possible?” The counselor stammered. “A system error?” Paxton remained terrifyingly calm. He looked at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Dustin. You really are ruthless. I thought you’d leave me with a low score, but a zero? You didn’t even try to make it look real.” The crowd murmured. “What’s he talking about?” Paxton stood up, voice projecting for the back of the room. “It sounds insane, but I swear on the Wentworth name this is the truth. Three months ago, I discovered Dustin bound a supernatural ‘Exchange System’ to himself. He planned to swap our exam results.” He paused for effect. “I knew I couldn’t stop him. So, I purposely tanked the test. I slept through it. I made sure that when he stole my score, he stole absolutely nothing!” Pandemonium. Flashbulbs exploded. Livestream comments poured in. “Is this real?” “Sorcery?” I stood up slowly, adjusting my glasses. “Paxton, failing is one thing. Inventing a sci-fi conspiracy theory to cover your shame is another.” “You know the truth!” he spat. “Do I?” I kept my voice soft, dangerous. “I saw you at the club, Paxton. Every night. While I was studying, you were doing body shots. And now you want to blame a ‘System’?” He flinched. The crowd’s gaze shifted. “I partied because I wasn’t going to let you profit from my hard work!” Paxton yelled, losing his cool. “And I don’t need the score! I’m a Wentworth! I’m going to Harvard anyway!” The door banged open. Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth marched in, followed by Debbie, whose eyes were bright with greed. “That’s right,” Mr. Wentworth boomed. “We have spoken to the Dean. A substantial donation has been arranged. Paxton’s legacy admission is secured.” [The Wentworths are dropping a whole building for him! Money talks!] [The villain is finished. He stole a zero and lost his dignity.] Emboldened, Paxton sneered at me. “Prove me wrong, Dustin. Log in. If your score is also zero, or remarkably low, it proves you tried to swap and failed!” “Check the score!” the crowd chanted. I smiled. “Alright.” I typed in my ID. Paxton held his breath, eyes glued to the monitor. The page loaded. No numbers appeared. Just a banner in bold crimson text: [SCORE PENDING. VERIFICATION REQUIRED. TOP 0.1% PERCENTILE.] “A shielded score?”

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Eighteen years old. That was the year the sound of my unraveling was broadcast over the intercom to the entire campus of St. Jude’s Academy. He told me I was his favorite, his muse. He coaxed my hand away from my mouth, his voice a velvet trap. “Don’t be afraid, Nina. No one will know.” And so, every desperate, breathless sound I made was amplified into every classroom, every hallway, every office. The next day, the bulletin boards were plastered with my love letters and photos of me on my knees before him, shirt unbuttoned, eyes wide with a devotion that looked pathetic in glossy 4×6. I was expelled. He was suspended. But he was Roman Kingsley. He just brushed the dust off his designer suit and slid back into his life of privilege. Before he left, he torched the earth behind him with two sentences: “The sins of the father fall on the daughter. Your father plays the saintly teacher, but behind closed doors, he was harassing my sister.” “Bella is dead because of him! You deserve this. You deserve every bit of it.” I flew at him, screaming, a feral thing trying to claw the arrogance off his face. He backhanded me so hard I hit the linoleum floor. My father saw it. My gentle, soft-spoken father, who had never raised a voice in his life, threw a punch. Roman’s bodyguards swarmed him. They beat him into the pavement while shouting the vilest things about him, about his daughter. My father lost his mind that day. He snapped. My younger brother, Archie, tried to demand justice. He was struck by a car two weeks later. Hit and run. Mom remarried. She couldn’t look at us anymore. I had no home. To pay for Dad’s psychiatric care, I learned that shame was a currency. I went from honor roll student to adult film star. Five years later, I was under the studio lights, arching my back, selling a fantasy. I didn’t notice when the director’s chair was taken by someone else. Until I looked up. It was him. … I tilted my head back, lips parted, letting out a fractured, breathy moan. “Cut.” That was the thirteenth time today. Roman Kingsley leaned back in the director’s chair, his tone dripping with unvarnished disdain. “Is that supposed to be desire, or are you having an asthma attack?” He swirled a pen in his hand, not looking at me. “I want heat. I want surrender. I want a sound that makes a man hard, not confused. What the hell was that?” My face burned. My throat felt stuffed with cotton. Five years ago, I had buried my face in the crook of his neck, biting my lip to stay quiet. He hadn’t liked that. He’d pried my hands away, whispering lies. “Nina, your voice is pure. It’s intoxicating. Like a songbird.” “Let me hear you. I want to hear you.” So I let him. And the microphone on the desk caught it all. The static hiss, the wet sounds, the whimpers. The whole school heard. The scholarship girl and the golden boy, desecrating the broadcast booth. On the set, the crew looked down, pretending to be busy with cables and lights. “Again,” Roman commanded, his eyes turning to ice. “And put some effort into it. You look like a corpse.” The male actor’s hand moved up my ribcage again, his touch clinical and hesitant. I closed my eyes, trying to hide the humiliation. “Cut.” Roman stood up this time. “It’s unnatural! You’re touching her like she’s made of balsa wood.” The actor was sweating, nodding furiously. I felt a pang of pity. He was young, likely his first time on a set like this. I offered him a small, reassuring smile. “Cut!” Roman roared it. His eyes were blazing. “Whores don’t smile like that! If you can’t act the part, get off my set.” I swallowed the acid rising in my throat. I brushed my hair back, deepened the curve of my lips, and cast a heavy-lidded, predatory glance at the crew. “Like this, Mr. Kingsley? Is this better?” I heard audible swallows around the room. Roman’s face went rigid. He gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Start over. Too much fabric. I can’t see the lines. How is the audience supposed to buy it?” I didn’t hesitate. I stripped off the top. Underneath was a sheer white lace bustier, cut dangerously low. The fabric was whisper-thin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Someone in the back inhaled sharply. Roman sat back down. When he saw me, hatred seemed to radiate off him like heat waves. “Action.” The actor’s fingers were trembling. I watched his panic, then took the lead. I guided his hands to my waist, pressing my body flush against his. “Cut!” Roman kicked the chair next to him, sending it skattering. “Nina Russo! Throwing yourself at men in front of a room full of people? Do you have no shame left?” “Cheap.” He spat the word out, turned on his heel, and stormed out. The actual director, a nervous man named Dave, hurried over after a few stunned seconds. “Vivian, don’t take it to heart,” he said, using my stage name. “Look, this is a soft-core romance, plot-heavy… but the investors call the shots, and when Mr. Kingsley walks in…” I nodded, pulling my robe tight around me. “It’s fine, Dave. I get it.” I really did. I’d done far worse for far less. They wrapped for the day. Dave paid me the remaining five grand in cash to smooth things over. I didn’t dwell on it. Since the day my life imploded, I had learned the art of numbness. I went downstairs, hailed a cab, and headed to my second gig. In the backseat, I checked my balance. Five grand. That covered Dad’s facility for two weeks. It was enough to buy a bouquet of white hydrangeas for Archie’s grave. They put a mask on me before pushing the cart out. The table was marble, cold enough to burn my skin. As I was wheeled past the VIP section, the hairs on my arms stood up. I prayed he wouldn’t recognize me. But the moment the chef placed the first piece of sashimi on my collarbone, I heard that familiar, mocking laugh. “God only knows where they found this one,” Roman said to his date. “I wonder if the goods are still intact?” The woman asked, voice syrupy sweet, “Does it matter?” Roman’s gaze felt like a physical weight dragging over my skin. “For Nyotaimori? It matters. It symbolizes purity. Who wants to eat off a dirty plate?” My nails dug into my palms. The event manager, a greasy man in a tuxedo, bowed low to Roman. “Mr. Kingsley has a discerning eye. But I assure you, while she isn’t… pristine… she has a natural fragrance. You’ll understand once you taste.” The double entendre hung heavy in the air. The men around the table chuckled, eyes gleaming with appetite. “Natural fragrance?” Roman mused. “Well then. Let’s see.” He clenched his jaw, watching as the chef laid the food out on my body. With every cold slice of fish, every dollop of roe, my muscles spasmed involuntarily. It was freezing. I wanted to shiver, but I didn’t dare. “Interesting centerpiece,” someone muttered. “Professional model?” “Who knows. Skin’s good, though.” I grit my teeth. Ten thousand dollars. That was the fee. Dad’s care for the next month was secured. Roman’s mood seemed to darken with every minute. The manager sensed the tension. “Mr. Kingsley… do you know her?” Roman scoffed. “Know her? Hard not to. She seduced her own teacher. High school scandal. Broadcast her moans over the PA system for the whole student body.” The air in the room shifted from hunger to sordid curiosity. One of the investors leaned in. “So, you’ve… sampled the merchandise?” Roman lifted his heavy lids. “Sampled?” He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. She’s filthy.” The cold seeped into my bones. I suddenly remembered a winter, years ago. I had run away from home, and he found me in the park behind the school. He took off his cashmere coat and wrapped it around me. “Are you an idiot? Freezing out here like this?” He rubbed my hands to warm them. I thought he was the kindest person in the world. I didn’t know then. The kindness was a lie. The cold was the only real thing. A hand pinched my waist hard. The manager whispered, “Stay still! You ruin this gig, you pay for it.” “Mr. Kingsley seems disgusted,” a guest noted. “Maybe we should send her back?” Roman’s date, a woman named Cecily, covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my god. She does this often? That must be so… exhausting.” She blinked, feigning sympathy. “Roman, honey, if Miss Russo likes doing this, let’s not judge. Everyone has their own way of surviving.” Roman took a sip of his scotch. “True. She eats off this money. I’d be cruel to stop her.” He set the glass down. “But why the mask? Since she’s already laid bare, why hide the face?” The manager froze, calculating. I lay on the marble, stiff as a corpse. No. I begged silently. No. But the manager’s hand was already reaching for the silk mask. The room collectively inhaled as it came off. “Wow,” someone whistled. “A beauty.” “Those eyes…” I opened them and looked straight at Roman. He sat there, immaculate in his bespoke suit, radiating power and judgment. He looked nothing like the boy in the white shirt who used to help me with calculus. “Nina, you have a spark no one else has.” “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Roman stood up and walked slowly toward the table. His eyes traced the line of my throat, down to the valley of my breasts. “Nina Russo. Don’t you feel any shame?” I stared at the ceiling. “Your family prides itself on being educators, don’t they? Is this what your father taught you?” “To strip naked and act as a dinner plate for men? Turns out the apple doesn’t fall far from the rotten tree.” How dare he speak of my father? My father had been catatonic for five years. The man who poured his soul into his students was gone, replaced by a shell. I looked at him, hatred finally piercing through my numbness. “Don’t you talk about him. You aren’t worthy to speak his name.” Roman smiled. It was terrifying. “Not worthy?” He turned to the crowd. “You gentlemen don’t know her? Let me introduce you.” He pointed a finger at me like a weapon. “Stage name Vivian. Real name Nina Russo. She does fifty scenes a year. She’s been in more beds on camera than you’ve had hot dinners.” The room exploded with whispers. “Wait, Lust & Lies? That’s her?” “I knew she looked familiar!” Roman raised a hand, silencing them. “I hear she takes any job. High budget, low budget. So, here’s a proposal. There are a lot of investors here. Make them happy. One business card, one movie deal. I’ll fund it.” “Twenty grand a pop. Better than lying here like cold cuts. Do you accept?” The room buzzed with excitement. “If Kingsley is funding, count me in!” The wasabi near my neck was making my eyes water. Twenty grand. I lifted my hand, picked a slice of salmon off my chest, and put it in my mouth. I chewed slowly, forcing my eyes to go soft, inviting. “Is that a promise?” I asked, voice steady. “If the gentlemen are willing to invest, who am I to say no to money?” Roman’s jaw muscles bunched. “Of course. If they invest, you give them a live preview. Right here.” I brushed my hair back, arching my back to emphasize my curves. “Then thank you, Mr. Kingsley, for the opportunity.” The manager looked like he’d won the lottery. “Ladies, perhaps you’d like to retire to the terrace? Gentlemen, stay…” Roman turned to Cecily. “Cecily, you’re my fiancée. I don’t want you seeing this filth. Go wait in the car.” “But Roman—” “Go.” I lowered my eyes. Fiancée. Cecily. Before I could process it, a business card was jammed into my cleavage. The gold-edged cardstock scratched my skin. The hands didn’t leave. Another hand reached out, sliding a card into the band of my thong. My bodice ripped under the pressure of the cards being forced in. Someone smeared fruit preserve from the platter across my collarbone. My face went pale, but the smile stayed plastered on. Roman gripped his glass until his knuckles turned white. He watched them touch me. He watched them shove cards against my skin, leave sticky fingerprints, leave marks. When there was nowhere left to put a card, and I was covered in red marks and food debris, the manager finally called it a night. The room cleared out slowly. I lay on the table, barely breathing. The sharp edges of the cards had cut me in sensitive places. I sat up, limbs trembling violently. I picked the cards off my body one by one. Thirty-five cards. Some had smears of blood on them. Roman stood in the shadows, his eyes red-rimmed. I held up the stack of cards and shook them at him. “Mr. Kingsley. Thirty-five cards. I expect half the payment upfront. That’s three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He smashed his glass on the floor. Shards flew, nicking my ankles. He stormed over and grabbed my chin. “Are you insane? Is money that important? Or do you just enjoy this? Answer me!” His voice shook. His hand shook. I looked at him, a hollow laugh bubbling up. “Mr. Kingsley, are you worried about me?” He shoved me back onto the table. He leaned over, his breath smelling of scotch and rage. “Nina. I regret ever going easy on you.” “If I had known you’d turn into this… this thing… I wish I’d never met you.” I looked down and started picking up the cards I’d dropped. I stacked them neatly and gave him a polite, practiced smile. “Mr. Kingsley, the wire transfer… that’s still happening, right?” He stared at me. Then, pure, unadulterated fury took over. “You really are a money-grubbing whore. Is there anyone cheaper than you?” He pulled a black Amex from his jacket pocket and threw it at me. It hit my cheek, the plastic edge stinging like a slap. “Rot in hell.” He turned and walked out. I picked up the black card. I pulled my clothes on over my sticky skin, walked to the manager, and collected my base fee. I went to the nearest ATM. I transferred every cent of the $360,000 limit to the care facility’s account. Transaction Complete. The adrenaline crashed. I walked out of the bank and stood on the street corner, unsure where to go. I just walked. Aimless. Until someone shoved me hard. I stumbled, hitting my hip against a stone planter. “Why don’t you just die!” I touched my forehead; blood trickled into my eye. But I saw the face. Mom. She was holding a baby. Her new husband stood next to her. She wasn’t done. She lunged, tearing at my shirt. “Slut! Whose bed did you crawl out of this time? Who are you trying to ruin now?” Her nails raked down my neck, exposing the hickeys and bruises from the party. “Honey, stop!” Her husband tried to hold her back. I kept my head down. “I’m sorry. I just… I just came to deposit money.” “Don’t you talk to me!” She shrieked. “You curse! Look at you! Look at those marks!” She pointed at my neck. “My Archie… my baby boy was only fifteen… he’s dead because of you!” She collapsed onto the sidewalk, wailing. Her husband gave me a desperate look, signaling me to leave. I bowed deeply to her. “I’m sorry.” I turned and ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until I collapsed in a dark corner of a public park. I buried my face in my knees. Archie. My baby brother. He ran out that day to find Roman, to demand an apology. He never came home. Mom was right. I was a curse. I found a 24-hour urgent care. The doctor stitched my forehead without asking questions. “Any deeper and you’d need a plastic surgeon,” he muttered. I paid him and left. The next day, I went to the facility to see Dad. He was sitting on a bench in the garden, lecturing to an empty row of chairs. He held a tattered notebook. I sat on a stone stool nearby. He glanced at me, didn’t recognize me, and continued his lesson. “Bella Kingsley was my favorite student,” he told the air. “She was just… too fragile.” “There was a student teacher that year. Paul Gentry. He had his eyes on her.” “I warned her. I intervened. I stopped her from seeing him.” Dad’s voice cracked. Tears streamed down his weathered face. “But… later…” He choked on a sob. “Later, she was cornered by those delinquents… I didn’t protect her…” I sat there, my heart twisting. Dad had done the right thing. He had always been the protector. I handed him a tissue. “Don’t be sad, sir. It wasn’t your fault.” He took it. “Thank you, miss.” I reached for another tissue, but behind me, I heard a thud. I turned. Roman was on his knees in the grass. “What did you say?”

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When I was nine years old, the explosion that nearly killed Blair took my hearing instead. I remember the heat, the concussive force that felt like a physical punch to the soul. Afterward, there was only silence. A thick, suffocating cotton-wool silence. Blair was consumed by guilt. I remember her sitting by my hospital bed, her small hands trembling as she held mine, eyes red and swollen. She demanded—no, she begged—our parents to let us be engaged. It was a child’s promise, heavy with an adult’s burden. “Wes,” she sobbed, “I’m going to take care of you forever.” But forever ended when we turned eighteen. It was the night of our graduation party. To prove herself to Carter—the golden boy, the captain of the lacrosse team, the guy every girl wanted—she decided I was the sacrifice she had to make. She reached out and pulled the hearing aid from my left ear. Right there in front of Carter and half the senior class. Her voice dripped with a new, cruel kind of venom. “God, you little burden. I am so sick of you.” She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “Honestly? I wish you hadn’t made it out of that fire when we were nine. It would have been cleaner if you’d just died.” I stood there, clutching the medical report in my pocket that I’d been waiting to show her. I didn’t say a word. I went home, quietly logged into the university portal to change my acceptance commitment, and told my parents it was over. Blair, you and I are done. The road ends here. … “Wes? Honestly, I wish you hadn’t made it out of that fire when we were nine. It would have been cleaner if you’d just died.” When Blair said those words, the VIP booth at the club erupted. “Damn, Blair! That was cold. You’re a legend.” “Next time, when he gets his miracle cure, you should whisper that right in his ear. I bet he’d cry. He’s such a soft boy, always looking at you with those puppy dog eyes.” “What’s it matter if he hears it? Who wants a cripple anyway? You were a saint for putting up with him this long.” I stood frozen in the shadows of the hallway, my hand gripping the folded paper in my jacket pocket so hard my knuckles turned white. My hearing had been fully restored weeks ago. My parents had taken me to a specialist in Zurich right after finals. No more hearing aids. No more static. Today was my eighteenth birthday. I had planned this night down to the second. I was going to surprise her. I was going to tell her that I was fixed, that I wasn’t her broken toy anymore. Instead, my carefully orchestrated surprise had turned into a live autopsy of my heart. Her words felt like serrated blades, twisting in my chest, cutting off my air supply. The pain was physical, sharp and radiating. I bit my lip until I tasted iron, looking up at Blair through the dim neon lights. Why? She didn’t even look at me. She was looking at the white hearing aid in her hand, tossing it up and down like a cheap party favor, a lazy, amused smile playing on her lips. “Alright, that’s enough,” she drawled. “He did save my life when we were kids. Let’s not be too mean. Keep it down, I don’t want him walking in on this.” The group fell into line immediately. “Right, right. Lips are sealed.” “Still, Wes getting to date you? Being deaf was a small price to pay for that privilege.” Laughter rippled through the room again. “Okay, okay,” Blair said, waving a hand dismissively. “Wes is a good guy, really. He’s just… boring. Not like us. He can’t handle the way we play.” Carter stepped forward then, that arrogant smirk plastered on his face. He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Blair,” he announced, his voice thick with self-importance, “you passed the test.” “Now I believe you’re actually over him. So, tomorrow? We’re on.” Blair’s face softened in a way I hadn’t seen in years. Her eyes practically melted. “It’s a date,” she whispered. I watched, my mind blanking out. The world felt like it had hit a sudden, jarring pause. The jeers, the music, the clinking glasses—it all swirled into a high-pitched ringing in my ears that had nothing to do with deafness. “Babe? Where did you go?” I blinked, and suddenly Blair was in front of me, fitting the hearing aid back into my ear. She smiled, sweet and practiced. “So happy you’re zoning out?” I was supposed to be happy. Eighteen. Accepted to her dream school. Confirmed relationship in front of all our friends. It was supposed to be the season finale of a perfect teen drama. But now, when I opened my mouth, my throat felt like it was full of sand. The others jumped in, covering their tracks with seamless lies. “Wes! You missed it. Blair was just saying the sweetest stuff about you while she cleaned your device. Seriously, made us all jealous.” “God, I wish I had a childhood sweetheart.” “You’re a lucky bastard,” Carter said, clapping me on the shoulder hard. “Getting a girl like Blair? That’s good karma.” I remained silent. I scanned their faces. The smiles, the thumbs-up, the jokes about being the best man at our wedding. Not a single crack in the facade. They were terrifyingly natural liars. It hit me then—how many times had this happened before? How many times this year had she taken my hearing aid out, looked me in the eye with a tender smile, and whispered something vile while I just nodded like a fool? If I hadn’t gone to Zurich. If I hadn’t been cured. I would have spent the rest of my life thanking her for loving me, never hearing the glass shards hidden in her honeyed words. “Whoops,” Carter said suddenly, pulling his hand back from Blair’s shoulder as if he’d been burned. He looked at me with mock apology. “Sorry, Wes. You know how we are. Just messing around. Don’t get jealous, man.” Blair laughed, swatting his arm. “Stop it. You treat me like one of the guys, you forget I’m actually a girl.” They started chasing each other around the booth, playful and intimate. Everyone else watched like it was the most normal thing in the world. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. I turned to leave. Carter was there in a second, blocking my path. His eyes narrowed. “Everyone came here for you, Wes. You’re just gonna leave?” Blair came over, ruffling my hair like I was a golden retriever. “Come on, you haven’t even opened your presents. Don’t be a brat.” I flinched, stepping back to avoid her touch. I ignored the sudden confusion clouding her face. I looked her dead in the eye and spoke clearly, calmly. “We’re breaking up. Don’t contact me again.” Then I walked out. My phone started blowing up before I even reached the parking lot. Blair: What is your problem? Everyone made an effort to be here for you. You’re being incredibly rude. Blair: Carter was just excited. He’s loud and outgoing, not quiet and timid like you. He apologized immediately. Why are you so insecure? Then the group chat chimed in: Friend 1: Wes, that was too much. Friend 2: Storming out like a diva? What did we ever do to you? Friend 3: Unbelievable. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. I stared at the screen, a cold laugh escaping my lips. “Who’s the one being too much?” I muttered. I blocked them. One by one. Then I left the group chat. When I got home, I told my parents the abbreviated version. “I don’t love her anymore,” I said, sitting at the kitchen island. My parents looked at me with concern, and suddenly, the dam broke. The ache in my chest swelled into my throat. “I don’t want to go to NYU with her. I don’t want to be with her. I don’t want to marry her.” My mom didn’t ask questions. She just pulled me into a hug, wiping my tears. “Wes, honey, it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.” “We’ll handle the engagement. We’ll break it off tomorrow. You go wherever you want for college. We’ve got your back. Always.” My dad walked me to the living room and placed the silver cake knife in my hand. “We didn’t get a chance to bring the cake to the venue before you came back,” he said softly. “It’s better this way. Just the three of us. A quiet birthday.” “Eighteen years ago, you made me the happiest man alive. Don’t cry, birthday boy. Make a wish.” I managed a watery smile. Under the warm gaze of my parents, I blew out the candles. Just as I was about to cut the cake, the doorbell rang. It was Blair. Outside, a summer storm had broken. Rain was coming down in sheets, thunder rattling the windows. She was soaked to the bone, water dripping from her hair onto the porch, but she didn’t seem to care. She just stood there, smiling, holding out a velvet jewelry box. “Look. I picked this out just for you.” “Stop being moody. Everyone is waiting for you at the club. And stop saying we’re breaking up, okay? It’s not funny.” I looked at the necklace in the box. It looked familiar. Carter had been wearing a watch from the same designer collection tonight. A matching set. I didn’t take it. Blair’s arm stayed suspended in the air. After a long moment, she dropped it, annoyance creeping into her tone. “Did you take the wrong meds today or something?” “You were crying tears of joy when I agreed to date you. Now you’re stone cold? What happened to the sweet, obedient Wes?” My chest tightened. I didn’t even want to argue. For years, I had been living in a dream, convinced she was my soulmate. I thought we’d go to New York, get degrees, get married, have kids. Tonight, the dream had been brutally dissected. She didn’t love me. To her, I was just the debt she owed because I saved her life. I was an accessory she’d outgrown. I took a deep breath. “I’m not playing games. The breakup is real. Stay away from me.” Blair snapped. She threw the box on the ground, her eyes flashing with anger. “Wes, are you done with this bullshit—” “Blair!” My dad stepped in front of me, his voice booming. “Watch your language.” “You’re soaking wet. Go home, take a shower, and get some rest. It’s late. We won’t be inviting you in.” My mom stepped up beside him, handing Blair a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin with a polite, frozen smile. “Wes already made his wish. He doesn’t need your gift. Take the cake and go.” “Get home safe. It’s dangerous for a young girl to be out alone.” Blair stood there, stunned. She knew something was wrong. My parents had always adored her. They treated her like a daughter. They never kept her on the porch. She opened her mouth to argue, but the heavy oak door slammed shut in her face. I didn’t have much of an appetite. I ate a few bites of cake and went to my room. My dad sat on the edge of my bed. “Wes, are you sure about this?” Fathers know. He knew how much I had worshipped her. I looked down at the white hearing aid in my hand. The one she had customized for me. People change so much. When we first moved to this estate, I used to follow her around like a shadow. “Blair, wait up!” Then came the fire at the factory. I remembered the training my parents gave me. I got out. Blair didn’t. I saw the flames licking the sky. I saw her frozen in the window. I didn’t think. I just ran back in. I dragged her out. We were almost clear when the secondary tanks blew. The shockwave shattered my eardrums. I woke up in a silent world. My parents were devastated. Her parents were guilty. I became withdrawn. I lay in bed for months. Blair stopped going to school to be with me. She brought me candy I didn’t eat. She realized hospitals depressed me, so she snuck me out to the audiologist to get this specific hearing aid. She had painted tiny fish and stalks of rice on it herself. She put it in my ear with clumsy, gentle fingers. “Wes, I’m going to protect you now.” “My tutor said the universe is infinite. It never dies. You’re going to be okay, Wes.” “Fish only have a seven-second memory, but I don’t. I’ll remember. I’ll always keep you safe.” Only I remembered that vow. If nine-year-old Wes could hear eighteen-year-old Blair say, I wish you’d just died, he would have broken down. But I had spent nine years being the “deaf kid.” I’d grown a thicker skin than she realized. I accepted her change of heart. People grow up. People drift. I saved her life. The Jackson family gave my father’s company a 50% concession on shipping routes for a decade. The debt was paid. We were even. I looked at my dad. “I’m sure.” That night, with my dad’s help, I logged into the portal. I declined the offer from NYU. I accepted the offer from Stanford. I thought I’d be awake all night, but I slept like a baby. I woke up at noon to two voice messages on WeChat. From Blair. Her voice tinny through the speaker, cold and commanding: “Wes, if you’re done throwing a tantrum, unblock me. Grow up.” “Carter feels terrible about you leaving early. He actually went up to the roof and threatened to jump because he thought he ruined your night. I had to talk him down.” “We’re going to Aspen for a ski trip before college starts. I’m bringing him so he can clear his head. Don’t be jealous. Honestly, if he hurts himself, it’s kind of your fault.” I laughed out loud. Carter? Killing himself? Please. The guy loved himself more than Kanye loved Kanye. He called himself “The King of the Hill.” He mocked guys who studied. But he was manipulative. I remembered my friend Miles’ birthday four months ago. Miles had set up a romantic confession for a girl he liked. Carter ruined it. He walked in, loudly asking, “Damn, Miles, you got moves. You practice this on all the girls?”

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It was the fourth year since Jax promised to marry me. He finally popped the question. Not in a quiet, intimate moment, but over a livestream at a press conference, fresh off his championship win, adrenaline still dripping from his pores. “Norah…” He held the trophy high, his grin electric, the kind of smile that usually got him out of speeding tickets. “I said it back in the day—win the championship, get the ring. I know I’m five years younger than you, and I’ve got a whole career ahead of me. My mom keeps saying I should find someone in her twenties, but hey, a man’s word is his bond, right?” On the other side of the screen, the room erupted in laughter. His teammate, Riley, threw her arm around his neck, cackling into the camera lens. “How about it, future Mrs.? The proposal speech I stayed up all night writing for my boy here—pretty solid, right?” “Look at her,” Riley teased, pointing at the screen where my face was projected. “She’s so moved she can’t even speak!” Jax looked into the camera, eyes wide with puppy-dog anticipation. “Come on, Norah. Tell the whole world. Will you marry me?” I stared at the screen, then glanced down at the ring already on my finger—a promise ring from years ago. I felt… nothing. “Let’s not,” I said, my voice flat. “I don’t think your dad would approve.” … Jax froze. The cheering in the press room died instantly. The host scrambled to save the vibe. “Looks like the bride-to-be is a little camera shy! She’s joking, folks! Let’s give her some encouragement! Marry him! Marry him!” The chanting was sparse, awkward. Then, Jax laughed. “My dad?” He scoffed, brushing it off like a speck of dust on his racing suit. “He’s been recovering out of state for years. He doesn’t give a damn what I do.” His tone shifted, becoming wheedling. “Babe, even if you’re mad I haven’t called in three months, don’t use such a lame excuse to dodge me.” Behind him, the pit crew started laughing again. They were waiting for the waterworks, for the grateful, aging girlfriend to weep with joy that the golden boy was finally settling down. Riley pointed a manicured finger at the camera, her expression shifting to mock seriousness. “Listen, Norah. Jax is proposing in front of every racing fan in the country. He knows you’re past your prime, he’s trying to save you from dying alone. Don’t make him a joke. Just say yes!” Someone tried to pull her back. “Whoa, Riley, easy. You’re just scared you’re gonna lose the bet and have to pay up.” Riley shook them off. “Scared? Please. I bet big, I play big.” She stared me down. “Jax, since she didn’t say yes, I guess I lose. A bet’s a bet. I’ll streak three laps around this track right now!” She reached for the zipper of her racing suit. Jax panicked. He grabbed her, pulling her into his chest to stop her. “Are you crazy? You’re not stripping here!” Then, he cut the video feed. Right before the screen went black, I heard his voice, confident and dismissive: “Don’t worry about her. At her age, I’m the absolute ceiling of what she can get. I’ll go home and smooth it over.” Listening to him, I realized my heart was finally quiet. On the surface, Jax and I didn’t look different. But that five-year gap on our IDs had become a thorn. It festered on the tongues of his friends and family. I used to ignore it. But eventually, I understood: the five years weren’t just time. They were different time zones. His sun was just rising. Mine was setting. Two days later, Jax flew back from the race. I was at the apartment, finishing up with the real estate agent. When Jax pushed open the door, he paused. He scanned the room, saw the agent packing up her laser measure, and immediately decided this was another one of my “hard to get” performance pieces. “You’ve made your point. That’s enough.” He walked over, reaching for my hand out of habit. I side-stepped him. He didn’t get angry. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to that husky register he used when he wanted something. “Alright. Did you post the response online yet? If Riley actually streaks, the team’s sponsors will pull out. It’s a PR nightmare.” He was referring to the demand his team manager had sent me right after the disastrous proposal. They wanted me to post a selfie with the ring, caption it “I Do,” and tag him and the team, thanking him for his “love that transcends age.” Obviously, I hadn’t done it. “Just a status update, babe,” he teased, seeing my silence. “Poor Riley staked her whole reputation on this.” I finally looked up. I looked at that handsome, arrogant face, the smirk that used to make my knees weak. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I picked up my purse. “You’ve been staring at her body through that fireproof suit for years. Now you get to see the whole show. You should be thanking me.” The smile vanished. “Why do you have to be so difficult?” “Difficult?” I let out a dry laugh. “I thought your favorite line was that I was ‘so mature for my age’?” “You bragged that I didn’t check your phone, didn’t nag you to come home, didn’t need to be coddled like those ‘little girls’ you date.” He flinched. He realized I must have heard the locker room talk. I knew about the races he threw, too. The Shen family had money—old money—but the track didn’t care about trust funds. Jax had spent his life trying to prove he wasn’t just a nepo baby. He bought the best engines, hired the best mechanics. But he still couldn’t beat Riley, who drove on pure instinct. Years ago, rookie Riley crossed the finish line first and laughed in his face. “Hey rich boy, car too much for you to handle? Boring. Losers are so unsexy.” He had huddled in the corner of the garage, shredding his gloves. When everyone left, he asked me, eyes red-rimmed, “Norah, will I ever beat her? Am I really unsexy?” I had held his face, wiping the grease from his cheek. “You’re going to win the championship on your own merit. And when you do, I’ll steal my birth certificate and marry you.” That was the spark. “Deal,” he said. “Win the cup, get married. You can’t run.” But soon after, Riley joined his team. And in every race after that, if they were both in the finals, something happened to Jax. A blown tire on the last lap. Sudden “food poisoning” during qualifiers. He earned the nickname “Eternal Silver.” I knew he had the talent. Winning should have been as easy as breathing. But I never dug deeper into why he kept losing. Until three months ago. We were on a break, a cold war of silence. I went to the clubhouse to surprise him. Instead, I heard him laughing with his pit crew. “Jax, man, the finals are coming up. We need a win. You can’t keep personally financing the team just so you can ‘strategically’ take second place.” Someone giggled. “But if you actually win this time… you gonna give up the whole forest for Norah? She’s five years older than you, dude.” “I’m gonna make a move on Riley!” “Don’t you dare,” Jax snapped, sounding genuinely possessive. “She’s mine.” Then, the sound of a lighter flicking. A deep exhale of smoke. “Forget it. Norah’s clock is ticking. I can’t keep her waiting forever. I’ll just settle.” That was the moment I knew. The boy who said he’d tattoo my name over his heart was throwing races, sabotaging his own career, and paying out of pocket to cover the team’s losses—all to avoid marrying me. And in the end, he was “settling.” Standing outside that door, the fog lifted. Why were we fighting that week? Right. Riley again. I had been working late and saw Riley’s Instagram story. A photo taken in my living room. She was wearing my silk pajamas, straddling Jax’s suitcase, flashing a peace sign. Caption: Boot camp time! Helping the man-child pack his bags! Those pajamas were from our first anniversary. He didn’t use his dad’s money; he saved his wages for three months to buy them. They were sacred to me. When I confronted him, he didn’t even look up from his phone. “She got wet in a water fight. She borrowed some dry clothes. Stop being so sensitive, Norah.” That sentence was the needle that popped the balloon. I broke my silence to ask for an answer. And I got it. Leaving the clubhouse that day, I got drunk. For the first time in years. Everyone told me I should be grateful Jax wanted to marry me. Even my best friend said, “You’re almost thirty. Locking down a guy like Jax is like winning the lottery. Men mature late. If he’s ready to settle down, just swallow your pride.” But if he didn’t want to marry me… he could have just said no. “Norah… look, about what you heard…” Jax’s voice softened, guilt creeping in. “Okay, my bad. I talk trash when I’m with the guys. It’s just locker room talk, it doesn’t mean…” I held up a hand. “I have things to do. Make yourself at home.” It was always the same explanation. He felt inferior dating an older woman, so he had to play the “player” card to keep his status with the boys. “Thanks,” I told the agent. “Bring buyers whenever you want.” As the agent left, I grabbed my bag. Jax lunged, grabbing my wrist. “Norah, stop! Are you done throwing a tantrum? First, you say crazy shit about my dad during the proposal, now you’re selling the apartment? I’m a public figure. Do you know how many people are watching us?” “Oh, so now you know you’re a public figure?” I pulled my hand away, cool and detached. “Is that how public figures propose?” His face darkened. “God, you’re so petty. We’ve been together for years, who cares about the format? besides, isn’t it the truth…” He caught himself. “Look, no matter what, you’re special to me…” I looked down and laughed. Special? Because I was five years older? Did that make me a charity case? An old maid? Even if I was an old maid, he was the one who chased me. In the beginning, he loved flaunting me. “Norah has five years more wisdom and elegance than any of you,” he’d brag. “I’m lucky she even looks at me.” Until Riley joined the team. She’d tease him in front of everyone: “Does Jax have mommy issues or what? Always finding these aunties to take care of him… drags her everywhere like a security blanket.” The team would laugh. And slowly, he stopped bringing me along. I knew exactly why Riley wrote that proposal speech. It wasn’t a joke. It was a public humiliation ritual. She knew I wouldn’t say yes. She knew Jax wouldn’t let her run naked. It was a win-win for her. I was done. I walked past him without a word. “Just because I didn’t come back for three months?” he yelled after me, desperate now. “Don’t forget who started that fight over a stupid pair of pajamas! I said I’d buy you ten new pairs, and you still freaked out!” “I stayed away to let you cool off! You know how intense training camp is!” “I know,” I interrupted, not turning around. “Just a reminder: the condo is listed. Pack your shit.” He stood frozen. The line “I came back to comfort you” died in his throat. It didn’t work anymore. I reached the elevator, only to run into the rest of the pit crew. Riley was spinning a set of car keys on her finger. She arched a brow. “Ooh, running away to lick your wounds, Norah?” I ignored her. She stepped in front of me. “Geez, relax. Jax and I are just bros. You don’t have to give me the death stare every time. How are you gonna be the matriarch of the Shen family with skin that thin? No wonder Daddy Shen looks at you like you’re something stuck to his shoe.” Jax came stomping down the hall. “Riley, enough!” “What did I do?” She pouted, instant victim mode. “It was a joke! Can’t she take a joke?” Seeing Jax actually looked upset, she smirked and tried to link her arm through mine. “Fine, I forgive you for being moody. You’re probably heading out to buy groceries to cook us a victory dinner, right? I’ll come with. I can carry the bags—” I yanked my arm back and hit the elevator button. “I’d save those hands for the steering wheel, Miss Jiang. Who knows if you’ll keep your racing license after the indecent exposure charge.” Silence sucked the air out of the hallway. Riley forced a stiff laugh. “Jax… I told you she can’t take a joke…” “My bad. I just trusted her love for you too much. I thought she’d definitely say yes, that’s the only reason I made the bet…” She took a deep breath. “Fine! I lose!” Jax frowned at me. “Norah, why are you being so aggressive?” “We cancelled our team celebration to come here and make things right with you. What more do you want?” The peanut gallery chimed in. “Yeah, Norah, lighten up. Riley didn’t mean anything by it.” “She’s just a gambler, she wants you guys to be happy!” God, these people were exhausting. “Fine, Norah!” Jax grabbed my hand again. “I get it. You weren’t ready. Even if you don’t want to get married yet, just put out a statement saying you accepted the proposal. We need to present a united front. Once this blows over…” “United front?” I scoffed. “Since when am I on the team?” “And if you love betting so much, pay up.” I shook him off and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, I heard someone whisper, “Jax, she looks serious this time. Maybe you should…” “Let her go,” Jax snapped. “She thinks walking away gives her power? She’ll be back begging me before the week is out.” I checked into a hotel. Ten minutes later, a news alert popped up on my phone. RACING STAR JAX SHEN ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT: GIRLFRIEND SAYS YES! I tossed the phone onto the bed. It was just a bet. I didn’t believe for a second that Jax would actually let Riley streak, regardless of what I did. The next morning, I stepped out of the hotel and was blinded by flashbulbs. “Norah! Is it true you demanded a championship trophy before you’d marry him?” “You rejected him on the livestream. Was that a prank to make Riley jealous?” “How do you feel about the engagement announcement?” I paused. The “girlfriend” in the article… wasn’t me? Before I could speak, the crowd surged. Jax was coming out of the hotel lobby, shielding Riley with his body. The reporters swiveled. “Guys, give her some space,” Jax said, laughing charmingly. “She’s young, she gets shy. Don’t scare her.” I tried to slip away, but a cameraman bumped into me, hard. I stumbled, dropping my bag. The noise drew attention. Jax looked over. Panic flickered in his eyes. “Norah?” He clearly didn’t expect to see me there. I ignored him, crouching to gather the papers that had spilled from my purse. “Excuse me, let me through.” Jax blocked my path. He leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t make a scene. I proposed to Riley because you wouldn’t post the statement. I couldn’t let her run naked…” “Luckily the bet was just that a girlfriend had to say yes. You almost ruined her life…” “Is that so?” I stood up, smiling brightly. “Well then, wishing you a hundred years of happiness.” He blinked, stunned. I moved to leave. He reached out to grab me, but his finger hooked the strap of my bag. It tipped over again. A medical file slid across the marble floor. The cameras zoomed in. “Oh my god! 12 weeks? Is Norah pregnant?!” Jax’s face went white. He remembered the night he came home three months ago… He grabbed me, dragging me into a corner. “Norah… I… I’m not ready to be a father… I’ll pay for everything. The best clinic. Painless. I promise.” I almost laughed out loud. “Jax, get therapy.” I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. “You can’t leave! You have to clarify this right now. Tell them it’s a misunderstanding!” “If you don’t, the media will spin this. They’ll call Riley a homewrecker!” Then, realization dawned on his face. “Wait. You stayed at this hotel on purpose? You dropped the pregnancy test on purpose? You’re trying to ruin her? Norah, do you have a heart?” “To be honest, if Riley hadn’t made that bet, I wouldn’t have proposed to you at all!” “You’ve been waiting years for a ring, and instead of thanking her, you pull this toxic crap?” He had found his moral high ground. He looked down his nose at me. “Apologize to Riley. Right now. Or I swear to God, I will never marry you.” Never marry me? I didn’t know I could get that lucky. My face relaxed into genuine relief. “Thank you for your mercy.” “You…” Jax was shaking with rage. The reporters were swarming now, microphones shoving into my face. “Norah, is the baby a Shen?” I paused. I hadn’t planned to go public, but I wasn’t going to hide, either. I nodded. The crowd gasped. Jax looked at me with pure venom. He raised his voice, addressing the cameras. “Norah, I know you want to trap me with a baby.” “But let me be clear. I am young. I am not ready to be a dad. If you insist on having this kid, I will not acknowledge it!” The hotel guests were stopping to watch. The murmurs were getting loud. “That’s Jax Shen and Riley… wait, the ex is pregnant? Is she trying to force a marriage?” Hearing the narrative twist against me, I felt a snap. Slap. My hand connected with Jax’s face. The sound cracked like a whip, silencing the lobby. “Who said the baby is yours?”

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My husband had been missing for a month. I was so sick with worry that I lost our baby. But just hours after waking up from the D&C surgery, the cramping still twisting like barbed wire in my stomach, I opened Reddit. A thread had gone viral: What do you do when you meet the love of your life when you have absolutely nothing to offer them? The top answer read like a victory lap. “I couldn’t bear to drag her down with me, so I let her go chase her dreams. But I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her entirely, so I married her childhood best friend—a girl who was used to roughing it—to keep me company while I built my empire.” “Now, my golden girl is back. I can finally give her the world she deserves.” “Honestly, I kept hoping my wife would catch me so I’d have an easy out for a divorce. But she’s so clueless. I left my mistress’s lipstick in her car, gave her a promotional freebie necklace… I even vanished for a month on a ‘business trip,’ and she didn’t suspect a thing.” Lipstick. A freebie necklace. Missing for a month. The words blurred. My fingers went numb against the screen. “Thank God she came back to me,” the poster continued. “I almost thought I’d have to spend the rest of my life with the Toad.” A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears. The Toad. It was the cruel nickname my childhood bullies had given me. My blood turned to ice. I prayed to a God I barely believed in that this was just some sick, twisted coincidence. Until I read the final lines. “I pretended to go on a dangerous business trip to an earthquake zone and went off the grid for a month. In reality, I was taking my first love on our honeymoon.” “Just got a text from my wife saying she’s in the hospital. Whatever. Taking my soulmate to that exact same hospital tonight for her prenatal checkup. Maybe we’ll bump into her. Wish me luck.” I was violently shaking. Instinctively, I raised my head. There, at the end of the corridor, just outside the maternity ward. Connor. The husband who had been unreachable for a month. He was dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, his arm wrapped protectively around a petite, laughing woman. He turned his head casually. Across the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway, our eyes met. … 1 A flicker of panic crossed Connor’s face, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling, dead-eyed calm. I knew exactly what he was waiting for. He was waiting for me to lunge at them, to scream, to make a scene so he could finally demand the divorce he so desperately wanted. I sat frozen in my wheelchair. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t force a single sound past my throat. “Connor?” Blair nestled deeper into his chest, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Come on, slowpoke. Do you think the ultrasound will show who the baby looks like yet?” Connor didn’t look at me again. He tightened his grip on her waist, guiding her toward the obstetrics wing as if she were made of spun glass. “Hopefully,” he murmured, “the baby gets your eyes, and my nose.” The phantom pain from my freshly emptied womb twisted so sharply I gasped. Exactly one month ago, he had said those exact same words to me. It was the day he insisted on flying out to the epicenter of the earthquake in Chile. “Natalie, if we can just secure this lithium contract, we’ll finally have a real foothold in San Francisco,” he had told me, cupping my face. “I think I’m ready for a baby. I want them to have your eyes and my nose. I’m going to give you both the best life in the world.” Two weeks after he left, I took a test. I was pregnant. But his phone went straight to voicemail. Frantic, terrified that he was trapped under rubble, I boarded a flight to South America to find him. I was caught in a massive aftershock. A falling piece of masonry struck my abdomen. The doctors called his emergency contact number dozens of times. He never picked up. And now I knew why. While I was bleeding out his child in a foreign country, he was busy making one with my childhood best friend. I pulled the hospital blanket over my head and sobbed until I was choking on my own breath. Suddenly, the blanket was yanked down. Connor stood by my bed, looking down at me with mild detachment. “Natalie. Why are you admitted?” My throat felt like it was lined with shattered glass. “Why did you cheat on me? And out of all the people in the world… why Blair?” His brow furrowed. His tone immediately shifted into a warning. “Don’t refer to her as the other woman.” The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it forced a ragged, hysterical laugh out of my chest. “She’s not? Then what am I?” He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he pulled up a chair and told me a story. A very long, romanticized tragedy about him and Blair—high school sweethearts, star-crossed lovers torn apart by ambition and circumstance. “I’m a bastard. I know that,” he said smoothly. He reached for a cigarette, remembered he was in a hospital, and dropped his hand. “I only married you because you were Blair’s best friend. I thought you’d keep me close to her. But honestly, you were a pretty terrible friend. You didn’t even know where she was living or what she was doing. So, I don’t really feel like I owe you anything.” He let the silence stretch, letting his cruelty sink into my bones. “If you really think about it, Natalie… you’re the third person in our relationship.” I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. Blinded by grief, I grabbed the water pitcher from my nightstand and hurled it at him. He didn’t even flinch. He just let it shatter against the wall behind him. “Natalie, we’ve been married for seven years. I still care about you. You can ask for whatever you want in the settlement. But…” His eyes hardened, turning to obsidian. “Do not go near Blair. I won’t have you upsetting her.” The dam broke. I grabbed my glass, my phone, anything I could reach, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” He left without a fight. On his way out, he even politely asked a nurse to come in and check my IV. “Alright,” he called over his shoulder. “Focus on recovering first. We’ll talk when you’re not so emotional.” I lay in that narrow bed, violently shivering. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face from seven years ago. The way his cheeks flushed when he handed me that cheap bouquet of daisies, telling me how much he loved me. His eyes had been so bright. So earnest. How could a person fake that kind of light? I stayed in the hospital for three more days in a narcotic haze. He never came back. When I was finally discharged, the house was empty. But the very next morning, my phone buzzed. It was Blair. “Nat! I’m back in the States! Let’s get lunch. I have a huge surprise for you!” A sick, masochistic curiosity clawed at my chest. I went. As soon as I sat down, Blair grabbed my hand—the same hand that had just signed my own baby’s cremation papers—and pressed it against her slightly rounded belly. “I’m three months along!” she squealed, her smile radiant and entirely devoid of guilt. “We were long-distance through college, so you never got to meet my boyfriend. But now that we’re back together and it’s permanent, I just had to have my absolute best friend give us her blessing.” 2 Best friend? A bitter, fractured smile touched my lips. When we were five, her father used to hit her. I would sneak out to give her my lunch money and my favorite stuffed animals to comfort her. And in return? When puberty hit and my face broke out in severe cystic acne, she was the one who started calling me “The Toad” behind my back. She cemented an insecurity so deep it crippled my entire adolescence. “He’s honestly so amazing to me, Nat. Even when we were technically broken up, he still took care of me while I was studying in Paris.” Blair pushed up her cashmere sleeve, revealing a faint, barely-there pink line on her wrist. “I literally just slipped while cutting an apple. It was a tiny scratch. But he freaked out, flew all the way to France, and checked me into the most expensive private clinic in the city. He even bought this absurdly expensive crushed-pearl ointment for the scarring.” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “It was just a scratch, but he dropped thirty grand on it like it was nothing.” I stared at the microscopic scar, the room tilting on its axis. I remembered the early days of Connor’s startup. We were drowning in debt. I worked night and day, courting clients, living on instant coffee. Once, running on three hours of sleep with a 104-degree fever, I missed a step and shattered my tibia. The pain was blinding. I was in the back of an ambulance when I called him. He sounded stressed. “Funds are tight, Nat. I’m scrambling to make payroll. What’s going on?” I hadn’t wanted to be a burden. I swallowed my agony and whispered, “Nothing. Just a little slip. Don’t work too late.” I opted for the cheapest surgical steel plate available. To this day, my leg throbs whenever it rains. Blair rested her chin in her hands, practically glowing. “And last year, when some senior researcher stole my credit on a paper? I just complained to him over the phone. He flew out the next day and donated a million dollars to the lab just to secure my name on the final publication.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Men are so dramatic. Who throws away that kind of money over lab politics?” My nails bit so deeply into my palms they drew blood. Last year, my Nana—my sweet, dementia-addled Nana—wandered out of her care home and was struck by a drunk driver. The ER doctors demanded an immediate $10,000 deposit, and the surgery was going to cost another $25,000. I emptied every savings account I had. I was short. Frantic, I tried to pull from our joint company account, only to find it frozen. The funds had been drained. My parents died when I was ten. Nana was the only family I had left in the world. I called Connor, screaming, begging. He sounded so convincingly panicked. “Nat, baby, breathe. I’m overseas trying to fix a massive supply chain issue. I will wire the money. I promise, I will save Nana.” I sat in that waiting room for three hours. I waited through her crashing on the table. I waited as I signed away the deed to my childhood home to the loan sharks. His money never came. When he finally flew back, he held me in the hallway, his eyes red-rimmed. “Nat, I’m so sorry. I bet everything on a new product line and the supplier went under. I couldn’t get the cash. I failed you.” Nana survived, barely. I had been so relieved she was alive that I actually comforted him. “It’s okay,” I had whispered, holding him as he cried. “I have a little left over from the mortgage. Use it to save the company.” He had looked at me with such a strange, complex expression, pulling me tight against his chest. “Natalie, I swear to God, I’m going to give you the best of everything one day.” Now I understood that look. He was probably marveling at how incredibly, pathetically stupid I was. All the blood drained from my face. Blair suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth, looking contrite. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to rub it in your face! It’s just… we were apart for seven years, and knowing he never stopped loving me for a single second… it’s just overwhelming, you know?” We had been together for seven years. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming. I was seconds away from tearing the restaurant apart with my bare hands, but then the door to the private dining room opened. Connor walked in. He froze when he saw me, shooting me a lethal, warning glare. Blair hooked her arm through mine, insisting we order. I sat there like a corpse, paralyzed by the sheer sociopathy of it all, until she excused herself to the restroom. The second the door shut, Connor leaned over and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “You look terrible. Are you still recovering from last week? I can get you a private doctor.” I violently slapped his hand away. Hot, humiliating tears spilled over my eyelashes. “Don’t touch me! Keep your fake fucking sympathy to yourself! You two have been sleeping together for seven years behind my back. Are you getting off on this? Watching me sit here like a moron?” Connor sighed, a heavy, long-suffering sound, and reached out, pulling me into a forceful embrace. “I know I’m a piece of shit. But if you’re already depressed, why did you come here just to torture yourself? Love isn’t rational, Nat. You just need to accept it.” “Stop crying,” he murmured against my hair. “Whatever you want in the divorce, it’s yours. It’s been seven years. Seeing you cry like this actually makes me feel bad.” I thrashed against him, trying to push him away, just as the dining room door swung open. Blair stood there, tears streaming down her face. She stormed across the room and slapped me across the cheek with everything she had. “We’ve been friends for twenty years, and you’re trying to seduce my boyfriend?! You cheap, homewrecking slut!” Her diamond ring tore a long, bleeding gash down my cheek. The commotion drew a crowd. Diners from the main floor were peering in, phones already out. I was shaking with a rage so pure it felt like electricity. I raised my hand to hit her back. “We’ve been married for seven years! You’re the homewrecker!” But before my hand could make contact, a violent force shoved me backward. I hit the floor hard. The back of my skull slammed against the mahogany wainscoting. Black spots exploded in my vision, accompanied by a nauseating wave of pain. Blair ran out of the room, sobbing hysterically. Connor looked down at me, his hand twitching like he wanted to help me up, but panic won out. He turned and sprinted after her. “Blair! Wait, she’s lying!” I lay slumped on the floor, the blood from my cheek dripping onto my collar. The crowd closed in. The murmurs grew louder. The flashes from their camera phones blinded me. Connor was the newest golden boy of the Silicon Valley tech scene. Blair was the gorgeous, Ivy League-educated researcher returning triumphantly from abroad. It didn’t take a genius to predict the fallout. By morning, the footage of our fight, coupled with the trending hashtag #WhoIsTheRealHomewrecker, was the number one story on Twitter and TikTok. The internet was a warzone, but then Connor dropped the nuke. He released an official PR statement on his company letterhead. “Blair and I have been deeply in love for a decade. There was no infidelity. There was no ‘other woman’. I simply tried to look out for one of my partner’s childhood friends, who was going through a hard time. I never expected my kindness to be weaponized and misunderstood…” 3 My brain short-circuited. The sheer volume of hatred directed at me was deafening. Blair posted her own tearful video. She stared into the camera, looking heartbroken, saying she never expected her best friend to try and steal her man while she was out of the country. In a matter of hours, my phone became a weapon of mass destruction. The notifications blurred together into a river of vitriol. “She tried to steal her best friend’s man? Gross. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.” “Keep your friends close and the sluts further away, am I right?” “If you’re so desperate for a man, just go walk the streets!” The dull ache of my empty uterus throbbed in time with my pulse. My bones felt like they were made of lead. I gripped my phone, desperately trying to compile a timeline, screenshots, photos—anything to prove the last seven years of my life actually happened. To prove my innocence. That was when Connor walked through the front door. My voice was trembling so badly I barely recognized it. “Connor, we were together for seven years!” He looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I already told you I’m a bastard. But Blair is the love of my life. Of course I’m going to protect her over you.” He paused, his tone shifting to that of a disappointed father scolding a toddler. “Natalie, if you ever loved me, just compromise this one last time. Just admit you developed a crush on me and misunderstood our friendship. Blair is pregnant. She can’t handle the stress of a scandal. Besides, you were bullied your whole life. You’re used to people calling you names. You can handle this.” Smack. I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. Through the blur of my tears, I was suddenly thrust back into the past. The Toad. That nickname had clung to me like a shadow. My acne eventually cleared, but the psychological scars never did. When I started my first corporate job, I still wore a medical mask most of the time, terrified to let people see my face. The year I met Connor, he had looked at me—truly looked at me—and his eyes were full of nothing but adoration. “Nat, you don’t even know,” he had whispered the night he proposed. “You are the most breathtakingly beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I will never, ever let anyone make you feel small again.” I had thought, He’s so good. I’m so lucky. My stomach violently heaved. I turned away, dry-heaving into the sink. “Connor, I know you want out. Fine. I’ll give you the divorce. I won’t ask for a dime. Just go online, tell the truth, clear my name, and I’ll disappear. You can have each other.” I wiped my mouth with the back of a trembling hand. “But if you don’t, I will.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He muttered a quiet, “I’m sorry.” “We can talk about the divorce later,” he said softly. Then, he made a phone call. Within minutes, three burly men in suits entered the house. They systematically turned the place upside down. Before I could react, one of them wrenched my phone out of my grip. He was stripping me of my only way to defend myself. I stared at the man standing in my kitchen, a man who felt like a total stranger. “Connor,” I whispered. “You are repulsive.” A flicker of something complicated crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it. “You don’t look well. I’m having a nutritionist sent over. Take the next two days to cool off and think about what I said. Nat, I’m only giving you two days.” The front door slammed. The deadbolt clicked into place. I was locked in. Seven years of marriage, obliterated in an instant. I raged. I cried. I held onto my last shred of dignity like a life raft. But two days came and went, and Connor didn’t return. Instead, one of his private security guards unlocked the door. “Mr. Shen had your grandmother transferred from her care facility this morning.” A bomb went off in my skull. I lunged for the door, screaming, but the men easily shoved me back inside. I dropped to my knees. I threw away every ounce of pride I had left and begged them, sobbing, to let me go. They stared at me like I was a piece of furniture. “Mr. Shen gave strict orders. You aren’t to leave the premises.” I sprinted to the kitchen, smashed a glass against the counter, and pressed the jagged edge hard against my own throat. The guards panicked. One of them immediately dialed Connor and put him on speaker. “Why did you take her?!” I screamed, the glass digging into my skin. “You know what that car accident did to her brain! She doesn’t understand what’s happening! Please, Connor, I’m begging you, send her back!” The background noise on his end was deafening—the hum of a massive crowd, the popping of camera flashes. Connor was silent for a long time. “I didn’t have a choice, Nat. You wouldn’t play ball. I need her to say a few words to the press to clear this up.” It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to my skull. I knew exactly what he was doing. “Connor, please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “She’s not lucid. She can’t handle a crowd like that. You can’t do this to her!” When Connor’s startup was on the verge of bankruptcy, it was my Nana—my sweet, confused Nana—who had quietly sold her vintage gold locket, our only family heirloom, to give him the cash to make payroll. “Connor, if you put her on that stage, I swear to God I will kill myself!” 4 There was a heavy pause on the line before he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “Relax, Natalie. I’m keeping an eye on her. She’ll be fine.” The line went dead. Every wire in my brain snapped. I tore through the house, smashing everything in sight. I threw myself against the windows. Glass shattered, slicing deep into my forearms and my neck. Blood poured down my skin, soaking into my clothes, coating my hands. In a blind, feral rage, I turned the bloody glass shard on the guards. The sheer lunacy in my eyes made them step back. I bolted out the door, my legs trembling so violently I could barely stand, and flagged down a car. By the time I shoved my way into the hotel ballroom where the press conference was being held, I froze. Connor was on stage, down on one knee in front of a massive media presence, proposing to Blair. The pink diamond in his hand had to be worth millions. It looked nothing like the four-hundred-dollar sterling silver band he had let me pick out seven years ago. “Nat, I promise, one day I’ll buy you the biggest diamond in the world,” he had said with tears in his eyes. I had worn that cheap ring like a badge of honor for seven years. Now, he could effortlessly buy the most expensive jewel in the room. But what we had built was cheap. It would always be cheap. I ignored the agonizing pain in my chest and scanned the blindingly bright room for my grandmother. I couldn’t find her. Not until the proposal ended, and the crowd erupted into applause. Connor stood up, took the microphone, and gestured to the wings. Staff members wheeled my Nana onto the brightly lit stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Connor announced smoothly. “This is the biological grandmother of the other woman involved in this unfortunate rumor. We felt it would be most persuasive if she cleared the air herself.” My heart stopped beating. My fragile, tiny grandmother stared out at the sea of flashing lights, her legs visibly shaking. She had clearly been drilled on exactly what to say, and she began reciting the words mechanically, her voice trembling. “I… I failed to raise my granddaughter right… It was her fault… She tried to ruin their beautiful relationship…” Watching the only person who had ever truly loved me being paraded out like a circus animal to parrot her own granddaughter’s destruction… It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and crushed my organs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand. But suddenly, Nana blinked. The confusion cleared from her milky eyes, replaced by a fierce, maternal panic. She gripped the microphone stand and wailed. “No! My Natty is a good girl! She’s married to him! She didn’t ruin anything!” The ballroom erupted. Journalists, smelling blood in the water, surged forward like a pack of wolves, shoving microphones and cameras right into my grandmother’s face. Connor’s face contorted in panic. He lunged forward, grabbing Nana’s arm, trying to force her back to the script. “Nana, you’re confused, tell them you misspoke—” Between Connor’s harsh reprimands, the aggressively shouting reporters, and the blinding strobes, the stage devolved into pure chaos. The sensory overload shattered whatever fragile grip Nana had left on reality. She began to scream, thrashing wildly. A dark stain spread across her trousers as she lost control of her bladder in sheer terror. She turned and tried to run. But the press wouldn’t let her. They formed a human wall, pushing closer, desperate for the shot. I fought my way through the thick crowd, screaming until my vocal cords tore. “Leave her alone! Stop! Please!” But my voice was drowned out by the mob. And then—a sickening, hollow thud echoed over the sound system. The room went dead silent. The crowd parted. Nana lay at the bottom of the stage stairs. Her head was resting at an unnatural angle. A thick, dark pool of blood was already spreading rapidly from beneath her white hair. I dropped to my knees beside her. I placed trembling fingers against her neck. Nothing. The world went completely, terrifyingly quiet. I couldn’t hear the gasps, the shouting, the sirens. Someone called 911. Paramedics rushed in. I followed the stretcher out of the hotel like a wind-up toy, moving without feeling. Connor ran after me, his face the color of ash. “Nat…” I turned and looked at him. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Connor,” I said, my voice dead. “You’ve been wanting that divorce, right?” “You’ve got it.”

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