Five months into my pregnancy, I received a letter from my past self — written five years ago. The pages were filled with hope for the future. “Dear Serena, have you married Ethan, the one who loves you most?” “Are you two happy now? Do you have children?” “Do you still remember your most important promise to each other?” I stood there in a daze, unable to recall what that so-called promise even was. The sounds from the bedroom grew unmistakably clear. Ethan walked out with his arms around his secretary, her skin covered with marks. “Kiki doesn’t like the peach-flavored ones. Go downstairs and buy a new box.” He paused, his gaze dropping to my swollen belly. When he spoke again, there was something almost charitable in his tone. “Stop playing games. After you have the baby, you can still be Mrs. Whitmore.” I glanced down at the letter in my hand, picked up a pen, and wrote my reply to the girl I used to be. “Loving him was enough. There’s no reason to hold on to how it ends.” After all, the Ethan who had once emptied his savings to pull me back from the edge of death — that man had died the day he first cheated, two years ago.

“Ethan, my sister is still pregnant. Besides, something like this — how can you ask her to go buy it…” Chelsea wound herself around Ethan like a vine, her cheeks flushed, playing the picture of shy innocence. “It’s not like it’s the first time. Since when did you get modest? You weren’t exactly shy five minutes ago.” Ethan gave her a squeeze, his words growing uglier by the second. “I’ll go get them.” A wave of sickly-sweet perfume mixed with the smell of sex hit me in the face. My stomach turned. I swallowed the urge to gag, answered quietly, tucked the letter into my pocket, and started toward the door. His gaze snagged on the letter in my hand. A flicker of suspicion crossed his eyes. He crossed the room in a few long strides and snatched it from me. When he read what was written inside, his expression softened. His voice took on a rare gentleness. “Serena, if you just behave, I’ll make time to come to your next prenatal appointment…” I cut him off before I could stop myself. “Don’t bother.” The warmth on Ethan’s face vanished. “Serena, don’t push your luck.” Chelsea caught the shift in his voice. Her eyes darkened for just a moment before she drifted to my side, her tone turning sweeter. “Serena, are you still upset with me? I genuinely have feelings for Ethan. I don’t even care that I’m not his wife…” “And you’re pregnant right now. Ethan just doesn’t want to hurt you or the baby. But men have needs — that’s all this is between him and me…” Her face wore a pitiful expression, but her eyes held something sharp. Without warning, her manicured nails drove hard into my palm. The pain drained the color from my face. I yanked my hand away on instinct. Chelsea let out a sharp cry and stumbled backward, landing on the floor. Her eyes went red immediately, and she looked utterly helpless. “Serena, apologize to Kiki. Now.” Ethan gathered Chelsea into his arms with careful hands, eyes full of concern as he studied the scrape on her palm. When he turned back to me, his face held nothing but cold indifference. His stare cut right through me. Without thinking, I started to explain myself. “She was the one who —” The words died in my throat under his deepening glare. Of course. Ethan hadn’t believed me in a long time. The day I found out about his first affair — the day I bit that woman badly enough to leave scars — that was the day he stopped believing me. Thinking about it now, I felt something hollow settle in my chest. So I said nothing. “Ethan, it’s okay, it doesn’t hurt. Serena was probably just upset. Please don’t fight with her because of me…” Chelsea’s voice floated up again, and Ethan’s expression went completely cold. He pressed his lips gently to Chelsea’s forehead, his eyes full of tenderness. “Kiki, I know you’re easygoing, but you don’t have to put up with everything she does. She owes you an apology, and she’s going to give you one.” “Serena. Last chance. Are you going to apologize or not?” I stared at Chelsea, smug and satisfied in Ethan’s arms, and felt the man I’d spent ten years with become a stranger. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” “Unbelievable.” “Take Serena to the isolation room. She can stay there until she’s ready to apologize.” My eyes flew open. The color drained from my face.

“Ethan, I’m pregnant!” I stared at him in disbelief, my voice shaking. He stood there, expression completely blank. He knew I had claustrophobia. He knew — and he was still doing this. “Don’t want to go? Then apologize to Kiki.” His tone was flat. Non-negotiable. The memory of those days in the isolation room — the despair, the dark — flooded back all at once. Every muscle in my body went rigid. I searched his face, looking desperately for any trace of hesitation, any hint of mercy. There was none. I forced a small, hollow smile. My nails bit into my palm. And slowly, I lowered my head. “Ethan, please — don’t force her if she doesn’t want to go…” Chelsea’s voice wavered softly. “It’s too late for an apology now. You’re still going to that room. Think of it as a lesson. Next time, maybe you’ll remember to behave.” Ethan delivered his verdict without even looking up. Ten minutes later, two security guards dragged me down the hallway to the door of the isolation room. The darkness of that heavy door made me start shaking before I even touched it. Whatever composure I’d been holding together crumbled completely. I begged and struggled, but Ethan and Chelsea just stood to the side and watched with cold eyes. “It’s just being sent to your room. Why are you making such a scene?” Until I broke down completely, sobbing, and screamed: “Ethan, I want a divorce!” He laughed. He walked over, tilted my chin up, and gently wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes. Something almost like pity moved across his face. “Serena, I gave you your life back. What exactly gives you the right to talk about divorce?” Then he let go of my chin, shook out his hand like he’d touched something unpleasant, and turned away. “Take her inside.” In the last second before the door of the isolation room slammed shut, I saw Ethan reach over and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Chelsea’s ear, his eyes soft and full of warmth. The heart that had already been broken a thousand times finally shattered for good. Ethan. Loving you is exhausting. I don’t want to do it anymore. As my consciousness faded, I found myself drifting back to five years ago. I had just graduated college. My parents had never paid much attention to me, but I had Ethan — a long-distance boyfriend who loved me fiercely. I thought we’d just keep walking forward together, happy and steady, for the rest of our lives. Then a routine check-up changed everything. I was diagnosed with stage-two lung cancer. Cancer. At twenty-three, it felt like a word that belonged to someone else’s life entirely. When my parents found out, they blocked my number. The last thing they said to me was: “Your brother still needs money for a wedding and a house. We don’t have anything left for your medical bills.” I gave up. I was ready to let go. It was Ethan who came back for me. He quit his job at a top firm, drove across the country, sold the condo his parents had bought him, and spent every dollar he had to drag me back from the edge. Watching his face grow more exhausted and hollow with every passing week, I couldn’t bear it. I tried to talk him into letting me stop treatment — more than once. He just pulled me close, quietly, and held on. “Serena, I’m going to get you better. We’re going to be together for a long, long time.” “Please don’t give up. Please.” His voice trembled. There was something almost like begging in it. His tears soaked through the thin fabric of my hospital gown.

That night, I cried under the covers until morning. There was still someone in the world who loved me like that. I had to keep living. Maybe the universe took pity on me. The cancer cells slowly stopped spreading. A year later, I walked out of the hospital. It felt like a miracle. To make sure I had the best possible care, Ethan had started a company with a few friends while I was still in treatment. He got busier. But he still cooked for me every day, reminded me to take my medication, and drove me to every follow-up appointment without fail. Everyone around me said I was lucky to have found someone like him. I believed them. His company kept growing. He proposed. We got married in front of the people we loved most. In our second year of marriage, I got pregnant. When he found out, he spun me around and around in his arms, laughing, his eyes bright with a happiness that made my own eyes sting. I thought there was probably no one in the world who could love me more than Ethan did. Then, in my third month of pregnancy, he cheated. I drove over and walked in on the woman climbing off him, her skin marked all over. In that moment, my mind went blank except for fury and devastation, and I threw myself at her. I bit her badly enough to scar her face. And the price I paid for it was — My three-month-old baby. Gone. Kicked out of me by Ethan in his rage. Afterward, Ethan apologized again and again. He made promises, over and over. But I had already changed. I became anxious, suspicious, unable to tolerate any woman near him. I would spiral even when he went to meet a business partner. The final straw came when I threw coffee in a client’s face. Ethan reached his limit. He locked me in the isolation room. “Serena, you need to calm down.” The darkness warped something inside me. I came out of that room with claustrophobia that never went away. A month later, I was finally let out. And, just as he’d wanted, I had become quiet. Obedient. After that, the women in Ethan’s life rotated in and out. I learned not to see them. No arguments. No scenes. “Why hasn’t this patient woken up yet? That doesn’t seem right.” Voices cut through the haze. I opened my eyes. I was in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses. “Ms. Reed, we couldn’t reach any of your family members. The security guard who brought you in paid the deposit and then left…” “Doctor, just tell me directly. I can make my own decisions.” My voice came out rough. The ache in my abdomen told me why they were all standing there. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Reed. The baby’s heart has stopped beating. Your own body isn’t in a suitable state to continue the pregnancy, and we need to perform a procedure to remove the fetus.” The doctor hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He understood how painful it would be to deliver this news. “Okay. I understand. Please schedule the procedure.” “…Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” “I have.” “Your file shows you’re married. Would you like to discuss this with your husband first?” “No.” After the doctors and nurses left, the room went quiet. I pulled back the blanket and found myself reaching down, touching the curve of my belly without thinking. Even though I had no choice, a dull, deep pain kept moving through my chest in slow waves. This was my baby. It should have been born safe. It should have grown up healthy. But now… The tears came before I could stop them. The evening before I was discharged, Ethan called. His voice was measured, almost soothing. “Things have been hectic at the company this week. I’ll come pick you up when you’re discharged.” I answered the way he liked. “Okay.” But discharge day came and went. I waited from sunrise to dark. He never showed. I should have known. But there had still been that small, stubborn thread of hope I couldn’t quite cut. I took a cab back to the estate. As I reached the front door, the housekeeper met me with a complicated expression and handed me a small stack of envelopes. The sender: myself. The recipient: also myself. I knew immediately. Letters from the girl I had been five years ago. I folded each one carefully and tucked them into my pocket, then walked toward the door. I hadn’t even made it inside when I heard the sound of shattering glass. My chest tightened. I moved quickly toward the noise. Chelsea was standing at the wooden display cabinet. A crystal urn lay in pieces at her feet. And the ashes I had once gathered, piece by piece, with my own hands — my baby’s ashes — were now ground under her heel. I went completely still. My eyes locked on the floor. My vision went red.

“Who told you to touch that?” “Ethan said he needed the cabinet cleared out for my shoe collection. You might want to find somewhere else for your stuff, Serena.” Chelsea’s eyes were full of contempt. “You’re going to pay for this.” The hatred rose up so fast I couldn’t contain it. I thought of that baby who never got to take a single breath. My hand came down hard across her face. She staggered back and fell onto the floor covered in broken glass. By the time Ethan rushed in, I was on top of Chelsea with my teeth sunk into her wrist. Blood ran down the corner of my mouth. “Serena! Are you insane? Let go!” “Ethan! She’s going to kill me! She’s going to kill me — help me, please!” Chelsea was too terrified by the look in my eyes to even scream properly. She held her voice in until she saw Ethan, and then she completely fell apart. In the end, I bit down and didn’t stop. Chelsea passed out from the pain. I didn’t pay attention to the chaos erupting around me. I just walked slowly to the cabinet and began carefully picking up what remained of the ashes scattered on the floor. That was my first child. Half an hour later, Chelsea’s wounds were finally under control. Only then did Ethan seem to remember I existed. He looked at me — still kneeling on the floor, still gathering ashes one by one — and his expression darkened further. “Serena. Give me a reason.” Silence. “Tell me why!” Still nothing. He grabbed the small urn from my hands. I spun around instantly, my face changing, panic breaking through. “She destroyed our baby’s ashes!” “Ethan… that was our child…” How could he expect me not to hate her? Tears were running down my face. I couldn’t form words anymore. Ethan froze. The urn was still in his hand. For a moment, his expression went completely blank. After a long pause, he slowly crouched down and placed the urn back in my hands. “Serena… we can still have another child. You need to let yourself move forward…” I looked down at the urn. The doctor’s words came back to me. My tears fell without a sound. Ethan. We won’t have another child. Not with you. Not ever. After that day, Ethan’s attitude toward me softened. With his tacit approval, I was given more freedom than I’d had in years. I kept writing back and forth with my past self. Ethan caught a glimpse of the letters a few times and said nothing about it. He probably assumed it was just some personal journaling habit — harmless and odd. I told my younger self everything. Every detail of the five years that had passed. “Ethan is going to change. He’s going to stop loving you.” The last letter I received from her asked a single question: “Why doesn’t Ethan love you anymore?” Why doesn’t he love me anymore? “That’s a question you’ll have to ask him yourself.” Half a month later, I went to the hospital alone for the procedure. Just before they wheeled me through the doors, I heard urgent footsteps in the hallway, and then Ethan’s voice, sharp and breathless. “Doctor, I don’t consent. I am Serena’s husband — I do not consent to this procedure.” He grabbed my hand. His grip was tight, his voice running fast, with an edge of fury underneath it. “Come home with me. We can talk about this. The baby is innocent in all of this.” He looked like he genuinely cared about the child. But it was already too late. The baby had no heartbeat. “Ms. Reed, a procedure like this does require a family member’s signature. Is there someone who —” “I’ll sign.”

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All of New York was talking about it — Lucas Hale, the guy who once won an international gold medal on the piano, was now nothing more than Serena Caldwell’s pet. The day the Hale family went bankrupt, I signed a three-year contract and sold myself to my ex-girlfriend, Serena Caldwell. Everyone assumed we’d rekindled our romance. Only I knew the truth — I was a servant she’d bought for three million dollars. She went through seventeen boyfriends, and every single breakup, she took it out on me. Slapping me across the face. Pouring champagne over my head. Leaking photos of me on my knees scrubbing her heels to the media. Spreading rumors that I’d sleep with anyone, that I’d clawed my way up by using my body. I fell from the top to the gutter and became the laughingstock of all New York. I endured all of it. Until one night, drunk and reckless, she made a bet and lost me to the girl next door — the one I’d watched over since we were kids, the one I loved like a little sister. Three days and three nights. The fingers I’d spent eighteen years training on the piano were broken, one by one. A deep, permanent scar was carved across my cheek from one side to the other. When I finally crawled out, Serena was sitting on the couch touching up her makeup, smiling like nothing had happened. “It was just a little joke. Don’t tell me you can’t take a joke.” Then she held the rest of the Hale family’s debt over my head, just like she had on every one of the previous one thousand and ninety-five days. I didn’t say a word. I just lifted my eyes to the clock on the wall. Seventy-two hours until the three-year contract expired. Serena Caldwell. Game over.

“Lucas, why the hell are you walking around with that look on your face?” A hand with dark red nails hooked under my chin and tilted it up. I met her eyes. The sting behind mine threatened to break through, but I forced it back down. Serena paused for just a moment. Then a thin, mocking smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, playing victim again? You think you’re still that precious little heir everyone used to fawn over?” I said nothing and turned my face away. Serena let out a cold laugh and wrenched my face back toward her. “Drop the tough-guy act. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to with those men. I’ve seen the photos.” The words landed with a sick kind of pleasure behind them. My whole body went rigid. Photos? What photos? Serena unlocked her phone and held up the screen. There I was — dazed, barely conscious, surrounded by a group of men. The memory of those three days came rushing back like a wave of filth. I clenched my fist until my nails bit into my palm. Serena grabbed my collar and let her eyes drag slowly over me. “Funny thing, Lucas. All those years with me, you acted like you couldn’t be bothered. But with them, you couldn’t wait.” Disgust flickered across her face. She raised her hand and cracked it across my cheek. The sting bloomed instantly, sharp and hot. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. “Miss Caldwell, Mr. White is here.” The butler’s voice cut through the room. One second ago Serena’s face was full of fury. The next, she softened completely, like someone had smoothed out every hard edge. She let go of me and turned to head downstairs. A cheerful male voice floated up from the entryway. “Serena, I missed you so much. You promised to take me somewhere good yesterday. How could you forget? I had to come all the way here myself.” Through the gap in the railing, I watched Serena’s expression shift into something warm and indulgent. There was a time she used to look at me that way. That time was long gone. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Want me to take you now?” Ryan White laughed softly. “No way. I want to eat here. I heard you’ve got a live-in servant who’s been around for three years and actually cooks pretty well. Why don’t we have him make us something?” Ryan’s gaze cut straight through the railing and landed on me, taking in every bit of the mess I was. Everyone in New York knew I was Serena’s ex — the one she kept locked up in her house just to have someone to punish. This was nothing more than Ryan planting his flag. Showing me who had the power here. Sure enough, Serena agreed without a second thought.

Fighting through the dull ache in my body, I walked into the kitchen and tied on an apron. Laughter drifted in from the living room. I glanced over. Ryan was draped against Serena’s shoulder on the sofa, his voice all soft and playful. “So when are you finally going to marry me? I can’t wait anymore.” Ryan wasn’t like the others Serena had cycled through. He was the only son of New York’s mayor. And by far the longest-running relationship she’d ever had. “When do you want?” “I don’t care, I just want it to be soon!” “Okay, okay. I’ll come to your parents’ place tomorrow. Happy?” “Now we’re talking!” Something clenched in my chest. The knife slipped. The blade caught my finger before I could pull back. Blood welled up immediately, a sharp, bright sting. I held my hand under the running water until the pain faded to a low throb, then pulled it back. I carried the food out, set everything on the table, and moved to leave. “Hey. Stop.” Ryan’s voice caught me at the doorway. He was smiling, just slightly. “Would you mind serving the rice?” I glanced at Serena. She gave nothing. I nodded and stepped forward. I set the bowl in front of him. He took one bite. Then, without warning, he swept the bowl off the table. Scalding rice scattered across my hand. “Are you trying to burn me?” His voice was flat and cold. “Taste it yourself. Tell me if that’s edible.” The back of my hand was already red and blotchy. I turned toward the kitchen. “Did I say you could go? Get back here.” I stopped. I bit down hard, then turned back around. “The rice was just cooked. It’s going to be hot right off the stove, Mr. White.” “So now you’re blaming me?” His face was expressionless. The look in his eyes treated me like something he’d scraped off his shoe. “No.” “Then apologize.” “I’m sorry.” Three years of this life had sanded down every sharp edge I used to have. But Ryan wasn’t done. He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “That’s it? One sorry and we’re good? Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get on your knees and pick up every grain of rice off that floor with your mouth. Do that, and I’ll let it go.” I went rigid. My head snapped toward Serena. She had no intention of stepping in. If anything, something like amusement had crept into her eyes. Her silence was the worst thing she could have done to me. I set my jaw. I bent my knees and lowered myself to the floor. “No hands. Head down. Eat it.” Ryan’s order made me freeze. I pulled my hands back. I bent forward, and one by one, I picked up each grain of rice from the floor with my mouth. The rice mixed with the grit from the tile. It scraped rough against my teeth. “God, this is exhausting. Can’t even enjoy a meal in peace. Serena, let’s just go out.” “Fine.” “You’re not upset that I put your guy in his place?” “Why would I be? He’s just the help.” The words drifted over me, light and unbothered, growing fainter as they moved toward the door. I slowly raised my head. I watched Serena walk out with her arm around Ryan’s, until they disappeared. Then I swallowed what was in my mouth.

Serena didn’t come home until late into the night. I went back to the servant’s room — barely a hundred and fifty square feet — and reached up to tear the page off the wall calendar. After tonight, two days left. Two days, and I could walk out of here. Somewhere between sleep and waking, a sound jolted me awake. My eyes flew open — someone was on top of me, pulling at my clothes. I shoved them off and scrambled to turn on the light. The moment the room lit up, I saw her face. “Vanessa!” “Caught me, huh?” She stepped toward me slowly, eyes fixed on me with something unsettling and obsessive. The memories crashed back in, dull and grinding, like a blade dragged slowly across skin. I lunged for the door. Locked. She’d locked it from the inside. “Save your energy. I made sure everyone else is gone. Your precious Serena is out there right now on a romantic date with the mayor’s son.” Vanessa Caldwell — Serena’s younger sister — spoke without hurry. “What do you want?” I forced my voice steady. She walked toward me, the smile on her face making my skin crawl. “What do I want? I’ve been in love with you for years. Why won’t you ever look at me?” “Tell me honestly — aren’t I better than Serena? At least I haven’t traded out a boyfriend every few months.” Her eyes were red at the corners. The obsession there was frightening. “Just be with me instead.” While she was talking, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and called Serena. Vanessa didn’t try to stop me. She just stood there and watched. The line rang for a long time. Then Serena’s voice came through, slightly breathless. “Hello.” Right after, faint in the background — a woman’s voice. “…softer…” The hand holding the phone locked in place. Then Vanessa plucked it out of my grip. She leaned close to my ear and lowered her voice. “Let me be honest with you. Tonight was Serena’s idea. How do you think I just walked in here without any trouble?” The words hit like a fist to the chest. Vanessa’s hand rested on my shoulder. She kept going. “There’s something else you probably don’t know. You ever wonder why your family went bankrupt so fast? Why your father killed himself in prison?” My head snapped toward her. “That was all Serena. She went to the prison herself and used your future — your whole life — as leverage against your father. He chose to end it so he wouldn’t drag you down with him.” My mind went blank with a sudden roar. The last thing that had kept me going through these three years — the final thread of belief I had held onto — snapped completely in that moment. I stared at her. “What did you just say?” “This has been an open secret in our circle for a long time. You’re the only one who was never told.” I thought of the way Serena’s expression would flicker — just barely, just for a second — every time my father came up in conversation. And suddenly the cold sank all the way through me.

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In my life, I’ve been someone’s mistress twice. The first time, I was young and naive. I got involved with a ruthless mob boss. Back then I was soft and foolish. I thought if I was good enough, he’d give me his heart in return. When I realized he only saw me as a toy, I walked away without looking back. The second time, I wised up. I got with Julian Rhodes, a legendary figure in high finance. In the three years we’d been married, Julian spoiled me rotten. Wherever I went, he had bodyguards shadowing my every step. I told myself I’d finally earned real love on my own terms. Then came a vacation earlier this year. I went with Julian to visit his grandmother at her estate in Harbor City. Standing outside on the villa terrace, I heard his grandmother let out a long, heavy sigh. “Years ago, the eldest daughter of the Churchill family looked down on you for being illegitimate. She nearly got you killed. You swore then that you’d never love her again.” “And yet here we are. Isn’t your current wife just a copy of what Chelsea Churchill looked like before her surgery?”

Julian went quiet for a long moment. “Grandma,” he finally said, “don’t let Nora hear you say that.” I was standing on the other side of the terrace. My fingers gripped the railing so hard my knuckles went white. “Why are you out here alone in the wind? You’ll catch a cold.” Julian’s warm voice came from behind me. He draped a jacket over my shoulders and slipped his arms around my waist from behind. My whole body went rigid. His grandmother’s words kept echoing through my head. Julian took my hand. “Nora, why are your hands so cold?” He brought my fingers to his lips and breathed warm air against them. I turned around and pulled my hand back, keeping my face blank. “Julian,” I said, “who am I to you?” Looking into his tender eyes, I couldn’t stop the memories of the past three years flooding back. Every single night, without fail, he’d bring me a warm glass of milk before bed. When my cramps were bad, he’d cancel billion-dollar deals just to stay home and rub my stomach all night. And all of it had been for another woman? He reached up and touched my hair. “Silly girl. Do you really have to ask? You’re my wife. The love of my life.” I opened my mouth to speak, but his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. His expression didn’t change. “Nora, something’s come up in Europe. I need to take a video call in the study.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Be good. Go to sleep without me.” I stood there, numb, watching him disappear. I went back to the bedroom alone. On the nightstand, the tablet Julian used to read financial news suddenly lit up. A chat window popped open. No name saved for the contact. A photo came through. The background was a high-end hotel somewhere in Harbor City. In the photo, a woman was wearing a black lace slip dress, her eyes soft and liquid. Her features were sharp and carefully sculpted. But even so, I could see it. The shape of her face carried an echo of mine. Chelsea Churchill. The eldest daughter of the Churchill family. Before I could even react, the chat log vanished. Julian had wiped the messages from his end. Less than a minute later, I heard footsteps in the hallway, deliberately quiet. Then the sound of an engine fading into the distance. I pressed both hands flat against the bedsheets. After a moment, I took a slow, deep breath. I used the hotel logo barely visible in the background of the photo to track down the location, and called a cab.

I didn’t storm in and cause a scene. Instead, I did something almost like self-punishment. I checked into the room right next door. The walls were thin. Or maybe they just didn’t bother to keep quiet. The sounds coming through the wall were unlike anything I’d ever heard from him. That kind of intensity, that abandon. With me, he was always gentle. Always restrained. Chelsea’s voice came through, thick with tears. “Julian, three years ago you were furious at me for what I did. For leaving you out there in the water…” “Tonight, I’m giving myself to you. Does that make it even?” Whatever she said next was swallowed up by the sounds that followed. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood. I pushed down every instinct screaming at me to act. I pulled out my voice recorder and saved everything. Nausea clawed its way up my throat. I pocketed the recorder and stumbled out of there. I walked alone through the streets. Cold wind mixed with a light drizzle hit me full in the face. My phone screen lit up. A message from Julian. “Nora, this case is getting complicated. I’ll be late. Get some rest. Don’t wait up.” I tilted my head back. I tried to hold the tears in, but my vision blurred anyway. I had believed I was the luckiest woman alive. The evidence in front of me had just slapped that belief clean off my face. I don’t remember how I made it home. I picked up the wooden carving by the entryway and walked to the display shelf in the living room. The whole shelf was lined with small female figures, carved in wood. For three years, I’d seen them as proof of his love. I used to be obsessed with wood carving. So Julian had cleared his entire schedule to take classes with me. He’d wrap his arms around me from behind, guide my hands, and carve stroke by stroke. He said he wanted to capture every moment of me. I walked to the centerpiece, the figure I loved most, a half-length portrait. Something in my chest told me to move it. I did. There was a hidden compartment underneath. I opened it, and my hands started shaking before I even fully understood what I was seeing. Inside was an old photograph, yellowed at the edges. A girl with a wild, defiant smile. Something melancholy in her eyes. It was Chelsea Churchill. Before the surgery. I held the photo up next to the carving. The eyes. The expression. The shape of the face. It wasn’t me. I was never the subject. I was just a reference point. A stand-in for what Chelsea used to look like. That’s when I heard the front door unlock. Julian was home. “Still awake? Were you scared being here alone without me?” He came toward me, reached up out of habit to touch my hair. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I stepped back from his hand and threw the photograph at his face. “So everything you did for me these past three years was a lie?” “You were just looking at her through me?” Julian glanced down at the photo. A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. He bent down, picked it up, and brushed the dust off it carefully. Not a trace of panic. No guilt. No shame. “Nora, your place as my wife is permanent. That will never change.” “Chelsea is just something I need to work through. A fixation from when I was young. I need a little time to put it to rest.” I let out a cold laugh. “Put it to rest? In her bed?” Julian looked up at me, eyes narrowing. “You followed me?” He crossed one leg over the other. “She has severe depression. I’m not going to stand by and watch someone fall apart. You of all people would understand that. You care about every stray cat and dog you come across. This is a human life.” Then his phone lit up on the table. A voice message from Chelsea. Julian didn’t even flinch. He hit play on speaker.

Chelsea’s voice came through lazy and satisfied. “Thanks for remembering I love pink diamonds. Oh, and I prefer strawberry flavored. Don’t mix it up next time.” The pink diamond bracelet. The one he’d bid an outrageous price for at an auction last year. He’d said he bought it for me. It had been for her all along. He extended his hand toward me. “That bracelet was low quality anyway. I’ll have my assistant find a better one tomorrow. Consider it an apology.” I stood up. “Julian. I want a divorce.” The moment the words left my mouth, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. He didn’t squeeze hard, but the warmth in his eyes was completely gone. “Stop making a scene. I don’t like you like this.” “Where exactly do you think you’d go without me? Back to that mob boss?” “Let go of me. Where I go is none of your business.” I stared coldly at his hand wrapped around my wrist. Julian’s expression darkened. Slowly, he loosened his grip. He exhaled, and his face shifted into something patient and tired, like he was indulging a child throwing a tantrum. “Nora, you’re being emotional. I promise I’ll see her less from now on.” Then the private cell phone in his pocket rang. The special number. The one he’d set up just for me, so I could always reach him in an emergency. Julian’s brow creased slightly. He answered. Chelsea’s voice, on the verge of tears. “Julian, I’m scared.” Julian’s whole body tensed. “What? You cut yourself?” He turned around without a second’s hesitation. “I have to go. Get some rest.” “Julian.” A sharp pain hit me low in my stomach. I pressed my hand over it on instinct and reached out to grab the edge of his sleeve. He looked back at me with barely concealed impatience. “Nora, don’t play games right now. This isn’t the time for jealousy.” “She’s in a dangerous state. I have to go.” One by one, he pried my fingers off his sleeve. He didn’t look back at me again. He was out the door in three strides. I sank down onto the floor, cold sweat soaking through my shirt. I got myself to the hospital alone. I lay in a narrow bed under the fluorescent lights. I held the thin slip of paper from the test and ran my fingers over my still-flat stomach. Baby, I’m sorry. Your timing couldn’t be worse. I curled my hand into a fist. But you’re here. And I’m going to take you with me. I’m going to raise you. I called my lawyer. After sending over the evidence, I got up to leave. That’s when I saw them. Julian was carefully guiding Chelsea out of the private ultrasound suite, one hand steadying her elbow. Chelsea had a cartoon bandage on her finger. Julian was leaning close, saying something soft to her. His face was gentle in a way I recognized. Chelsea looked up and her eyes found mine. She stopped walking. She reached over and tugged on Julian’s sleeve. Julian followed her gaze. Something shifted in his expression. Chelsea pulled free of his hand and walked straight toward me. She studied my face. “Strange, isn’t it. Even I almost forgot what I used to look like. And here you are.” That light, breezy sentence hit me like a slap across the face. She raised her hand and reached toward my cheek. I turned my head away. “Don’t touch me. I’m not you.” When I pulled back, she swung her palm across my face. The sting blazed across my cheek. I raised my hand and hit her back. Julian crossed the space between us in seconds and stepped in front of Chelsea. “Nora, she’s unwell. Let it go.” I turned and hit him across the face instead. He didn’t react with anger. His eyes dropped to the test results still in my hand. He reached over and took the paper. He scanned it.

His brow furrowed. “Nora, we can’t keep this baby. Not right now.” “Chelsea is pregnant too. Her depression is severe. Any kind of stress could push her over the edge.” I stared at the man in front of me like I was seeing him clearly for the first time. She was pregnant too? So they’d been together long before any of this. A wave of nausea hit me and I couldn’t hold it back. He rubbed my back. I shoved him off. “This is my child. This has nothing to do with you.” Julian reached up and wiped the involuntary tears from the corners of my eyes. “Be reasonable. We’ll end this one.” He sighed, the way you do when you’re trying to calm down someone who doesn’t understand the situation. “We can have more later. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” I stepped back out of his reach. “I told you. I want a divorce. And this baby is mine.” Behind me, Chelsea pressed a hand to her chest right on cue and let out a soft, pained gasp. Julian’s expression went cold. He turned and signaled to the bodyguards behind him. “Take my wife to the surgical suite. Get the best doctor on staff.” Several bodyguards stepped forward immediately and seized my arms. I fought with everything I had. It made no difference. In the end, I was locked inside a private room to wait for the procedure. Tears ran down the sides of my face. Fear and helplessness swallowed me whole. The door opened. Chelsea. I glared at her with everything in me. She smiled at me, slow and cold. “Did you really think a woman like you, a mistress who got thrown away by a crime lord, was going to carry on the Rhodes family line? Keep dreaming.” “If you hadn’t been born with a face like mine, you never would have gotten near Julian in the first place.” Before the last word left her mouth, she swung at me again. This time I sank my teeth into her hand and didn’t let go until I tasted blood. She screamed for a doctor. “No anesthesia.” The procedure began. I screamed. I felt my child being taken from me. The pain was beyond anything I’d known, body and soul torn apart at once. I choked up blood and went dark. When I came to, cramps were tearing through my lower stomach in waves. I stared up at the ceiling as tears ran silently into my hair. My baby was gone. Through the wall, I could hear Julian and Chelsea laughing together, talking about the new life they were expecting. I wiped my face dry. I made a phone call. “I’m ready to work with you. Meet me at the beach.” I went home feeling hollowed out and walked straight to Julian’s study. I pulled a small USB drive from my pocket and plugged it into his private computer. I thought for a moment, then typed in a number. Correct password. It was the date Chelsea had nearly gotten him killed in the water. But there was a second password. I tried several combinations. None of them worked. Then, on a strange impulse, I typed in our wedding anniversary. The screen unlocked. I laughed despite myself. What a pathetic kind of devotion. The progress bar ticked through the Rhodes Group’s most sensitive files. I drove out to the beach on the edge of the city alone. That’s where I always went when things got to be too much. Then I heard footsteps nearby. “Knew it was you, Nora. My contact wasn’t lying.” A man’s voice, oily and too familiar. I turned around, and my blood ran cold. Rex Fowler. The crime lord. The man I’d left. The one who’d treated me like I was nothing. My body moved before my mind caught up. “How are you here? Why are you here?” Rex looked me over slowly, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “Nora. It’s been a while. Leaving me clearly agreed with you.” “Word is Julian tossed you out. Why not come back to me? I’ll make sure every single day is worth your while.”

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The day we moved into our marital home, Rodriguez asked me to set the door lock code. I typed in our wedding anniversary: 052 He glanced at it, then casually changed it to a different string of numbers — 0912. “This one’s easier to remember.” I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was only later that I started noticing 0912 everywhere. The door lock, the safe, his phone, delivery payments — all 091

Eventually I found out: that number was his ex-girlfriend Hector’s birthday. And on my own birthday, he stumbled home in the middle of the night reeking of alcohol. “Sorry, work thing ran late tonight. Forgot it was your birthday.” While he was in the shower, I saw his phone light up. A message from Hector’s mom: Thank you so much for coming to Hector’s birthday party. She had the best time. I let out a cold laugh. Every lock in this house needed to be changed. 1. My phone buzzed. A voice message from Ellis. “Joel! Happy birthday! What did your husband get you? Spill everything!” I stared at that 59-second voice message for a while. I typed back: All good, I’ll tell you tomorrow. Sent it, then flipped my phone face-down on the kitchen counter. The shower turned off. The blow dryer hummed from the bedroom. I picked up my phone and read the message again. Rodriguez — thank you so much for coming to Hector’s birthday party tonight. She was so happy. — Hector’s Mom. I turned off the living room lights and went upstairs. Rodriguez was propped up against the headboard scrolling through his phone, hair still damp, blanket pulled up halfway. My instinct was to grab a towel for him. My hand touched the edge of the bed. I stopped. I sat down beside him. “Rodriguez.” “Mm.” “Today is my birthday.” His finger paused on the screen. “I know. Didn’t I say I’d make it up to you?” He hadn’t said that. I remembered clearly. “You never said that.” “Well, I’m saying it now. I’ll take you somewhere nice this weekend.” “You went to Hector’s birthday party today.” He locked his screen and turned to look at me, brow furrowing. “Her mom called three times. I’ve known their family for over ten years. I couldn’t just blow them off.” “You could’ve come home for dinner first and gone after.” “Do you know what time it is? You were already asleep.” “I wasn’t asleep. I had four dishes on the table from six o’clock to eleven. I was waiting for you the whole time.” He didn’t respond to that. A few seconds passed, then: “Okay. I get it. I’ll make it up to you next week.” I watched his phone screen light up again. “All your passwords are 0912.” “I told you, I just typed something easy to remember.” “My birthday is September twelfth.” His finger went still on the screen. The second hand on the wall clock in the living room ticked through several beats. “Well then that works out perfectly — it’s the same day. It’s not like I don’t know that.” “You know. But you went to celebrate hers. You didn’t come home to celebrate mine.” Rodriguez set his phone down on the nightstand with a sharp thud. “Joel, what do you actually want from me? You’re going to keep bringing up one birthday? I said I’d make it up to you — what more do you want?” I looked at him for a moment. The crease between his brows was deep, like he’d been putting up with me for a long time. I didn’t say anything else. I turned off the light, lay down, and turned my back to him. He rolled over. Two minutes later, his breathing was steady. I lay there in the dark with my eyes open, completely still, counting to a hundred and twenty. Then I picked up my phone, turned the brightness all the way down, opened the browser, and searched for nearby rentals. I scrolled for twenty minutes and saved three listings. Then I went to my contacts and found a number I’d saved last month. Osman. Attorney. Too late to call. I’d do it tomorrow. I put the phone down and closed my eyes. Every lock in this house still had the same set of numbers. It’s the same day, he’d said. It’s not like I don’t know. But when two women share a birthday, he only remembered to celebrate one of them. The next morning when I came downstairs, he was already putting on his shoes. “Running late.” He pulled the door open. The lock screen flashed. “Wait — you said you’d make it up to me. When?” “Saturday, maybe. I’ll book somewhere.” “Not French food. I won’t eat it.” He glanced at me. “Fine.” The door closed. The lock screen glowed for two more seconds. I called Attorney Osman and made an appointment — tomorrow at three in the afternoon. He told me to bring the property deed, the marriage certificate, and bank statements. I texted Ellis: Are you free the day after tomorrow? I need to see you. Ellis messaged back immediately with a string of questions. I replied: I’ll explain in person. I sat down at the kitchen table and drank a glass of water. At the bottom of the glass, barely visible, was a faded letter — H. I looked at it for a moment. Then I put the glass back, grabbed my bag, and went to work. 2. Attorney Osman flipped through the documents and jotted a few notes. “Ms. Joel, I’ll be direct with you. From a financial standpoint, this marriage offers you very little protection.” “Are you certain you want to proceed with a divorce?” “Yes.” “If this goes to litigation, we’ll need evidence of irretrievable breakdown. Would you be comfortable sharing the grounds?” I thought for a few seconds. “Every password in our home is his ex-girlfriend’s birthday. The door lock, the WiFi, the safe, his phone, payment accounts — all 0912.” Attorney Osman looked up. “How long has this been going on?” “Three years. From the first day we moved in.” “Did you ever bring it up with him?” “Twice. He said it was just easy to remember, and that I was being too sensitive.” Attorney Osman drew a line across his notepad. “Good. I’ll have a preliminary draft of the agreement to you within three to five business days.” “Thank you.” I left the office at four in the afternoon. I walked past a bakery. There was a small cake in the display case, nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, with a single thin candle on top. I looked at it for a few seconds. I didn’t buy it. When I got home, Rodriguez wasn’t back yet. I changed into my slippers and stood in the middle of the living room. For the first time, I really looked at this place. The sofa was dark gray. I liked warm tones. The curtains were cool white. I liked linen. The bookshelf had a row of French novels, never opened. I didn’t read French. When we moved in, the whole apartment was already furnished. Rodriguez said there was no point redoing everything. I knelt down and pulled the safe out from under the bed. Typed in 0912. It clicked open. Inside: the marriage certificate, the property deed, a few insurance documents. And at the very bottom, pressed down under everything else, a small black jewelry box. I took it out and opened it. A silver ring. On the inner band, engraved in small letters: 0912. Our wedding rings, Rodriguez kept off his finger and on the nightstand year-round. But this ring was in the safe. Locked away. Buried at the bottom. I closed the box, put it back, shut the safe, and pushed it back under the bed. I opened Rodriguez’s side of the closet. In the far corner was a canvas tote bag. I unzipped it. Inside: a stack of postcards and a few letters. The top postcard had neat, delicate handwriting. Rodriguez — Paris is beautiful. Come back with me next time. Signed with a single letter: H. I went through them one by one. Paris. London. Iceland. Every one signed the same: H. The last postmark was four years ago. They’d broken up five years back. He hadn’t thrown out a single one. I put them back in order, zipped the bag, and pushed it into the corner of the closet. Ellis had sent another voice message. Answer me or you’re not sleeping tonight. I typed back: The safe password is 0912. There’s a ring inside. His ex’s name and birthday, engraved on the band. Ellis replied with a voice message. “What the actual fk.”

At lunch I met Ellis at the noodle place near my office. She grabbed my hand the second she sat down. “Don’t say a word yet. Eat first.” She ordered me a bowl. I pushed it to the side and told her everything — 0912, the ring, the postcards, and that whole night on my birthday. She didn’t say anything the whole time. “He didn’t change a single thing before you got married?” “Said it wasn’t worth the hassle.” “The couch, the curtains — do you even like any of it?” “No.” Ellis leaned back in her chair. “This apartment was decorated when he was still with Hector, wasn’t it?” “He finished the renovation the same year they broke up.” “So the passwords are hers, the furniture is hers, the safe has her ring, the closet has her letters.” “You didn’t marry Rodriguez, Joel. You moved into a shell that Hector left behind.” I squeezed the crumpled napkin on the table. “I know.” “You know?” “I’ve known for a while. This isn’t new.” Ellis studied me, her expression complicated. “Then why did it take you this long to get here?” “I kept thinking it would get better with time. But it’s been three years and he hasn’t changed a single password.” Ellis’s eyes went glassy. “What did the lawyer say?” “Draft agreement in three to five days.” “What about the apartment?” “He bought it before we were married. It’s his.” “So you get nothing.” “I don’t want anything.” She pressed her lips together hard. “You’re moving in with me.” “Not yet. There’s one thing I want to do first.” “What?” “He said he’d make up my birthday this weekend. I want to see where he books.” Saturday at five, Rodriguez sent me a pin — a Japanese izakaya in the city center. When I arrived, he was already looking over the menu. “You pick — get whatever you want.” I ordered two dishes. Rodriguez added a carafe of sake and a salmon sashimi platter. When the food came, I picked up my fork. “Have you been here before?” “A few times. Food’s good.” “With who?” His hand paused on the carafe. “Work dinners.” I pulled out my phone and searched the restaurant’s review page. The top review had six photos. The last one was a selfie — Hector. At the end of the review: We come here every anniversary. The owner knows us by now. Thank you for bringing me, Rodriguez. Four years ago. Username: Cat On The Moon. I turned my phone screen toward him. Rodriguez’s face shifted. “You dug that up on purpose?” “It was the first review. I didn’t have to dig.” “That was a long time ago.” “So you brought me here to make up my birthday, and ordered the same things you used to order with her.” He set down his fork. His voice dropped. “Joel, are you ever not exhausted by this? I came here because the food is good. What does it matter who else I’ve been here with?” “Name one thing I like to eat.” He looked at me. “What?” “Just one. What do I like?” The tables around us hummed with conversation, the clink of glasses, laughter. Our table was the quietest corner in the room. Rodriguez’s mouth opened slightly. “You’re not picky.” “Okay, different question. What don’t I eat?” He didn’t answer. “I don’t eat anything raw. No sashimi. I told you that the first month we moved in. You just ordered the salmon sashimi.” “You never really emphasized it.” “I did. You just didn’t remember. Your memory is reserved for 0912.” His jaw tightened. “What exactly are you trying to say?” I set down my fork, picked up my bag, and stood. “I’m done.” “Joel.” I didn’t look back. “Do you need to make a whole scene before you’re satisfied?” I walked out. A light rain was falling outside. I stood under the awning and waited for my ride. My phone lit up. Rodriguez. Such a bad attitude. It’s just dinner, was it really that serious? I muted his notifications and got in the car. Rain slid down the window in long, slow streaks. I texted Ellis. I have all the confirmation I need. Can you make up the guest room?

Sunday morning, Rodriguez left to play basketball. I pulled a suitcase out of the closet, unzipped it, and started packing. Clothes, skincare, a few books — not even half a suitcase. In my jewelry box: one pair of earrings and a necklace. Both things I’d bought myself. I scanned the bedroom one last time. That was everything that belonged to me. Three years. Half a suitcase. I wheeled it to the front door, put on my shoes, and looked back one more time. The wedding photo on the coffee table — I left it. I walked to the door and opened the lock panel. Found the password change option. Old password: 0912. I looked at the blank input field and paused for a second. Then I typed four digits. The password I’d set the first day we moved in. Our wedding anniversary. The one he changed right in front of me. I changed it back. Confirm. The lock beeped. The screen flashed. I wheeled my suitcase out, and the door clicked shut behind me. I took a car to Ellis’s place and rolled the suitcase into the guest room. Ellis helped me make the bed. Halfway through, she stopped. “You okay?” “I’m okay.” “Do you need to cry?” “No.” She finished pulling on the pillowcase and smoothed it flat. “Are you hungry? I made soup.” “That sounds good.” I was sitting at Ellis’s kitchen table drinking soup when my phone started buzzing. Rodriguez called three times. I didn’t pick up. Then texts. Where are you? Why won’t the code work? Joel, answer me. I picked up the last call. “What the hell are you doing?” He was loud. He’d probably been standing at the door for a while. “I changed the password.” “Changed it to what?” “I’m not telling you.” “This is my apartment. You changed the lock and you’re not going to tell me?” “You’re right. It is your apartment.” Silence on the line. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Stop this and come home. Change it back.” “I’m not coming back.” “Over one dinner you’re really going to do this?” I held my bowl. The soup was still steaming. “It’s not about the dinner.” “Then what is it about?” “Because that was never my home.” “You lived there for three years.” “The passwords were her birthday. The safe had her ring. The closet had her letters. You took me to dinner at your place with her. I lived there for three years and never once felt like I’d actually moved in.” He went quiet. “Call a locksmith. I won’t give you the new code.” I hung up. Ellis sat across from me and didn’t say a word. After a while she said, “Your soup’s getting cold.” “Right.” I drank it. My phone buzzed a few more times. I put it on silent and flipped it over. About half an hour later, the screen lit up again. Rodriguez. He’d gotten a locksmith. The door was open. I changed your password too. I took a screenshot and saved it to a new folder. “Changed it back?” Ellis glanced over. “Probably back to 0912.” She sighed. “He can change the number. He can’t change what he lost.” Outside, the sky was going dark. The light in Ellis’s living room was warm yellow. I sat on the couch and noticed it for the first time. Three years in Rodriguez’s apartment, and I never once registered what color the lights were.

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A passerby’s blurry cellphone video just nuked the internet. In the clip, Cole Hudson, a B-list actor famous for being universally hated, snatches a massive stick of cotton candy right out of a little boy’s hands. Right in front of the kid’s face, he takes a huge bite. The boy unleashes a deafening, heartbroken shriek. Cole doesn’t even blink. The entire internet is screaming for me to be canceled and permanently blacklisted. Then, a gossip blog digs up the kid’s identity. He is the only son of Sloane Sinclair, the ruthless billionaire CEO of the Sinclair Group. The public consensus is unanimous. I am completely, utterly dead. But there is one tiny detail nobody knows. That screaming kid calls me Dad. I bought that cotton candy with my own fifteen bucks. The kid just had two cavities filled and the dentist banned him from sugar. Was I really in the wrong here? 1 My name is Cole Hudson. I am a B-list actor with a bizarrely toxic reputation. I trend on social media every other week, and it is almost never for a good reason. The last time I trended, I sneezed at an award show and accidentally sprayed the back of an A-list actress’s head. The time before that, my belt snapped right in the middle of a movie premiere. My manager, Marty, says my astrological chart is permanently cursed. He strongly advised me to start wearing a paper bag over my head in public. I told him to wear a paper bag. But I never in a million years expected this latest trending topic to be more explosive than the last two combined. Here is what actually happened. Saturday afternoon, Sloane had a board meeting. I picked up our son Finn from pre-K. On the walk home, he demanded cotton candy. I said absolutely not. You just got two cavities filled last week, and the dentist said no sweets for a month. Finn refused to accept that reality. When a four-year-old boy decides to rebel, his destructive power rivals a tactical nuke. First, his lower lip quivered. Then, his big eyes welled up with tears. Finally, his mouth stretched wide open. The dramatic wail took exactly zero point three seconds to detonate. “Daaaaad! I want to eat the cotton caaaaaandy!” The acoustic blast radius was easily fifty yards. An old guy selling pretzels on the corner turned around and glared at me. His eyes clearly spelled out the word “Monster”. I crouched down and tried to reason with the tiny terrorist. “Finn, do your teeth hurt?” “No!” “Who was crying in the dentist’s chair last time?” “…” “Was it you?” He stopped talking. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and glared at me. He has his mother’s eyes. It was the exact same icy glare his mother uses to win boardroom negotiations. But I am Cole Hudson. That trick doesn’t work on me. I have been a father for four years. I am completely immune to that look. “No means no.” I grabbed his little hand and dragged him forward. We passed right by the cotton candy cart. Finn planted his sneakers into the concrete like tree roots. “Dad.” “Walk.” “Dad!” “Walk!” Then, this little brat executed a flawless heist. While I was distracted, he reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my wallet, slipped out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it directly to the vendor. “Mister, I want the biggest one.” Four years old. My own flesh and blood. Four years old, and he already knows how to buy things. With my money. Before I could stop the transaction, the vendor was already spinning the sugar. I watched that neon-pink cloud of sugar get bigger and bigger, and my blood pressure spiked right along with it. When the vendor handed it to Finn, the thing was bigger than his entire head. He hugged the massive pink cloud and flashed me a bright, triumphant, incredibly punchable smile. I took a slow, deep breath. Then I snatched the cotton candy right out of his hands and took a massive, savage bite out of the top. “You said I couldn’t eat it!” Finn’s smile shattered instantly. “I said you couldn’t eat it.” I chewed the sticky pink sugar aggressively. “I never said I couldn’t eat it.” “You” He froze in pure shock for two seconds. Then he started bawling his eyes out. The sound was tragic, devastating, and pierced right through the eardrums. I swear on my life, every single pedestrian within a three-block radius stopped to stare at me. Picture this. Me, Cole Hudson, six-foot-one, wearing a black mask and sunglasses, ripping a giant cotton candy away from a sobbing toddler and eating it myself. Visually, it was not a great look. But I had no idea someone was recording it. And I definitely had no idea that two hours later, that blurry footage would hit the number one spot on the trending page. The headline read: “SHOCKING! Toxic Actor Cole Hudson Steals Cotton Candy From Innocent Child on the Street! Toddler Devastated!” The thumbnail was a freeze-frame of me taking that aggressive bite. The angle was terrible. I looked like a comic book villain. You couldn’t tell it was a father disciplining his stubborn kid. It just looked like a grown man bullying a helpless child. My phone vibrated. It was Marty. I answered it. “Marty.” “Cole, you listen to me right now.” Marty’s voice was physically shaking. “Did you or did you not rob a child of their cotton candy on a public sidewalk?” “It wasn’t a robbery, it was my s” “Number one trending topic!!!” Marty’s voice shrieked, jumping an entire octave. “You are number one! Two hundred million views! Your broken belt only got eighty million! You doubled it! Are you happy now!” “…” “Say something!” “Are you done yelling?” “No! The comment section is a warzone! Verified influencers are quoting it! Child advocacy groups are releasing statements! You are going to be on CNN tomorrow morning!” I looked down at Finn. He had already stopped crying. He was squatting by the curb watching a line of ants, his cheeks coated in pink sugar dust. He had secretly licked the cotton candy while I wasn’t looking. This kid’s acting skills are way better than mine. “Marty, calm down.” “How the hell am I supposed to calm down! Get your ass back to the agency right now. We need a crisis plan!” “What crisis plan? I ate my kid’s cotton candy. Is that a federal crime?” “It is not a crime, but you just pissed off the entire internet! You can’t even tell it is your kid in the video! Everyone just sees a grown man terrorizing a toddler!” “So I’ll just explain it. Problem solved.” Marty went dead silent for three seconds. “Explain? How exactly are you going to explain? You are going to tell the world that is your son? You are married? Who the hell are you married to?” I went silent too. Right. I am married. But the world doesn’t know. Because my wife is Sloane Sinclair. The Sinclair Group. The three-hundred-billion-dollar corporate empire. Sloane Sinclair is the CEO. When we got married, we signed a brutal non-disclosure agreement. Neither of us was allowed to publicly announce the marriage. Her reasoning: It would cause unnecessary fluctuations in the stock market. My reasoning: It would alienate my fanbase. Looking back now, my reasoning was pure delusion. What fanbase? “Alright, I get it. I will figure something out.” I hung up the phone. Finn looked up at me. “Dad, an ant bit me.” “Karma.” “You are karma. You stole my cotton candy.” “I bought it with my money.” “Mom gave you that money.” I opened my mouth to argue. I had no counterargument. 2 When we got home, I opened my social media app. The hashtag wasn’t just number one anymore. It had a blood-red “Explosive” tag next to it. The comments underneath the video made my skin crawl. “What kind of trash human steals food from a little kid?” “Isn’t this the guy whose belt snapped on the red carpet? His morals are as loose as his pants.” “The poor baby is crying so hard and he is just chewing it! Get this psycho out of Hollywood permanently!” “Cole Hudson needs to be blacklisted!” “Can we please tag Child Protective Services to look into this?” I scrolled for five straight minutes and didn’t find a single positive comment. Not one. Even the moderate takes like “Maybe there is context we are missing” were downvoted straight to hell. Marty texted me a draft for an official PR statement: “Cole Hudson Studio Official Statement: The circulating video is a severe misunderstanding. Mr. Hudson is a family friend of the child. Due to the child’s recent medical restrictions regarding sugar, Mr. Hudson intervened out of concern for the child’s health…” I read it once and texted back two words: “Too fake.” Marty: “Then what do you want to do?” I thought about it for a second, then opened my own official account. I have 3.2 million followers, and at least half of them are dedicated haters. I drafted a new post: “The spun sugar was actually pretty sweet.” I attached a photo I took of the massive pink cotton candy with a huge bite taken out of it. Send. Three seconds later, my phone started ringing. It was Marty. “COLE!!! What the hell did you just post!!!” “The truth.” “You” I heard a heavy, wheezing sound through the speaker. I genuinely thought Marty was reaching for an oxygen tank. “You just poured gasoline on a raging house fire!” “I didn’t lie. It was actually really sweet.” “You…” Marty let out a sound like a dying animal. “Just wait. Your comments are about to implode.” He was right. Within five minutes, the post hit a hundred thousand comments. “Is this guy completely mental???” “Who is he trying to provoke?” “Getting canceled and still acting arrogant. That is a new low.” “Cole Hudson: I didn’t just steal it, I enjoyed it. Come at me, bro.” “Hold up… why is this actually kind of hilarious?” That last comment got eighty thousand likes. Then the vibe in the comment section started to shift. People started turning it into a meme. “Cole ‘The Candy Snatcher’ Hudson.” “This man robbed a toddler, refused to apologize, and posted a review of the stolen goods. Honestly, respect the villain arc.” “We are the clowns here. He literally does not care.” “Help, why do I think he is kind of cool for this…” The comments went from pure, unfiltered hatred to a solid seventy-thirty split. Thirty percent were still cursing my name, but seventy percent were just there for the chaos. Marty called back. He sounded slightly calmer. “Did you do that on purpose?” “Do what?” “That post. Was that calculated?” I tossed Finn’s muddy socks into the washing machine, pinning the phone to my ear with my shoulder. “Yeah.” It wasn’t. I honestly just thought the cotton candy tasted good and wanted to put it on my private story, but my thumb slipped and posted it to my public feed. But I couldn’t let Marty know that. It was better if he thought I was an evil PR genius. “Alright,” Marty sighed heavily. “You muddied the waters for now. But this isn’t over. Jace Montgomery is making his move.” My hand stopped on the washing machine dial. Jace Montgomery. A clout-chasing pop idol signed to my agency. He has a face that looks like it was generated by AI and the acting skills of a wooden plank. But he has millions of rabid teenage fans and a ruthless marketing team. He has hated my guts for a year. The reason is simple. He was supposed to get the lead role in a major streaming series, but the director saw my audition and gave me the part instead. He has been gunning for me ever since. “What is he doing?” “He quote-tweeted the video of you and the kid. His caption says, ‘My heart breaks for this little guy. I hope the people involved can give the public a proper explanation.’” “…” “Now his fan army is trending the hashtag ‘Jace Montgomery Spreads Positivity’. They are stepping on your neck to make him look like a saint. The engagement numbers are insane.” I let out a dark laugh. That is a textbook maneuver. Using my cancellation to boost his own public image. Flawless execution. “Also,” Marty lowered his voice to a whisper. “The agency is holding an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. Arthur’s direct order is that you issue a public, groveling apology.” “Apologize for what?” “You” “I ate my own kid’s cotton candy. Who am I apologizing to? The American people? Am I supposed to write a formal apology to the sugar?” “You can’t tell them it’s your kid!” “I know.” “Then you have to apologize.” “No.” “Cole!” “I said no.” I hung up. Finn trotted out of his bedroom holding a piece of construction paper. “Dad, look. I drew you.” I took the paper. It was a stick figure with a massive circle for a head, holding a scribbled pink blob. Underneath it, in messy, jagged letters, were two words: Bad Dad. “Who taught you how to spell that?” “Mom.” I went silent. Unbelievable. A coordinated strike from my own family. 3 By the next morning, the situation had escalated to a catastrophic level. A major pop-culture blog dropped a massive article. The headline read: EXCLUSIVE: Identity of the Child Robbed by Cole Hudson Revealed. I clicked the link, and my soul left my body. “Multiple inside sources confirm the young boy in the viral video is the son of Sloane Sinclair, CEO of the Sinclair Group. The conglomerate controls major assets in real estate, finance, and tech, boasting a valuation of over three hundred billion dollars. Insiders report Sloane is fiercely protective of her only child and has never allowed media exposure. Cole Hudson has effectively signed his own death warrant.” The comment section immediately turned into a digital funeral service. “He is dead. He is actually, literally dead.” “Boys, Cole doesn’t just want out of Hollywood. He wants a VIP ticket to the morgue.” “The Sinclair Group??? THAT Sinclair Group??? And he stole her kid’s food???” “Cole Hudson: Other celebs get canceled. I get erased from existence.” “Honestly, if Sloane Sinclair makes one phone call, Cole’s entire talent agency will be liquidated by lunch.” “Someone set up a GoFundMe for Cole’s casket.” I was reading these comments while eating breakfast. Finn was sitting across the kitchen island, furiously stirring his oatmeal like a cement mixer. “Dad, why are you smiling at your phone?” “I’m looking at your mother.” “Mom is inside the phone?” “Yeah. The internet is basically worshipping her right now.” Right on cue, my phone rang. It was Sloane. I answered it and put it on speaker. “I saw the trending page,” she said. Her voice was perfectly calm, using the exact same tone she uses to close corporate mergers. “Yeah.” “Fascinating.” “You think this is fascinating?” “They said you signed your own death warrant.” “…” “Technically, you just extracted a cavity. The one your son got filled last week.” “Can you please not make jokes right now?” “I’m not joking.” She paused. “What is your PR team planning to do?” “The agency wants me to issue a public apology.” “And you don’t plan on apologizing.” “Obviously. Why the hell would I apologize?” “Alright. Then I will back your play.” “How are you going to do that?” “I’ll have my legal department issue a press release.” “What kind of press release?” “The Sinclair Group is aware of the incident and will reserve the right to pursue full legal action against the individual involved.” I choked on my coffee. “You call that backing my play?” “Yes.” “You are nailing the lid of my coffin shut!” “I think the comment section is going to be highly entertaining.” “Sloane.” “Yes?” “Do you actually enjoy watching the entire internet cyberbully your husband?” The line went dead quiet for two seconds. Then she said, “A little bit.” I hung up the phone. Finn looked up at me. “Dad, your face is really red.” “Eat your oatmeal.” Two hours later, the official corporate account for the Sinclair Group dropped a statement: “The Sinclair Group is aware of the viral video involving the son of our CEO. Our legal team has been dispatched to investigate the matter and will pursue all available legal action against the offending party. The public can rest assured that the Sinclair Group has the absolute capability and obligation to protect the rights of our family members.” The internet exploded. “It is happening! The coffin is sealed!” “Cole Hudson: ‘Wait guys let me explain.’ Sinclair Legal: ‘See you in court, buddy.’” “The Sinclair Legal Department has fifty elite corporate lawyers. Mobilizing them to destroy a B-list actor is the wildest overkill I have ever seen.” “Cole, run for the border. It is your only hope.” “Guys, his social media accounts are still active. He is currently still breathing. Let’s observe.” I held my phone and texted Sloane. “If you ‘help’ me one more time, my career is actually over.” Sloane texted back an emoji. A smiley face. That cold, corporate, customer-service smile that radiates three parts polite warmth and seven parts murderous intent. I suddenly realized a hard truth. The biggest mistake of my life wasn’t snatching that cotton candy. It was marrying Sloane Sinclair. 4 2:00 PM. The agency conference room. Marty grabbed my arm outside the glass doors, whispering frantically. “Don’t lose your temper in there. Arthur is in a terrible mood.” “When do I ever lose my temper?” “You lost your temper three days ago.” “When?” “When you posted that the cotton candy was sweet.” “That wasn’t losing my temper. That was stating a culinary fact.” Marty’s left eye twitched violently. I pushed the glass doors open and walked in. There were about eight people sitting around the long mahogany table. Arthur, the head of the agency, sat at the head of the table. He looked furious. Brenda, the PR Director, had deep black circles under her eyes. She clearly hadn’t slept a wink. And then there was Jace Montgomery. He was sitting quietly in the corner, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt. He looked pristine, polished, and wore a sickeningly perfect smile. When he saw me, he gave a polite little nod. “Hey, Cole.” His tone was steady and smooth. It carried three parts fake sympathy and seven parts pure satisfaction. I ignored him. “Sit down,” Arthur barked. “You know the situation. The hashtag hasn’t dropped from the top spot. Total views just passed 1.5 billion. Do you understand what that means? The last time a hashtag broke a billion, a global pop star got married. You are a B-list actor who stole a piece of candy, and your traffic eclipsed a royal wedding. You are an absolute piece of work, Cole.” “Arthur” “I talk, then you talk.” Arthur slammed his hand on the table. “The brand sponsors are already calling. You have three active endorsements. Two want to terminate your contract immediately. One is waiting to see what happens. The network just suspended all your variety show appearances for next month. Brenda, walk him through the strategy.” Brenda opened a manila folder. “The only viable option is a highly publicized, groveling apology. It needs to look sincere. I drafted a statement. ‘Mr. Hudson feels deep remorse for his actions. He realizes his behavior was completely inappropriate and has formally apologized to the child and their family…’” “No,” I said. The conference room went dead silent. “Cole,” Arthur stared daggers at me. “Do you have any idea that the Sinclair Group just issued a corporate threat? Their elite legal team is coming for your throat. If you don’t apologize right now, you are going to get sued into oblivion.” “I am not apologizing.” “You” “I ate a piece of cotton candy. It was a fifteen-dollar stick of sugar. I didn’t hit anyone. I didn’t curse anyone out. I didn’t break a single law. Who exactly am I apologizing to? The candy? ‘Dear Cotton Candy, I am deeply sorry for digesting you’?” Someone at the far end of the table stifled a laugh. Arthur’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. That was when Jace decided to chime in. “Cole, don’t take this the wrong way.” I turned to look at him. He cleared his throat, his face a mask of sickening sincerity. “Cole, at the end of the day, this isn’t about right or wrong. It is about public sentiment. The public saw a grown man snatch something from a helpless child. It makes people uncomfortable. That is just human nature. If you just bow your head and apologize, you calm the storm. It benefits everyone. Why burn your career to the ground over pride?” Beautifully said. Every single word sounded entirely reasonable, yet every single sentence was meticulously designed to force me off a cliff. You weren’t using this gentle tone when you quote-tweeted the video to step on my throat, were you? “Jace,” I stared right into his perfect eyes. “Yeah?” “When you quoted that video yesterday, did you type that caption yourself, or did you make your assistant do it?” His perfect smile glitched for a fraction of a second. “Cole, I only posted that out of concern” “You are concerned about me? Last month on set, I got heatstroke and laid on a cot for three hours. You walked past me three times and didn’t even offer me a bottle of water.” The conference room plunged into a suffocating silence. Jace’s smile completely dissolved. The corner of his mouth twitched in anger. Arthur slammed his fist on the table. “Enough! Both of you shut up. Cole, I am asking you one last time. Are you going to apologize?” “No.” “Then give me one good reason why.” I stood up. I looked around the room at every single face staring back at me. I thought about it for a moment, then delivered one simple sentence. “Because I bought that cotton candy with my own fifteen bucks.” Then I turned around and walked out. I could hear Marty’s frantic footsteps chasing after me, followed closely by the sound of Arthur violently shattering his coffee mug against the wall.

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I had to tag along to my brother’s business dinner. I never expected the man sitting across from us to be the city’s most ruthless billionaire heir. When I hesitantly raised my glass to toast him, he scoffed. Not once, not twice, but three times. Then, halfway through the night, someone brought up his mysterious, mute fiancée from the wrong side of the tracks. Gideon lazily raised his eyelids, his cold gaze sliding down the curve of my tight, custom designer dress. He let out another dark chuckle. “Why don’t you answer them? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” 1 I was at a high-stakes business dinner. Sitting directly across from us was the massive client our family company was desperate to land. Dressed in a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit, his expression was colder than ice. This was Gideon, the legendary heir whose name dominated every financial headline. In our social circles, he was notorious for his mercurial temper and absolute ruthlessness in negotiations. Right now, his piercing gaze was locked onto me. The polite smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. His sheer presence suffocated the room. My brother, Christian, was still busy pitching me. “This is my little sister, Nicollette. I’m bringing her around to learn the ropes so she can eventually take over the family business.” The man across the table raised an eyebrow, slowly testing the weight of my name on his tongue. “Nicollette.” “The heiress of the Su empire?” He paused, letting out a dark, mocking laugh. “Fascinating.” I silently adjusted my hair, pulling the loose curls forward to shield my face as much as possible. Seeing me shrink back, Christian gave my shoulder a gentle nudge, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t just sit there with your head down. What are you hiding for? It’s your turn to toast him.” My stomach did a violent flip. I slowly forced myself to stand. When I raised my glass toward Gideon, my hand froze mid-air. The silence in the private dining room was deafening. Christian waited for me to speak, but when I remained frozen, he lost his patience and hissed under his breath, “What are you doing just holding your glass? Did you suddenly go mute? Say something!” He didn’t know the half of it. For two years, Gideon had genuinely believed I was mute. Even during our most passionate nights, when his hands would pin mine to the sheets, he would whisper with wicked amusement: Sweetheart, if it’s too much, just say the word and I’ll stop. Even when I was completely out of my mind with sensation, I had bitten my lip until it bled, refusing to make a single sound. Was it because I didn’t know how to speak? No. It was because I was absolutely terrified of what would happen if I did. My lips parted, and with agonizing effort, I managed to squeeze out a few quiet words. “Um, Mr. Gideon…” The moment the words left my mouth, the man across the table let out a sharp, frigid laugh. My heart sank into my chest. My cover was blown. “Mr. Gideon, it is a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to our future partnership.” “A pleasure to meet you?” Gideon repeated, his lips curling into a frigid, mocking smirk. “Right.” 2 I sank back into my seat, my fingers trembling as I unlocked my phone and immediately started searching for the earliest flight out of the state. I needed to run. Fast. Before I could even select a departure time, my brother’s voice drifted back into my ears, casually launching into another topic. “By the way, Gideon, rumor has it you’re getting married soon. When do we get to meet the lucky lady?” My eyelids twitched. Christian was literally digging his own sister’s grave. Gideon didn’t answer immediately. He slowly swirled the amber liquid in his glass. After a long, agonizing silence, he finally looked up. His icy gaze dragged slowly over the tight, provocative lines of my designer dress. He let out another cold laugh. “Why don’t you answer him? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” The entire room went dead silent. Christian froze, his jaw practically hitting the table. He had absolutely no idea. According to the rumor mill, Gideon’s fiancée was a destitute, pitiful girl. Her brother was a degenerate gambler, her father was abusive, and her mother was terminally ill. She was a quiet, fragile mute whom the billionaire heir sheltered from the world out of sheer pity. He never could have guessed that his own pampered, billionaire sister was that very same girl. You have reached the end of the free preview. To unlock the next chapters and see Nicollette’s ultimate fate, please complete your payment to continue reading. 3 Although I had been pampered and spoiled by my family since childhood, Christian had warned me several times before I started dating. He gave me a strict list of men in our social circle whom I should never, under any circumstances, touch. Gideon was at the very top of that list. Not only did he have a notoriously volatile temper, but he was also rumored to be deeply obsessed with a tragic first love, a woman who had broken his heart and left the country. He was a walking red flag. But when I saw him at a high-society party two years ago, I was completely captivated. I was starstruck by the sheer, devastating beauty of him. Another woman had tried to throw herself at him, accidentally splashing red wine all over his chest. As the dark liquid dripped from the tips of his hair, sliding down his collarbone and over his sharply defined abs, Gideon had merely looked up with absolute indifference. His profile was as sharp as a carved statue. He slowly took a napkin to wipe his face, casually shedding his incredibly expensive jacket and tossing it into the trash. Every movement was slow, dripping with the effortless arrogance of a man born to rule. I had practically salivated on the spot. I couldn’t help but whisper to my best friend, “What do you think would happen if I took a little part-time job as his distraction?” My best friend, a classy, high-maintenance heiress, rolled her eyes with practiced grace. “Don’t tell me you want to humiliate yourself by acting as a substitute for his lost love. See that girl who spilled the wine? She fell in love, demanded a title instead of just cash, and got discarded in two months. That will be your fate.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Two months is a bit short. Two months isn’t enough time to really get a taste of him.” My friend stared at me, speechless. Before I set my sights on Gideon, I did try to spare my brother’s reputation. I went to great lengths to hide my identity. I used a fake name and created a completely fabricated background. Because my voice was somewhat distinctive and I was terrified of being recognized, I chose not to speak at all. I bought a VIP membership at the luxury hotel he frequented and spent two months pretending to be tipsy, waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, I staged a perfect, delicate collapse right into his arms as he walked through the door. He paused, his gaze lingering on my bare, makeup-free face. He caught me by the waist, a low chuckle escaping him as if he saw right through my little act. “You look a bit like her. Want to come with me?” I lowered my head with mock shyness, pulled out my phone, and typed on the screen: [Sure. My name is Felicity.] For two years, Gideon genuinely believed I was a mute girl named Felicity. And for two years, I assumed we were both just playing a mutually beneficial, temporary game. Until last month, when Gideon suddenly proposed. I was utterly blindsided. 4 I suspected Gideon might have suffered some sort of amnesia that made him forget his tragic first love. On the night he proposed, he was out drinking with his inner circle. I was sitting beside him, completely lost in thought as I stared at his jawline. Someone at the table casually mentioned a name. The atmosphere in the room immediately dropped. Someone muttered, “I heard she got engaged last month.” Gideon’s hand paused on his glass. He gave a quiet, indifferent shrug, then suddenly turned to look at me. He pinched my cheek with lazy amusement, waiting for me to snap out of my daze. “Let’s get married,” he said. My heart nearly stopped. Who? Married to who? This wasn’t part of the deal. I was supposed to be a temporary substitute, a pretty distraction. How did we get to marriage? I was terrified. That night in bed, I was trembling so violently that he noticed. He let out a low growl, murmuring, “Sweetheart, why are you so sensitive tonight? You’re soaking the sheets.” The moment the storm cleared and my body finally stopped shaking, I quietly gathered the scraps of my torn stockings from the floor, desperate to slip away before sunrise. “Damn it,” a low curse came from the shadows behind me. Gideon rarely swore, but before I could take a step, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me back into the mattress. My freshly donned stockings were torn to shreds once again. Gideon never let women stay the night at his villa, but that night, he held me tightly against his chest until morning. I didn’t sleep a wink. I watched the sky slowly turn from gray to gold, my heart growing colder with every passing second. When he woke up, he gently ruffled my hair. “Pack your things and move in here. From now on, you live with me.” “And remember to bring your ID.” Gideon propped his chin on his hand, looking down at me with a rare, soft warmth in his eyes. “Felicity, I’ve had someone pick out a date. We’re getting married next month.” Hearing him call me by the fake name I’d used for two years made my stomach violently churn. I finally realized this wasn’t a game to him. Gideon was serious. 5 Gossip travels faster than light in our circle. My best friend messaged me the second she heard rumors of Gideon’s impending wedding. Are you out of your mind? I heard his first love got engaged last month. He’s obviously using you to spite her. If you actually marry him, you’re going to end up looking like a clown. I knew she was right, but my concern was far more practical. I was afraid of getting sued or worse. Gideon absolutely loathed being lied to. The second we stood in front of the clerk and he saw my real ID, I would be completely ruined. So, under the pretense of going back to my shack to retrieve my ID, I ran. I booked the earliest flight out of the state. As I boarded the plane, my heart was hammering against my ribs. Fortunately, I made it out. I figured that to a man of Gideon’s immense power, I was just a disposable toy. He didn’t even bother to verify my background during our two years together. Why would he waste his energy chasing me down when he could easily find another quiet girl to marry out of spite? Gideon’s family was based on the East Coast. My family was based on the West Coast. My name was fake, my identity was a lie. If I stayed away, we would never cross paths again. Even though I hadn’t quite had my fill of the gorgeous billionaire, I had enjoyed the ride. It was time to grow up, accept the business match my family had arranged, and learn to run the empire. 6 I just never expected we would meet again so soon, let alone in a corporate setting. Gideon’s company was based thousands of miles away, yet somehow, our family business had landed them as our primary client. “Why don’t you answer him? Is two years of playing mute still not enough for you?” Gideon’s voice snapped me back to reality. By the time he finished speaking, I had already made it to the door of the private dining suite. I turned around to face the stunned stares of the entire room, including my brother’s pale face. I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to use the restroom.” I tried to make a run for it. But the moment I stepped into the hallway, two of Gideon’s massive bodyguards blocked my path. We stared at each other in a tense standoff. Finally, one of them cleared his throat politely. “Miss, there is a private restroom inside the suite.” I slowly marched back inside and took my seat. A second later, Christian let out a harsh, freezing laugh. Across the table, Gideon echoed him with an equally chilling chuckle. I sat there, frozen. Were they trying to harmonize their anger? After a few minutes of agonizing tension, Christian stood up. “I have an urgent matter to attend to. I must excuse myself.” Gideon rose smoothly. “I also have some business to take care of. I’ll head out as well.” I quickly chimed in, “Oh, I’m fine. I’ll just sit here for a bit longer.” Christian grabbed my arm, practically hauling me out of my chair. “Ow, ow! Lighten up on the grip, Christian!” “Oh, now you know what pain feels like?” Christian sneered, dragging me out of the suite and shoving me right in front of Gideon, who was waiting by his sleek sedan. “My sister has been spoiled rotten since she was a kid. For the sake of our families’ business relationship, deal with this quietly. I’ll be back to pick her up in an hour.” 7 The second Christian’s car pulled away, Gideon pinned me against the door of his sedan and kissed me. The kiss was fierce, desperate, and possessive, stealing the breath straight from my lungs. I thought he was overreacting. Sure, I was beautiful, but did he really have to be this intense the moment we reunited? When he finally let me go, there was no explosive anger, no furious demands about my lies. He gently pressed his thumb against my swollen lower lip, his eyes dark and swirling with unspoken emotion. “You lied to me. But why did you run?” “Um,” I muttered, looking anywhere but at him. “I heard your family already arranged a fiancé for you last year,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Don’t tell me you never actually planned on marrying me.” “Well,” I squeaked. “Finding you was exhausting. Next time you decide to run, at least don’t block my number, okay?” “Oh,” I said. He tilted my chin up, a warning edge to his smile. “If you keep giving me these lazy, one-word answers, I won’t hesitate to show you exactly what we can do in the back of this car.” I shut my mouth immediately. We were out in public, for heaven’s sake. But looking up at him, under the silver glow of the streetlights, I felt a familiar, dangerous flutter in my chest. He had chased me down. He hated being deceived, yet he had forgiven my massive web of lies without a second thought. Over the past two years, his tenderness and absolute devotion had been real. I had tried so hard to keep my guard up, but looking at his face now, I felt myself slipping. It wasn’t just a physical craving anymore. I was genuinely falling for him.

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1 On the eve of our fourth anniversary trip, Jonah was in the bathroom taking a shower. His phone screen suddenly lit up on the nightstand. The message was brief: [Dr. Beckett, my sister just got her divorce finalized. She is alone in the psychiatric ward and she is in a really bad place. Please, you have to come see her.] The sender’s number belonged to Toby, the younger brother of Aria, the girl Jonah had once loved with a fierce, self-destructive passion. She was the ghost that had haunted our relationship from day one. The hum of the shower died down. When Jonah walked out, towel drying his hair, I handed him the phone. I turned my back, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Within seconds, Jonah wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin gently on the crown of my head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going,” he murmured. “I promised I’d take you on this trip, and I’m keeping that promise.” Just as my racing heart began to settle, another message flashed on the screen: [She has been sobbing for hours. She keeps repeating one thing over and over: Jonah, I regret it.] The arms wrapped around my waist stiffened. It was funny how the future we had spent four years building could be derailed so easily. The past only had to wave its hand, and he was already turning back. “Jonah,” I said softly. He did not hear me the first time. Only when I called his name again did he seem to snap out of his trance, his eyes instantly clouding with guilt. “Sorry, Nell. Things at the hospital have been so hectic lately, I keep zoning out.” He reached out to pull me into his chest, just like he always did, but I stood frozen. Noticing my stiffness, his voice grew tense. “Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?” I looked into his eyes, keeping my voice quiet and even. “If you want to go to the hospital to see her, we can reschedule our trip.” “I am not going,” he replied instantly. He even managed a small laugh, reaching out to gently tap the tip of my nose. “Silly girl, stop overthinking. I’m a doctor, not her private caretaker.” He said it lightly, but I knew Jonah. He was never a man to hesitate or lose focus. He was always decisive, except during his college years when he was dating Aria. Back then, he used to wear that exact same vacant, distracted look. I knew that look because I used to look up at Jonah the exact same way he looked up at Aria. We hit a quiet stalemate that night. Jonah apologized repeatedly, trying to soothe the unspoken tension between us. “Nell, I admit I got distracted, but you’re the only one in my heart now,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, his eyes searching mine. “I don’t love her. I haven’t loved her for a long time.” His gaze was so earnest that I almost believed him. Almost. But Jonah had once been so reckless for Aria. Even though I had been with him for four years, her shadow still loomed over us, cold and insurmountable. Late into the night, he finally managed to soothe me to sleep. Through the haze of slumber, I felt him slip out of bed. A moment later, the muffled sound of a tense conversation drifted in from the balcony. His voice was cold and sharp. “I am a doctor, yes, but I am not the only psychiatrist at that hospital.” He sounded nearly impatient. “The nurses can handle her. Stop calling my personal number. My girlfriend is going to misunderstand.” The weight in my chest finally lifted. Beneath the covers, I let out a quiet breath, smiling at my own insecurity. Soon, the bed dipped as he climbed back in. He pulled me flush against his chest, his warm breath tickling my ear. “I love you, Nell,” he whispered. I woke up early the next morning. Jonah had to finish a morning shift before his vacation officially started, so I packed our bags and headed to the airport ahead of him. Looking at our detailed travel itinerary, I could already picture the snow falling on our shoulders in Aspen. I waited at the gate until noon, when a text from him finally arrived: [Sweetheart, hang tight. Just wrapping up my last patient and then I’ll head straight to the airport.] I texted back a quick confirmation with a heart emoji. At the time, I had no idea that the last patient he referred to was Aria. The hours ticked away. The departure boards in the terminal flickered, updating constantly. All the daytime flights to our destination had already departed, leaving only the final red-eye of the night. If we missed this one, the winter storm forecast for tomorrow would ground all flights, and our fourth-anniversary trip would be completely ruined. Jonah still had not arrived. I called him multiple times, but my calls went straight to voicemail. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. My first instinct, ridiculously enough, was to worry that he had been in a car crash on his way to the airport. 2 Finally, my phone buzzed. I answered it immediately. “Jonah? Are you okay?” “Hello? Who is this?” a soft, delicate female voice answered. My throat went dry. It was Aria. “If you’re looking for Dr. Beckett, you’ll have to wait a moment,” she said calmly, her tone completely devoid of malice. “He went to get me some of his homemade potato soup.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Potato soup. Jonah had spent nearly an hour in the kitchen this morning, slow-cooking it and leaving it in a thermos for me. He had once told me: “I only learned how to cook because of you, Nell. I only want to make these things for you.” I had always believed that this soup, this small gesture, was the one thing that set me apart from Aria. The line went quiet for a few seconds before Jonah’s voice came through. “Hey, Nell. I’m so sorry. Something urgent came up at the hospital today. It looks like we’ll have to push the trip back.” He apologized over and over, but he never mentioned Aria’s name. If she was just a patient, why the lie? What did his promise last night even mean? “I’m coming to the hospital,” I said, my voice eerily calm. There was a brief pause on the other end. “…Okay.” The sterile scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the hospital corridor. I stood outside the door of ward three. Through the small glass window, I saw Jonah sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a warm bowl. He carefully blew on a spoonful of soup before feeding it to Aria. Her movements were a bit sluggish, but she complied, swallowing quietly. Then, she picked up a half-eaten apple from the bedside table and offered it to him. Jonah smiled, leaned down, and took a bite right from the spot she had bitten. My breath caught. Jonah had mild germophobia. He was a man who politely declined when I tried to feed him with my own fork, yet here he was, sharing a half-eaten apple with another woman without a second thought. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed in my chest. There was nothing special about me. The rules he broke for her were the rules he rigidly kept with me. It was never about the action; it was always about the person. When I pushed the door open, Jonah froze. He hastily set the bowl and the apple down on the table. Aria did not look at me. Like a tired bird, she tilted her head and naturally rested her cheek against Jonah’s chest. He did not pull away. Jonah stood there and let her lean on him. I stood in the doorway, watching them. I felt like an intruder who had walked into someone else’s movie, making even my breathing feel like an inconvenience. “Nell,” Jonah said, finally standing up. Aria swayed slightly, losing her support. His face was a mask of guilt. “You can see how she is. The trauma affected her mind, she is acting like a child right now. Please don’t take it to heart, okay?” How could I not? My lips curved into a bitter smile, but the only word that escaped me was a hollow, “Okay.” Just as I was trying to force myself to accept his explanation, Aria looked up. Her eyes were vacant, but her voice was as soft as a feather. “Jonah, I like you so much.” Jonah went rigid, his expression turning incredibly complex. “Hold me, please?” She reached out her arms, her eyes wide and innocent, like a child who knew no boundaries. But this time, Jonah pushed her hand away. He quickly walked over to me, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out into the corridor. “She is sick, Nell. She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” he said, closing the door behind us to shut her out. He repeated the same empty phrase: “Don’t take it to heart.” Seeing my silence, he let out a heavy sigh and cupped my face with both hands, forcing me to look into his exhausted eyes. “She is in a terrible state, Nell. Her ex-husband abused her for years, and she finally snapped when she caught him cheating,” he explained, his voice thick with emotion. “I had no intention of seeing her this morning, I swear. I remembered my promise to you. But her ex-husband showed up at the clinic, trying to drag her away. She was huddled in a corner, screaming my name. With all my colleagues watching, I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. Just this once, Nell, please understand.” The desperation in his voice felt so real. It seemed as though he was just a good man carrying a burden he could not shake. 3 For a second, I almost relented. But then the image of him biting that apple flashed in my mind, the ease with which he threw away his principles for her. “Jonah,” I said, my voice dry. “The last flight is at nine tonight. Our trip.” He smiled, ruffling my hair the way he always did, momentarily dispelling the gloom. “We don’t have to wait until nine. Let’s go now.” “Dr. Beckett, the test results for bed three are in,” a nurse called out from down the hall. Bed three. Aria. “I’ll look at them right away,” Jonah replied instantly. The smile had barely left his face, but his body was already turning toward the nurse. My agreement died in my throat, shattering silently. And so, I ended up waiting at the hospital while he ran tests for her. By the time I checked my watch, it was six in the evening. If we did not leave for the airport now, we would miss the flight. “It’s six o’clock,” I said, standing by his desk, my voice quiet. Jonah was buried in paperwork, his brow furrowed as he reviewed Aria’s thick medical file. “Almost done. Just give me a few more minutes.” He did not even look up. Looking at the towering stack of files, I knew that “almost done” was a lie. My patience finally wore thin. “Aria is asleep now, Jonah. She isn’t going to wake up and demand you stay. Can’t another doctor on duty look at these files?” “No, they can’t,” he snapped, his pen never pausing. “Why not?” The question hung in the silence of the office. “Nell, can you please be quiet for a second? You’re distracting me, and I can’t get this done if you keep talking,” Jonah said, his forehead creasing with irritation. A wave of hurt washed over me. It was our anniversary trip, yet somehow I was the one being unreasonable. Perhaps seeing the tears welling in my eyes, Jonah softened. He sighed, walked around the desk, and took my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just incredibly tired today, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” His grip was warm and familiar. “But Aria’s case is highly complex, and the board is monitoring it. Because of our history, I know her psychological triggers better than anyone else. But I promise you, I will make this up to you.” With that, he shut the file, handed it over to the resident on duty, and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. His lips curved into a smile. “Come on, let’s go catch that flight.” “Dr. Beckett! The patient in bed three says—” another nurse ran up to us. “I’m off the clock,” Jonah interrupted her, his voice firm and clear. “Dr. Vance is taking over her case. I am taking my fiancée on vacation.” He pulled me by the hand, leading me past his colleagues and out of the hospital doors. The cold wind whipped against my face, but my cheeks felt hot. I asked myself if I was being too petty. She was just an old acquaintance who needed help, right? Only a month ago, Jonah had knelt on one knee and asked me to marry him. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together. The past belonged in the past. I forced myself to believe it as we boarded the flight to Aspen. During the flight, he adjusted my blanket and reclined my seat, talking and laughing just as he always did. But when he looked out the window at the heavy clouds, I saw the emptiness in his eyes. We landed, checked into our hotel, and everything went according to plan. The next day was filled with ice sculptures, skiing, and hot springs. The hospital drama felt like a minor bump in the road. Until that night, while Jonah was in the shower. His phone lit up on the nightstand with a stream of messages: [Dr. Beckett, Aria is doing a bit better, but she refuses to take her medication. She keeps crying and asking for you. Please, just call her.] [She just called me, Jonah. Don’t you want to know how much she has missed you all these years?] The sender was Toby. The timestamp was five minutes ago. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the delete button for a long time. In the end, I put the phone back down. I was gambling. I was gambling our four years of history against his lingering feelings, hoping the scale would finally tip in my favor. 4 Jonah stepped out of the bathroom, water dripping from the ends of his hair. He picked up his phone, glanced at the notifications with a neutral face, and tossed it onto the sofa. He sat down, scrolling through social media and occasionally letting out a soft laugh. But that night, he was desperate. He kissed me with a frantic intensity, as if trying to leave his mark on every inch of my skin. Then, in the heat of the moment, a soft murmur escaped his lips: “Aria.” The name shattered the room. I froze, my body turning cold. In the darkness, the only sound was our heavy, ragged breathing. Jonah froze too. A second later, he scrambled to pull me back into his arms. “Nell! I’m so sorry! I…” He held me from behind, his hands trembling as he covered my clenched fists. “I zoned out, I swear! I was just thinking about the neurological patterns of her case! It’s a highly unusual medical phenomenon, and the hospital is putting a lot of pressure on me. I would never do anything to hurt you.” “Enough,” I whispered, my voice cracked and dry. I did not want to hear another word. Four years. More than a thousand days and nights, wiped out by the return of an old flame. Did he know that a tiny life was currently growing inside me? A secret that belonged to the two of us? The words rushed to the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down, bitter and cold. “Jonah,” I said, staring into the dark room. “I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” He fell silent. After a long pause, his voice returned, low and steady, but each word cut like glass. “I told you, I am only taking care of her because of my duty as a doctor. I didn’t have a choice in the beginning, but I left everything behind to come here with you. What more do you want from me, Nell?” Jonah had always been a gentle man. Even during our worst arguments, he had never spoken to me with such cold impatience. But ever since Aria got divorced and came back, everything had changed. Beside me, he turned over, his back to me. Though we were inches apart, he felt miles away. I closed my eyes, praying for sleep, but my tears soaked the pillow. Meanwhile, his breathing soon became deep and even. He had actually fallen asleep. When I woke up the next morning, the space beside me was empty and cold. His suitcase was gone. His shaving cream, his toothbrush, everything was missing from the bathroom. It was as if a sudden gust of wind had swept through the room, erasing every trace of his existence. He had left. Between me and Aria, he had made his choice without leaving so much as a note. Outside the window, the snow we had planned to watch together was still falling, beautiful and silent. But the man who had promised to watch it with me was gone. I calmly unlocked my phone and booked an appointment at an OB-GYN clinic back home. I packed my bags alone, navigated the crowded airport alone, and boarded the flight back to Boston alone. The day of my appointment, some morbid curiosity drew me to the psychiatric wing of the hospital first. The door to ward three was slightly ajar. Aria’s laughter drifted out, completely different from her usual fragile, childish demeanor. “Don’t worry, I’m doing great here. Jonah is taking perfect care of me.” “Of course he still cares. I knew he could never truly forget me.” “Even when I pretended to mistake him for my ex-husband and held onto him, he didn’t push me away.” It was all an act. Anger flared in my chest, burning away my remaining sanity. I thought of Jonah, a man who prided himself on his clinical objectivity, being played like a fool. Before I realized what I was doing, I pushed the door open, my voice trembling with rage. “You are still lying to him, Aria. Have you forgotten how badly you destroyed him the first time?” Aria gasped, staring at me in shock. Then, in the blink of an eye, tears welled in her eyes, and she shrunk back, looking fragile and defenseless. “What are you talking about?” She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling as she looked past my shoulder. “Jonah, I’m scared.” Jonah rushed into the room, his face tight with tension. “What’s going on here?” “I’m sorry,” Aria sobbed, beating me to the punch. “I shouldn’t keep troubling you. Nell must have misunderstood. But Jonah, you know I can’t handle people raising their voices at me. My condition…” She whimpered, timed to perfection. Jonah immediately stepped between us, shielding her with his body. He glared at me, his voice cold as ice. “I am the one who insisted on overseeing her treatment, Nell. If you have a problem, take it out on me. Her condition is finally stabilizing, and she cannot handle any emotional distress. Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” He rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. “I know you’re angry that I left the hotel without telling you. Just go wait in my office, and I’ll handle this.” He actually thought I had traveled all this way just to pick a fight over him. An explanation? What was left to explain? I bit my lower lip so hard the taste of blood filled my mouth. I turned and walked straight toward the elevator, pressing the button for the OB-GYN wing.

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Every time my chauffeur drove me to the office, he brought his girlfriend along. Since it was supposedly on the way, I never made a fuss about it. That was until the morning I opened the door to my Maybach and found a sticky note slapped right onto my reserved backseat. “Broke hitchhikers keep out.” I ripped the paper off the leather and looked at my driver. “What is the meaning of this?” His little girlfriend was sitting shotgun. She twisted around and glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Are you illiterate? You try to hitch a ride in my boyfriend’s car every single day. Have you no shame? If you can’t afford an Uber, stay home. I absolutely loathe cheap freeloaders like you!” I stared at her in sheer bewilderment. My driver instantly scrambled out, rushing to my side and lowering his voice to a frantic whisper. “Boss, she doesn’t know I’m your chauffeur. She’s just a little possessive. She put that up because she loves me. Listen, she’s really uncomfortable sharing a ride with you. Let me drop her off first, and I’ll come right back to pick you up.” Before I could even process his audacity, he hopped back into my car and sped off, leaving me eating his dust. I stood frozen on the pavement for a few seconds. Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed the police. “Hello, I’d like to report a grand theft auto. A man and a woman just stole my vehicle. Please send officers immediately.” 1 I never imagined that as the CEO of a publicly traded corporation, I would be pointed at and called a broke freeloader. Especially while standing outside my own multimillion dollar ride. Twenty minutes after I made the call, a police cruiser pulled up to the curb. The two officers had barely stepped out to take my statement when Connor came screeching around the corner in my sleek black Maybach. He slammed on the brakes right in front of us, stumbling out of the driver’s seat with a face as white as a sheet. “Boss, what is going on? Why did you call the cops?” I gave him a freezing look and kept my mouth shut. One of the officers looked him up and down. “Are you the individual Ms. Cathy reported for taking her vehicle without permission?” Connor completely panicked. “No, Officer, no! This is a massive misunderstanding! I’m her chauffeur! I drive her every single day. I just dropped someone off on the way and got delayed by a few minutes. I didn’t steal anything!” He gestured wildly toward my car, forcing a pathetic, apologetic smile. “Look, I brought the car right back, didn’t I?” The officer glanced between the two of us. “Ms. Cathy, do you still wish to press charges?” I was just about to tell them to arrest him when Connor practically folded himself in half, whispering desperately into my ear. “Boss, please. For the sake of the years my dad drove for you, let me off the hook this one time. You know how sick my old man is. Finding a girlfriend was the only way to give him some peace of mind. I only drove off like that to keep my relationship intact. I didn’t have a choice.” Hearing him bring up his father made a knot form in my chest. Henry had been my chauffeur for six years. He was an honest, hardworking man who never caused a sliver of drama. In all those years, he was never late, never broke a traffic rule, and even tried to refuse the holiday bonuses I slipped him. Three months ago, Henry was diagnosed with a severe lung condition that required permanent rest. He had no choice but to step down. On his last day, he stood in my pristine office, wringing his calloused hands together. After agonizing over his words, he finally asked if I could give his unemployed son a chance. Henry had lived his entire life without asking anyone for a favor. That was his first and only time. Out of deep respect for him, I nodded. Connor actually did a decent job for his first two months. He wasn’t the sharpest employee, but he showed up on time, drove safely, and kept the car immaculate. But everything changed last month. One morning, I walked out to find a woman caked in heavy makeup sitting in the passenger seat. Seeing my confusion, Connor quickly opened my door and whispered an excuse. “Boss, this is my girlfriend, Tiffany. Her workplace is right on the way to the corporate headquarters. I’m just giving her a quick lift.” I simply nodded. Giving someone a ride on a shared route wasn’t a fireable offense. But as the days bled on, I started realizing how twisted the situation was becoming. 2 That so called quick lift turned into an ironclad daily routine. Every morning, Connor would pick Tiffany up before coming to get me. At first, she just liked snapping selfies in the passenger seat, posting videos to flaunt that she was riding in a Maybach. I brushed it off. Young girls have their vanity. But what I couldn’t wrap my head around was the absolute disgust in Tiffany’s eyes whenever she looked back at me. She glared at me like I had personally bankrupted her family. A few times, right after I got into the backseat, she pulled out a bottle of overwhelming perfume and sprayed it frantically in my direction. “God, it is so annoying,” she would complain loudly. “How does a car this expensive always reek of cheap, poor desperation?” I genuinely thought she smelled something foul from the streets, so I even ordered Connor to take the car in for a deep clean and sterilization. But her antics only escalated. She started wiping down the backseat with sanitizing wipes the second I stepped out. Then, she progressed to tossing cheap, disposable seat covers onto the premium leather before I got in. When I demanded an explanation, Connor would pull me aside and offer a pathetic, sheepish smile. “Boss, Tiffany is just a clean freak. She’s terrified the seats might get your expensive designer suits dirty, so she goes overboard with the hygiene.” I didn’t have the bandwidth to overthink it. I was managing billion dollar acquisitions and endless board meetings. I did not have the energy to wage war against a petty twenty something girl. It wasn’t until this morning, when I saw that sticky note treating me like a stray dog, that all the pieces finally clicked together. Tiffany literally thought I was a pathetic hitchhiker mooching off her boyfriend’s ride. My initial plan was to teach both of them a harsh lesson right then and there. But looking at Connor practically groveling at my feet, begging for mercy… “Boss, I swear on my life, this will never happen again. I will tell Tiffany the truth today. She will never ride in this car again. Please, look at how sick my dad is. Just forgive me this once.” Thinking of old Henry, I let out a heavy sigh. “Forget it. I’m dropping the charges.” Once the police drove away, Connor exhaled a massive breath of relief. He bowed over and over, his attitude suddenly angelic. I ignored his theatrics, got into the car, and told him to take me to work. To his credit, Connor behaved himself for a while after that. The passenger seat remained empty. The interior smelled like fresh leather again, and the sticky note residue was scrubbed completely clean. The only issue was his sudden inability to be on time. He was perpetually late, and he always had a tailored excuse ready. “Boss, I am so sorry, there was a massive pileup on the highway.” “Boss, my sincerest apologies, my phone died and the alarm didn’t go off.” “Boss, a pipe burst in my apartment and I had to deal with the downstairs neighbors.” His excuses were flimsy at best, but since he remained excessively polite, I let it slide. I thought that was the end of the drama. Until one weekend, I spontaneously decided to spend a couple of days unwinding at my private estate out in the countryside. I called Connor. “Where are you? I need to go somewhere. Bring the car around.” He stammered on the other end for a painfully long time before answering in a strained voice. “Boss, I woke up to a blown tire this morning. I’m sitting at the repair shop right now, and the mechanic says it won’t be ready until tomorrow. Where do you need to go? Should I call a premium black car service for you?” I frowned, not wanting to deal with the hassle. “Never mind. I’ll get an Uber.” I hung up and ordered a ride to the Whispering Pines Estate. But the moment I stepped out of the Uber at the grand iron gates, I froze. My black Maybach, without a single flat tire in sight, was parked perfectly in my private driveway. I stared at the license plate for a solid five seconds to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. My blood turned to ice. I marched straight up to the massive front doors. The heavy mahogany door was cracked open. I pushed it wide and took one look at the inside. My mind went completely blank. 3 The pristine living room of my sanctuary was a literal landfill. Empty liquor bottles, fruit peels, sunflower seed shells, and cigarette butts littered the imported marble coffee tables and the custom hardwood floors. My multimillion dollar velvet sofas and handwoven rugs were stained with muddy footprints. Worse, I could see dark, charred burn holes chewed into the fabric from careless cigarettes. My fists clenched so hard my manicured nails bit into my palms. I bought this estate specifically to escape the chaos of the city. I had personally designed every inch of the interior. I treated this home like a shrine. And now, a pack of wild animals was tearing it to shreds. I swept my gaze across the room and locked onto the center sofa. Tiffany was lounging there like a queen holding court. A crowd of loud, obnoxious people surrounded her. “Tiffany, you seriously hit the jackpot. I can’t believe you locked down a billionaire.” “Right? He’s loaded and he treats you like royalty! You said you were craving a pastry, and he literally ran out the door like a puppy to go buy you one.” “When you officially become the lady of the manor, do not forget about us little people!” Tiffany’s lips curled into a smug, arrogant grin. She opened her mouth to soak up more praise, but her eyes flicked upward and landed on me standing in the doorway. Her smile vanished. She practically leaped off the sofa, her stilettos clicking sharply against my marble floors as she marched up to me with her chin in the air. Smack! Without a single word of warning, she slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang. “You absolute psychotic bitch! You stalked my boyfriend all the way to his house?” The sheer shock of the blow left me rooted to the spot. The music died. The room went dead silent as her friends gaped at us. “Tiffany, what is going on?” someone asked. Tiffany pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my face, her expression twisting into pure revulsion. “This is that pathetic little stalker I was telling you guys about! The one who constantly tries to hitch a ride in my boyfriend’s Maybach. Hitching rides wasn’t enough for her, so now she’s trying to crash his private estate!” I stared at her, my cheek burning, completely unable to comprehend her delusion. “Who on earth told you this house belongs to Connor?” Tiffany scoffed loudly. “He told me himself, you idiot.” She crossed her arms, looking me up and down like I was trash on the sidewalk. “You pathetic little homewrecker. You found out my boyfriend is the CEO of Apex Industries, and now you’re doing everything in your power to seduce him. Forcing your way into his car every morning to get alone time wasn’t enough, so now you show up at his mansion to throw yourself at him?” She leaned in closer, spitting her words at me. “Let me spell it out for you. Connor told me the only reason he ever drove you to work is because you’re a low level employee at his company and he didn’t want to make a scene. Know your place and back off!” Connor actually fed her this garbage? Suddenly, her psychotic behavior in the car made perfect sense. In her twisted little world, Connor was the billionaire CEO who owned the Maybach and the estate. And I was just a desperate, bottom feeding intern working under him. She honestly believed I was mooching rides to seduce her rich boyfriend. It was beyond absurd. Tiffany spun around to face her audience, raising her voice to make sure everyone heard. “Do you guys know how shameless this woman is? She literally glued herself to my boyfriend’s car and refused to leave! I even left her a note telling her to back off, and she threw a massive tantrum and called the cops, claiming my boyfriend was abusing his employees! She made such a massive scene that Connor had to start picking me up early, dropping me off, and then driving all the way back just to shuttle her around so she wouldn’t ruin his company’s reputation!” My eyes widened in realization. No wonder Connor had been late every single day this month. He was secretly playing billionaire, chauffeuring her around the city first, and then rushing back to do his actual job. Well played, Connor. Since you want to treat me like a clueless pawn in your little fantasy, do not blame me for tearing your world apart. 4 I pulled out my phone right then and there, dialing the head of my legal department. “Get a team down to the Whispering Pines Estate immediately…” Before I could finish the sentence, Tiffany lunged forward, snatched the phone out of my hand, and smashed it onto the marble floor. The screen spiderwebbed into a thousand pieces. “God, you are such a phenomenal actress!” she screamed. “Your estate? This is my boyfriend’s house, you psycho!” Her friends snapped out of their shock and started hurling insults at me. “What a shameless whore! She hasn’t even bagged the billionaire yet, and she’s already claiming his real estate as her own?” “Some women are just born cheap. The second they smell money, they spread their legs and beg on their knees. It makes me sick.” “You are way too nice, Tiffany! If some stray dog tried this with my man, I would have ripped her hair out!” Fueled by her friends’ toxic hype, Tiffany grew even bolder. She grabbed the collar of my silk blouse and yanked me forward. “Do you hear them? Everyone knows exactly what you are.” Suddenly, her eyes darted down to my throat. A greedy spark lit up her face. “This vintage emerald pendant doesn’t look cheap. Did you buy this by selling yourself to other rich men?” Before I could even blink, her hand shot out. She hooked her fingers around the delicate gold chain and ripped it right off my neck. The violent pull burned my skin. By the time I reacted, the necklace was dangling from her grip. The blood drained from my face. “Give that back to me right now!” Seeing my sheer panic, Tiffany smirked. “Aw, getting defensive? This must be worth a fortune.” I took a desperate step forward. “It has no monetary value, but it means everything to me. Give it back.” I reached out to grab it. That emerald pendant was the only thing I had left of my mother. She had traded her life for it. I was born sickly and frail. When I was four years old, I fell into a coma. The hospital gave up. The doctors told my parents to start making funeral arrangements. My mother refused to accept it. Desperate and broken, she went to a remote monastery deep in the mountains to beg for a miracle. To prove her devotion, she climbed the brutal, jagged mountain trail in the middle of a scorching summer heatwave. She took one step, then dropped to her knees and bowed, repeating the process for miles. She crawled until her knees were shredded to the bone. She bowed until her forehead was cracked and bleeding, her vision completely blurring. Only then did the monks bless that emerald pendant for her. Maybe the heavens actually listened to a mother’s bleeding heart. Against all medical logic, I woke up. But my mother never recovered. The brutal climb destroyed her frail body. Before she passed away, she placed that pendant in my tiny hands and begged me to never lose it. I treasured it more than my own life. I wore it every single day. It was the only armor I had in this cutthroat world. I would not let anyone defile it. “The more you want it, the better it will feel to destroy it,” Tiffany sneered. Before my fingers could even graze the gold chain, Tiffany raised her arm and hurled the necklace onto the marble floor with all her strength. A sickening, sharp crack echoed through the room. The heirloom emerald shattered into pieces, sending jagged green shards skittering across the floor. “No!” I stared at the broken pieces of my mother’s soul. It felt like a knife had just been twisted directly into my heart. All the air vanished from the room. “You absolute monster!” Blinded by grief and rage, I swung my arm and slapped Tiffany across the face with every ounce of strength I had. “You bitch! Did you just hit me?” Tiffany shrieked, clutching her burning cheek. “Teach this whore a lesson! Whoever beats her the worst gets a hundred thousand dollars from me!” Hearing the promise of cash, her friends’ eyes turned feral. They swarmed me, shoving me to the floor and raining kicks down on my body. “You dare touch her? She’s about to be the lady of Apex Industries! You are nothing!” “So what if she broke your little necklace? You probably bought it with dirty money anyway. Go sleep with a few more men and buy a new one! Stop being so dramatic!” “You dare strike the future wife in her own house? You’re asking to die!” I lay curled up on the cold floor, shielding my head from the blows, my entire body trembling with an icy rage. I gritted my teeth, tasting blood in my mouth. “You are all going to regret this.” The room erupted into roaring laughter, as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world. “Oh my god, I am terrified! Her boyfriend is the CEO of a multi billion dollar empire. Who the hell are you to make us regret anything?” “You are literally just a bottom feeding intern begging for attention. You sell your body for a living and you think you can threaten us?” “Know your place, trash. When you get beaten, you stay down and take it.” They pinned me down, their vicious insults washing over me. Tiffany pushed through the crowd, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked my head back. “Regret?” She laughed darkly. “I have never regretted a single thing in my life. I cannot wait to see how a pathetic little bitch like you is going to make me regret anything!” The moment the words left her mouth, a convoy of sleek black SUVs roared up the driveway, slamming their brakes right outside the grand entrance.

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I was three months pregnant, and it was the day before the promotion list was set to be officially announced. Behind my back, my colleague Jenny wasted no time leaking the news to our boss. Mr. Bennett called me into his office, phrasing it as tactfully as he could: “This role comes with immense pressure. Given your current condition, it might not be the best fit.” Later, Jenny cornered me in the breakroom, offering a smug smile as she cooed, “You’re about to be a mom, after all. Stop trying to snatch these opportunities from us younger folks.” I didn’t argue, nor did I throw a tantrum. During the evaluation meeting the next day, in front of the entire department, I voluntarily stepped aside and yielded the promotion to her. Fearing I might back out, Jenny urged HR on the spot to modify the official appointment letter right then and there. I simply smiled and reminded her: “Since you’re accepting the role, you should sign the transition documents as well.” Without so much as looking at the pages, she eagerly scrawled her name. Two weeks later, the company auditors walked in. Clutching the promotion letter she had fought so hard for, Jenny wept and begged me: “Please, can I give this position back to you?” 1 After the evaluation meeting adjourned, Jenny practically chased the HR director into the printing room. She was terrified I would change my mind. Or that Mr. Bennett would. Only minutes earlier, inside the conference room, her eyes had been brimming with tears as she looked at me. “Amy, I know how hard you worked for this. I feel so guilty taking this opportunity from you.” Yet the second the double doors swung shut, she pivoted on her stilettos and bolted after Brenda, our HR manager. “Brenda, will the official appointment letter be ready today?” Brenda glanced over her shoulder at me, looking slightly uncomfortable. “The standard protocol requires a multi-level approval. Tomorrow morning at the earliest.” Jenny immediately slid her arm through Brenda’s, offering a sweet, persuasive smile. “Can’t we make an exception for a special case? Mr. Bennett and the department heads were all present, and everyone heard Amy hand over the role. We should strike while the iron is hot, just to keep things clean.” She paused, turning her head to look back at me. “I don’t mean to sound untrustworthy, Amy. I just think the cleaner the company’s documentation is, the better it is for everyone.” She claimed it wasn’t about trust, but her eyes were sharp with paranoia. It was as if she expected me, a woman three months pregnant, to suddenly throw myself over her to claw back the promotion. I leaned against the hallway wall, one hand pressed flat against my stomach, trying to suppress the rising wave of nausea. Halfway through the meeting, my morning sickness had hit me like a wave, and I had been forced to suffer through the final twenty minutes in silence. Everyone in that room had noticed my pale face. And everyone had heard Jenny whisper, “Amy, given how you’re feeling, are you sure you can handle the pressure of this role?” She had kept her voice just loud enough for Mr. Bennett to hear. Mr. Bennett had immediately tabled the announcement slide he was about to project. He looked at me, his voice heavy with executive concern. “Amy, the company appreciates your dedication. But the role of Operations Manager isn’t just about sitting in an office signing papers.” “You have to run after clients, manage aggressive suppliers, and late-night emergency calls are the norm. Given your current situation, the company has to evaluate the operational risks.” Risks. I looked down at my flat stomach. The baby was only twelve weeks old, not even showing, yet in their eyes, I had already become a liability. Jenny had stood beside Mr. Bennett, her lower lip trembling. “Mr. Bennett, maybe we should forget it. Amy has prepared for this for so long, I don’t want to be the reason she’s unhappy.” The more she played the martyr, the more Mr. Bennett admired her maturity. “Jenny, there is no need to step aside,” he said firmly. “The company needs someone who can carry the weight.” And just like that, the promotion I had spent six months preparing for, pulling countless all-night sessions to secure, was handed over to Jenny. The hum of the industrial printer echoed from the room. Brenda walked out, holding a fresh, crisp sheet of paper. “Jenny, you are officially the Acting Operations Manager for Operations Department Two, effective immediately. The trial period is three months.” Jenny took the paper, her eyes gleaming as if she had just struck gold. She scanned the lines twice before turning to me with a look of mock concern. “Amy, you’re really not upset, are you?” “Do you want me to be?” I asked quietly. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. “I just worry you might feel slighted. You put so much work into this transition.” “Not at all,” I replied, setting my laptop down on a nearby table. “My physical condition is delicate right now, and a lighter workload is exactly what I need.” Hearing this, she let out a visible breath of relief. She had finally gotten the validation she wanted: I was just a fragile pregnant woman who needed to step aside. In the next second, she waved the appointment letter toward a group of gossiping colleagues at the end of the hall. “I look forward to working with everyone in my new capacity!” A few people clapped. Others began to cheer. “Congratulations, Manager! You’ll have to look out for us now!” “Manager, you owe us a round of drinks!” Jenny giggled, covering her mouth. “Don’t call me that yet, it’s still just ‘Acting.’” But the smug curve of her lips remained. Looking at her face, I remembered the conversation I had overheard in the breakroom yesterday. She had been talking to two other girls from sales. “Pregnant women should act like they’re pregnant. The office isn’t her nursery, so why should a pregnant woman hoard a promotion?” I had been standing outside the door, holding a bottle of yogurt I had bought for her. When her stomach had flared up from stress last month, I was the one who took over her client meetings. When her boyfriend broke up with her, I stayed with her until eleven at night, rewriting her presentation slides. And now, she was telling people I was hoarding a spot. I suddenly felt a strange sense of peace. Some spots were indeed better left to others. As Jenny turned to head to her new desk, I called out to her. “Jenny, since the appointment is official, let’s complete the project handover today.” She stopped. “So soon?” I smiled. “Like you said, the cleaner the documentation, the better.” I opened my laptop and dragged a folder onto the shared drive. The title was simple: CareCore Project Handover. It contained eighteen subfolders, including client profiles, supplier contracts, payment milestones, outstanding issues, and risk assessments. Jenny glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing. “This is a lot of paperwork.” “The title of Manager comes with responsibilities,” I said smoothly. “And problems.” 2 Jenny’s first executive order was to move her desk. The manager of Operations Department Two had a small, private office: glass partitions, a window view, and a quiet space away from the open floor. That office had originally been reserved for me. Last month, facilities had even asked if I wanted a customized ergonomic chair. I had declined. Now, Jenny stood at the threshold, directing the office assistants. “Put the money plant by the window, yes, it brings good feng shui. Clear out all those old files on the desk, they look so cluttered. And change the blinds to a lighter shade, I hate dark rooms.” She patrolled the space like a queen surveying her domain. When she passed my desk, she paused. “Amy, have you compiled all the CareCore files? I’m holding my first department meeting this afternoon.” “The digital folders have been shared with your inbox,” I replied. “But I still need your physical signature on the transition ledger.” Jenny pulled up a chair beside me, lowering her voice. “Amy, are you still angry with me?” I looked at her. Her eyes immediately welled with tears. “I know this feels unfair, but it wasn’t my decision. Mr. Bennett was looking at the bigger picture. He felt your pregnancy made you a liability for high-intensity work. I was simply put in this position.” Her voice was pitched perfectly so that the surrounding desks could hear every word. Mike, a senior sales rep, immediately chimed in. “Amy, don’t take it personally. Being pregnant is a blessing, you shouldn’t be overworking yourself anyway.” Hazel from finance agreed. “Exactly, there will be plenty of promotions in the future. Your health comes first.” Another male colleague offered a smirk. “Maternity leave is six months long. By the time you get back, who knows what the company will look like? Taking a promotion now wouldn’t be fair to the team.” He seemed to think he was being incredibly clever. “Your primary target right now is delivering a healthy baby.” A few people chuckled. My grip on my mug tightened. Jenny looked down, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. When she looked up again, her face was once more a mask of sisterly concern. “Amy, they’re just looking out for you. Don’t take it to heart.” Listening to their endless stream of patronizing advice, my stomach churned. I hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint, yet they had already mapped out my entire existence. Pregnant. Fragile. Needs protection. Unfit for responsibility. Should step aside. During the afternoon department meeting, Jenny’s first order of business was to display her new organizational chart. On the projector, my name had been moved from CareCore Project Director to the bottom right corner of the slide. Beside my name was a note: Maternity Administrative Support. The meeting room fell silent. I stared at the slide, my fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the table. Jenny smiled warmly at the room. “Since Amy is expecting, we naturally want to support her. I will be handling the heavy lifting and client negotiations from here on out.” She turned to me. “Amy, you don’t mind, do you?” Every eye in the room turned toward me. I shook my head. “Not at all.” Jenny’s smile widened. “Wonderful.” She clicked to the next slide. “The CareCore project is our most critical delivery this year. Some of our previous workflows might have been a bit too conservative, but under my management, we are going to streamline the process.” “I don’t believe in dragging things out. We sign what needs to be signed, we push back on what needs to be pushed back, and we collect our payments.” Mike immediately clapped. “Love the execution, Manager!” Jenny sat up straighter. “Unlike some people, I don’t believe in over-complicating things. A project shouldn’t take three years to close. If the client isn’t tired of the delays, the board certainly is.” Her words were a direct jab at me. I didn’t argue. I simply opened my notebook and wrote down her exact words: Sign what needs to be signed. Push back on what needs to be pushed back. Collect payments. At the end of the meeting, Jenny called me over. “Amy, email me the final CareCore sign-off report before you log off today.” “I can’t generate the final sign-off report yet,” I said. She frowned. “Why not?” “Because the client still has twelve critical bugs that haven’t been resolved, and the developers have two pending milestones. Signing off now would expose us to severe legal and financial liabilities.” Jenny let out a soft laugh. “Amy, you are far too cautious.” “No wonder Mr. Bennett said you are great at execution but lack the vision of a leader.” I stared at her. “Mr. Bennett said that?” Realizing she had let something slip, she quickly looked away. “My point is, the company needs results now.” I nodded slowly. “Then I will document these outstanding issues in the transition ledger.” Jenny’s tone turned frosty. “Amy, there’s no need to make everything sound so catastrophic. Every project has risks.” I closed my laptop. “Which is exactly why they need to be documented.” She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed. “Fine. Document them. I’ll sign.” “After all, I’m the manager now. The credit for closing this project will be mine anyway.” Her face was flush with ambition. I smiled. “Great. Just make sure you sign.” 3 The transition ledger I compiled was seventeen pages long. I wasn’t trying to make things difficult for Jenny. The CareCore project was simply a nightmare. The client had originally contracted us for a basic healthcare management portal. But over the months, they had demanded add-ons: a nursing module, a family portal, a real-time data dashboard, and integrations with three separate municipal hospitals. The project scope had changed over twenty times. Yet we had only signed two contract amendments. The development team had been replaced twice, and the budget had ballooned from eight million to thirteen million. To make matters worse, the client had only paid sixty percent of the contract value. The remaining forty percent was contingent on final sign-off. But we were nowhere near ready for final sign-off. The nursing module crashed constantly. The family portal had massive message delivery delays. The data dashboard failed to sync three major metrics in real time. And the worst part was the hospital integration: one of the three hospitals hadn’t even begun testing. I had flagged these issues in my weekly reports, but Mr. Bennett’s response was always the same: Push for sign-off first, we can patch the bugs later. Push. Patch. Later. This was how corporate disasters were made, hidden beneath layers of optimistic terminology. I had originally planned to use my promotion to freeze the sign-off process, audit the project, lay out the unresolved issues to the board, and get a realistic timeline. It would have been slow, but it would have saved the company from a massive lawsuit. But now, that responsibility belonged to Jenny. Let her handle it. At three in the afternoon, I printed the transition ledger. Jenny was in her new office, taking photos. She had her appointment letter displayed on the desk next to a cup of artisanal coffee and a vase of fresh lilies. On her phone screen, I could see her editing an Instagram post: Hard work always finds its way to the light. I knocked on the glass partition. Seeing the thick folder in my hand, her smile dimmed slightly. “Amy, did you really have to print out so much?” I placed the folder on her desk. “This is the index of project files, the list of outstanding risks, the client’s pending approvals, the supplier disputes, the financial milestones, and my personal handover statement.” Jenny flipped through a few pages, her scowl deepening. “Why did you write all this?” “It’s a handover.” “I know what a handover is,” she said, her voice sharp with impatience. “I’m asking why you made every little issue sound like a crisis.” “Because they are crises,” I said simply. She slammed the folder onto her desk. “Amy, what is your problem?” She had finally dropped the “sisterly” act. I looked at her calmly. “I don’t have a problem. You are the new manager; you need to be aware of these details.” Jenny sneered. “You’re just bitter.” Her voice was loud enough to carry through the glass. Several heads turned on the open floor. She stood up, her eyes flashing. “Amy, I know you think I stole this from you. But this was the company’s decision, not mine. Writing this list of fake disasters—are you trying to make it look like I inherited a sinking ship?” The office went dead silent. I looked at her. “So you admit it’s a sinking ship?” Her face froze. “I never said that,” I added quietly. “You did.” At a nearby desk, someone cleared their throat to hide a laugh. Jenny’s face turned scarlet. She raised her voice further. “Stop playing word games with me! You just want me to sign this so you can wash your hands of any future issues, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yes.” The silence in the office deepened. Jenny clearly hadn’t expected me to be so blunt. “A handover is meant to define boundaries of responsibility,” I explained. “You took the promotion, which means you took the projects, the assets, the risks, and the liabilities. This isn’t a trap, Jenny. It’s standard corporate protocol.” Jenny’s chest heaved with anger. Just then, Mr. Bennett walked onto the floor. “What is all the noise about?” Jenny immediately adopted a wounded expression. “Mr. Bennett, Amy gave me a transition ledger full of exaggerated issues. She’s refusing to cooperate with my transition.” Mr. Bennett picked up the folder, flipped through a few pages, and frowned. “Amy, why did you make this so detailed?” “The CareCore project is up for final sign-off next month,” I replied. “If we don’t document the risks now, no one will be able to trace the liability later.” Mr. Bennett closed the folder with a snap. “I am aware of these issues. No project is perfect, Amy. You’re pregnant now; you shouldn’t be worrying about these things.” He turned to Jenny. “Jenny, push forward with confidence. The company needs results.” Jenny nodded eagerly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bennett. I won’t let this project gather dust like some people did.” Mr. Bennett smiled warmly at her. I watched their little performance without saying another word. I simply slipped another document onto her desk. “Then please sign this confirmation sheet.” She glanced at the header: Operations Department Two: Project and Asset Handover Confirmation. Beneath it was a line of fine print: Including historical data for CareCore, outstanding issues, pending client approvals, supplier disputes, and financial milestones. Jenny bit her lip. Mr. Bennett prompted her from the side. “Go ahead and sign, Jenny. Let’s get to work.” She grabbed a pen and scrawled her name. I looked down at her signature. Jenny. It was a beautiful signature. Very neat, and very rushed.

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On the night of our wedding anniversary, my husband burst through the front door covered in blood, dropping to his knees and weeping uncontrollably. “Maria, you have to save me! I borrowed from loan sharks, and if I don’t pay them a million dollars tonight, they are going to chop off my hand!” His mother followed right behind him. She pressed a kitchen knife against her own throat, trying to force me to sell the premium brownstone my late parents had left me. “Maria, he is your husband! We can always buy another house, but if he dies, you’ll have nothing!” Watching this mother and son duo deliver their Oscar worthy performances, a genuine laugh escaped my lips. “I will sell the house. But I have one condition.” “What condition?” “I want to sit here and watch them chop off one of his fingers first, just to verify these loan sharks are actually real.” 1 It was eleven o’clock at night. The frantic, violent twisting of the deadbolt shattered the dead silence of the house. Wesley stumbled through the doorway, reeking of copper and sweat. Before I could even stand up from the sofa, he dropped heavily to his knees right in the foyer. A thick, nauseating smell of blood instantly filled the air. His crisp white dress shirt was dyed a horrifying crimson. His face was covered in dark purple bruises, and his left arm hung at a sickening, unnatural angle. “Maria, save me… you have to save me!” He bawled, snot and tears streaming down his bruised face. With a violently trembling hand, he pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and slapped it onto the hardwood floor. It was an IOU. Amount: One million dollars. Borrower: Wesley. Right at the bottom was a stark, bloody thumbprint. I remained seated on the velvet sofa, the novel in my hands still open. My eyes coldly swept over the crumpled paper, and then slowly trailed up to his pathetic face. “One million dollars. What exactly did you spend it on?” Wesley completely froze. He clearly hadn’t expected my first reaction to be a calm interrogation instead of screaming or rushing to bandage his wounds. A second later, he wailed even louder. “I… I just wanted to buy us a bigger estate! I invested in crypto with a buddy, and the entire market tanked. We got completely wiped out!” “Maria, they are underground loan sharks! The interest compounded daily until it hit a million!” “The boss made it perfectly clear. If he doesn’t see the cash by midnight, he is taking my life! He’s going to chop off my hands!” As he screamed, he crawled across the floor like a desperate dog and threw his arms around my calves. The blood from his expensive tailored trousers instantly smeared all over my silk pajamas. “Baby, I know you can fix this! That brownstone your parents left you in the Upper East Side is worth exactly a million on the market right now. Sell it, please. I am begging you!” Ah. So that was the endgame. I didn’t move a muscle. I just looked down at him, a cold, mocking smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Wesley, did you somehow forget? That house is the only piece of my parents I have left. It is strictly my pre-marital property.” Wesley stiffened. A flash of raw resentment and disbelief crossed his eyes, but he quickly buried it under a mask of pure panic. “Maria, how can you draw lines between what’s yours and what’s mine at a time like this?” “I am your husband! Are you seriously going to sit there and watch me get murdered?” “How can you be so utterly heartless? What is more important, money or my life?!” His voice cracked into a hysterical shriek, his spit landing on my plush slippers. I pulled my leg away in absolute disgust, stood up, and looked down at him from above. “Life is obviously more important.” “But Wesley, what makes you think your life is worth a million dollars?” “What did you just say?” Wesley’s eyes bulged as if he were staring at a complete stranger. The old Maria was a soft, submissive pushover who catered to his every whim. The old Maria would have cried for an hour if he so much as got a paper cut. But right now, faced with her blood-soaked husband, I was treating him like a bad investment. “I said, you aren’t worth it.” I bent down, picked up the bloody IOU by the corner, and flicked the paper with my fingernail. “A crypto investment?” “As far as I know, you don’t even know how to open a basic brokerage account. What’s the name of this so called buddy? What is his phone number? I am going to call him right now and verify this.” 2 Wesley’s eyes darted around the room in a blind panic. He stammered frantically. “He… he’s a guy from the underground. You can’t just call him!” “Baby, please stop asking questions and just go get the property deed! I already contacted a realtor. They found a cash buyer who is willing to close tonight! The offer is a little below market value, but it will save my life!” He already had a realtor and a buyer lined up. Whoever wrote this script for him was incredibly thorough. Right at that moment, the door to the guest bedroom violently slammed open. Martha, my mother-in-law, charged out with her hair wildly disheveled. In her right hand, she gripped a sharp paring knife. “Maria, you venomous, cold blooded witch!” She shrieked, pressing the tip of the blade directly against her own throat. Her eyes were completely manic. “My son is bleeding out on the floor, and you’re worried about a stupid piece of real estate?! Are you trying to force the two of us into early graves?!” “Let me make this crystal clear. If you don’t hand over that deed right now to save my boy, I will slit my throat right in front of you! I’ll make sure the whole world knows you drove your own mother-in-law to suicide!” Wesley immediately played his part, screaming in terror. “Mom, don’t do it! Put the knife down! Maria doesn’t mean it!” “She means every word! All she cares about is her dirty money! She wants you dead!” Martha pressed the blade slightly deeper into her skin. It didn’t draw blood, but the theatrical display was certainly intimidating. If this were the old me, I would have been scared out of my mind. I would have sprinted to the safe and handed over the deed without a second thought. Unfortunately for them, they were entirely out of the loop. Just last night, I had placed a GPS tracker under Wesley’s luxury sedan. He hadn’t been anywhere near an underground casino or an investment firm. He had spent the entire evening at The Plaza Hotel, rolling around in the sheets with his college sweetheart, Mindy. I watched this beautifully choreographed performance of maternal sacrifice and undying marital love, feeling nothing but a deep sense of absurdity. “Mom, hold the knife steady. Don’t let your hand shake.” My voice was so eerily calm that it practically froze the air in the living room. Martha froze completely. The knife was still pressed against her neck, but she didn’t know whether to push deeper or pull away. “What… what did you just say?” “I said, if you really want to kill yourself, I am not going to stop you.” “But you should know that if you bleed out in my living room, this place officially becomes a stigmatized murder house. The property value will plummet, which means we won’t get enough money. Wesley will just die a little faster.” I calmly walked over to the water dispenser, poured myself a glass of iced water, and took a slow sip to soothe my throat. “Maria! Are you even human?!” Wesley leaped up from the floor. He completely forgot he was supposed to be a crippled victim, pointing a furious finger right at my nose. “My mother is about to end her life, and you’re making sarcastic jokes?! Do you want me to kill myself right now to prove it?!” “Sure.” I set my glass down, looked him dead in the eye, and took a slow step toward him. “Then kill yourself right now.” “Didn’t you say the loan sharks were going to chop off your hand?” “If you’re going to die anyway, what’s a few missing fingers?” I turned my back on them and walked straight into the kitchen. Wesley and Martha exchanged terrified, bewildered glances, having absolutely no idea what I was doing. A few seconds later, I walked back out, holding a heavy, razor sharp meat cleaver. The polished steel gleamed under the living room lights. “Ah! What are you doing?!” Martha shrieked, dropping the paring knife onto the floor with a loud clatter. Wesley stumbled backward in pure terror until his back slammed against the wall. “Maria… baby… put that down… don’t do anything crazy…” “I am not doing anything crazy.” I slammed the heavy cleaver down onto the glass coffee table. The impact rattled the teacups. “Since those men want your hand, I might as well do it for them. It’s much safer.” “I am your wife. It is my legal and moral obligation to help you.” I smiled sweetly at Wesley’s chalk white face. “Chop it off, and I will personally deliver it to them in a cooler. We settle the debt, you keep your life, and we save a million dollars. It’s a phenomenal return on investment.” Wesley stared at the massive blade. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. Cold sweat mixed with the fake blood on his face, making him look utterly pathetic. “Maria… have you lost your damn mind?” “I am your husband! You want to mutilate me?!” “I don’t want to mutilate you. You just need to pay your debts.” I crossed my arms over my chest, watching him squirm with absolute amusement. “What’s wrong? You don’t have the guts?” “Or… is it possible that there are no loan sharks at all? And nobody is actually trying to chop off your hand?” Panic flared in his eyes. He immediately scrambled to defend his lie. “Of course there are! It’s real! Baby, stop messing around and go get the deed! The buyer is literally waiting downstairs in the lobby right now!” “Downstairs?” I caught the slip up instantly. “The big bad loan shark boss personally came to our lobby to collect a property deed? Wow, their customer service is incredible.” Wesley realized his mistake and desperately tried to cover his tracks. “No… it’s the realtor! The cash buyer is waiting down there! The second they verify the deed, they wire the million dollars!” “Oh, a cash buyer.” I nodded slowly, acting as if he had finally convinced me. 3 “Since they are already here, have them come up.” “What?” Wesley blinked in confusion. “I said, tell the buyer to come up.” “It’s a million dollar transaction. I need to look them in the eye. What if they’re a scam artist?” I glanced at the antique grandfather clock. “It is eleven thirty. We have exactly thirty minutes until your midnight deadline.” “Have them come up, sign the contracts, initiate the wire transfer, and hand over the deed. Simple.” Wesley clearly hadn’t anticipated this curveball. His eyes darted nervously toward the front door. “That… it’s the middle of the night. It’s totally inappropriate to invite a stranger up…” “What exactly is inappropriate? Is it more inappropriate than getting your hand severed with a machete?” My face hardened, and my tone dropped to a freezing command. “Wesley, you either invite them up right now, or I am calling the police to have a detective look into this phantom loan shark operation.” Hearing the word “police”, Martha started wailing all over again. “You can’t call the cops! If you call the cops, Wesley’s reputation will be ruined! How is he supposed to show his face at work?!” Wesley looked completely horrified. He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Fine. I’ll tell them to come up. Just go get the deed, Maria. Don’t keep them waiting!” He pulled out his phone and turned his back to me, furiously typing out a text message. I watched his back, my eyes colder than ice. Since you want to put on a show, Wesley, I will gladly play along until the curtain drops. I just hoped the “buyer” coming up the elevator was ready for their cue. Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Wesley bolted toward the door like a startled rabbit and yanked it open. A man in a dark trench coat walked in, his face hidden behind a surgical mask and sunglasses. Trailing right behind him was a woman. The woman pulled down her mask, revealing a flawlessly contoured, beautiful face. Mindy. I knew it. Wesley’s beloved college sweetheart. The woman who had him so utterly mesmerized that he was willing to orchestrate an elaborate, violent fraud just to steal my inheritance. “Mr. Wesley, is the property deed ready?” Mindy asked, putting on a sickeningly professional tone. Wesley bowed repeatedly, playing the desperate victim to perfection. “It’s ready! Everything is ready! Maria, bring out the folder!” I stayed seated on the sofa. My gaze slowly swept over Mindy from head to toe. “And who might you be?” “I am the proxy attorney representing the buyer. My name is Mindy.” She pulled a sleek business card from her designer handbag and handed it to me. “Mrs. Maria, time is of the essence. We should proceed with the signatures immediately.” “An attorney?” I took the card, glanced at it, and let out a soft chuckle. “This season’s latest Chanel tweed jacket, paired with a custom Hermes Birkin. Practicing law must be incredibly lucrative for you, Miss Mindy.” Mindy’s expression cracked for a split second, but she quickly recovered her icy composure. “My wardrobe is a private matter. Let’s not deflect from the crisis at hand.” “I was informed that your husband needs immediate liquid capital to save his life. My client is only taking this property off your hands as a personal favor. If you miss this window, he dies.” “She’s right, Maria! Please hurry!” Wesley was sweating bullets, reaching out to pull me off the sofa. I slapped his hand away and slowly pulled a thick red, leather bound folder from the drawer beneath the coffee table. The second that folder appeared, all the air was sucked out of the room. Wesley’s eyes burned with rabid greed. Martha audibly swallowed her saliva. Mindy even took an involuntary step forward, her manicured fingers twitching. “Here is the deed.” I placed the heavy red folder onto the glass table and rested my palm flat against it. “But before I hand this over, I have one question for our esteemed attorney.” Mindy stared at the folder, clearly losing her patience. “What is your question?” “You claimed to be representing a cash buyer. So tell me, do you actually have one million dollars in liquid funds on you right now?” “Of course.” Mindy reached into her Birkin and pulled out a slip of paper. “This is a certified cashier’s check for exactly one million dollars. The moment you sign the transfer, it clears.” I took one glance at the check. It was a blatant, pathetic forgery. A cheap movie prop that could only fool an absolute idiot. Or, more accurately, Wesley knew perfectly well it was fake. He just needed to trick me into signing the transfer so he could put the house in Mindy’s name and leave me with nothing. “Perfect. Let’s do this.” I nodded, picking up the heavy red folder and extending my hand toward him. Just as Wesley’s greedy fingers were about to brush the leather cover, I violently flipped my wrist and smashed the heavy book directly into his face. Smack! The sharp, brutal sound echoed through the living room. Wesley staggered backward, clutching his bleeding nose, staring at me in total shock. “Maria! What the hell is wrong with you?!” “What’s wrong with me?” I stood up, pointing a furious finger down at the red book on the floor. “Open your damn eyes and look at what you’re actually trying to steal!” Wesley scrambled to his knees, picking up the book with shaking hands. He flipped the cover open, and all the blood instantly drained from his face. It wasn’t a property deed. It was a copy of the State Penal Code.

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