I died in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the very hospital my wife built, shortly after being forced to undergo a “procedure” for the sake of the man she truly loved. Before I took my last breath, my six-year-old son, Toby, begged her three times. The first time, Toby reached out and caught her hand. His voice was trembling, telling her that I was coughing up blood. Madeline just sneered, her eyes cold as flint. “You’re getting better at this,” she said, looking down at our son as if he were a stranger’s dog. “Teaching a child to lie for you? That’s a new low, Ben.” With a flick of her wrist, she signaled her security detail to haul the boy out of the private wing. The second time, Toby grabbed the hem of her designer coat. He was hysterical, crying that I was drifting in and out of consciousness, mumbling nonsense from the pain. Madeline didn’t even look back. She just checked her watch, her brow furrowed in minor irritation. “It was a standard procedure. The doctors said he’d be fine. Stop being so dramatic.” Once again, the guards stepped in, dragging Toby away while his sneakers skidded across the polished marble floor. The third time, Toby didn’t stand. He collapsed on the floor, burying his face in the fabric of her trousers, his small body racking with sobs as he told her I wouldn’t wake up. That was when Madeline finally snapped. She didn’t kneel to comfort him. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, her face contorted with rage, and shoved him toward the exit. “I told you, Ben isn’t going to die! If you come back here one more time and disturb Sebastian’s rest, I will have both of you thrown out of this hospital and onto the street. Do you understand me?” Desperate to save me, Toby did the only thing a six-year-old could think of. He went to the nursing station and took off the heavy silver locket he’d worn since the day he was born—the one my mother had given him for protection. “Please, ma’am,” he whispered to the nurse, holding out his only treasure. “I don’t need to be lucky anymore. I just need my daddy to stay alive.” The nurse, moved by the sight of the bruised, tear-streaked boy, took the locket and agreed to move me to the last available recovery room. But Sebastian—Madeline’s “great lost love,” the man who had occupied her heart long before I ever stepped into the frame—had other plans. He sat in his wheelchair, clutching his designer French bulldog, and blocked the doorway. “I’m so sorry, little guy,” Sebastian said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “But your mommy was worried I’d get lonely without my dog. This room is reserved for Princess.” 1 To make room for Sebastian’s dog, my gurney was pushed out into the drafty, crowded service corridor. As the heavy mahogany door clicked shut, Toby stood there, his hands empty, his locket gone. His knuckles were bruised and purple from pounding on the doors. He didn’t stop. He hit the wood again and again, his voice small and cracking. “Sir? Please. Please give the room back to my daddy.” “Sir, it’s Toby! Please open the door!” His high-pitched voice echoed through the hallway, but it couldn’t pierce the thick insulation of the VIP suite where Sebastian was busy cooing at his pet. The louder Toby cried, the louder Sebastian turned up the television, laughing as he played with the dog. “Good girl, Princess. Don’t listen to the noise outside. It’s just trash.” Toby’s voice began to fail him, turning into a raspy, jagged whisper. This was the boy who used to cry and run for a hug if he so much as scraped a knee. Now, he just used the hem of his dirty t-shirt to wipe the blood from his split knuckles. His eyes were red-rimmed and full of a hollow, haunting hatred. “You’re a monster!” he croaked at the closed door. “I bought that room. I gave them my locket! You can’t give it to a dog!” “You monster!” But his voice was too thin now. It was a ghost of a sound, fragile and breaking. I lay on that thin hospital mattress in the hallway, watching him. Tears mixed with the copper tang of blood in my throat. I’m so sorry, Toby. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m so, so sorry. 2 The door never opened. Toby eventually slumped back to my side, his eyes swollen nearly shut. “Daddy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold metal rail of the bed. “I’m useless. I let the bad man take the room.” “I’m sorry, Daddy.” I could feel the heat leaving my body. I knew the end was seconds away, not minutes. But I couldn’t let Toby see me go like this. I couldn’t let his last memory be the light fading from my eyes in a hallway. Summoning the very last of my strength, I forced a weak, trembling smile. “Toby… hey, buddy. Daddy’s a little cold. Could you… go find me a blanket? Just a warm one?” Toby froze for a second, then wiped his face frantically, hope flaring in his eyes. “Yes! Okay! I’ll get one. I’ll get the warmest one they have.” “Daddy, you have to stay awake until I get back! Promise me! Stay right here!” I watched his small silhouette sprint down the long, white corridor. As he turned the corner, I let my eyes drift shut. Toby, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can wait. When I opened my eyes again, the pain was gone. The heavy, suffocating weight in my chest had vanished. I was standing in the hallway, but my body—the pale, broken shell of it—remained on the gurney. I was a ghost, tethered to the only person I had left in this world. I followed Toby. He was smart; he knew the gift shop was too far, so he scanned the open doors of the regular wards. He spotted a room where the door was ajar and ducked inside. Inside, a young man sat up in bed. His wife was tucked beside him, meticulously smoothing a thick, navy-blue fleece blanket over his legs, ensuring every corner was perfect. Their son, a boy about Toby’s age, sat on the edge of the bed holding a warm cup of cocoa. For a moment, Toby just stared. His eyes filled with a sudden, sharp longing. But he shook it off. He had a mission. The young couple looked up, startled by the disheveled, bruised child in the doorway. The woman stood up, her face softening with concern as she brushed the dust off Toby’s shoulder. “Sweetie? Are you okay? Where are your parents?” Toby’s hands were shaking as he gripped his shirt. He swallowed hard. “Ma’am, my daddy is sick. He’s so cold. Could I borrow a blanket? I… I don’t have my locket anymore, but I’ll do anything. Please help him.” The woman didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a brand-new, wrapped blanket from the bedside cabinet and pressed it into Toby’s arms. “Take it, honey. I hope your father feels better soon.” Maybe it was the sudden kindness after a night of cruelty, but Toby lost his words. He just clutched the plastic-wrapped blanket to his chest and bowed his head, over and over. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The woman waved him off gently. “Don’t thank us. We didn’t buy it.” “The hospital’s founder, Mrs. Madeline Santiago—she ordered them for everyone. She’s celebrating her husband’s successful surgery today. Every family got one as a gift.” “Look, there’s even a card with a photo of her and her husband on the front. If you want to thank someone, wish them a long and happy life together.” Toby froze. His eyes dropped to the small card tucked into the plastic. There was Madeline, glowing and beautiful, leaning her head on Sebastian’s shoulder. They looked like the perfect American power couple. Then he remembered her hand around his throat, throwing him out into the hall. He remembered her laughing as she walked away from his dying father. The tears started again, silent and hot. “I’ll… I’ll be sure to thank Mrs. Santiago,” he whispered. My spirit felt a phantom ache in my chest, sharper than any surgical knife. I remembered when Madeline used to love us. I remembered how she stayed up for three nights straight when Toby was born, obsessing over the perfect name. How she once bought out an entire FAO Schwarz display because Toby smiled at a train set. How she used to read him fairy tales while I fell asleep against her shoulder. All of that died the day Sebastian came back into the country. He used his “weak heart” as a leash. He staged fainting spells, played the victim, and slowly poisoned her against us. He even tricked Toby into putting a jar of caterpillars in his bed, then faked a panic-induced cardiac event just as Madeline walked in. From that day on, we weren’t her family. We were the obstacles to her “true” happiness. Back in the room, the woman asked gently, “Where is your mom, Toby? Why isn’t she with you?” Toby looked down at the photo of Madeline and Sebastian. A single tear fell onto the plastic. “My mommy,” he said, his voice almost inaudible. “She’s dead.” 3 Toby ran back toward the main elevators, clutching the blanket like it was a holy relic. But as he reached the lobby, he ran straight into Sebastian. Sebastian wasn’t in his wheelchair anymore. He was standing, holding his dog, looking perfectly healthy. When he saw Toby, his face twisted into a mask of pure loathing. “Get out of my way, you little brat.” He looked down at his pristine cashmere sweater. “Do you have any idea what this costs? If you get your filth on me, I’ll sell you to pay for the dry cleaning.” “Just like your father. Pathetic. A bottom-feeding loser.” Before Toby could even react, Sebastian pulled back his foot and kicked him—hard—right in the stomach. Toby crumpled. The blanket slid across the floor. Gasping for air, he tried to crawl toward it, but Sebastian’s expensive leather loafer came down on his hand. He ground his heel into Toby’s small fingers. “Listen to me, you little sh*t,” Sebastian hissed, leaning down, his eyes gleaming with malice. “If you ever try to pull that ‘sad orphan’ act in front of Madeline again, I will make sure you and your loser dad are dumped in a ditch. Do you hear me?” He looked like he wanted Toby to simply cease to exist. I screamed. I lunged at him, trying to wrap my spectral fingers around his throat, trying to shove him off my son. Leave him alone! Take it out on me! Don’t you touch him! I roared until my throat felt like it was tearing, but Sebastian heard nothing. He just watched with sadistic pleasure as Toby’s face turned red from the pain. Toby’s arm began to spasm, but he didn’t cry out. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and fierce, staring directly into Sebastian’s soul. “My daddy isn’t a loser. He’s the best man in the world.” “You’re the monster. Don’t you dare talk about my daddy.” Then, Toby leaned forward and bit Sebastian’s ankle as hard as he could. Sebastian let out a yelp of pure fury. He lost his grip on the dog and delivered a brutal, heavy kick to Toby’s ribs. “You little bastard!” I screamed again, throwing myself over Toby’s body to shield him. But the kick passed right through me. Toby was thrown back against the marble wall with a sickening thud. He spat out a mouthful of dark blood. Even then, he didn’t wail. He just reached out, his hand shaking, searching the floor. “The… the blanket…” he wheezed. “Dad needs… the blanket…” Sebastian wasn’t finished. He stepped toward the boy and raised his hand to strike him again. “Sebastian?” Madeline’s voice cut through the lobby like a blade. Everyone froze. Toby’s eyes flickered with a desperate, dying hope. “Mommy…” he whimpered through a split lip. Madeline started to move toward him, but Sebastian was faster. He intercepted her, his face instantly transforming into a mask of fragile distress. He leaned into her, hiding Toby’s broken form with his body. “Madeline! Oh, thank God you’re here.” He guided her into an embrace, subtly signaling the guards to move in front of Toby. Madeline frowned, sensing something was wrong. “Sebastian, was that Toby on the floor? Did you hit him?” Sebastian’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Madeline, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. While you were upstairs, Toby… I don’t know who’s been talking to him, but he came into my room and said such horrible things about us. I tried to calm him down, but then he just… he lunged at me.” He clutched his chest, breathing shallowly. “You know what the surgeon said about my recovery… my heart…” Madeline’s face hardened. The concern for her son vanished, replaced by a cold, protective rage for the man in her arms. “Ben is a worse father than I thought. He’s poisoning that child’s mind.” “You’re fragile right now, Sebastian. If his antics cause you a relapse, I will never forgive them. Either of them.” I stood inches from her face, screaming the truth. He’s lying! Madeline, look at your son! He’s bleeding! Sebastian is a sociopath! From behind the guards, Toby managed one more broken plea. “Mommy…” A guard’s hand immediately clamped over his mouth. Madeline paused. She looked toward the guards. “Did he just call for me?” Sebastian’s expression darkened for a split second before he pulled away, looking “bravely” wounded. “Go to him, then. I’ll be fine. I’ll just go back to my room and try to forget that his father almost killed me by proxy today… I forgive him, Madeline. He’s just a child.” That did it. The mention of the “heart attack” Sebastian had faked weeks ago cemented her resolve. Madeline let out a sharp, disgusted breath. She turned her back on Toby and began to walk away. “If Ben won’t discipline him, then you do it, Sebastian. He needs to learn. Spare the rod, spoil the child… if he isn’t taught a lesson now, he’ll grow up to be just as pathetic as his father.” “I’ll wait for you upstairs.” As she disappeared into the elevator, Toby’s struggles became frantic. Sebastian turned back to him. The “frail” act was gone. He delivered three sharp, stinging slaps to Toby’s face. Toby’s cheeks swelled, his lip splitting further, blood dripping onto the floor. But the boy wouldn’t let go of that blanket. Sebastian leaned down, his long nails digging into the skin near Toby’s eye, drawing a thin line of red. “You’re just like your father,” he whispered. “Garbage.” I tried to strangle him. I tried to set the building on fire with my mind. Nothing worked. I was forced to watch, a ghost of a man, as my son was systematically broken. I fell to my knees, begging the empty air, begging Sebastian, begging God. He’s just a baby. Please. Stop. The abuse only stopped when Sebastian’s dog began to bark, startled by the violence. “Oh, did we scare you, Princess?” Sebastian cooed, smoothing the dog’s fur. He seemed bored now. He stepped back and signaled the guards to drop the boy. Then, he placed the heavy heel of his shoe directly onto Toby’s bruised cheek, pressing him into the cold tile. “Look at that,” Sebastian mocked. “Even your mother doesn’t want you.” “Pathetic.” 4 The elevator doors slid shut. Toby was left in a heap on the cold porcelain floor. I knelt beside him, trying—uselessly—to gather him into my arms. I tried to lift him, to warm him, but I was nothing but a shadow. The hospital doors were locked. No one dared to help Madeline Santiago’s son without her permission. The blood on Toby’s lip began to dry. He tried to open his eyes, but the swelling was too much. He just curled into a ball around the blanket, the plastic crinkling softly in the silence. The silver locket was gone, leaving only a faint red mark on his neck where it had once rested—a reminder that he had once been a precious, protected child. I don’t know how long I knelt there crying. My heart felt like it had been turned to ash. Then, the clicking of high heels returned. Madeline was back. She stood in the center of the lobby, looking down at Toby’s unmoving form with a look of profound boredom. “Done playing the martyr?” she asked, her voice echoing. “Is this what Ben taught you? How to fake an injury for sympathy?” “You really think if you lie there long enough, I’ll feel bad? You’re dreaming.” Every word was a needle in my soul. I wanted to scream: Are you even human? How can you look at your own flesh and blood and see a conspiracy? He’s a good boy! He’s the best boy! My tears fell onto Toby’s face. For a moment, his eyelashes fluttered. Madeline grew slightly uneasy at his lack of response. She took a step closer. “Toby? Stop it. Get up.” “I’m not falling for it. I see through you.” Her voice wavered, getting faster, more urgent. But as she got within a few feet, Toby’s hand twitched. She stopped. The flash of concern on her face was instantly replaced by a fresh wave of anger. She took out her phone, snapped a few photos of his battered back, and sent them to my number. Ben, you’re really going for it, aren’t you? Using our son as a pawn? Fine. If you want him to play dead, let’s see who breaks first. She turned on her heel and walked away. When the lobby was silent again, Toby finally opened his eyes. He coughed, a wet, hacking sound that brought up more blood. He saw the red stains on the plastic bag of the blanket and panicked, trying to wipe them off with his sleeve. He struggled to his feet, swaying, and began the long, agonizing trek back to the service corridor. He found my gurney. He touched my hand, and his face went pale when he felt the ice in my skin. With the last of his strength, he tore open the plastic, shook out the navy-blue blanket, and draped it carefully over my body. “It’s okay, Daddy,” he whispered, his voice disappearing. “You have the blanket now. You won’t be cold anymore.” Then, he collapsed on top of me and went still. The next morning, an intern’s scream shattered the hospital’s silence. “Code Blue! Someone get over here! We have a DOA in the hallway!” Madeline pushed through the gathering crowd, her face a mask of annoyance. “What is this circus? If you wake Sebastian, I’ll have your licenses—” She stopped. She saw the man on the gurney. She saw the small, broken boy draped over him like a discarded doll. And for the first time, the ice in her heart began to crack.

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The final wish of a world-renowned young pianist was for me—a man he hadn’t seen in ten years—to be the one to care for him during his final days. In the luxury hospice suite, he showed me photos of him and his wife traveling the world. Greece, the Maldives, the Swiss Alps. He looked radiant; I looked like a man who had spent a decade working double shifts. “Seriously, man, I don’t even know how to thank you. You’re a saint,” he said, his voice thinned by the cancer. He leaned back into the pillows, a smirk playing on his pale lips. “Especially considering you’re the ex-boyfriend. If you hadn’t failed Tori’s little ‘poverty test’ back in the day, I never would’ve ended up with her, would I?” He looked up at me suddenly, his eyes sharp with a dying man’s cruelty. “Tell me… once I’m gone, do you think she’ll follow me? Do you think she’d end it all just to stay with me?” He was waiting for me to break. He wanted to see a flicker of longing or resentment for Victoria Harrington. He wanted to see that she still had power over me. I disappointed him. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice as professional and sterile as the room. “As a member of the medical staff, it’s not my place to comment on a patient’s family.” Right then, the door clicked open. Victoria stood there. The bouquet in her hand hit the floor, petals scattering across the polished hardwood. She stared at me, her breath hitching in a way that felt almost practiced. … I stared at the flowers on the floor. Juliet Roses. I knew them from the trade magazines—a single bouquet of these could go for thousands at auction. In Nate’s room, there were hundreds of them, their heavy, sweet scent filling the air like a gilded cage. Victoria recovered quickly. The shock vanished, replaced by the cool, effortless mask of a woman who owned everything she looked at. She walked past me without a word, the rhythm of her designer heels clicking against the floor like a metronome. “I told you I’d hire a private nursing firm, Nate,” she said, her voice softening as she reached him. “Why did you go behind my back and hire… this?” “I didn’t want a stranger,” Nate replied, leaning into her touch as she smoothed his hair. “Besides, Sam’s the best. Isn’t that right, Sam?” Victoria didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on her husband. “Does the Harrington heiress have room in her head for anything other than me?” Nate teased, his voice bubbling with a sickly sweet affection. “You remember Sam Miller, don’t you? You two were the ‘it’ couple back in college. Everyone was jealous.” Victoria’s gaze remained downward, her expression unreadable. “Was he? I don’t really remember. I was young and impulsive back then. I didn’t know the difference between a cheap imitation and the real thing.” The insults were contradictory—one moment I was a forgotten ghost, the next I was a “cheap imitation”—but Nate loved it. A genuine smile broke across his gaunt face. “Don’t be too hard on him, Tor. I know Sam. He’s just… realistic,” Nate said, pretending to defend me. “Not everyone has the stomach for a real test. Sam grew up fast. He saw the world for what it was earlier than we did. He just made the choice that made the most sense at the time.” He broke into a fit of coughing. Victoria was over him in an instant, her hands—manicured in a perfect nude polish—rubbing his back with practiced grace. When Nate finally caught his breath, she stood up and looked at me. Her eyes were cold. “Why are you still standing there?” she snapped. “Has the hospital lowered its standards so much that nurses don’t even react when a patient is in distress?” That familiar sense of being looked down upon, of being a servant in her presence, washed over me. But I had seen too much death and too much reality in the last ten years to be rattled by a billionaire’s tantrum. I bowed my head slightly, the picture of professional humility. “My apologies, Mrs. Sullivan. It won’t happen again. If Mr. Sullivan has any other needs, please let me know. I’m here to improve his comfort in any way I can.” Victoria’s face went blank for a second. Her brow furrowed—I could tell she was angry that she couldn’t get a rise out of me. But she didn’t say anything more. Nate reached out and took her hand, his eyes clinging to her. “See? I told you. Sam’s changed. He’s not the stubborn kid who wouldn’t admit he was wrong anymore.” He looked at me. “Remember after the breakup, Sam? You were so bitter. You stole that watch Victoria gave me. You were caught red-handed and still denied it. You almost tried to swing at me.” He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. “Now look at him. He knows how to play the game. Most people see a face like that and can’t stay mad for long.” Victoria’s voice was like ice. “There’s no need to talk to him, Nate. You treated him like a brother back then, but people like him don’t know the meaning of the word.” They went on like that, weaving a version of the past where I was the villain and Nate was the long-suffering friend. I stayed silent. The watch. Victoria had given Nate a limited-edition Patek Philippe, and when it went missing, every finger pointed at me. I was the “gold-digging” ex-boyfriend, and Nate was the victim of a brother’s betrayal. I had spent three days and nights checking security feeds and retracing my steps, but the cameras were “broken,” and I had no alibi. Eventually, the watch was found in a hidden lining of Nate’s own backpack. Nate had just smiled that day, neither confirming nor denying anything. “Oh, it wasn’t lost after all,” he had said. “This bag was a gift from you, Sam, wasn’t it? Tori told me it was a knock-off and I shouldn’t take it on trips. I guess only you knew that pocket was there. Reasonable assumption, right? Don’t be so sensitive, man. Grow a thicker skin.” Nate finally grew tired and dismissed us. I walked out into the hallway with Victoria. She looked like she wanted to say something, her eyes dark and searching, but I kept my gaze fixed forward and walked straight into the staff lounge. The other nurses immediately swarmed me. “Is he as handsome in person as he is on TV? Is he a total diva?” I hung up my coat and took a sip of lukewarm water. “He’s a patient,” I said simply. They didn’t care. They were already back to whispering about the “Harrington-Sullivan” fairy tale. “I saw his wife today,” one girl sighed. “She’s even more beautiful than her photos in Forbes. Total boss energy. They say when she proposed, she just gave him a bouquet and a watch. Now that he’s sick, she’s moved half the world’s roses into his room. That room alone is worth more than I’ll make in a lifetime.” “It’s like a movie,” another added. “The scholarship kid meets the heiress, she lifts him up to stardom, and just as they hit the peak… this happens. It’s heartbreaking.” The voices dropped an octave. “I heard that before Nate, she was with another poor student. High school sweethearts. Then the Harringtons faked a bankruptcy to test him. The second he heard she was broke, he dumped her.” “Thank God for the test,” someone chimed in. “A guy like that would have drained her dry. He wouldn’t have treated her like Nate does.” “I don’t know,” a younger nurse murmured. “Isn’t a test like that kind of… disrespectful? Even if he passed, wouldn’t you always resent being played like that?” They turned to me, asking for my opinion. I listened to the half-truths and the polished lies. They were right about one thing: Victoria and I broke up because of that “test.” It happened overnight. One day Victoria was the girl who owned the world; the next, she was crying in my arms, telling me her father’s empire had collapsed and they were being evicted. I was young, naive, and so deeply in love that I didn’t think to check the news. I just worked. At the time, Nate and I were obsessed with mountain climbing. We were the “dirtbag” kids of the university, working three jobs each just to save up for gear to go to the Alps. When Victoria “lost everything,” I took it upon myself to carry her. I spent my meager savings on her, handled her “spoiled” outbursts with patience, and split my tiny grocery budget with her. Nate had been furious. He felt I was neglecting our “dream.” “You’re spoiling her, Sam,” he’d tell me. “We’re never going to get to Europe if you keep throwing your money at her.” Victoria would kiss my tired eyes, her own eyes brimming with tears. “Sam, I’m so sorry. I promise, things will get better.” So I worked harder. I broke my 24-hour days into fragments of labor and study. It was the hardest time of my life, but I never complained. Then came the night she picked me up from my shift at the warehouse. We ran into her “old friends”—the ones she said had abandoned her. I stepped in front of her, thinking they were there to taunt her. Instead, I heard them laughing. One girl looked at me with a mix of pity and amusement. “Wow, this one lasted a long time, Tori. I don’t know how you can stand eating at these greasy spoons every night. It’s dedicated, I’ll give you that.” She turned to Victoria. “The test is over, honey. You won. Now please, tell us you’re buying the first round of drinks tonight. I’m exhausted from playing ‘bankrupt’ for you.” The truth was laid bare in the middle of a sidewalk. I looked at Victoria, waiting for her to tell them they were lying. She didn’t. She just stood there, silent. “With someone like you,” she finally said, her voice devoid of the warmth I had cherished, “I had to be careful.” Someone like me. What was I? A gold-digger? A charity case? It had never occurred to me that people with money could be so bored, so fundamentally broken, that they would treat a human heart like a lab rat. I didn’t speak to her after that night. I didn’t even officially break up with her at first—I was too paralyzed. She had been my sun, my moon, the reason I breathed. I wanted to wake up and find out it was a nightmare. Nate was there for me. He brought me a punching bag to vent my frustration. He seemed disgusted by what she’d done. “My brother gave her everything, and she played him like a toy? Who does she think she is?” Nate had been so vitriolic that I had to hold him back from confronting her. I was so buried in my own grief that I didn’t notice the way Victoria started looking at Nate. Or the way Nate started looking back. Eventually, I told her it was over. I couldn’t look at her without seeing the “test.” Victoria stood on the quad, her designer dress fluttering in the wind, looking at me with pure derision. “So the rumors were true. You’re just like they said. You can play the hero when there’s a reward, but you can’t handle the reality of being with someone who doesn’t have a safety net.” I remembered that look for years. Because I didn’t realize until much later that the “they” she was referring to… included Nate. Three months after we broke up, Victoria proposed to Nate in front of everyone. The room was filled with Juliet Roses. It was the classic romance novel trope: the heiress and the scholarship student. When we were together, I rarely accepted gifts from her. Before the “bankruptcy,” I didn’t want her to think I was there for the money. After, I thought she couldn’t afford them. For every anniversary, I gave her a bouquet of daisies I’d picked from the roadside. She said she loved them. I couldn’t understand how she and Nate ended up together. Nate was unremarkable back then. He was average, stressed, and gray from the weight of poverty. He only became “vibrant” when he was defending me against Victoria. It turned out that his “defense” of me was their secret language. Every time they argued about me, they were actually bonding over me. I pulled away from Nate, but he kept trying to bridge the gap. He’d invite me to basketball or to work shifts, saying he didn’t want a girl to come between us. I avoided him until one winter evening when he cornered me. He was holding the bouquet of Juliet Roses Victoria had given him. “Tori says these are worth a fortune,” he said. “I know you’re struggling with rent. Take them. Sell them.” “I don’t want them,” I said, turning to leave. “Take them!” he snapped, shoving them into my chest. “I know it hurts that we’re together, but you can’t control feelings, Sam. You were with her; you know how it is. It’s just a bunch of flowers. Don’t be so proud. She gives me so many, I have plenty to spare…” Something in his tone snapped. I swiped the flowers away, and they hit the slushy pavement, their scent—sweet and arrogant—wafting up at me. Just like her. “You want me to understand your ‘true love’? Fine. I’ve been trying to stay away. I didn’t want to hurt either of you because you were the most important people in my life. Why do you keep pushing?” I looked at him. “Nate, this isn’t how friends act.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, a slow, ugly smirk spreading across his face. “Who said we were friends?”

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I gave birth to my son on the linoleum floor of a five-hundred-dollar-a-month studio apartment. While I lay there, shivering against the cold, gripped by a primal desperation as the baby let out his first cry, his father was at the airport. He was picking up his “Golden Girl”—the one who got away—welcoming her back to the country with open arms. He never came back to me. Not that night. Not for years. 1. My ex-boyfriend found me while I was wearing oversized rubber gloves, fishing sodden napkins and half-eaten pretzels out of a trash can in the mall’s food court. The woman at his side—his “Golden Girl”—absently tossed her half-finished iced latte into the bag I was holding. The plastic lid popped, spraying milky coffee across my cheek. When Bennett finally recognized me, his expression darkened into something heavy and unreadable. He told her to go on ahead, then he reached out, gripping my wrist so hard I could feel the pulse thrumming in his palm. “Daisy? Where the hell have you been for the last five years?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Graduation day, I came back for you. You weren’t there. You just vanished.” I forced a tight, awkward smile, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes. “I didn’t finish. I dropped out.” “Why?” he hissed, his grip tightening. “You lived for your books. You were the smartest person in our class.” “As you can see, Bennett, things changed,” I said, gesturing to my stained uniform. “I’m a janitor now. Let’s skip the trip down memory lane. I have a job to do, and if my supervisor sees me talking, I’m toast.” I clutched my heavy trash bag, the plastic let out a sharp, grating crackle, and I made sure he saw the neon-pink rubber gloves—a cheap shield against a world that had tried to swallow me whole. Bennett’s eyes turned like flint. We had been the “it” couple in college—or so I thought. By our junior year, his first love had moved back from London, and I was discarded as easily as a used textbook. When he left, I realized I was pregnant. I had no family to turn to, and every time I tried to call him, I got the same mechanical drone: The number you have dialed is no longer in service. I was broke. I was desperate. I tried everything to end it—old wives’ tales, scalding baths, even throwing myself down a flight of stairs. But the life inside me was stubborn. It clung to me with a terrifying tenacity. I was a girl drowning in ignorance, watching my stomach grow while my world shrank. I hid in that cramped apartment, missed too many classes, and was eventually “invited” to leave the university. I survived on dishwashing gigs and the meager remains of a student hardship grant. The university district was full of bright, beautiful girls with glowing skin and promising futures. I was the rat in the shadows, scuttling between my basement rental and grease-stained kitchens, sometimes eating the leftovers students left on their plates. Back then, I spent every waking second hallucinating his return. I imagined him sweeping in, apologizing, taking me away to a life where I didn’t have to choose between milk and bus fare. But he never came. So, I stopped imagining. I finally understood why he’d left without a word. The original had returned to the gallery; there was no longer any need for the cheap, mass-produced imitation. 2. I hauled the heavy trash bag toward the service exit. A small, familiar face popped up from behind a concrete pillar. My son. Five years old. Theo—short for Theodore, my “God-given” gift—was already mumbling, “Mom, you’re so slow today.” Without being asked, he deftly opened the bag, picked out the plastic bottles, crushed them under his scuffed sneakers, and tucked them into the wicker basket on his back. That basket was an heirloom of our poverty; I used to carry him in it when he was a toddler. Bennett asked why I wasn’t at graduation. He didn’t see me that day, because I was miles away, trekking through the rain with a one-year-old on my back, looking for any shop that would hire a girl with a GED and a hungry mouth to feed. This city is built on hills—steep, unforgiving inclines that turn into rivers when it rains. I remember walking those slick streets, going into store after store with a practiced, desperate smile, only to walk out a minute later with my head bowed. The city lights were dazzling, reflecting off the wet pavement like diamonds I’d never own. Nobody wanted a mother with a “backpack baby.” Eventually, I found work at a daycare center—not as a teacher, but as a cleaner. I promised the owner that Theo was an angel, that he never cried. He didn’t. He’d just stare with those big, solemn eyes, too quiet for a child his age. Why didn’t he cry? Because back then, I was so malnourished I couldn’t produce enough milk. He’d learned early on that crying didn’t bring food. I’d had to cover his mouth to keep us from being evicted. He learned the silence of the poor. “I’m coming, baby,” I said, shaking off the memories. Suddenly, I froze. Bennett was standing there, his bespoke suit a sharp, jarring contrast to the filth of the loading dock. I instinctively moved to cover Theo’s mouth, a ghost of an old habit. But Theo was too fast. “Mom! I finished my pile! Do I get a sticker tonight?” Bennett stepped closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. He grabbed my wrist again, his voice trembling with a dark, suppressed fury. “Daisy. This is my son, isn’t he?” I looked at Theo—a perfect, miniature carbon-copy of the man standing before me—and the words died in my throat. Theo saw the man holding me. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped his basket and lunged like a little leopard, his small boots thudding against Bennett’s expensive slacks. He had his father’s fire, I’ll give him that. “Let go of my mom!” Theo didn’t cry. He just stood between us, baring his teeth. Bennett grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him into the air. A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. “I’m your father, kid.” Theo’s scream was pure vitriol. “My dad is dead!” Bennett set him down, his tone turning clinical, brook no argument. “Your mother lied to you. But I’m here now. I’m taking you both home.” He looked at the basket of crushed plastic bottles and gave it a dismissive kick, sending our “income” scattering across the wet concrete. “You won’t be picking through trash anymore,” he said casually. That kick broke something in Theo. He scrambled to pick up the bottles, his small hands trembling. I wrenched my hand away from Bennett. “We’re doing just fine, Bennett. Don’t touch us. Don’t come near us.” He was always the hunter, never the prey. He ignored me, reaching out to ruffle Theo’s hair. Theo flinched and then, with a sob of rage, bit Bennett’s forearm. Bennett winced but didn’t let go. He actually looked proud. “Definitely my son.” “Bennett, leave,” I hissed. “Or I’ll scream ‘kidnapping’ so loud the whole mall will hear it. You don’t want that kind of press.” He laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Daisy, you can either get in my car willingly, or I’ll have someone come for you in the middle of the night. You know I don’t play fair.” That was the Bennett I remembered. Arrogant. Reckless. Entitled. 3. I met him in a lecture hall. We were both sophomores. I was a ghost in the system. My foster parents used to tell me I was “worth every penny” of the state check they got for me, usually while they were hiding my college acceptance letters so they could marry me off to a local contractor for a “dowry.” I ran away in the middle of the night with three hundred dollars tucked into my socks. Bennett found me when my foster father tracked me down to the campus gates, trying to drag me into a truck. Bennett had been walking by, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d flicked the ash onto the old man’s hand and arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem here? Looks like a kidnapping in broad daylight.” I’d hidden behind him like he was a shield. “Who the hell are you?” my foster father spat. “I’m her boyfriend,” Bennett said, and then he leveled the man with a single, practiced punch. In that moment, he wasn’t just a guy. He was a god. My savior. I followed him everywhere after that. Survival instinct told me he was the only thing standing between me and the abyss. Bennett never pushed me away. I realized later that for a guy like him—a trust-fund prince—a girl who was both beautiful and utterly dependent was the ultimate trophy. Especially since I looked a little too much like his first love. One night, after too many drinks, he kissed me, and the deal was sealed. I was blinded by what I thought was love. He bought me dinner at places where the napkins cost more than my shoes. He bought me tea when I was on my period. In return, I became his maid. I did his laundry every Friday, carrying his designer clothes to the campus basement. My roommates thought I was pathetic. I thought I was cherished. In my “rom-com” haze, I ignored the cracks. 4. I ignored the fact that he was ashamed of me. At dinner, I’d keep my head down, terrified to look at the bill, and I’d catch him looking at me with a flicker of disdain. I wore a fifteen-dollar sweater that was pilling at the sleeves. He once remarked, “My mother wouldn’t even use that to scrub the floors.” The breaking point came when he felt a hole in my leggings during a movie. “Daisy, for God’s sake,” he’d snapped. “Can you at least try not to be so… unkempt?” I didn’t want to be unkempt. But my scholarship only covered tuition, and every cent I earned went to staying alive. When Bennett wasn’t around, I lived on free cafeteria soup. His disgust stung worse than the cold. I burst into tears, and he just sighed, got dressed, and walked out. I didn’t even have the courage to be angry. I just waited. Two days later, he sent three pairs of expensive leggings to my dorm. It was his version of an olive branch. That night, we were back in a hotel room. He looked down on me, but he couldn’t quit me. I was a blank canvas. I was “The Imitation.” I’ll never forget the night he whispered against my skin, “You look so much like Mallory, but your soul… you’re nothing like her.” Who was Mallory? The girl in the vintage photo in his wallet? I never dared to ask. I couldn’t risk losing my only light. He took me to meet his friends once. I heard one of them whisper, “Where’d you find the knock-off? She’s got the face, but she’s missing the fire. Mallory would never stand for that outfit.” He never took me out with them again. That night, he gripped my waist and told me to smile. “Be more confident, Daisy. Show me some of that pride.” I practiced my “proud smile” in the bathroom mirror until my face ached. And then I cried into my pillow so he wouldn’t hear me. We were together for three years. In our junior year, he got a call. I heard a girl’s voice, honey-sweet and demanding. “Hey, little brother. I’m back in the States. You coming to get me?” Bennett was out of bed before she could finish the sentence. He even did his hair. “Are you coming back?” I asked, pulling the duvet to my chest. “The rent on this place is paid through graduation,” he said, not looking at me. He never came back. He didn’t need the “cheap version” anymore. He’d moved on to the real thing, leaving me in that rental where, months later, I’d scream through the birth of our son. Now, he was standing in front of me again, looking every bit the prince. “What do you want, Bennett?” I asked, meeting his eyes. “I won’t have my son living in a gutter. I’ve bought a place for you. You’re moving in today.” His eyes were like obsidian—hard and cold. He didn’t love me. He just wanted to balance the scales of his conscience. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. 5. “It’s too far from Theo’s school,” I said. He waved a hand dismissively. “That church basement? Forget it. I’ve already enrolled him in a private academy. Bilingual immersion, elite athletics. Don’t hold the boy back because of your pride, Daisy.” He knew exactly where to hit me. Everything for the child. I stopped fighting. Theo deserved the life his father’s money could provide. We moved into a sprawling penthouse. At first, Theo was inconsolable. He cried for our “little house,” the one where the radiator hissed and the wallpaper peeled. For the first time in his life, I snapped at him. I sat him down in his new, massive bedroom and looked him in the eye. “This is a hundred times better than that dump. Your teachers are going to be the best in the world. You have a yard. You have a future. Why would you ever want to go back?” Theo turned his head, a single tear escaping. “Because, Mom… I know you hate it here. I know you hate him.” My heart shattered. I hated Bennett with every fiber of my being, but I had to play the part. “That’s my business, Theo. I’ll be fine. You just grow up and be happy.” I didn’t want him to feel the weight of my resentment. I wanted him to play. In our old life, we played “soccer” with plastic bottle caps. For his birthdays, I made cakes in a rice cooker and we made wishes over a single candle. When he was three, his wish was to see his dad. I told him his father was a hero—a firefighter who passed away saving a city. I wanted him to have a legacy to be proud of. Until Bennett showed up, Theo believed me. Now, as I led a dry-eyed Theo out of the room, Bennett was lounging on the sofa, feet up on the marble coffee table. This was his world. I was just a guest. “Daisy, make something to eat,” he called out, eyes on his phone. “I’m starving. I haven’t had your pork chops in years. No one makes them like you.” I didn’t refuse. If I was living under his roof, I had to pay the rent in service. He tossed a bag of expensive toys onto the floor. “Hey, kid. Look what I got you. Come play with your dad.” He didn’t ask. He commanded. Theo didn’t even look at the toys. “I’m going to help Mom in the kitchen.” Bennett’s face fell, just for a second. Over dinner, I finally asked the question. “What about Mallory? Where do we fit into your life with her?” Bennett shrugged. “Mallory and I… we were never like that. She treats me like a younger brother. Besides, I’m taking responsibility for you and Theo now.” He emphasized the word “you.” My stomach turned. My mind screamed I don’t need you, but I looked at Theo, who was quietly reciting French vocabulary words under his breath while he helped me clear the table. I knew how hard it was to survive without an education. Even though I was teaching myself through online courses, it wasn’t enough. After dinner, I opened my textbook for my teaching certification. Bennett leaned over my shoulder, his warm breath ghosting against my neck. It made my skin crawl. “Education? You want to be a teacher?” “That’s the plan,” I said flatly. “Don’t bother with the exams. I can pull some strings, get you a position at the local elementary school. Just like that.” I shook my head and went back to my notes. Bennett hated being ignored. He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Daisy, can’t we just go back to the way it was? Like in college?” He said it like he was giving me a gift. “You did it on your own for years. It must have been hard. Let me take care of you now.” He knew. He must have known about that year in the rental. He knew I was alone. Where was he when the landlord found me on the floor, leaking amniotic fluid? The landlord told me later he thought he heard a stray cat crying in the hallway. 6. I ignored him. Bennett, frustrated, smashed a plate to make a point and stormed out. But he came back the next day. And the day after. He’d try to bribe Theo with gadgets. He’d sit on the sofa, pretending to watch TV while his eyes followed me around the room. He took the guest suite for himself, giving us our space, but his presence was a suffocating weight. Then, one day, Theo changed. He came home from school with a split lip. He wouldn’t tell me what happened. At five, he was already a vault for his own pain. I was frantic, desperate. “Theo, please. Did someone hit you?” He remained silent. When Bennett came home and saw the bruise, he nearly went through the roof. “Who did this? Tell me right now.” Theo didn’t move. Bennett scooped him up like a sack of flour. “Come on, kid. Tell your old man. I’ll bury whoever touched you.” That was the first time Theo felt the shield of a father’s protection. I could never offer that kind of reckless, violent loyalty. I was always the one apologizing, trying to keep us invisible. That night, Bennett took Theo into the study. They were in there for an hour. When they came out, Theo was different. He realized that “Dad” was a weapon he could use. It was the safety he’d never had. I remembered a parent-teacher day at his old daycare. I couldn’t go; I couldn’t risk losing my hourly pay. I’d watched through the window for a moment. Theo was sitting in the corner, watching a boy in a dinosaur costume play with his dad. He’d never complained. But later, I saw him hunched over a drawing, his small shoulders shaking with silent sobs. When he heard my footsteps, he wiped his face and hid the paper. It was a drawing of a superhero. A man who looked just like the ones on TV. His father. 7. After that talk in the study, Theo and Bennett became a team. Bennett was delighted. He thought he’d finally cracked the code. He started staying over every night. He didn’t work much; he was a “consultant” for his family’s firm, which mostly meant he spent money and played golf. He gave me a credit card with a limit that was more than most people earn in a decade. I saw the gap then—the chasm between the world I clawed through and the world he was born into. Bennett’s lifestyle was something I could never achieve through hard work alone. Sometimes I’d watch him playing video games and wonder why I ever loved him. He’d order two hundred dollars worth of takeout, take three bites, and toss the rest. I remembered Theo and me sharing a five-dollar box of rice on a park bench. Bennett was lazy, entitled, and vain. But he had the resources. I thought about taking Theo and running again. But then I looked at Theo’s new clothes, his confidence, the way he was devouring books I could never have afforded. My soul felt crooked. The parasite was thriving in the palace, while the honeybee had nearly frozen in the weeds. Theo was smart. He sensed the shift in me. He started getting even closer to Bennett, playing the role of the perfect son. He’d already tasted the cruelty of the world; he was just learning to navigate it. I stopped fighting Bennett. I started talking to him. I let him think I was still that “rom-com” girl, still hopelessly in love with my savior. He loved it. He’d never gotten that kind of devotion from Mallory. Mallory was rich, beautiful, and played men like fiddles. She used Bennett as a backup plan. When Mallory realized Bennett wasn’t at her beck and call anymore, she got petty. She called his mother. Bennett’s mother, Victoria, was a woman carved out of ice and old money. She showed up at the penthouse while Bennett was out. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She offered me a check—a life-changing amount—to leave the city and leave Theo behind. “Bennett is a mess,” she said, looking at me like I was a stain on the rug. “But the boy has potential. He shouldn’t be raised with… your sensibilities.” She saw Theo and her eyes lit up. He was the “mini-Bennett.” A tool to win back her husband’s wandering attention. When I handed the check back, our fingers brushed. She immediately pulled out a wet wipe and scrubbed her hand. To her, I was a cockroach that had learned to speak.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394972”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother had just come back from the house next door, having spent the afternoon snooping on our neighbor’s son and his new blind date. She walked into the kitchen, looking at me with a mixture of pity and pure, unadulterated frustration. “I honestly don’t know where I went wrong with you,” she sighed, dumping her coat on the chair. “I told you for years to carpool with Sebastian back to the city. I practically handed him to you on a silver platter, and you couldn’t even manage to snag a guy like that.” I kept my eyes on the bowl of sunflower seeds I was cracking, rhythmic and steady. “Now look at you,” she continued, her voice rising. “He’s got a real girlfriend now. A high-society match. Once they’re official, do you think he’ll still want to give you a lift? I spent weeks curing this ham and smoking these ribs for you to take back to your apartment. How on earth do you plan on hauling this bag of meat onto a bus by yourself?” “Then I won’t take it,” I said, not looking up. “What?” “I said I’m not taking the ham, Mom. Leave it.” I meant it. For the last ten years, every pound of meat my mother had painstakingly prepared for me had ended up in Sebastian’s refrigerator anyway. We had been together in secret for a decade—a “situationship” that spanned our entire adult lives. But three days ago, on the drive back home for the holidays, I finally snapped. Somewhere on a desolate stretch of I-95, I started crying. I asked him, for the hundredth time, when we were finally going to tell our parents. When we were going to get married. Sebastian hated that word. “Marriage” was the only thing that could make him go from charming to cold in seconds. Without a word, he pulled over at a rest stop, told me to get out to “clear my head,” and then he simply drove away. I texted him two words later that night: It’s over. He replied with one: Fine. 1 When I told my mother I didn’t want the ham, she exploded. She slammed the heavy bag onto the linoleum floor and glared at me. “You don’t want it? Do you have any idea how much work went into this? The trips to the butcher, the hours over the smoker? You’re so selfish, Isabel. You never think about how hard I work for you.” She started to pace, her favorite weapon—my age—ready to be drawn. “You’re twenty-eight. Every year I try to set you up, and every year it’s the same thing: ‘I’m not ready, I like being single.’ Do you know what the neighbors say about me? They think I’m hiding a daughter with a defect because you’re still alone.” She began to cry, the practiced, heavy sobs of a woman who knew exactly how to trigger my guilt. The familiar tightness gripped my chest. This was her cycle: I disappointed her, so she attacked my life. I reached into the box on the counter and handed her a couple of tissues. “Fine. Stop crying,” I said, exhausted. “I’ll go. I’ll register at that matchmaking service your friend runs. Whatever makes you happy.” To prove my “sincerity,” I went to my room, changed out of my sweats, and put on a full face of makeup. But when I stepped back into the living room, her lip curled. “No wonder Sebastian never looked twice at you,” she scoffed. “Even with all that paint on your face, you look… plain. You should have seen the girl he brought home today. Long, lean legs, a perfect oval face—she looked like a doll. Polished. Classy.” My mother had spent my entire life comparing me to every girl in the neighborhood. The results were always the same: I was the “before” picture. If a girl was dumber than me, she was prettier. If she was shorter, her face was daintier. I was used to her barbs, but hearing her compare me to Sebastian’s new “official” woman made my throat ache. Because for the seven years we were actually “dating,” Sebastian had looked at me with that exact same expression of subtle, lingering disappointment. 2 Sebastian and I started our secret life when we were eighteen. He was the valedictorian, the golden boy destined for the Ivy League. I was the girl in the middle of the pack—average grades, average looks, mostly invisible. I’d had a crush on him for years, a quiet ache I never intended to share. But on the day of our high school graduation, my lab partner came up to me with a letter, confessing he’d liked me since freshman year. Sebastian had appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and told the guy, “Sorry, she’s already taken.” He dragged me behind the gym, kissed me for the first time, and told me he loved me. He even chose a university in the same city as mine. We stayed together for ten years. If my mother hadn’t called me mid-drive three days ago to nag me about my biological clock, I might not have pushed him. I might not have asked him if this was the year we’d finally tell everyone the truth. I’d phrased it as a question, a soft probe. But Sebastian had erupted. “Isabel, is there a factory reset button in your brain? Is marriage and babies all you’re capable of thinking about? I told you, I’m not even considering that until I’m thirty. Stop being so desperate.” Then he’d left me at a Starbucks in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t care how I’d get home. He didn’t care that my phone charger was still in his glove box. He just sent a text ninety minutes later saying my luggage was with the building’s security guard. That was the moment I realized I was done. The next day, I heard the news: Sebastian was going on a blind date. “You’re right, Mom,” I said, the words feeling like glass in my mouth. “I can’t compete with a girl like that. So stop trying to push us together. I’m not in his league.” I walked out the front door to get some air, only to find Sebastian leaning against his porch railing, lighting a cigarette. When he saw me, he instinctively dropped the butt and crushed it under his shoe, looking guilty. It was a habit from our ten years together. I hated the smell of smoke, so I’d spent a decade trying to get him to quit. He’d always promised he would. He never did; he just got better at hiding it on balconies and street corners. Looking at him now, I realized how much energy I’d wasted. I shouldn’t have tried to change a smoker; I should have just found a man who didn’t smoke. Just like I shouldn’t have tried to force a man to love me out loud. I looked away, trying to pull my mother past him, but she broke free, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “Oh, Sebastian! Is that girl still inside? I saw her through the window—what a stunner. A Master’s student, right? Perfect for a PhD like you. And she’s tall, too! You need a tall woman to match those six-foot-two genes of yours. Don’t be too picky, she’s a catch.” Sebastian glanced at me, a cruel, mocking smirk playing on his lips. “She is a catch,” he said, his voice loud enough for me to feel it. “She’s graceful, polite, and actually understands how the world works. She isn’t the type to throw a tantrum and demand a ring every five minutes like some hysterical woman.” The insult hit me like a physical blow. I tightened my grip on my mother’s arm. “Mom, stop bothering him. Don’t we have a meeting with that matchmaker? Let’s go.” I didn’t look at him. I started walking, but Sebastian’s voice followed me down the driveway. “Yeah, Isabel! Don’t be too picky at the dating agency! You’re twenty-eight with a degree from a state school and a face that’s… let’s say, ‘wholesome.’ If any guy is willing to take you on, just say yes. Lord knows you’re desperate enough to get hitched.” The pain was a sharp needle in my chest. For years, I told myself he wasn’t marrying me because he was focused on his career. Now, I finally saw the truth: he never married me because he was ashamed of me. You don’t say things like that to someone you respect. 3 My mother seemed to agree with him. As we walked toward the car, she muttered, “See? Even Sebastian says it. Your ‘market value’ is low, Isabel. If this guy today is even halfway decent, you say yes. Don’t go acting like you’re some big-city hotshot. In two years, you’ll be an old maid, and not even a divorcee will want you.” The numbness in my heart turned into a blinding, white-hot rage. My nails dug into my palms. “If I’m so pathetic,” I screamed, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, “then why did you even have me? If my face is ugly and my brain is slow, whose genes do you think gave them to me?” My mother froze, shocked by the outburst. I wiped the tears that were already betraying me and turned, running toward the main road. I didn’t have a destination. I hadn’t lived here in years; I didn’t know where the “cool” spots were anymore. I just needed to be away from her. I ended up in a small, quiet coffee shop on the edge of town. No sooner had I sat down than my phone buzzed. A text from my mother: Have you lost your mind? Talking to me like that. You have no respect. I stared at the screen, tempted to block her, but I lacked the courage. Instead, I opened Instagram. Sebastian had posted. It was a photo of him and the girl at a high-end steakhouse. She was exactly as described: gorgeous, trendy, perfect. But it wasn’t her beauty that hurt. It was the fact that he’d posted her at all. In ten years, I had never appeared on his social media. He said he wanted to “keep things private” from family and coworkers. The truth was, I was the girl he hid; she was the girl he wore like a trophy. I remembered a night three years ago. We ran into one of his colleagues at a bar. Sebastian didn’t just let go of my hand—he practically shoved me away. He introduced me as “a girl from back home.” When we fought about it later, he just handed me a stack of GRE prep books. “If you want people to respect you, you have to be worth respecting,” he’d said coldly. “You want to go public? Get into a Master’s program. Show me you’re more than just a girl with a secretary’s salary.” I stared into my latte, a tear splashing into the foam. I’d tried so hard to be what he wanted, but I was never going to be an academic. I was never going to be “elite.” “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but… Isabel?” I looked up, blinking through the blur. A man was standing there, wearing a soft wool sweater and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked familiar—kind, steady eyes. It took a moment for the memory to click. Nathaniel. My high school lab partner. The one Sebastian had chased away. “I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, standing up and wiping my face. He gave me a gentle, lopsided smile. “I should be the one apologizing. I can see you wanted to be alone, but I couldn’t just walk past while you were crying.” I didn’t know what to say. He gestured toward the door. “Sitting here will only make the thoughts louder. Come on. Let’s go for a walk. Just a distraction, I promise.” I should have said no. I should have gone home. But the thought of my mother and the shadow of Sebastian felt like a weight I couldn’t carry alone. So, I followed Nathaniel out. The town didn’t have much. We walked through the local park, looking at the depressing enclosures of the small zoo and the ducks in the pond. I was quiet, mostly lost in my own head, but Nathaniel didn’t seem to mind. For the first time in years, I felt… relaxed. With Sebastian, every outing was a performance. I bought the tickets, I picked the snacks, I did the research, and I spent the whole time monitoring his mood, terrified he’d get bored or annoyed. With Nathaniel, when I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, he was already handing me a clean handkerchief. He asked if I was thirsty, if I wanted to sit in the shade. He was looking at me. When he asked me to catch a movie later that evening, I found myself saying yes. But as we approached the theater, the universe decided to twist the knife. Sebastian was there, standing at the ticket booth with the new girl. He was holding her designer bag on one shoulder and two drinks in his hands, leaning in to ask her which movie she wanted to see. When she pointed to a romantic comedy, he smiled and bought the tickets immediately. My chest tightened. In seven years, Sebastian never asked what I wanted to see. He chose the sci-fi epics or the gritty dramas he liked. If I ever suggested a rom-com, he’d scoff. “Your brain is mushy enough, Isabel. Let’s watch something that requires a bit of intelligence, shall we?” “Do you still want to go in?” Nathaniel asked softly, noticing my frozen posture. “We can leave.” I nodded, ready to turn around, but Sebastian spotted us. “Isabel? Is this the ‘match’ your mom found for you? Small world. Won’t you introduce us?” 4 I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles went white. Seeing the girl, Monica, tucked under his arm was a special kind of hell. Before I could respond, Monica stepped forward with a bright, plastic smile. “Oh, you must be the childhood friend Sebastian grew up with! I’m Monica. He was just telling me so many ‘fun’ stories about you. I’ve been dying to meet the famous Isabel. Sebastian, let’s skip the movie. Let’s go get drinks with them instead!” I wanted to scream no, but Sebastian smirked. “Great idea. I’d love to get to know Isabel’s new ‘friend’ better.” He didn’t even wait for us to agree. He just led the way to a nearby patio bar. We sat at a wooden picnic table. Sebastian immediately took a napkin and meticulously wiped down the spot in front of Monica before letting her sit. Then he looked at Nathaniel. “So, Nate—it’s Nate, right? You’re not much for the chivalry, are you? Didn’t even wipe the table for your date.” Nathaniel didn’t take the bait. He just took a sip of his water. “I don’t feel the need to perform for an audience.” He handed me the menu. “What do you feel like, Isabel?” “She’ll eat anything,” Sebastian interrupted. “She’s not picky. Mostly just fried stuff.” I wasn’t “not picky.” I had just spent a decade making my preferences invisible so he wouldn’t have to compromise. “Actually,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “I want the spicy wings. And the jalapeño poppers.” I ordered three of the spiciest things on the menu. Monica giggled. “Oh, Isabel, that’s so much food for four people. Why don’t we just do one order of wings? Sebastian and I don’t do spicy—it’s so bad for the skin.” “Yeah, cancel the spicy stuff,” Sebastian said to the waitress, dismissively. “She doesn’t even like heat. She’s just acting out.” I felt the blood rush to my face, the familiar humiliation burning under my skin. But Nathaniel spoke up, his voice cool and firm. “Keep the order. I’m paying for our half, and I happen to love spicy food.” The table went quiet for a second. Then Monica leaned forward, her eyes glinting with a mean sort of curiosity. “So, Isabel, Sebastian told me your nickname in high school was ‘The Dairy Queen.’ I thought it was because you were… well, endowed. But looking at you now, I guess you’re more of a B-cup? What was that about?” She laughed, a sharp, tinkling sound. “Oh! And the story about your first big job interview! The one where you got so nervous you actually had a… ‘bathroom accident’ in your suit? And the recruiter told you the reason you didn’t get the job was the smell? God, Sebastian, you were right, that is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” The world seemed to stop. I looked at Sebastian. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He was busy cutting a piece of steak for Monica, a casual, bored expression on his face. “A joke’s a joke, Monica. Let the girl eat.” The tears started then, hot and heavy. Those two stories were the “get out of jail free” cards I had given Sebastian for years. “The Dairy Queen” happened when I was sixteen. A bully had snapped my bra strap in the hall, and because it was right before gym class, I had to run the mile without support. The boys had circled me, screaming that name while I tried to cover myself. Sebastian had gotten into a fistfight to protect me. He’d been my hero. And the interview? I had been so sick with the flu, but I didn’t want to miss the chance. I’d called him sobbing from the corporate bathroom, and he had come to pick me up without a single word of judgment. I had stayed with him through every insult and every cold night because I thought those moments meant he truly knew me. He was the keeper of my most vulnerable secrets. And he had turned them into dinner party anecdotes for a girl he’d known for three days. The hope I’d been clutching—the tiny, pathetic part of me that thought he might realize he missed me—died right there on that patio. I stood up, grabbed my bag, and walked away. “Isabel! Don’t be so sensitive!” Sebastian shouted after me. “It was just a joke! God, you’re so dramatic!” I didn’t turn back. I kept walking. Sebastian was right about one thing: it was a joke. Our entire ten years had been a joke. And I was finally done being the punchline.

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“Mom, Dad was just diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. The doctors say he doesn’t have much time left.” When my daughter’s call came through, I was in the middle of feeding my little grandson, Mason. I was holding a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes, the bright orange smear reflecting the afternoon sun. My hand froze for a split second. Then, I continued the motion, guiding the spoon into Mason’s waiting mouth. “And?” I asked, my voice flat. Natalie went silent for a few heartbeats. “I was thinking… maybe you and Dad should get remarried? I mean, Tyler and I are going to have to handle the arrangements soon, and it’s just… it’s messy if you’re not legally his wife. It doesn’t look right.” “Absolutely not!” The words tore out of me, sharp as a serrated blade. A tidal wave of old, dark fury surged into my chest, hot enough to choke me. “I had to rip my own skin off to get you and your brother away from that monster!” I hissed into the phone. “I’d rather be buried alive than have my name linked to his ever again.” “Mom, for God’s sake, it’s been decades!” Natalie’s voice took on that patronizing, exhausted tone she used when she thought I was being difficult. “Can’t you just let the past go? He’s dying. It’s just a piece of paper. Don’t be so dramatic.” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. The audacity of her “piece of paper” felt like a slap. “You want a wedding? Tell him to hurry up and die. Maybe I’ll consider it in the next life.” 1. “Mom, seriously? Are you really going to be this petty?” Natalie groaned. “It’s been thirty years. Holding onto this grudge is just… it’s small-minded. It’s pathetic.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. Little Mason blinked up at me, sensing the shift in the air, his chubby hand tugging at my shirt. “Whatever state he’s in, that’s his business,” I said, my voice trembling. “It has nothing to do with me.” “How can you say that? He’s our father!” Natalie’s voice rose an octave. “The second the diagnosis came out, that woman he’s with—that wife of his—filed for divorce and vanished with half his assets. He has no one left but us.” She didn’t wait for me to speak. “If you don’t remarry him, do you have any idea what people will say? That we’re cold-blooded. That we left our own father to rot. And Tyler? He’s getting engaged next month. If his fiancé’s family sees this kind of drama, do you think they’ll still want her marrying into this mess?” “Mom, can’t you think about us for once?” A bitter ache bloomed in my gut. I set the small spoon down and took a napkin, gently wiping the corners of Mason’s mouth. My movements were tender, but my heart was a block of ice. “So,” I said quietly, “a mother who raised both of you alone, working herself to the bone, is worth less than a ‘mess’ of a father. I’m just an obstacle to Tyler’s social standing now?” The line went quiet. There was only the sound of Natalie’s heavy, frustrated breathing. Then, a sharp click. She hung up. I lowered Mason to the floor and pointed toward his scattered blocks. “Go play for a bit, sweetie. Grandma needs a minute.” The boy nodded obediently, his little legs moving across the rug. The clack-clack of the plastic blocks felt deafening in the sudden silence of the house. I slumped onto the sofa, my back hitting the cold leather. I felt hollowed out, as if Natalie’s words had reached inside and scooped out my marrow. Mason toddled back over, leaning his small body against my knees. He tilted his head, looking at me with those clear, innocent eyes. “Grandma? You sad?” I looked at him, and the sting of tears prickled my eyes. I forced a smile, ruffling his soft hair. “No, honey. Grandma’s just a little tired.” “I play with you,” he whispered, tugging my hand. “Then you won’t be tired.” I let him lead me to his toys. I built towers and pushed little cars, watching him laugh, trying to let his joy dissolve the shadows. When it was finally time for his nap, I tucked him in and listened to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. I cleaned the living room, mopped the floor, and had just sat down to catch my breath when the phone buzzed again. Tyler. My heart sank. I hesitated before sliding the green icon. “Hello?” Before the word was fully out, my son’s voice bombarded me. “Mom, Natalie told me. You’re seriously refusing to help Dad? How can you be this selfish?” His voice was dripping with resentment. “If you hadn’t made such a scene back then, if you hadn’t insisted on dragging us away from him over every little thing, do you think we would’ve had to grow up like that? Dad had money. We could have been the kids with the nice cars and the college funds. Instead, we were the charity cases because you had to have your way!” The words felt like a physical blow to my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Those years… the years I worked three jobs to keep them fed and clothed. The mornings I was at the warehouse before the sun came up, the afternoons cleaning hotel rooms, the nights stocking shelves. I had gone without meals so they could have new sneakers. I had worked until my back felt like it was breaking so they wouldn’t have to touch a chore. “When did you ever go hungry, Tyler?” my voice shook. “When were you ever cold? I protected you from everything. Have you forgotten that?” “That was your job!” Tyler snapped. The cruelty in his voice was a razor. “You brought us into this world. Taking care of us was the bare minimum. You don’t get a medal for doing what you were supposed to do.” I sat there, frozen. Every sacrifice, every drop of sweat, every sleepless night—in his eyes, it was just an entry-level requirement. I took a deep breath, pushing down the despair. “Fine. Let’s say I did my ‘job.’ But why on earth do you think I owe it to your father to marry him now?” There was a pause. Then Tyler spat out a sentence that turned my blood to slush. “Because you owe him for the life you stole from us.” 2. “I owe him?” I repeated the words, the absurdity of it bubbling up like acid in my throat. “What exactly do I owe a man like Richard?” Tyler’s voice was righteous. “You owe him everything! You took Natalie and me away from him. You robbed us of our father. For thirty years, we never had a real family, never had a dad around to teach us anything. You took that from him, and you took it from us. This is how you pay it back.” My hand was shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone. “So, it’s my fault? The drinking, the gambling, the way he used his fists on me—that was all my fault too?” “Yes!” Tyler didn’t hesitate. “He was starting a business, Mom! Do you have any idea how much pressure he was under? So what if he had a few drinks or played some cards to unwind? You should have been supportive. You should have helped him through it.” “And maybe if you hadn’t nagged him every time he walked through the door, he wouldn’t have lost his temper. You brought that on yourself.” I brought it on myself… The room seemed to spin. Thirty years ago, Richard’s small construction firm had finally started making real money. I thought we were safe. Instead, the money fueled his demons. He’d come home reeking of cheap bourbon and expensive perfume that wasn’t mine. When I begged him to stay home, to look at his children, he’d backhand me across the kitchen. Natalie and Tyler used to hide behind the door, their eyes wide and terrified, too scared to even cry. Then the gambling started. When he lost, he’d come home looking for someone to punish. I was his favorite target. When I finally asked for a divorce, he gave me a choice: Leave with nothing but the clothes on my back and the kids, or leave the kids with him and take a settlement. I knew what would happen to them if I stayed, or if I left them behind. I took the children and the poverty that came with them. I remembered the early days after the split. The three of us huddled on a mattress on the floor of a studio apartment. They used to whisper, “As long as we have you, Mama, we’re okay. We’re happy because we’re with you.” I had carried those words in my heart like a talisman. They were the reason I survived. But now, Tyler called those the “bitter years.” To him, I was the villain who stole his golden life. “Mom, you’re an old woman now,” Tyler said, his voice dripping with boredom. “Stop being so dramatic. Just get your things together. Go see him, sign the papers, and stop making this hard for us.” He hung up. The dial tone hummed in my ear, a rhythmic thumping against my heart. I sat on the sofa, tears finally spilling over. They hit my shirt and bloomed into dark spots. Outside, the South Carolina sun was golden, mocking me with its warmth while I felt a winter chill settling into my bones. Natalie’s judgment, Tyler’s resentment… it was a double-edged sword that had finally shattered thirty years of my life’s work. They hated me for not being a martyr. They hated me for not staying and taking the hits so they could have a trust fund. I wiped my face and stood up. I walked to my bedroom, pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet, and started packing. That evening, when Natalie and her husband got home from work, Mason was awake and babbling for me. I rolled my suitcase into the hallway. My voice was eerily calm. “I’m moving back to the old house in the country. I’m leaving tonight.” 3. Natalie stared at the suitcase, her face turning pale. She rushed over to grab my hand. “Mom? What are you doing? You can’t just go to the country. Is this about earlier? Are you still mad?” Her husband, Mark, tried to chime in. “Diane, let’s talk about this. That old house hasn’t been lived in for years. It’s middle-of-nowhere. It’s not safe for you to be out there alone.” Mason ran over, hugging my leg. “Grandma, don’t go. Stay with Mason.” My heart cracked at the sight of the boy, but I pulled my hand away from Natalie. “If you want to play happy family with your father, go ahead. I’m not standing in your way anymore.” “Mom, please!” Natalie’s voice was frantic. “We were wrong about the remarriage thing, okay? Just… don’t go. Stay here. Stay with the baby.” Mark nodded quickly. “Yeah, Diane. We won’t mention it again. Stay for the weekend, at least. Natalie and I will take you out for a nice dinner, we’ll clear the air.” They were so convincing. They sounded like the children I thought I had raised. Mason wouldn’t let go of my leg, his big eyes shimmering with tears. I looked at them for a long time. I was tired. I wanted to believe they meant it. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll stay. But that man’s name never crosses your lips in this house again. Do you understand?” “Yes, Mom. Of course,” Natalie said, a look of immense relief washing over her. Mark grabbed my suitcase and whisked it back into my room. For a few weeks, things seemed to return to normal. Natalie and Mark were extra attentive, bringing home my favorite pastries, taking me and Mason to the park every Saturday. Tyler called a few times, his tone softened, asking about my day without a hint of the venom from before. But the unease stayed in the back of my mind, a low-frequency hum I couldn’t ignore. I quietly went to a local realtor and sold the small property I owned in my name—the one I’d been saving as a safety net for the kids. If my intuition was wrong, the money would be their inheritance. If I was right… it would be my escape. As school season approached, Natalie came to me with a bright smile. “Mom, Mason starts preschool next week. We should take one last family trip before he’s tied down. A little end-of-summer gift for him.” I usually hated long car rides—I got motion sickness easily—but seeing Mason’s excitement, I couldn’t say no. On the morning of the trip, Natalie handed me a motion-sickness pill and a bottle of water. I took it, leaned back in the passenger seat, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep within twenty minutes. I woke up to Natalie gently shaking my shoulder. “Mom. We’re here. Wake up.” I blinked, my head feeling groggy. But as my eyes focused on the building outside the window, the fog vanished instantly. A red-brick building. A government seal. County Clerk’s Office. Marriage Licenses & Records. The sight of it hit me like a physical punch. I turned to Natalie, my chest heaving with disbelief and fury. “You lied to me.” Natalie looked away, her voice small and shaky. “Mom, listen to me. We didn’t want to lie, it’s just…” The parking lot was full of cars. I saw them then—my sister, my cousins, my aunts. The whole family was there. They swarmed the car as soon as I stepped out, their voices a cacophony of “advice.” “Diane, don’t be stubborn. Richard’s on his last breath. Just do this one thing so he can die in peace.” “It’s for the kids, Diane. Think of the family legacy.” “Don’t make us a laughingstock in this town.” Their words were like needles, stitching a shroud around me. I looked at Natalie, who was hiding behind her aunt. They had never intended to let me go. Then, a black SUV pulled up. Tyler stepped out, and he wasn’t alone. He reached into the back and pulled out a wheelchair. 4. Seeing Richard in that wheelchair made my skin crawl. He was a skeleton of the man I once knew, his skin sallow and hanging off his bones, but his eyes… they still had that same calculating glint. Natalie grabbed my arm, her voice desperate. “Mom, look. Dad’s here. Everyone’s here. Let’s just get the license, do a quick ceremony, and it’s over. We can all move on.” Tyler pushed the wheelchair toward me, his face set in a hard mask of command. “Mom, enough. This is happening today. Do it for the sake of decency. It’s his last wish.” Richard opened his mouth, his voice a dry rasp. “Diane… I’m sorry… for the kids… please…” I looked at him and felt nothing but visceral disgust. Where was this “sorry” thirty years ago when he was throwing me against the radiator? Where was the “decency” when he was blowing our rent money at the track? My voice was low, but it cut through the noise of the crowd like a gunshot. “No.” “I told you. I would rather die than be his wife again.” Natalie’s face transformed. The mask of the “loving daughter” crumbled, replaced by a sneer of pure rage. “Mom! Are you serious? We’ve done everything for you! And you’re still being this difficult?” Tyler stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. “If you don’t go inside and sign those papers, then as far as Natalie and I are concerned, you don’t have children anymore.” “You’re old, Mom. You’re going to get sick. You’re going to need someone. If you walk away now, don’t you dare call us. We are finished with you.” Natalie nodded, her eyes cold and final. “This is on you, Mom. Don’t blame us for being heartless when you’re the one who killed this family.” I looked at them—the children I had bled for, the children I had sacrificed my youth to protect—and I saw that they were just extensions of their father. They didn’t love me. They loved the convenience of me. “Fine,” I said. The word was a soft exhale. Natalie and Tyler’s faces instantly brightened. They thought they had won. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” Tyler said, reaching for my hand to lead me toward the doors. Richard had a smug, sickly grin on his face. But they didn’t understand. My “Fine” wasn’t an agreement to the marriage. It was an agreement to the end. As they pulled me toward the entrance, I suddenly wrenched my arm free. I lunged toward a bystander who was filming the commotion on his phone and snatched it out of his hand, throwing it onto the pavement with all my strength. The man yelled in shock. “What the hell, lady? I’m calling the cops!” “Call them!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the brick walls. “Call them right now! I want the police to see exactly how these two are trying to force a domestic abuse survivor into a sham marriage with her batterer!” The crowd went silent. The bystander pulled out a second phone and started dialing. Within ten minutes, the parking lot was flashing with blue and red lights. We were all taken down to the station to sort through the chaos. By the time I was released that evening, the sun had set. Natalie and Tyler wouldn’t even look at me. “Have a nice life,” Tyler spat, pushing Richard’s wheelchair toward their car. They drove off without a word, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. I didn’t cry. I called a car and went straight to the airport. I bought a one-way ticket to a small coastal town in the South. As the plane climbed into the night sky, watching the lights of my old life shrink into nothingness, the weight on my chest finally lifted. I was finally free of them. Free of the past. Two hours later, I landed in a place where the air smelled of salt and jasmine. As I turned off airplane mode, my phone began to chime incessantly. Natalie.

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The night of our engagement gala was supposed to be the pinnacle of my life. Instead, Hudson Montgomery left me standing alone under the crystal chandeliers in front of the most powerful families in Manhattan. Thirty minutes later, a viral video shattered the internet. [Billionaire Heir Proposes Outside ER: A Love for the Ages] The diamond ring that was meant for my finger was glinting on Nora Whitlock’s hand. When Hudson finally called, his voice was thick with a calculated kind of guilt. “Jade, listen to me. Nora tried to take her own life. The ring, the proposal—it’s just a temporary measure to keep her stable. It’s medical, essentially.” “She saved my life years ago. She’s like family to me, but I swear, you’re the only woman I actually love.” I had spent eight years piecing him back together. I stayed by his side from the gutter of his reputation to the top of the Montgomery empire. I believed his “extenuating circumstances.” I believed in us. A year later, I was four months pregnant. Nora’s old “condition” flared up again. This time, she demanded I terminate my pregnancy. She used her life as the ultimate bargaining chip. Hudson knelt before me, his eyes cold and desperate. “Jade, she’s relapsing. If she hadn’t pulled me from that burning car years ago, she wouldn’t have this psychological trauma. I owe her my life.” “I’m begging you. Get the procedure. Don’t trigger her. Please, just this once?” I was forcibly wheeled into the operating room. When I opened my eyes, the world felt hollow. My baby was gone. Suddenly, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind: [Warning: The target of your redemption mission has intentionally harmed your offspring. Mission failed.] [Identity Erasure Countdown: 72 hours.] … [Once the 72-hour countdown concludes, the system will match you with your true soulmate as compensation.] I stared at the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room, a bitter, helpless smile tugging at my cracked lips. The door creaked open. Hudson walked in. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for my hand out of habit. The moment his fingers brushed mine, I flinched, pulling away as if his skin were acid. His hand froze in mid-air. A flash of irritation crossed his face, quickly masked by a practiced look of remorse. “Jade… about the baby… I’m so sorry.” His voice was raspy. To anyone else, he would have sounded like a man in mourning. “Nora developed PTSD because of what happened to me. She slit her wrists tonight. The doctors said the only way to keep her from doing it again was to… I couldn’t just watch her die, Jade.” I turned my head slowly, looking at his tear-streaked face. My voice was a dead calm. “Hudson, that was your child, too.” His eyes turned a bruised red, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. “I know! But I owe her! My life belongs to her!” “Jade, once she’s fully recovered, we’ll make this right. We’ll have a life together. I promise.” Always the same promise. To wait for her recovery, I had to sacrifice my wedding. To keep her stable, I had to kill my child. I didn’t say a word. Hudson took my silence as submission. His posture relaxed. “Get some rest. I’ve ordered the best recovery supplements. Nora is still unconscious, and I’m worried. I need to check on her, but I’ll be back later to sit with you.” He left quickly. His steps were hurried, frantic. He didn’t look back once. The system voice chimed again: [Countdown: 71 hours remaining.] [Due to the male lead’s extreme malice toward the host, the system will now begin reclaiming the ‘Fortune’ granted to him.] I sat up, my body screaming in pain, and ripped the IV needle from the back of my hand. Blood trickled down, blooming into dark red stains on the white sheets. It was a haunting sight—it looked exactly like the shattered remains of the life I’d lost on that operating table. Hudson’s secretary pushed the door open, carrying a glossy boutique bag. “Mrs. Montgomery, Mr. Montgomery asked me to bring this. He said it’s a… token of his appreciation for your understanding.” I opened the bag. Inside was a Harry Winston sapphire necklace. It was the piece he had promised me for our first anniversary—a promise he’d “forgotten” until now. I tossed it into the trash can next to the bed without a second thought. “Where is he?” The secretary stammered, shifting his weight. “He’s… he’s in the next suite. Ms. Whitlock woke up. She mentioned she wanted the sea bass broth from that place in the Hamptons. Mr. Montgomery went to fetch it personally.” I nodded, slid out of bed, and put on my shoes. I brushed past the secretary and walked to the room next door. Through the crack in the door, I saw him. Hudson was sitting by Nora’s bed, carefully blowing on a spoonful of broth before feeding it to her. Nora sniffled, her eyes wide and innocent. “Hudson… Jade won’t hate me for this, will she?” Hudson paused, his expression softening into a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. “Don’t overthink it. She’s a rational woman. Besides, she’s strong. She’ll bounce back. You’re different, Nora. You’re fragile.” I leaned against the cold corridor wall, listening. I expected to feel a sharp pain, a stabbing in my heart. But there was nothing. Only a vast, echoing emptiness. Hudson came out to discard some trash and nearly ran into me. He froze, his face darkening instantly. “Why are you out of bed? I told you to stay put.” I looked up at him. For the first time, I realized how shallow his eyes were. How thin his love truly was. “Hudson, you wanted to pay Nora back for saving your life. Well, I just paid the bill for you.” He frowned, his lips parting to say something. I cut him off. “So, we’re even. You and I? We’re done.” He must have heard the finality in my tone. Panic flared in his eyes, and he grabbed my shoulders. “Jade, don’t be like this. I just… I didn’t have a choice.” He tried to pull me into a hug, but his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. I saw the screen. NORA. Hudson looked at the phone, then back at me, his indecision written all over his face. “Go,” I said softly. “She needs you more than I do.” Hudson bit his lip, turned, and started walking away. “Wait for me. I’ll explain everything when I get back!” I watched his retreating back until he disappeared around the corner. I slid down the wall, my strength finally giving out. “System,” I whispered. [I’m here.] “Since my identity is being erased… does that mean everything of mine will vanish too?” [Correct. Every trace of your existence will be purged once the countdown ends.] Good. I didn’t want to leave a single scrap of myself for him to hold onto. Hudson stayed by Nora’s side all night. The next morning, looking haggard and exhausted, he entered my room. “Jade, Nora was having nightmares all night…” He stopped when he saw me sitting by the window. I didn’t even turn around. He sighed, his voice dropping into that “gentle” tone again. “Look, I bought those dumplings you like from the city. Eat them while they’re hot.” “No thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” I said coldly. Hudson’s patience snapped. “How long are you going to keep up this act? I already explained about the baby!” I looked up at him, flashing a polite, distant smile. “I’m strong, remember? I’ll bounce back. So, you don’t need to feel guilty anymore.” Hudson looked lost for a moment, but before he could process the shift in my demeanor, a scream erupted from Nora’s room. In a heartbeat, he was gone. [Countdown: 60 hours remaining.] [Target’s malice level is rising. System is now seizing 20% of Montgomery Group’s shares.] I ignored the voice. I packed my small bag and took a car back to our penthouse. The moment I pushed the door open, I saw several pairs of designer heels scattered in the foyer. I walked into the living room. Hudson was on the sofa, Nora curled up in his lap as they watched a movie. Nora was wrapped in the cashmere shawl Hudson had given me for my last birthday. Hudson’s grip on her shoulder tightened when he saw me. “I thought you were staying in the hospital for a few more days. Why are you back so early?” Nora trembled like a frightened kitten, burying her face in his chest. “Hudson… am I in her way? Maybe I should leave…” She made a show of trying to stand, only to stumble back into his arms. Hudson’s heart clearly bled for her. He held her down and barked at me, “Jade, for God’s sake, grow up! Nora is weak. She can’t be alone right now.” I walked past them toward the stairs. “I’m just here to get my things.” I pushed open the master bedroom door. The room that was supposed to be mine smelled of her perfume. Worse, my scrapbook—eight years of our memories—was lying on the floor, discarded. We had filled those pages together. Every photo, every concert ticket. I bent down to pick it up, but Hudson stormed in. He stepped heavily onto my hand, pinning it to the floor. The pain was blinding. “Leave it,” he snapped. “Nora gets upset when she sees that stuff. It reminds her of… things. I’ve already called the junk removers. It’s all going to the landfill.” I looked at his shoe on my hand, my voice a broken whisper. “Hudson, these are our photos. Our whole life.” He looked down at the book with pure annoyance. “Jade, you’re always clinging to the past. Is this your way of reminding me how poor I used to be? Or how much I ‘owe’ you for your help?” “Nora saved my life. You? You just gave me a hand with business. There’s a difference.” “Besides, I gave you the title of Mrs. Montgomery as payment. Isn’t that enough?” He kicked the scrapbook into the corner like it was trash. “Move your things to the guest suite. Nora feels more comfortable in this room.” I looked at the man I had been married to for a year. He was a stranger. When I first arrived in this world, I thought Nora was his “North Star”—the one beautiful thing in his dark life. The system told me she died in that car wreck saving him. He became cold, cruel, and broken. My job was to save him. I spent eight years pulling him out of the darkness. I thought I had made it into his heart. But a year before our wedding, Nora “came back from the dead.” And suddenly, my eight years of devotion were worth nothing compared to the “White Moonlight” who had returned. At 2:00 AM, a post-surgical infection set in. I was burning up with a fever. I tried to use the wall for support to get downstairs for medicine. As I passed the master bedroom, the door was slightly ajar. I saw Hudson sitting on the bed, holding Nora. She was rubbing her feet against his legs, her voice a coy purr. “Hudson, my feet are so cold.” He looked at her with such agonizing tenderness. He pulled her feet into his lap. “I’ll warm them for you. Sleep now, my sweet Nora. Your health is everything.” That was a level of patience I had never received in nearly a decade. My vision blurred. I lost my balance and knocked over a vase on a pedestal. Nora shrieked. Hudson surged out of the room, throwing the door open. Nora cowered behind him. “Hudson! She was making faces at me through the door! Her eyes… she looked like she wanted to kill me! She wants revenge for the baby!” Hudson’s face was a mask of fury. He lunged forward and shoved me. I was already weak. I hit the corner of the wall hard. “Jade! When will you stop this insanity?” “Losing the baby was just bad luck. We can have another. But you? You’re taking your bitterness out on an innocent woman?” I struggled to stand, cold sweat pouring down my face. “Hudson,” I gasped. “I have an infection. I’m burning up. It’s 103 degrees.” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You? You’re as strong as a horse. You don’t get ‘fevers’.” “Even if you are warm, it’s a normal reaction to the procedure. Stop faking for sympathy. It’s pathetic.” “Nora is hyperventilating because of you. Go back to your room and stay there. Don’t come out until I tell you to.” I curled into a ball on the floor, my voice barely audible. “I just… needed medicine.” He didn’t listen. He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall, tossing me into the guest room. I stumbled, nearly falling again. He pulled his hand back as if I were a leper. “Jade, if you keep using these ‘illness’ theatrics to compete for my attention, I’ll move you out of this house entirely.” As he turned to leave, I called out his name one last time. “Hudson… do you still love me? Do you realize that without your love, I will literally disappear from this world?” He froze, then turned slowly. He started to laugh. It was the most soul-crushing sound I’d ever heard. He walked back, gripped my chin, his nails digging into my skin. “Disappear?” “You’ve finally lost it. You’re making up sci-fi stories to keep me around?” His eyes were full of pure, unadulterated loathing. “If you actually disappeared, it would be a goddamn relief. One less headache for me and Nora.” “A woman like you—who stayed for eight years just to get a piece of the Montgomery fortune—you wouldn’t have the heart to die.” “I bet you targeted me back then because you saw me as a ‘growth stock’ to invest in.” He let go, wiping his hand on his trousers in disgust. “Stop disgusting me with these stunts.” I watched his silhouette vanish. My heart didn’t break; it simply stopped feeling. “Fine,” I whispered to the empty room. “As you wish.” The fever took over. I curled up on the guest bed, listening to the muffled sounds of Hudson singing a lullaby to Nora in the next room. One wall. On one side, a fake romance. On the other, the end of a world. His love hadn’t disappeared. He just never intended to give a single drop of it to me. Beep. [Host, 25 hours remaining. Please hold on.] The next day, Hudson kicked my door open. He was radiating cold fury. “Jade, get up.” He marched to the bed and ripped the duvet off me. “Hudson, I’m really sick,” I croaked. “Save it. Mr. Zhang just pulled out of our biggest merger. Did you talk to him? Did you sabotage me?” “I’m hosting a yacht party tonight. You’re coming. You’re going to fix this.” The Zhang project was one I had secured. The system was clearly working, stripping away the luck I’d given him. “Hudson, I just had a procedure. I can’t be in the cold wind. I can’t drink…” He cut me off, pulling a gaudy, revealing red dress from a shopping bag. “God knows what you did to make Zhang listen to you in the first place. What, are you the ‘social butterfly’ people say you are? Are you a professional ‘companion’ now?” “You’re just going to have a few drinks with him. Stop acting like a saint.” He threw the dress in my face. “Seven o’clock. Be there.” I looked at the scraps of fabric. My eyes burned. Beep. [Countdown: 12 hours remaining. Prepare for extraction.] 7:00 PM. The yacht was filled with the elite of the city. The ocean breeze was ice-cold. My abdomen throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Hudson was there, his arm wrapped around Nora’s waist. They looked like the perfect power couple. When I arrived, Hudson grabbed my arm and pushed me toward Mr. Zhang. Zhang looked at me with a predatory glint. Hudson laughed, a sound like glass breaking. “If you find Jade’s company ‘stimulating,’ Mr. Zhang, feel free to keep her busy tonight.” The crowd chuckled knowingly. Nora hid a smirk behind her champagne flute. My blood felt like slush. Nora drifted toward me. She leaned in, whispering into my ear, “Look at you. Eight years of playing the loyal wife, and he treats you like a common escort. How does it feel to be trash, Jade?” Suddenly, she grabbed my hand and threw herself backward. “Help! She pushed me!” Splash. The freezing water engulfed me. I struggled to breathe, my eyes snapping open under the surface. I saw Hudson dive in, a look of pure panic on his face. He swam toward me. I reached out instinctively, desperate for a lifeline. But just as his fingers were about to touch mine, Nora shrieked from a few yards away. “Hudson! Help me! I’m drowning! I can’t breathe!” Hudson didn’t hesitate. He looked at me with a flash of pure annoyance—as if my drowning were just another ‘stunt.’ He used my shoulder as a stepping stone, shoving me deeper into the dark water to get a better launch toward Nora. I lost my last bit of air. My lungs felt like they were exploding. I watched him pull Nora to the surface. I watched the people on deck frantically tossing life rings—all in the wrong direction. Nobody even remembered I was in the water. I closed my eyes. I let the cold embrace of the Atlantic take me. [Countdown: Zero. Identity erasure initiated.] On the deck, after Hudson had hauled a shivering Nora to safety, he turned back to the dark water, his face twisted in anger. “Jade! How long are you going to play dead in the water?” “Get up here and apologize to Nora right now!” The surface of the water was perfectly still. Not even a ripple. Mr. Zhang looked at him, confused. “Hudson? Who the hell are you screaming at?” Hudson froze. He pointed at the spot where I’d just been. “Jade! She was right there! She fell in with Nora!” The guests exchanged looks of pity and confusion. “Who is Jade? Hudson, only Ms. Whitlock fell in. There was nobody else.”

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Three years into the “Project: Dominic” assignment, the Guide suddenly told me it had glitched. It wasn’t that I had the wrong target. It was that the Guide had the wrong girl. “Total system error,” the voice buzzed in my head, sounding suspiciously like a tired intern. “I misheard the name. The assignment was supposed to go to Hallie, not Hailey. My bad, babe. “Hallie is going to be at the reunion tomorrow. So, Hailey, you can officially clock out. Stop trying to win over Dominic. We’re handing the reins over to Hallie now.” I sat in silence for a long moment, my fingers tracing the edge of my phone. “Okay,” I whispered. Actually, it was more than okay. Dominic didn’t love me anyway. This nameless, shapeless thing we had—it should have ended a long time ago. 1 When the Guide told me I was the wrong girl, the scarf I was knitting for Dominic was finally finished. It was supposed to be his birthday present. On my phone, the last message I’d sent him was still sitting there, unanswered. “Hey, Dom. Guess what I got you for your birthday this year?” As usual, it had disappeared into the void. Dominic never replied to my messages right away. Not once in three years. The Guide kept rambling in my ear: “Ugh, what a mess. Your names are so similar, I didn’t even double-check the file before I synced with you. Honestly, it’s lucky you haven’t succeeded in the last three years. If you’d actually closed the deal and then I found out it was the wrong person? I’d be fired for sure. “I mean, I should have realized it sooner. Looking at Hallie’s profile… she’s brilliant, gorgeous, a total knockout. There’s no way she wouldn’t be loved instantly…” The voice cut off abruptly, then let out a nervous, tinny laugh. “I didn’t mean you’re not those things. It’s just that our ‘Romantic Synergy’ program is designed to pair people who already have a spark of mutual attraction. And if the person is wrong from the start…” “I get it,” I said. “You don’t have to explain.” I finally understood. Why Dominic and I could share a bed, share a life, and yet he refused to ever call me his girlfriend in public. Why no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bridge the distance between us. Three years ago, I should have seen it. Dominic had a low tolerance for anything he considered “average.” And me? I was the girl who spent a month knitting a scarf because I wasn’t smart enough to give him anything else. How could a man like him ever love someone as plain as me? 2 I decided to go to Dominic’s place to pack up my things. Hallie would be here tomorrow. I had no intention of being the pathetic third wheel in their destined romance. But I didn’t expect Hallie to have already reached out to him. Through the garden fence, I saw Dominic sitting on his balcony. He was painting, his phone on speakerphone next to him. Hallie’s bright, melodic voice drifted through the air. “So, are you excited to see me tomorrow?” “Yeah,” Dominic drawled, his voice low and rich. “It’s been a while, old friend. I’m looking forward to it.” “Just ‘looking forward to it’? Hmph. And here I was, thinking I was special. I even prepared a birthday gift for you. Don’t you want to know what it is?” “What?” “Ta-da! It’s a high-level cryptographic puzzle. If you can solve it, I’ll tell you a secret. Consider it your pre-birthday challenge, Mr. Genius. Solve it by the reunion tomorrow, or the offer expires.” I heard Dominic let out a soft, genuine laugh. He set down his brush and picked up the phone. “Now that,” he said, “is interesting.” Dominic never picked up the phone when he was painting for me. I had expected this, but seeing it still made my eyes sting. I turned to leave, but my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Dominic. He had finally, dismissively, replied to my text. Just two words: “How boring.” 3 I was a boring person. That was the truth. The only gift I could think of was a scarf—cliché, uninspired, and common. In Dominic’s words, I was “high on effort, low on intellect.” I couldn’t design a cryptographic puzzle to challenge his mind. I probably couldn’t even solve the first line of Hallie’s. I couldn’t bring myself to go inside and get my stuff today. I just walked home alone. I’d had a crush on Dominic since high school. Back then, I was just one of the dozen girls orbiting his sun. We lived in the same neighborhood, but in the shadow of his brilliance, I was invisible. The only reason he even knew my name was because I was the “useful” neighbor who would deliver love letters to him from other girls. Every time he took a letter from me, he’d smirk and say, “Still running errands for everyone? You’re such a pushover, Hailey.” A pushover. That was his permanent label for me. He never knew that the only reason I ran those errands was to have an excuse to stand in his driveway for thirty seconds. I never thought my crush would ever see the light of day until that first summer of college when the “Guide” found me. It told me it was a “Compatibility Catalyst,” designed to push two people who already liked each other over the finish line. The goal was a public commitment. “This program is about making the world better through love,” it had said. “And the rewards for success are life-changing…” I hadn’t heard the rest. I only heard four words: People who already liked each other. So, Dominic liked me? Even just a little? I had never felt such a surge of hope. When I heard he’d been injured playing soccer, I gathered my courage and knocked on his door. “You’re here to take care of me?” he’d asked, leaning against the doorframe, looking down at me with those heavy-lidded, mocking eyes. “What’s the catch? What do you want?” I looked up at him, unable to lie. “You,” I whispered. “I want you.” He laughed, a sharp, sudden sound. “You’re ridiculous.” But he opened the door. That summer was long. I ran to his house every single day in the sweltering heat. One afternoon, the AC broke. His leg was in a cast, so I climbed the ladder to check the unit while he held the base. I lost my footing and fell straight into his arms. We rolled onto the hardwood floor together. It was summer. We were wearing next to nothing. I felt his heart hammering against mine, felt the sudden shift in the air. I tried to push away, my face flaming, but he grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. “I thought you wanted me?” he teased, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Don’t lose your nerve now.” His face was inches from mine. “You want it? Fine. Let’s see if you can handle it.” 4 We “saw if I could handle it” for three years. But after three years, we still weren’t “us.” Every time I asked for a label, for a commitment, he had an answer ready. “Does a label really matter? You wanted me, you have me. Isn’t that enough?” My brain wasn’t as fast as his. I couldn’t untangle the logic. “But I want to be your girlfriend.” “I’m not looking for something restrictive right now,” he’d say. “Is a title really that important to you? You want to pick a fight over a word?” It was important. I wanted to say that. But I could never win an argument with him, so I always ended up feeling like I was making a big deal out of nothing. Over time, I brainwashed myself. He loves me, I told myself. The Guide said so. He just hates being tied down. Eventually, we’ll get there. But now, the Guide was telling me the whole foundation was a lie. I got home and sat in the dark for hours. Finally, I picked up my phone and sent Dominic one last message. Even if he didn’t care, I needed to close the book. “We’re done, Dominic. Let’s call it here.” 5 I showed up early to the reunion the next day. Dominic wasn’t there yet, but Hallie was. As the former class president, she was the center of the universe, holding court at the main table. “Oh look, Shadow is here!” In high school, when people have similar names, they usually find a way to differentiate them. Hallie and I were no exception. But it wasn’t “Big Hallie” and “Little Hailey.” She was “Hallie.” I was “Shadow.” Or “The Other One.” Or “Specs” back when I wore glasses. In a room with her, I didn’t have a name. Hallie looked over at me, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Oh, stop calling her that, guys. She doesn’t even wear glasses anymore. Don’t be mean,” she chirped. But she was the one who had coined the nickname in tenth grade because she “couldn’t keep us straight.” “Actually, Hailey looks great without the frames,” one of the guys noted. “Yeah, our little Shadow grew up to be a beauty.” “Hailey, you got a boyfriend—” “Leo, Sean, didn’t you guys want to ask me about the grad program at Columbia?” Hallie interrupted smoothly. “I should fill you in before the party really starts.” “Oh, right! Hey, Shadow, come sit with us!” one of the guys called out. “I’m good—” “Sorry I’m late.” The cold, familiar voice behind me made my breath catch. “There he is! The man of the hour!” “Dominic! Get over here!” The crowd swarmed him. I took a quiet step to the side. “Dominic, sit here,” Hallie said, patting the empty chair she’d reserved next to her. Dominic’s gaze flickered over the room, landing on me for a fraction of a second. “What’s everyone talking about?” “Nothing much. Just how Shadow here got a glow-up!” a guy said, pointing at me. “Oh?” Dominic tossed his bag onto the chair next to me, his eyes raking over me. I didn’t look at him. The moment he moved to sit down, I grabbed my purse and walked to the furthest table in the corner of the room. Dominic’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t look angry—just surprised. As soon as he sat down, I heard him speak. “Her?” He let out a short, mocking laugh, looking at the guy who had complimented me. “When exactly did you lose your eyesight, Sean?” 6 The table erupted in laughter. Because Dominic was at the “cool” table, everyone started dragging their chairs over there. My table, at the far end of the hall, was barely half-full. “Unbelievable,” a girl named Sophie muttered next to me. “It’s been years since graduation and they’re still acting like they’re the royal court. Those ‘honor students’ are so cliquey. It’s pathetic.” “Well, we were the ‘slackers,’ remember? We don’t belong in their orbit,” another guy added. “I heard one of them even sponsored this whole event anonymously. We’re just here for the free drinks.” “Who says the slackers didn’t make it? Look at Nate. His tech startup case study won national awards sophomore year. He had his own company before he even graduated. He’s doing better than any of those bookworms. Right, Nate?” I finally looked at the man sitting directly to my right. “Wait—Nate? Nate Miller?” I blinked. “You lost so much weight!” If I was the “Shadow” of the class, Nate had been the “Big Guy.” He’d been the quiet, nerdy kid everyone ignored. He gave me a shy, dimpled smile. “Yeah. Spent the summer after senior year in the gym.” He wasn’t just thinner. He was handsome. He had a grounded, mature energy that the guys at the other table lacked. He raised his glass to our table. “We might not have been the valedictorians, but everyone at this table has something unique to offer. Let’s not sell ourselves short. Lunch is on the ‘elite,’ but after this, I’m taking us all out for drinks and dessert at the rooftop bar downtown. My treat.” “Yes! Nate for President!” our table cheered. The mood shifted instantly. I found myself smiling, actually relaxing for the first time all day. Suddenly, a piece of perfectly seared salmon landed on my plate. I turned. Nate was clearing his throat. “I remembered you used to always wait in the long line for the salmon on Fridays in the cafeteria.” I stared at him, stunned. “You remember that?” He looked a bit embarrassed. “Well, I was usually right behind you in line.” He shifted in his seat. “I heard your company is doing some interesting stuff. But honestly, I’m building some AI robotics right now. It’s pretty cool. You should come by the lab sometime.” I perked up. “Robotics? Like the ones that can do the viral K-pop dances?” Nate froze for a second, then grinned. “If you want to see them dance, I can make them dance.” “Really? When can I come see?” “Hailey! Hey! Specs!” I stiffened. It was the “royal” table calling for me. “The genius here won’t spill, but you’re his neighbor. You’ve gotta know.” Know what? “Does Dominic have a girlfriend or what?!” Dominic didn’t even look up. He was leaning in close to Hallie, whispering something that made her giggle incessantly. “I wouldn’t know,” I said, my voice coming out flat and calm. “We aren’t that close.” Dominic’s head snapped up. His dark eyes locked onto mine, burning with a sudden, sharp intensity. I looked away, turning back to Nate. We were laughing at something Nate said when I accidentally bit into a piece of spicy pepper. I started coughing instantly. “You okay?” Nate immediately handed me his water. “Fine, fine,” I wheezed, my face turning red. I stood up. “I just need to run to the restroom.” 7 I was washing my face in the restroom, trying to get the heat to die down, when I stepped out into the empty hallway. Suddenly, a hand shot out, grabbed my arm, and yanked me into an empty coatroom. “You want to tell me again how we ‘aren’t that close’?” Dominic’s hand gripped my chin, tilting my face up. He leaned down, biting my lower lip hard enough to make me wince. “You aren’t close to me? Then who are you close to? Nate Miller? Does he know exactly how you like to be touched when you’re overwhelmed? Does he know how your hands shake when I kiss you right here?” I snapped out of the shock and shoved him back with everything I had. “What is wrong with you?” He wasn’t expecting the force. He stumbled back a few steps, his expression darkening. “I should be asking you that, Hailey. What kind of game have you been playing since yesterday?” I wiped my mouth, glaring at him. “It’s not a game. It’s exactly what I said in the text. We’re done.” “Hah.” He let out a dry laugh. He reached into his pocket and tossed a bottle of cold yogurt at me. I caught it reflexively. “I saw you coughing and went to the bar to get you this like a damn idiot, and this is how you treat me?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You’re throwing a tantrum. I get it. You’re trying to move the goalposts by ignoring me and flirting with Nate. Is this about the girlfriend thing? You really want me to claim you in front of everyone that badly? You’re that vain?” I stared at him, genuinely baffled. “What are you talking about?” “Isn’t it obvious? Yesterday you ‘break up’ with me, today you act like I’m a stranger. You’re trying to force my hand. You want the title.” Suddenly, I felt a profound sense of exhaustion. “And if I was? If everything was exactly as you thought, and I spent three years ‘calculating’ just to get a title… would you give it to me?” He went silent. “Does it really matter that much to you?” he asked finally. I laughed. It was a small, bitter sound. I threw the yogurt back at his chest. “So that’s it? You think I should just be grateful? Grateful that I got to sleep with the great Dominic? Grateful that I got to fulfill my pathetic high school crush? “Dominic, what have I been to you for three years? You knew I loved you, so you handed out crumbs of affection like charity. You watched me beg for a scrap of commitment from your pedestal. Did that make you feel powerful?” He frowned. “What are you talking about? We had an arrangement. You wanted me, I wanted you. It was mutual. Don’t act like a victim now. I told you from day one—I don’t do strings. And you’re the one who knocked on my door, remember?” “I remember. And I’m the one closing it now. It’s that simple.” I turned to walk away. He grabbed my arm again. “You’re serious? Over a label?” “Are you deaf?” I shoved his hand off. “Fine.” He let go, his face a mask of cold fury. “Fine. We’re done. But Hailey, I’m not a revolving door. You don’t get to come and go when you feel like it. You chose this. Don’t come crying back when you realize Nate Miller isn’t me.” “I won’t,” I said. Our beginning was a mistake. Our end was overdue. I walked away. Thwack. Behind me, I heard the sound of the yogurt bottle hitting the bottom of the trash can.

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On the night of my thirtieth birthday, my husband, Ryan, leaned across the table and kissed his “best friend,” Nora, right in front of everyone. It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It was deep, lingering, and unmistakably intimate. I stood there, a ghost at my own feast, watching them through a haze of frozen silence. When I finally found my voice to protest, Ryan didn’t apologize. Instead, he snapped at me with a look of pure disgust. “For God’s sake, Brooke, it’s just a joke between friends. Are you really that repressed? If Nora and I were going to happen, it would’ve happened years ago. You wouldn’t even be in the picture.” He grabbed Nora’s hand and slammed the door behind them, leaving our friends staring at the half-eaten cake. That night, I saw Nora’s Instagram post: a photo of the two of them clinking glasses in a dark bar, their faces inches apart. The caption read: The only one who truly gets me. In the past, I would have chased after them. I would have stormed into Nora’s apartment, screaming, crying, demanding to know if Ryan still loved me. But tonight, the fire just went out. I didn’t want to fight anymore. … Ryan didn’t come home until the following afternoon. The house was a disaster zone—shards of glass, discarded party favors, and smeared frosting everywhere. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor bit by bit. Yesterday had been the big three-zero. Ryan had spent months telling me, “Don’t listen to those people who say women peak at twenty-nine. I’m going to give you the best of everything. We’ll have a huge party at home, show everyone how happy we are.” Because of that one promise, I’d spent five months preparing. I hit the gym every day after work, took gourmet cooking and baking classes, and hired a professional staging team to transform our living room. I was exhausted, stressed, and running on fumes, while he spent every evening “helping Nora move” or “grabbing a quick drink with the guys.” On the day of the party, he spent the entire night flirting with her. Then, he left me for her. “You’ve been at it all morning and the place is still a mess?” Ryan asked, leaning against the doorframe. He looked refreshed, smelling of expensive cologne and the faint scent of Nora’s vanilla perfume. “The cake got everywhere,” I said, not looking up. “It’s hard to get out of the rug.” Ryan let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “It’s just housework, Brooke. If you can’t even handle a little cleaning, what can you do?” In the old days, a comment like that would have sent me into a spiral of self-doubt. I would have spent the rest of the day apologizing, trying to be the perfect, effortless wife he wanted. Now, even the effort of a rebuttal felt like too much. It was my birthday. I had paid for the catering. I had baked that cake with my own hands, only for them to use it as a prop in their little “bestie” games, smashing it and laughing at my “lack of a sense of humor” when I didn’t join in. They got to leave and keep the party going at a club; I, the birthday girl, was left to pick up the ruins. Maybe it was my silence that finally got to him. Sensing something was off, Ryan walked over and tried to snatch the microfiber cloth from my hand. “Here, move. I’ll do it.” I recoiled, physically repulsed by his touch. He stepped forward anyway, crowding my space. I lost my footing on the soapy tile and went down hard. Ryan didn’t reach out to catch me. He didn’t even bend down to help me up. He just stood there and doubled over with laughter. “Jesus, you’re so clumsy… look at you… haha…” I felt a sharp, sickening cramp in my lower abdomen. A warm, heavy sensation began to spread beneath me. I groaned, clutching my stomach, my vision blurring at the edges. Ryan’s laughter died out when he noticed the dark red stain blooming on the floor between my legs. His face went pale. He finally moved, scooping me up and rushing me to a waiting Uber. The pain was rhythmic now, a dull carving knife inside my gut. I had a terrible premonition, so I didn’t fight him. I just leaned my head against the cool glass of the car window. As we reached the hospital lobby, we ran into Nora. She was standing by the pharmacy, looking pale. The moment she saw Ryan, she swayed, collapsing into his arms. “Ryan… I saw someone in the ER with a gash… the blood… I’m going to pass out…” Ryan caught her instantly, his face full of a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. He looked at me, then at the girl in his arms. “Brooke, look, it’s probably just your period. You always lose track of your cycle. Go check yourself in and make sure you didn’t bruise your tailbone. Nora’s vasovagal—she’s actually going to faint. I have to get her to a seat.” I just nodded. Ryan paused, giving me a strange, suspicious look. “Are you mad?” I said nothing. Why would I be mad? Did he want the old Brooke? The one who would scream and make a scene? I didn’t have the energy for her anymore. Nora let out a perfectly timed whimper. Ryan turned and ran with her toward the triage desk. If he didn’t hurry, the tiny papercut on Nora’s finger might actually stop bleeding on its own. I turned away and walked toward the OB-GYN wing, leaving a trail of red spots on the white linoleum. I sat in the waiting room until a nurse noticed me and rushed me into an exam room. I had a miscarriage. The doctor asked for my husband to sign the consent forms for the procedure. I told her I didn’t have any family with me. I signed the papers myself and climbed onto the cold surgical table. When the anesthesia wore off, the physical pain was replaced by a hollow, echoing ache. Tears leaked out of the corners of my eyes, betraying the numbness I had tried to cultivate. All afternoon, my phone remained silent. Not a single text from Ryan. That was the moment the last spark of my marriage turned to ash. I was sitting on the sofa in the dark when Ryan finally walked in that evening. He flicked on the light, squinting at me. “Where’s dinner?” In five years of marriage, he had never come home to an empty table. I had turned down promotions and skipped countless networking events just to make sure he had a hot meal the second he walked through the door. This was the first time there was nothing. Ryan glared at me, waiting for me to jump up and start cooking. I just glanced at him and said, “If you’re hungry, make something yourself.” “What the hell is wrong with you now?” he barked. Then, he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Right. Hormonal. Women on their periods are the worst.” He softened his expression slightly—that performative “good guy” look—and tossed a box of drugstore heat patches onto my lap. “Here. You’re always complaining about cramps. Nora reminded me to bring these home for you.” I didn’t even touch the box. “I don’t want them. Give them back to her.” I had already seen Nora’s latest post. A picture of her hand, bandaged and delicate, resting on her stomach while a man’s hand—wearing Ryan’s wedding ring—applied a heat patch to her. The caption: He knows exactly what I need when I’m feeling down. The patches in the box were the leftovers. He was giving me the scraps of his care for another woman. Ryan didn’t listen. He tore one open and tried to lift my shirt to stick it on me. I shoved him away with everything I had. The sudden movement pulled at my internal stitches, and I let out a strangled cry of pain. Ryan stumbled back, hitting his hip against the dining table. His face darkened instantly. “Brooke, you’re acting like a literal psycho! It’s just a period. Nora is on her cycle too, and she was still thoughtful enough to tell me to bring these to you. She literally almost fainted today because of her blood phobia—do you understand the concept of priority?” “Ryan, I didn’t have my period,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I had a miscarriage.” He froze. For a second, a flash of something like guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a cynical sneer. “A miscarriage? And you’re this calm? Is this your new move, Brooke? Another play for attention?” He paced the room, laughing bitterly. “We had that fertility check-up years ago. The doctor said it would be nearly impossible for you to conceive. Now you’re claiming a ‘miscarriage’ the day after you’re mad about my birthday party? Your delusions are getting out of hand.” In the eyes of Ryan and his friends, I was the “crazy, obsessive wife” who hallucinated affairs. I had wanted a baby more than anything. When the doctors told me it was unlikely, I had cried for weeks. I had tracked every ovulation, begged Ryan to try, but nothing ever happened. I had finally made peace with the idea that it wouldn’t happen for us. And then, the one time a miracle happened, it left before I even knew it was there. It was as if the baby knew there was no love left in this house to greet it. I stood up, grabbing my keys. “Believe what you want.” “Where are you going?” Ryan shouted. “Another dramatic exit?” “My friend is moving,” I said, opening the door. “I’m going to help her with her housewarming.” Ryan rushed into the hallway, actually trying to block my path. This was a first. Usually, when I left after an argument, I’d be the one crawling back two days later, begging for forgiveness regardless of who was at fault. I was done being that person. I sidestepped him and walked out. An hour later, I was at Becca’s new apartment. When I told her about the miscarriage, she didn’t call me a liar. She just held me and cried, staying up with me until the sun began to peek through the blinds. During those hours, we talked about everything—our high school dreams, our careers, life. I didn’t check my phone once. Ryan sent a single text asking if I wanted him to Postmates me some ginger tea. I didn’t reply. Then, I saw a notification from the “Friend Group” chat. Nora had posted a photo of a ginger tea cup with the message: @Ryan, thanks for the tea, babe. Life saver. The message was deleted seconds later, a classic “oops, wrong chat” move. I didn’t care. The next morning, Ryan texted again: The takeout I ordered for lunch is gross. You coming back? Becca caught a glimpse of the screen as I set the phone down to eat my breakfast. She stared at me in shock. “You’re not going back to cook for him?” “No,” I said. For five years, his needs were my north star. If he was hungry, I cooked. If he was stressed, I listened. Now, I looked back at that version of myself with nothing but exhaustion. Becca sipped her coffee, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Looks like the ‘Pick-Me’ fever finally broke.” I looked at her. “Becca, you’re a paralegal. Do you know any good divorce attorneys?” She nearly fell out of her chair. She grabbed a legal pad and started listing names and strategy points with terrifying enthusiasm. She promised to find me the shark of all sharks. I didn’t understand half of what she said, but I told her to handle it. I stayed at Becca’s for a week. Ryan’s texts transitioned from annoyed to “thoughtful” to angry. I ignored them all. On Mother’s Day, my mother-in-law posted a photo in the family chat. So lucky to have such a devoted son, she wrote. In the photo, Nora was draped over Ryan like a cheap cardigan. Minutes later, Ryan called. I actually picked up. “Brooke, don’t overthink the photo. I went home to see my mom and she invited Nora. You know how she is, I couldn’t exactly kick her out…” “I don’t care, Ryan,” I interrupted. “Is that all? I’m busy.” “You… you aren’t mad?” “Should I be? Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? Freedom?” He was silent for a long time. I was about to hang up when he spoke again. “Mom wants a family dinner this Saturday. I’ll pick you up at six.” I went to decline, but he had already hung up. Saturday rolled around, and Ryan was out front early. When the car pulled up, Nora poked her head out of the passenger window, a smug grin on her face. “Hey, Brooke! Jump in the back. We’ve been waiting forever.” She was acting like she owned the car. I didn’t say a word; I just opened the back door and sat down. I didn’t care about the passenger seat. I didn’t even ask why “the best friend” was coming to a family dinner. Ryan looked at me through the rearview mirror, appearing unsettled. “Nora gets car sick in the back. And my mom said to bring her along…” “I heard you. You don’t need to explain.” There had been so many times I had fought for that front seat. I’d made scenes on street corners, demanding to know why another woman was sitting next to my husband. Ryan always had the same excuse: Nora gets motion sickness. I ignored them both and spent the ride texting Becca. When we arrived at the house, I handed my mother-in-law a gift bag of high-end supplements. “Happy Mother’s Day. For your health.” She barely glanced at it, tossing it onto the side table before grabbing Nora’s hand with a beaming smile. We followed them into the dining room. The food was all the things I hated—heavy, greasy dishes that Ryan loved. No one had bothered to ask what I wanted. Nora and Ryan sat together, with me on the other side of Ryan. Even then, Nora kept leaning across me to whisper in his ear. At one point, she peeled a shrimp, reached across my chest, and dropped it into Ryan’s bowl. Ryan shot me a nervous glance. When he saw I wasn’t reacting, he visibly relaxed. I stood up. “Nora, why don’t we swap seats? It’ll be easier for you two to talk.” The table went dead silent. At previous dinners, I would have exploded. I would have called her a homewrecker, she would have called me a lunatic, and Ryan would have played the weary martyr. Now, Nora eagerly jumped at the chance to swap. Ryan stared at me, his expression unreadable, almost haunted. I stepped outside to take a work call. When I came back, the scene inside looked like a Hallmark movie. They looked like a family. A family I wasn’t part of. As I sat down, I heard Nora say, “Oh, Mrs. Miller, I couldn’t. It’s too much.” I looked over. My mother-in-law was sliding a heavy, vintage gold bangle off her wrist—the Miller family heirloom—and pushing it onto Nora’s hand. The air in the room shifted. Even Ryan’s cousins looked uncomfortable. Nora shot me a quick, malicious look of triumph. Ryan kept eating, his eyes fixed on his plate. He didn’t say a word to stop it.

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The balance on our joint savings account was zero. One hundred thousand dollars—the down payment for our future, the safety net I’d spent three years weaving—had vanished. I stood at the bank teller’s window, the air-conditioning feeling like ice against my skin, as she calmly informed me that my husband had moved the funds himself. When I confronted him at home, he didn’t even look up from his phone. “Lydia’s son needs a heart transplant, Natalie,” he said, his voice airy, as if he were discussing the weather. “I transferred it to her. What? Are you really going to make a scene over something like this?” I thought of the medical report in my bag. The biopsy results. My world tilted. “But my mother is sick, Derek! It’s cancer!” Derek froze for a second, then a cruel, jagged laugh escaped him. “Oh, so your mother has cancer? Well, thank God I gave that money to Lydia first. If I’d left it to you, you’d have flushed it down the toilet trying to save a lost cause. Talk about throwing good money after bad.” He shrugged, heading toward the bedroom. “She’s old. If there’s no money for treatment, she dies. That’s life.” I looked at the trash can in the kitchen. I reached into my bag, pulled out the medical report—the one that actually belonged to his mother, Martha—and let it flutter into the garbage. Fine. If the money is gone, it’s gone. But someone’s mother is about to die, and it isn’t mine. … The health checks had come back that morning. My mother was fine. I was fine. It was Martha, my mother-in-law, who had early-stage lung cancer. Despite the way she treated me—the constant barbs about my weight, my “masculine” focus on my career, and my inability to get pregnant—my heart had initially ached for her. Derek had lost his father young. I knew Martha was his only anchor, or so I thought. I’d planned to spend the evening going over treatment options with him, figuring out how to reallocate our savings to save her life. Then I saw the $0.00 balance at the ATM. I stumbled back into the house to find Derek packing a suitcase. He looked frantic, his eyes darting to the door. I saw a flash of crimson lace inside the bag—a silk nightgown. For a split second, I thought it was a gift for me. A peace offering. I realize now how pathetic that hope was. It was for someone else. “Where is the hundred thousand, Derek?” I asked, my voice trembling. He arched an eyebrow, giving me that same dismissive look. “I told you. Lydia’s kid. It’s a life-saving surgery. Don’t be so provincial.” “Lydia again!” The name tasted like poison. “How much have you ‘lent’ her since we got married? She’s never paid back a dime. She treats you like her personal handyman and ATM. You’re over there at midnight fixing her lightbulbs while I’m sitting here alone. Who lives like this?” Derek’s face turned a bruised purple. “Shut your mouth! It’s an act of mercy. Maybe if I do some good in the world, God will finally see fit to give you a child. You’ve been a dry well for three years, Natalie. I haven’t divorced you yet, have I? Consider that money a donation for your own karma. And I didn’t ‘lend’ it. I gave it to her. She doesn’t owe us anything.” He tried to push past me. I grabbed his arm, desperate, and he swung back, his palm cracking against my skin. The sting was immediate, hot and sharp. “But Derek,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over. “The cancer. Mom is sick.” He laughed again, that same horrifying sound. “Right, your mom. Like I said, glad the money is gone. Saving her would be like feeding a dead dog. Let her go. It’ll save us the headache.” He whistled a jaunty tune, his suitcase wheels clicking against the hardwood floor as he walked out the door. I wiped my eyes, went to the kitchen, and made sure the medical report was buried deep under the coffee grounds in the trash. The money was gone. But so was his mother’s time. Martha came home later that evening, smelling of cheap perfume and the casino. When she saw there was no dinner on the table, she started in on me immediately. “What, are you trying to starve me? You’re more like a man than a wife, always ‘working,’ always ‘busy.’ No wonder my son is miserable. Any other woman would have a hot meal ready. Derek truly cursed his luck the day he met you.” I didn’t argue. I’ve always been a “silent crier”—the kind of person whose throat tightens until they can’t speak. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of my tears. Everything in this life—the house, the car Derek drove, the savings he’d just stolen—had come from my promotions, my late nights, my grit. And yet, I was the failure. I ordered takeout. Szechuan—extra spicy, heavy on the oil and the peppers. The aroma filled the house. Martha’s anger vanished the moment she smelled the food. “Oh, did you finally get a bonus? About time you contributed something useful.” She grabbed the containers and took them to her room, gorging herself. I heard her coughing from the spice, but she didn’t stop. The doctor had been very specific: a bland, low-sodium diet was crucial for her condition. I sat in the dark living room, scrolling through my phone. A message from a college friend popped up. “Saw Derek’s Instagram story! You guys look so happy. So jealous of that weekend getaway!” I couldn’t see the post. Derek had blocked me from his stories weeks ago. He wasn’t on a business trip. He was at a boutique hotel with Lydia. I messaged my friend back: “I’m at home working. That isn’t me.” The silence that followed was deafening. I was buried in a spreadsheet an hour later when the front door slammed open. Derek was back, and he looked like he wanted to kill someone. “Natalie! You petty, spiteful bitch!” he screamed, looming over my desk. “You reported me to HR? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He was shaking with rage, his finger inches from my nose. “Call my boss right now. Tell them it was a mistake. Tell them you were jealous and made it up, or I’m fired! You’re going to fix this!” I stared at him, confused for a second, before the pieces clicked. My college friend worked in his firm’s marketing department. She must have mentioned his “romantic getaway” to someone who knew he wasn’t there with his wife. I looked at his disheveled hair, the faint scent of another woman’s lotion clinging to him, and felt nothing but cold iron in my chest. “You did this to yourself, Derek. Actions have consequences.” He didn’t speak. He grabbed my laptop and slammed it onto the floor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of dead pixels. “I’m talking to you! You’re going to call him! If I lose this job, we’re done! Everything is over!” He pulled out his phone, dialing his supervisor. “Sir? Yeah, my wife is right here. She wants to clear up the misunderstanding. Hold on.” He thrust the phone at me. I didn’t take it. I swiped my hand, knocking the phone to the floor. “Hello? Hello?” the voice on the line crackled. Derek scrambled for the phone, stammering apologies into the receiver before hanging up. He turned on me like a cornered animal. His hands flew to my throat, squeezing. “I am so sick of you!” he hissed, his eyes bloodshot. “You think because you make more money, you’re better than me? You’re lucky you’re a woman, Natalie. You just have to smile at a client, let some CEO touch your leg, and the deal is closed. If you were a man, you’d be a nobody. You’d be nothing.” I gasped for air, my hands clawing at his wrists. This was the man I’d supported. This was the man whose ego I’d carefully inflated for three years while he bled me dry. “I want… a divorce!” I choked out. “Divorce!” He threw me back against the chair, a sneer curling his lip. “Fine. I’ve been waiting for this. I’m done with your icy, professional bullshit anyway.” Martha finally emerged from her room, having watched the whole thing from the shadows. She feigned a half-hearted attempt to calm him down, whispering in his ear. “Mom! Who cares if she makes money?” Derek yelled. “So what if she gets half the assets? I’m done!” Martha patted his arm, her eyes darting to me. “Oh, honey, don’t be rash. Think about the income…” That was Martha. Always looking at the ledger. She didn’t love me; she loved the lifestyle my salary provided. Derek straightened his shirt, looking at me with pure venom. “You know what, Mom? Let her go. This woman—this ‘alpha female’—her mother is dying of cancer. All that money she makes? It’s going into a black hole of chemo and hospital beds. We need to get out before she drags us down with her.” Martha froze. The color drained from her face, replaced by a sharp, calculating gleam. “Cancer? Oh, God. It’s a bottomless pit. We can’t be tied to that!” She turned to me, her voice shrill. “Natalie, if you want to stay married, you have to cut your parents off. We aren’t letting your mother’s illness ruin our quality of life!” I stood up, my voice steady for the first time in years. “I want a divorce.” They looked at each other, grinning like they’d just won the lottery. We spent the next hour carving up our lives. I didn’t care how tedious it was. I wanted every cent accounted for. “The SUV is worth thirty thousand. You put in five, I put in twenty-five.” “The house—the down payment was all mine…” Derek snapped. “Does this make you feel powerful, Natalie? Look at yourself. You’re thirty-two and divorced. You’re damaged goods. Nobody wants a woman like you. You think your career makes you special? You’re a failure as a wife, a failure as a woman.” He leaned in, his voice a cruel whisper. “Enjoy your dying mother and your empty house. You’re going to rot alone. Good luck with the funeral.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Every mother gets what’s coming to her, Derek.” We signed the papers. I started packing my things. My parents were already on their way to pick me up, their voices thick with concern over the video call when they saw my bruised neck. But before they arrived, the doorbell rang. It was Lydia. She was holding a small boy’s hand. The boy was running around, full of energy, showing absolutely no signs of someone who had supposedly just undergone major heart surgery. “Grandma!” he chirped, running to Martha. Martha beamed, pulling him into a hug. “My beautiful grandson! Lydia, you have such good hips—I knew you’d be a breeder!” Derek didn’t even try to hide it anymore. He took Lydia’s hand. “This is your home now,” he told her. “No more running. No more hiding. You’re safe here.” Lydia’s eyes shone with a predatory triumph. she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply. “I’m so lucky to have you, Derek.” It was nauseating. As I dragged my suitcase toward the door, Lydia stepped in my way, blocking me. “I’m just making sure you don’t ‘accidentally’ pack anything that belongs to my husband.” “Move, Lydia. My makeup is mine.” She put her hands on her hips, her sweet facade dropping. “Derek bought that for you. Since you’re leaving, it stays. It’s mine now.” She reached for my bag. I didn’t pull away. I let the bag drop, and when she tried to grab my vanity case, I let it shatter on the floor. I picked up a jagged shard of glass, holding it low. “Try me,” I whispered. “I have nothing left to lose. Do you?” Derek moved toward me, reaching for a heavy floor lamp to swing. But the door flew open. My father and my cousin—a guy built like a linebacker—stepped in. Derek folded instantly, shrinking back behind the sofa. Martha, however, was emboldened by her own ignorance. She started screaming, throwing herself on the floor. “Go ahead! Hit an old woman! I’ll sue you for everything! I’m a helpless old lady!” My cousin looked down at her with pure disgust. “Shouldn’t you be at a hospital, lady? Or are you waiting to drop dead right here?” Martha paused her theatrics, looking at my mother. “Oh, don’t you look smug? Has Natalie told you yet? You have cancer! You’re a walking corpse!” My mother calmly pulled her phone from her pocket and turned the screen around. It was a digital copy of the lab results. “Martha,” she said softly. “Look at the name on the report. You are the one with cancer.” Martha scrambled to look. Her face went from white to a sickly grey. She staggered back, her breath hitching. “No. No, that’s impossible. I feel fine. I’m healthy!” Derek’s panic flared and then vanished, replaced by his usual arrogance. “Mom, don’t listen to them. It’s a fake! They’re just trying to scare us so I won’t leave her. Natalie is desperate.” He really was a special kind of stupid. If he’d paid attention for a single second, he would have noticed his mother’s weight loss, her constant complaints of abdominal pain. But he only saw what he wanted to see. Martha’s color returned. She straightened her hair, encouraged by Lydia’s whispered reassurances. “That’s right! You’re the one who’s sick! I’ll outlive all of you!” She pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out! All of you! If you touch me, I’m calling the cops!” I held my father back. I didn’t want them getting a police record over these people. I looked at Martha—her face twisted in a mask of triumph and terminal illness. I walked up to her and, with every ounce of resentment I’d built up over three years, I slapped her across the face.

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I was ironing my husband’s dress shirts when a crumpled slip of paper tumbled out of his pocket. It was a paystub. I smoothed it out, my eyes scanning down the rows of deductions and additions until I hit the seventh line. Death Benefit — Spouse Deceased — $8,000.00. Spouse. Deceased. I read those two words three times. Mark only had one spouse: me. But I was alive. My heart was thumping a steady, frantic rhythm against my ribs, and my fingers were still curled around the warm cotton of his sleeve. I stood there on the balcony, the afternoon breeze catching the shirt, inflating it until it looked like a hollow, boneless man dancing in the wind. A memory surfaced—last month at the pharmacy. I’d tried to pick up some flu meds, and the pharmacist told me my insurance card had been declined. “System error,” she’d guessed. I’d believed her. Now, looking at that slip of paper, the chill in my bones told me the system wasn’t broken at all. 01 I turned the paystub over and over until the edges began to fray. The print was neat, clinical. Base salary: $6,800. Seniority bonus: $1,200. Travel allowance: $300. I’d seen these numbers a thousand times. Mark usually tossed his paystubs on the nightstand without a second thought. But this one was different. This one had been folded three times and tucked into the hidden inner pocket of his blazer. Line 7: Death Benefit (Spouse) — $8,000.00. Line 8: Widower’s Special Stipend — $2,000.00/month. I stared at the word “Widower” until it lost all meaning. It meant his wife was dead. I set the iron down, tucked the paystub into my purse, and retrieved a spare key hidden under the shoe rack—the key to his home office. Mark had started locking that door late last year. He claimed he was handling sensitive corporate contracts and didn’t want the “clutter” of our domestic life leaking in. I hadn’t questioned it. The lock turned with a heavy click. The desk was immaculate. A laptop, a stack of trade journals, and a single manila envelope. I opened it. The first page was an application form bearing the logo of the infrastructure firm where Mark worked. Employee Spouse Death Benefit & Survivor Stipend Application. Applicant: Mark Sterling. Relationship to Deceased: Husband. Name of Deceased: Claire Sterling. Social Security Number: My number. Every digit was correct. Date of Death: March 17, 2025. Cause of Death: Illness. I flipped to the next page. It was a formal Death Certificate. My name. My SSN. Our home address. In the box for “Cause of Death,” four words were typed in cold, black ink: Sudden Cardiac Arrest. The certifying facility was listed as “St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital.” I’d lived in this city for five years. I had never heard of a St. Jude’s Memorial. My fingertips went numb. I took photos of everything—every page, front and back, even the adhesive tape on the envelope. Then, I meticulously replaced everything, aligning the creases of the manila folder exactly as I’d found them. I locked the door and slid the key back under the shoe rack. I sat on the sofa, staring at the half-empty glass of orange juice Mark had left on the coffee table this morning. He leaves for work every morning at 6:50 AM. He walks through the door at 6:30 PM sharp. The first thing he does is kick off his loafers. The second thing he does is ask me, “What’s for dinner, babe?” What’s for dinner. He asks me what I’m cooking while he eats the food I bought with my “dead” hands, all while cashing a “Widower’s Stipend” at the office. In his world, I’ve been dead for a hundred and twenty-seven days. 02 The next morning, I took half a day off from my accounting firm. My first stop was the Social Security Administration. I slid my ID into the self-service kiosk. A red box flashed on the screen. Account Terminated: March 2025. Reason: Death of Beneficiary. Deceased. I checked my health insurance portal next. Same red text. Same date. Same reason. I stood in front of the kiosk, a line of eight people forming behind me. An elderly man leaned over my shoulder. “Everything okay, sweetheart? Maybe you typed a digit wrong?” “No,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “It’s not wrong.” I exited the screen and tucked my ID away. One thought hammered at my brain: Mark wasn’t just scamming his company for a few thousand dollars. With that forged certificate, he had effectively “murdered” me within the entire social system. My 401k contributions? Wiped. My health savings account? Frozen. My existence as a citizen? Terminated. I, Claire Sterling, was a ghost in the machine. I didn’t go back to work. Instead, I went to the local police precinct. The officer at the window glanced at my ID, then at my face. “Your ID is active in the DMV database,” he said, frowning. “It’s not flagged as deceased here.” “Then why does Social Security say I’m dead?” The officer tapped a few keys, his brow furrowing. “Your civil status is ‘Active,’ but your federal benefits records have been updated with a death filing… Have you talked to the SSA?” “They told me I need a formal revocation of the death certificate to restore my status. But I didn’t file that certificate.” The officer put down his pen. “Are you telling me someone filed a fraudulent death certificate in your name?” “Yes.” “Do you know who?” I hesitated for a heartbeat. “Yes. My husband.” The look in his eyes shifted. It wasn’t pity; it was the weary cynicism of a man who had seen too many domestic horrors. He slid a report form through the slot. “You can file a report. Forgery of a government document is a felony. Do you want to press charges now?” I stared at the paper for ten seconds. Then, I folded it and put it in my bag. “I need to think.” The officer started to say something, then simply handed me his card. “Whenever you’re ready.” As I walked out of the station, my phone buzzed. It was 1:23 PM. A text from Mark. Hey babe, you feel like tacos or grilled salmon tonight? I stared at the screen. A man collecting a widower’s stipend was asking his “late” wife what she wanted for dinner. I typed two words back. Whatever’s easy. 03 At dinner, Mark moved a piece of salmon onto my plate. “Eat up. You’ve looked a little pale lately. You need the Omega-3s.” I chewed the fish, my mind racing through the last few months, flipping through memories like a ledger. The first clue: The insurance card. Last month at the pharmacy, the clerk had said, “Maybe check with your provider, honey.” I’d assumed it was a glitch and paid cash. The second clue: My phone. Two months ago, Mark told me my number had been “compromised” in a data breach. He took my phone for thirty minutes to “install a security lock.” Now I realized he wasn’t locking it—he was rerouting my Social Security and insurance alerts to his own number. I never saw the notifications that I’d been declared dead. The third clue: Mark’s colleagues. Two weeks ago, I’d dropped by his office to surprise him for lunch. I ran into Gary, one of his department heads, in the hall. “Hey, Gary! Long time no see,” I’d said, smiling. Gary’s face didn’t register a smile. It registered pure, unadulterated terror. He turned pale, his lip trembled, and he practically ran in the opposite direction without a word. I thought he was just having a bad day. Now I knew. In that office, Gary hadn’t seen a colleague’s wife. He’d seen a ghost. “Where are you, Claire?” Mark’s voice snapped me back. “Just tired,” I said, setting down my fork. “Mark, how’s the firm doing this year? Any talk of layoffs?” “Doing fine. Same old grind.” He took a big bite of rice. “Why do you ask?” “Just curious. I haven’t seen your paystub in a while. Did that cost-of-living raise ever kick in?” His hand paused. It was subtle—less than half a second—but his knuckles whitened. “Nah. Still the same base. Paystubs are boring, babe. Nothing changes.” “Right,” I said, looking down at my plate. I did the math in my head. Death benefit: $8,000 lump sum. Survivor stipend: $2,000 a month for 36 months. Total: $72,000. $80,000. That was the price of my life. He’d been cashing it for four months already. $16,000 in the pocket. To get that money, he’d erased my five years of social security contributions and my entire medical history. Mark stood up to clear the table. As he passed behind me, he grazed the back of my head with his hand, a gesture that used to feel like affection. “I’m leaving early tomorrow for a site visit. Get some extra sleep.” “Okay.” I listened to him in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running. Mark never volunteered to do the dishes. He was doing them tonight. Maybe because he felt guilty. Or maybe because the $8,000 check had finally cleared and he was in a celebratory mood. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing—a sane man doesn’t fake a death certificate just for eighty grand. There had to be something else. 04 For the next three days, I played the part. I made breakfast at 6:30, left for work at 7:20, bought groceries at 6:00, and had dinner ready by 7:00. Mark would walk in, change his shoes, and ask what was for dinner. I’d tell him it was pasta or stir-fry. Everything was “normal.” But every day during my lunch break, I used my office computer to dig. I’m an accountant; I have a nose for paper trails. On Monday, I checked our property records. We’d bought our suburban house three years ago. I’d put down $200,000 of the down payment; he’d put down $100,000. Both our names were on the deed. Except, when I pulled the digital records at the County Recorder’s office, I found a title change filed two months ago. The house was now in Mark’s name only. Reason for Transfer: Death of Co-owner. Sole ownership vested in surviving spouse. My hand froze on the mouse for a full thirty seconds. It wasn’t just the $80,000. He was stealing the house. The equity was worth at least $600,000. On Tuesday, I dug into his finances. I knew his phone passcode—he thought I didn’t, but the glass coffee table reflected his thumb movements every night. 1-9-7-8-6-3. His Venmo and banking apps told the real story. Every month, there were four or five transfers to accounts with generic names like “Loan Servicing” or “Private Recovery.” The amounts ranged from $3,000 to $10,000. One month, he’d sent out $37,000. I tracked the IDs. They weren’t banks. They were offshore gambling sites and high-interest private lenders. I went back six months. Mark had burned through nearly $230,000. His salary was barely $7,000 a month. Where was the money coming from? I checked his savings. $41.55. Then I saw a linked account I didn’t recognize—a regional bank in Nevada. The balance was zero, but a transfer of $35,000 had gone out three days ago. A $230,000 debt. A $7,000 income. Suddenly, the death certificate made perfect sense. The $80,000 in benefits, the $600,000 in home equity—he wasn’t just scamming his company. He was using my “death” to pay off his life.

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