Before my mother passed, she left me three matches — each one capable of taking me back in time. I used the first match to return to the night Miller was drugged. I knocked over his spiked drink before he could touch it. He never slept with his secretary, Scarlett. I saved our marriage. But then, not long after, we were in a car accident. Miller threw himself over me, shielding my body with his. His injuries were too severe. He didn’t make it. Without a second thought, I struck the second match. We went back to before the crash, and this time, we walked away without a scratch. I thought I would never need the third match. Then Miller set a sonogram down in front of me, and I went completely still. His voice was ice. “Scarlett is four months pregnant. The baby is mine.” A ringing filled my ears. Everything felt distant, like a dream. Miller kept talking. “The fact that I survived that accident means God gave me a second chance — a chance to go after what I really want.” “You can keep the title of Mrs. Miller. Just stay out of Scarlett’s way.”

I couldn’t figure out how Miller still remembered the accident. But surely he didn’t think he was the one who had traveled through time? The hospital air conditioning sent a chill crawling across my skin. “When did it start?” I asked. Something in his expression softened. “That doesn’t matter anymore. Scarlett isn’t like you. She grew up with nothing — no stability, no security.” “The baby is her anchor. And my proof.” “Besides, we’ve been together too long. What I feel for you now is more like family. The love is gone.” I had found out about him and Scarlett on our tenth wedding anniversary. By then, the baby was already five years old. He had cut open his own wrist and written me a letter in blood. He confessed that someone had drugged him, that he had slept with his secretary Scarlett, and that he intended to take responsibility for her. He transferred everything — every asset — into my name. In a moment of desperation, I had used a match to go back to our fifth year of marriage. I forced down the trembling in my chest. “So you remember everything. You really did fall in love with Scarlett?” Miller answered without any particular emotion. “Yes. I know it sounds unbelievable, but every time I come close to death, I end up back in the past.” “You’ve always been strong. You don’t need security the way she does.” “After the SATs, you were the one who wanted to run away with me. But Scarlett — she’s different from you.” I pressed my hand to my chest. A sudden, sharp pain shot through my ribs and bent me forward. After the SATs, we had made a promise to run away together. But that night, I waited and waited — and it was my parents who showed up, not him. I confronted him. I demanded to know why. Miller looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, his voice gentle. “Samantha, your dad was right. We’re both too young.” “Give me a little more time. I’ll do this properly. I’ll come for you in the open, the right way.” I was furious. I gave him the cold shoulder, and even when we ended up at the same university, I treated him like a stranger. But in our second year, he teamed up with some friends on a gaming project, and it actually made money. He took every dollar he’d earned and came to ask my father for permission to marry me. My father still said no. He called Miller an orphan with a broken character. Miller just smiled, said nothing, and went back to work. I gritted my teeth, defied my father, and married him anyway — quietly, without anyone’s blessing. Now Miller looked at me with cold, flat eyes. “You can always file for divorce. Of course, your mother’s medical bills would become your problem to handle alone.” He answered a call and walked out. I stood there with my hand over my heart. When someone falls out of love, can they really become this cruel? My mother had taken Miller in after she learned he had no parents. She’d treated him like a son. She lived with us in the house and looked after us both. Once, someone called him a bastard with no mother. My mom grabbed a spatula and chased them down the street. And yet, no matter how many times I went back, she still got cancer. Every time. I stood up and went after him. I was the one who gave him the ability to go back. I was the one who saved his life. What gave him the right to betray me again? The smell of rain and wet earth hit me before I even reached the door. Scarlett was outside wearing Miller’s dress shoes, her arms looped around his neck. “The baby and I have been waiting forever!” “You’re so late! You have to buy me something to make it up to me!” Miller smiled at the corner of his mouth. “There’s a Sotheby’s auction coming up. I saw some jewelry pieces that would suit you perfectly. I’ll have someone bid on them for you.” My feet stopped moving. I watched Miller kiss Scarlett, and when she pulled back, he leaned in and kissed her again. It hit me then — we hadn’t been that close in years. We hadn’t actually kissed since our honeymoon. Not once. The most affection I ever got was a peck on the cheek. I pulled out the last match. Even the cold rain couldn’t cut through the fog in my mind. What moment could I even go back to now? Miller’s affair was already set in motion — but my mother’s cancer was under control. She wouldn’t have to suffer through the pain she went through the first time I went back. Did I even need to go back again?

A nurse nearby sighed, her voice full of admiration. “Apparently, to make Scarlett feel secure, they sleep together every single night — just trying to have a baby as soon as possible.” “And last time, Scarlett said she thought he was unclean, so Miller dragged in several doctors to run tests on him. He even booked cosmetic treatments.” “That’s not even the half of it. Apparently Scarlett fell in love with the house where Miller’s wife lives, so he’s been telling people the company needs financing and he has to sell the place — he’s moving his wife to some apartment near the hospital.” A wave of cold went through me. A year ago, Miller told me the company needed capital to expand. He borrowed from the bank, but it still wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stand watching him get pressured and drunk at business dinners just to close deals. So I suggested selling our house myself. We rented a smaller place near the hospital to make it easier to visit my mother. That house had been our first home as a married couple. Letting it go wasn’t easy. Miller held me and promised that once the money came back, he would get us an estate — something even better. I didn’t want him to struggle. I used the inheritance my father had left me to cover our living expenses. And I went back to work. The nurses’ voices drifted in from down the hall as they walked. “Apparently he even set up a flower shop across from the hospital just for her.” I looked through the rain at the little shop, still open, its lights on. I laughed, but it came out wrong. The tears fell before I could stop them. Every morning, I stopped by that shop on my way in. Bought a fresh bouquet. The staff told me the owner was an old friend of Miller’s, and that was why they always gave me a discount. When Miller found out, his eyes flickered. He gave a vague, noncommittal answer that I took as a yes. I pushed open the door. The girl at the counter clearly recognized me. “You were just here this morning. Another bouquet already?” I looked around the shop. The lighting, the layout of the sink, the placement of the display cooler — all of it was impossibly familiar. Early in our relationship, Miller asked me what I would do if money didn’t matter. I said I wanted to open a flower shop. I’d pulled out a thick stack of design sketches I’d been working on since middle school. It was the dream I’d held onto for years. My father called it a waste of time. Miller sat with me and helped me refine every drawing. But after we married, my time was swallowed whole — attending events with other executives’ wives, managing the household staff, playing the role of the perfect hostess. On top of all that, I had my own job. There was nothing left for dreams. The anger sat in my throat, hard and immovable. The counter girl spoke suddenly. “Did you do something to our manager?” “Honestly, I’d apologize if I were you. A sick person breathing in flowers grown with those special nutrients every single day — that can’t be good for you.” I dug my nails into my palm. “What do you mean?” What nutrients? What was she talking about? The girl glanced up at the security camera, then pulled me into the corner. “Those flowers just cause allergies. It’s nothing serious.” “But the manager told us — you tried to drug her husband and get pregnant by him, and luckily he was smart enough to trick you into signing a fake marriage certificate.” “She said someone helped her get rid of your baby too.” “I don’t know, though. You seem like a decent person to me. You even bring us homemade pastries.” The sonogram. It rushed back to me. I grabbed the girl’s hand. “Last May — was your manager in Switzerland?” She nodded. “Yeah, her husband takes her abroad every month because she loves to travel.” “I heard that after college, he found her working at a club and brought her home. Took care of her ever since.” Black spots flickered at the edges of my vision. I steadied myself against the wall. Last April, I was in a car accident. I had gone through round after round of hormone injections. IVF. It finally worked. And then the baby was gone. I called Miller a hundred times. He was in Switzerland. He said the deal was difficult, that the other party wouldn’t budge. When I finally saw him again, I was crying so hard I could barely speak. I asked him why he wasn’t there when I needed him most. I fell apart after that. He was the one who stayed, who walked me back from the edge, who refused to leave my side for even an hour — as though he were atoning for something. Now I understood what he was atoning for. He had already been with Scarlett. The whole time. And I never suspected a thing. I took out my phone and sent the photo of our marriage certificate — the one pinned to the top of my Instagram — to a friend. The reply came back fast. Fake. Who still counterfeits documents in this day and age? That was it, then. Settled. Every time I’d gone back — it had all been for nothing. I had done it to myself. I’d hoped for something that was never real. The last small piece of hope I’d been holding onto finally went out. I knew now exactly which moment I needed to return to.

I sat beside my mother until the sky went dark and the first light of morning came through the window. In the bed beside me, my mother opened her eyes — the pain had been too much to sleep through. My own eyes burned. It was only after pulling myself out of that love that I could see clearly. They had all been suffering because of me. “Mom, if I go back again — will you have to go through all of this again?” It was as if she already understood. She didn’t ask why. She just said softly: “When you go back next time, I’ll finally tell you where the matches came from.” I went back to the house that had been sold. I needed to ask Miller why. I loved him fully, and I was going to leave with the full truth. The old housekeeper was still there, working as she always had. My throat felt tight, like something lodged deep. A quiet pain that kept coming. Everyone had known. Everyone except me. I had been the last to find out — the punchline of a joke I wasn’t in on. I set the photograph of our marriage certificate on the table in front of him. “Why?” Why hold on to me, knowing it was false? Why not just tell me the truth? Why arrange for our baby to be taken from me? Why let Scarlett send chemically treated flowers to my mother, month after month, and say nothing? Every question was there, jammed in my throat. Miller’s eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn’t expected me to find out. His knuckles curled. “You were always good at being a wife.” “What I wanted for Scarlett was different. I wanted her to be free. To never have to worry about anything — just love me.” “When we stopped talking in college, she was the one who came to comfort me. She helped me think of ways to win you back.” “The flowers, the jewelry, the things I said to you — all of it came from her.” “By the time we were ready to get married, I found out she had feelings for me all along. She was just too insecure to say anything. And then her family sold her to that club.” “The night of our wedding, when I said I was busy — I was going to bring her home. She was more careful with herself than you. She never chased after anyone.” “The divorce papers — I had you sign them the day we finalized the sale of the house.” Nausea rose in my chest. I remembered the night he had come to find me during our long silence. He was crying, really crying — but he hadn’t made any grand promises. He spent every dollar he had on a diamond ring for me. And the way he looked at me then — there had been real love in his eyes. I was sure of it. I pressed my brows together hard. The insults dissolved into something quieter. “That’s disgusting.” Miller sighed. He reached out and took my hand. “Samantha, I always thought you were the capable one. I won’t shortchange you on what’s yours.” But what I got was pain. Deception. Betrayal. The face I had known for fifteen years slowly became something monstrous in my eyes. I took back my phone and stood to leave. There was nothing left to ask. A hollow exhaustion settled over me. Miller looked startled. He stood quickly, and I felt my wrist caught in his grip. His expression shifted — irritable, unsettled. “Why are you playing the wounded victim?” “You think I don’t know what you’ve done?” A stack of photographs hit me in the face. They scattered across the floor. I looked down at them. They were AI-generated images. Obviously fake. Me, with different men. But Miller’s voice came down hard. “You went behind my back during our fight. You were sleeping around.” “If it weren’t for Scarlett, I’d still have no idea. I loved you enough to marry you without questioning your past — and this is what I get.” I almost laughed out loud. I had loved this man for that long. I had been that blind. I had burned two matches for him. I had made my mother suffer through it twice. I closed my eyes. “Miller, are you actually that stupid? Have your IT people run a forensic check on those images. You’ll see they’re fake in five minutes.” “You just couldn’t wait to throw dirt on me. You need to make your cheating look like a reaction. Like you were forced into it. Like you were the devoted one.” My phone rang. A nurse, her voice urgent and scared. “Samantha! Scarlett came into your mother’s room — your mother has gone into shock!”

I yanked my wrist free and ran. Miller caught up and shoved me toward his car. “You think you can wait for a cab? Can your mother?” I didn’t argue. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I pushed through the door. Scarlett was kneeling on the floor in front of me, her face a performance of distress. “Samantha! I only said a couple of words to your mom, and she started screaming at me — calling me names, trying to hit my stomach!” I stepped past her and went straight to my mother’s side. “That’s impossible. Pancreatic cancer patients don’t have the strength to fight or scream.” Scarlett crumpled to the ground, both hands clutching her abdomen, her face pale. Before I could say another word, pain exploded across my cheek. Miller’s voice was merciless. “You go sleep around and lose your own baby, and now you want to take mine too?” I had only walked past her. I hadn’t touched her. Was everything Scarlett’s fault now mine? The heart monitor began screaming. Fear froze me where I stood. I watched Miller scoop Scarlett up off the floor and call every available doctor out of the room. I stepped in front of him. “My mother hasn’t been stabilized yet. Don’t you dare forget — she took care of you every single day. She got up in the middle of the night to make you soup when you were hungry.” Miller glanced at the hospital bed. Something moved across his face briefly. Then Scarlett let out a pained cry in his arms. “The baby — it’ll be okay, right?” He caught a doctor’s eye and gave a quick, loaded look. “Samantha, your mother’s cooking was never that good. And I never asked for her help.” “A woman who raised a daughter like you — maybe the illness is karma.” Those two sentences landed like a blow to the head. I stood there, stunned and dizzy. While the doctor began resuscitation, a nurse pulled him away. The last trace of hope I’d held for Miller — the thought that maybe, at least, he cared about my mother — dissolved completely. The line on the monitor went flat and stayed there. I couldn’t tell anymore if it was numbness or grief. My spine wouldn’t hold me upright. My knees hit the floor. With shaking hands, I pulled the matchbox from my pocket. The flame kept going out. My tears put it out again and again. When it finally caught, a hand seized my hair and yanked. “Scarlett’s baby almost didn’t make it. Mr. Miller sent us to teach you a lesson.” I stopped fighting. I just looked at the match still burning on the floor. The cold seeped into my skin. From the next room came Scarlett’s voice, soft and playful. “The doctor said the baby is stable. We’re cleared, baby. Come here — I’ve been waiting.” “Don’t you think it’s kind of a thrill? Samantha and her mother right next door, listening to us?” The blood rushed to my head all at once. I kicked the man in front of me as hard as I could. I grabbed everything within reach and threw it at them. Why? Why, even now, did they have to do this to us? The noise brought Miller in from next door. His shirt was half-open, red marks visible on his chest. Scarlett pressed a hand to her lips, eyes wide with mock horror. “Samantha — don’t tell me you had someone in here with you? Did you actually get your mother so worked up she — ” I picked up the fruit knife from the table. I smiled. I pushed off the floor with everything I had and closed the distance to Scarlett in a single motion. Miller’s instinct took over — he threw himself in front of her. The knife went into his chest. Scarlett’s scream tore through the room. The match flame died. “Miller. I’m the one who can go back in time.” “This time — let’s go back to before the SATs.” Miller stared at me, the color gone from his face, his eyes full of something he couldn’t name.

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At a college reunion, my wife Brittany ran into her first love, Leonardo. What I never expected was that after the party, all three of us got kidnapped. When I opened my eyes again, we were locked inside an abandoned warehouse, with several countdown bombs strapped to my body. They tried dozens of times and still couldn’t disarm them. With nothing left to hope for, I sat bound to a chair, ready to face death alongside my wife. But instead, she and Leonardo were clinging to each other in tears. “Leonardo,” she sobbed, “if we’d both been a little braver back then, we’d already be married by now. I never got you out of my heart. I’m still a virgin because of you.” “Brittany, stop crying. If this is our last day, I want to make up for everything we lost.” With those words, Leonardo pulled my wife into a deep kiss. Then the two of them walked to the corner of the warehouse and started having sex. My heart felt like it was being torn apart. I sat there, waiting for death with nothing but grief and despair. Half an hour later, they stood before me with their clothes in disarray. The countdown on the bombs reached zero, but nothing exploded. Then the door swung open, and a group of friends walked in. “Brittany, you finally let go of all that baggage.” “If we hadn’t staged the whole kidnapping, would you two have ever opened up to each other?”

Brittany went rigid. The flush in her cheeks slowly drained to white. “A… a prank?” Someone noticed how lost she looked and walked over with a grin, giving her cheek a playful pinch. “Yeah!” “At the party, you kept staring at Leonardo with this heavy look on your face. As your best friend, of course I knew what was weighing on you.” “But that kind of thing doesn’t just go away on its own. If you never dealt with it, you’d never really be happy.” “Now seeing you and Leonardo holding hands, I’m genuinely so happy for you!” “Exactly, Brittany. How else were we supposed to help you get past this?” “Wait — what’s that smell??” Before the words even landed, the whole group erupted in a wave of knowing gasps and laughter. “You two didn’t waste any time, did you? Already went all the way.” “Nice work.” “Wedding! Wedding! Wedding!…” Cheers and blessings filled the abandoned warehouse. And I, Brittany’s lawful husband, sat there watching it all with a face drained of color. My nails had dug into my palms hard enough to draw blood. It hurt. The drops fell onto the rope binding my wrists. But somehow, my chest hurt worse than my hands. She was my wife. And yet, not even thirty minutes ago, she had slept with another man in that very corner, all to make up for what she said she’d missed. Their breathless whispers, their confessions, their tragic love story — somehow all of it made me feel like I was the one who had no right to be there. I slowly closed my eyes. A single tear slid from the corner of one eye, and quietly, I made my decision. Across the room, Brittany was still in Leonardo’s arms, letting him kiss her. He didn’t know I was her husband. Neither did any of our classmates. Because Brittany never wanted to make our relationship public — probably because she cared too much about what Leonardo would think. Maybe the grief was written too plainly on my face, because someone finally noticed me tied up in the corner. “Wait — isn’t that Brooks?” “What were you guys thinking, dragging Brooks into this prank too?” The moment those words landed, everyone finally turned to look at me. “I didn’t mean to pull Brooks into it. But he kept following Brittany around, and I was afraid of missing the timing, so I just grabbed him too.” “Brooks, I’m so sorry!” “Let me untie you right now. Please don’t be mad, and please don’t come after me for this.” “We did do something good here, didn’t we? We helped two people who were meant to be find their way back to each other.”

Brittany’s eyes stayed fixed on me — guilt, shame, and unease all tangled together in her expression. Once I was free, I stumbled to my feet. The pain inside me was overwhelming, but Brittany kept shooting me desperate, pleading looks. She was begging me not to say a word about our marriage, to save everyone the awkwardness. I managed a small smile and held the tears back. “Meant to be?” “Ha. Sure, you did them a favor. But what about me?” “Do you have any idea who she is to me?” “She’s the girl you’ve always had a crush on!” Afraid of what I might say next, afraid someone would find out we were married, Brittany practically shouted over me to cut me off. The room went quiet. Everyone stared at me with strange, searching looks. “Wait, what’s going on here?” “Oh, I think I get it, you poor guy.” “Classic love triangle situation.” “Brooks has been pining after Brittany, but Brittany only ever loved Leonardo.” “And you people dragged Brooks into all of this. He had to sit here listening to Brittany and Leonardo go at it — how is that not messed up?” A beat of silence, and then the whole room burst out laughing. “I am so guilty. Brooks, I’m really sorry, man.” “I owe you drinks. A lot of drinks.” They were too busy laughing to notice what was underneath my expression. If watching and hearing Brittany and Leonardo together had destroyed whatever hope I had left, then her refusing to acknowledge me as her husband right now was what finally made me give up on her entirely. After a long moment, I parted my lips — dry and bitter — and forced out a few words. “Relax, everyone. I’m actually seeing someone. The reason I followed Brittany here was the same as you — I was worried something would happen to her.” “Seeing the two of them finally together makes me genuinely happy for her.” The moment I said it, Brittany — who had been wound tight the whole time — finally let out a slow, quiet breath. She looked at me with eyes full of relieved gratitude, not knowing I had already let her go for good. I was just an extra in this story now. Nobody had any reason to keep their eyes on me. I turned and walked out, my heart hollow, and behind me I could already hear people calling for a toast. “Brittany, you saved yourself for Leonardo — Leonardo, you better never let her down.” “Wedding! Wedding! Wedding!!!” Leonardo swept Brittany up into his arms. She didn’t respond the way you’d expect. Because I hadn’t left yet. I suppose she did care, just a little, about how I felt. I didn’t want even that small amount of her consideration anymore. And now I finally understood why, in three years of marriage, she had never once let me close to her. She was saving herself for the man she truly loved. I was never that man. This was always going to end in tragedy. Outside, a heavy rain had started to fall. I had no umbrella, and no cab would stop. It felt like the sky had timed this on purpose — washing away everything that had led to this moment. Strangers hurried past me, tossing glances and quiet commentary over their shoulders. “Another guy done in by loving too hard.” “And he’s got nothing to show for it.” “How do you know it went wrong?” “Look at his face. It’s obvious.” “What’s the big deal? It’s just a breakup. No need to look like the world ended.” They weren’t wrong. I had no business falling apart like this. I pulled out my phone and called a ride. When I got home, Brittany was already there. She didn’t say sorry. She just stood there looking at me, her neck and collarbone covered in marks that weren’t mine.

“About what happened in the warehouse — that was just fate being cruel.” “It already happened. Best to just forget it.” She paused, then took a step toward me. “You got rained on?” Something shifted in Brittany’s face — the guilt finally surfacing. She rushed to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around me. “Brooks, don’t do this to yourself.” “He’s in my past, I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can just switch it off.” “I know I hurt you and I hate myself for it. I’m only asking for one thing — just play along with me for a few days. Let me close this chapter with him, and then I’ll end it. I promise. Can you do that for me?” She looked up at me, tears balancing on the edge of her eyes. I looked past her at the wedding photo on the wall. I thought about the day we took that photo. She wasn’t smiling. There was only regret on her face. I knew now that in that moment, she was probably wondering why the man standing beside her wasn’t Leonardo. I pressed my nails into my palm one more time — and then I let go. “Fine.” Brittany’s tears turned into a smile. She looked like a kid who’d just been handed a piece of candy. Her phone buzzed. My agreement had given her all the permission she needed. She stepped out to the balcony and spent the next hour talking to Leonardo in a low, sweet voice. The things she said were not meant for my ears. I moved to the balcony of the adjacent room and smoked an entire pack, one cigarette after another. The smoke stung my eyes. By the time the last cigarette was done, Brittany’s phone was almost dead. It didn’t matter anymore. It was time to make this a clean ending. I picked up my phone and made a call. “Mom. I’m ready to sign the divorce papers and come home. Set up the arrangement you talked about — I’ll go through with it.” My mother was stunned. She hadn’t expected me to call her, let alone agree. We talked briefly before I hung up. Then I texted a friend and asked him to draw up the divorce paperwork. After that, I showered, got out, and didn’t give a second thought to what Brittany was doing. I put my head down and slept. Then she came bursting in, looking frantic. “Brooks, get up!” “Leonardo is on his way over right now. You can’t be here. Go.” She was shoving me with one hand and tearing down the wedding photo from the wall with the other — along with anything else that was mine. She lost her grip on the frame and it shattered on the floor. She didn’t even look at it. Before I could say a word, I was being pushed out the front door. She pressed her hands together, giving me her most desperate look. “You’re the best. Please just work with me on this.” “I saved your life once. The scar is still on my wrist.” “You said you owed me. I’m calling that in right now.” I remembered what I’d said. I had no reason to refuse. And because of what she’d done for me — taking a knife meant for me across her wrist — I had spent years giving her everything she asked for. I didn’t say anything. I just left. She didn’t come after me. Because the moment I stepped into the elevator, Leonardo stepped out of the one beside it. In the split second before the doors closed, I saw them fold into each other. I didn’t remember until I reached the street that I had no change of clothes and no phone. I stood under the dark sky with no idea where to go. I sat alone in the little covered pavilion in the courtyard, cold all the way through, and didn’t move until morning. The next day, I was woken up by one of the building’s staff. “Mr. Brooks? Why are you sleeping out here?” “That look on your face — you had a fight with your wife, didn’t you?” I smiled, but it didn’t reach anything. I didn’t answer the question. What I hadn’t expected was that I — heir to an entire company — would ever end up sleeping on a bench outside my own building. As I stood up, I spotted Leonardo leaving the complex, looking deeply satisfied with himself. This time, I felt absolutely nothing.

My friend Dixon showed up right then. “Brooks — here.” I took the papers from him. He gave me a strange look. “Never seen someone this calm about a divorce before.” Dixon wasn’t the type to pry. He left without another word. Back upstairs, I knocked for a long time before Brittany opened the door. She was covered in marks again, barely able to keep her eyes open — clearly she hadn’t slept. She didn’t bother explaining herself. She dropped onto the couch and was out before I could say anything. Clothes were scattered all over the floor. A pair of underwear that wasn’t my size lay among them. I set the divorce papers on the table and cleaned the apartment. Once, twice, and then again. I’d already decided I was done with her — and yet something kept twisting in my chest, something that hurt more than it had any right to. By the time I finished, Brittany had woken up. I put the papers in front of her. She blinked at them, not quite understanding. “Brooks? What… what is this?” Her face went slightly pale. She didn’t reach for them. “You said you didn’t mind. You said to treat it like I’d been with someone before we ever got together, right?” She grabbed my wrist, panic in her eyes. She was the one who didn’t love me. And yet she was also the one who couldn’t let go. I felt nothing — no anger, nothing. If anything, I just felt tired of her. But I was going to play this through to the end. So I pulled my hand away without any heat behind it. “Don’t panic. This isn’t a real divorce. It’s just a legal formality.” “What do you mean?” I kept my voice steady. “I don’t want people calling you names. If we’re officially separated on paper, what you do on your own time isn’t anyone else’s business.” “Once you’ve had your closure, we’ll remarry.” The way I said it — calm and gentle — finally got to her. She walked into my arms, eyes red. “Brooks, you’re the only person in this world who really loves me.” “I hate myself. Why can’t I just let go of the past?” She still had his smell on her. I couldn’t help it — I stepped back. Brittany flinched. I caught myself and reached over, tapping her nose lightly. “It’s nothing. I stood outside in the cold all night and I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to get you sick.” “Come on. Sign it.” She didn’t question my explanation. She signed with a smile. The moment the pen lifted from the page, something in me finally unclenched. I was done. Whatever came after, it would be without her. I folded the papers away. Brittany, already moving on, reminded me one more time. “Brooks, remember — when this is over, we go file together to make it official again.” I smiled. I said nothing. Before she could ask again, her phone rang and took her somewhere else entirely. She lit up the way someone does at twenty, talking to their very first love — nervous and glowing and completely absorbed. We were already divorced. Whatever she did now had nothing to do with me. I went to my room and started packing. She talked on her phone; I sorted through my things. Anything I couldn’t take, I left. The expensive gifts she’d given me, I set aside to return. Brittany never once looked my way. If she’d bothered to glance in for even a moment, she would have seen I was leaving for good. She didn’t. She got dressed and walked out, and she didn’t come back. The next day, my friend Dixon called. “Brooks, you need to come. Brittany and Leonardo are having a wedding today.” “They want to make it official that fast.” “I’m going to have to skip it. I’m leaving the city tonight.” “What? Where are you going?”

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The day my mother was diagnosed, I called my husband seventeen times from the hospital corridor. He was the Deputy Director of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the provincial hospital. He finally picked up on the eighteenth call. “Ethan, Mom’s scan came back with a pulmonary nodule. Can you arrange a specialist consultation?” He answered with barely concealed impatience: “Three centimeters isn’t necessarily malignant. Have her get a regular outpatient appointment and wait in line.” My mother was sitting on the metal bench outside the CT room, trying to comfort me. “Don’t put Ethan in a difficult spot. I’ll wait in line, that’s fine.” She was sixty-two years old. Her hands shook as she clutched the envelope of CT films, yet her eyes were soft with reassurance. I didn’t cry. Not until that evening, when I got home and found an express delivery package on the dining table. It was a multi-department consultation request form from the provincial hospital. Patient name: Sandra Hayes. His college sweetheart’s mother. His own signature on it, with three departments co-signed. Consultation time: tomorrow morning at eight.

When I dragged my suitcase back into the outpatient lobby, my mother was still sitting on the metal bench outside the CT room. She saw the suitcase in my hand. She didn’t ask why I had it. Her first instinct was to stand up and take it from me. Her legs had gone numb from sitting so long. She stumbled. “Is the hospital too far? Don’t keep running back and forth. I’m fine waiting here alone.” “It’s not far.” “Is Ethan busy?” “Yeah, he’s in surgery.” I lied. I didn’t even have the courage to tell her the truth. My mother let out a quiet breath of relief. She bent down and dug through her worn canvas tote bag, pulling out a glass jar. The jar was wrapped in three layers of plastic bags. She worked through each knot one by one. “Don’t blame him. Doctors have lives to save. Here, take this back to him.” She pressed the glass jar into my hands. The bottom was warm from her body heat. It was a homemade pear syrup she’d cooked herself. A crooked handwritten note was taped to the side: For Ethan when his throat hurts — one spoonful. “You mentioned he’s always in surgery and his throat gets sore. I simmered those pears for three days. I didn’t dare check it as luggage. Carried it in my arms the whole way so it wouldn’t break.” My mother rubbed the calluses on her hands and smiled, a little carefully. “Take it back to him. Tell him not to mind that it’s homemade.” Looking at that jar, I felt something collapse quietly inside me. I tucked it into my bag. “Mom, wait here. I’m going back to get your bank card and your old medical records.” When I pushed open the front door, the living room lights were on. Ethan was sitting on the couch with a tablet. Sophie was beside him, her shoulder nearly brushing the sleeve of his white coat. “Don’t worry, Aunt Hayes. A 1.2-centimeter nodule has a very high chance of being benign.” His voice was warm and unhurried. “I’ll personally walk you into the consultation room first thing tomorrow morning. All three department heads will be there. You’ll be fine.” Across from them, on the other sofa, sat Sophie’s mother. A cashmere throw was draped over her shoulders. I had bought that blanket last month for two thousand dollars. I’d been saving it for when my mother came to the city for her appointment — something soft to put behind her back in those hard waiting room chairs. Now it was wrapped around a stranger. The sound of my suitcase wheels rolling across the floor cut through the warmth in the room. Sophie stood up. “Oh, Lily’s back. Ethan mentioned your mom is sick too — is it serious?”

Her voice was full of concern. Her eyes were fixed on my suitcase. Ethan frowned. “Why are you back now? I told you to take your mom to the outpatient clinic. What are you doing here?” “I came back for her bank card.” I let go of the handle and walked to the coffee table. I took the glass jar out of my bag and set it down beside a bowl of cherries. “My mom made this for you.” I looked at Ethan. “She said you’re always in surgery and it wears on your throat. She simmered it for three days and carried it the whole way herself.” Ethan glanced at the jar. Rough glass, handwritten note. It looked out of place next to everything else in the room. “Homemade things have unknown ingredients. Don’t leave it in the house.” “Mrs. Hayes just had her results done. Her immune system is compromised. She can’t be around random substances.” He picked up the jar and walked into the kitchen. I stood still and listened. The sound of a lid being unscrewed. I walked to the kitchen doorway. Ethan was pouring the pear syrup down the drain. “Stop acting like the sky is falling every time something happens with your mother.” “The hospital isn’t a private club. Everything has a process. Waiting in line is just how it works.” His back was to me. I watched the last amber trace disappear down the drain. “Ethan. My mom’s nodule is three centimeters.” He turned off the tap and turned around. “I’m a doctor. I know more about this than you do. A 1.2-centimeter nodule in the wrong position carries just as much risk. Are you really going to make a scene over this right now?” Sophie’s voice floated in from the living room. “Ethan was just worried about Aunt Hayes eating something she shouldn’t. Lily, don’t take it the wrong way. If your mom really can’t get an appointment, I’ll give her my priority slot tomorrow.” Ethan walked out immediately. “That won’t be necessary. Your mom’s consultation is a multi-department session. It can’t be delayed.” He turned to look at me. “Get the bank card and go back to the hospital. Stop creating problems here.” I said nothing. I went to the bedroom and pulled open the drawer. I took out my mother’s bank card and old medical records. On my way through the kitchen, I dropped the empty glass jar into the trash. It shattered with a clean, sharp sound. My phone buzzed. A message from my mother: Did you give Ethan the pear syrup? I stared at the screen and put the phone in my pocket. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the door. As it swung shut behind me, I could hear Ethan’s voice inside: “Mrs. Hayes, eat while it’s hot.” At four in the morning, cold air cut straight through the outpatient lobby. I turned off my phone screen. My mother was slumped in a plastic chair. When she heard what I said, a smile spread across her face. “Good, good. Next time I’ll buy a few more pounds of pears and make him a bigger batch.” I took the hard-boiled egg from her hands. The shell had gone soft from being held so long. I looked up at the display board. The general respiratory clinic still had over seventy numbers ahead of ours. My mother’s three centimeters was just a number here. By eight in the morning the lobby was filling up. I helped my mother walk to the imaging department on the first floor to get additional films printed. We had just turned the corner of the corridor when we walked straight into a group of people coming the other way. At the front was Ethan, white coat on, Deputy Director badge on his chest. The Head of Imaging, the Deputy Head of Anesthesiology, and the Head Nurse of Cardiothoracic were with him. In the middle of the group were Sophie and her mother.

Mrs. Hayes was in a wheelchair. Sophie was pushing her. Ethan was giving instructions to the Head of Imaging. “Dr. Reynolds, the edges on that 1.2-centimeter nodule are slightly blurred. I’d like you to personally oversee the contrast CT.” My mother went still. She rubbed her eyes and took a step forward. “Ethan?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it landed awkwardly at the entrance to the VIP corridor. Ethan stopped walking. He turned his head. My mother was wearing her faded cotton-linen shirt. There were still yellow mud stains on the hem of her pants. She held her canvas tote of CT films tightly in both hands. “It really is you, Ethan.” She gave a slightly nervous smile and moved toward him. “Have you eaten breakfast? I still have a warm egg right here—” The department heads all stopped. The hospital administrator, Dr. Collins, looked at my mother, then at Ethan. “Dr. Smith, is this a family member of yours?” One beat of silence. “No.” He turned to Dr. Collins. “A general patient’s family member who has mistaken me for someone else. Could you ask security to maintain order? We can’t have the consultation disrupted.” My mother’s outstretched hand froze in the air. The egg rolled out of her grip. She lost her hold on the canvas tote. It hit the floor with a crash. Dozens of CT films scattered across the tiles. Security stepped forward immediately. “Ma’am, this is the specialist corridor. Please step back behind the yellow line.” My mother snapped back to herself and crouched down in a hurry, nodding repeatedly. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, I’m getting old, I must have mistaken him for someone else. He just looks so much like — I’m so sorry.” She kept apologizing to the security guard as she picked up the films. Sophie was standing beside Ethan. She tugged lightly at his sleeve. Ethan didn’t look at the floor again. He walked into the consultation room and took everyone with him. I stood at the corner of the corridor and watched my mother bent over, picking up her films one by one. Patients waiting in line were staring at her. She gathered the films back into the canvas tote and wiped her face with her sleeve. I didn’t rush out. Because that would have only made it worse for her. She was working so hard to cover for Ethan. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to know that her own son-in-law had humiliated her in public. I walked over and crouched down to pick up the last film. My mother saw me and quickly turned away to wipe her face. “Lily, how did you get here? Did our number come up?” I looked at her red-rimmed eyes and the rough, swollen knuckles of her hands. “Mom. Let’s go.” I took her hand. “Go where? We’re not waiting anymore?” “We’re done waiting.” I tucked the films back into the canvas tote, took her hand, and turned toward the hospital exit. “We’re not treating this here.” I didn’t give her time to hesitate. I half-led, half-pulled her through the revolving doors of the provincial hospital. The cold air hit her and she shuddered. Her feet stopped on the front steps. “Lily, don’t be childish.” She grabbed my hand, her voice uneasy. “Ethan was working. All those department heads were standing right there. If I went over looking like this, I’d just embarrass him in front of everyone.” She was still making excuses for him. “He wasn’t wrong. I am just a regular patient’s family member. Let’s go back and wait in line. We can’t miss the appointment.” I looked at her face — apologetic, small, desperate to smooth everything over. It hurt to look at. “Mom, he didn’t owe you dignity. He just refused to give it to you.” I walked her across the street to a noodle shop and set a bowl of hot soup in front of her. “Eat. When you’re done I’m taking you somewhere else.” My mother didn’t pick up her fork. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped her hand inside her jacket. She worked at something for a long moment, unclasped a safety pin, and pulled out a small cloth bundle wrapped in three layers of plastic.

She slid a bank card across the table toward me. “Eighty-three thousand, six hundred dollars.” “This is what I saved. Selling grain, raising chickens, folding boxes for the factory in town. The PIN is your birthday.” She looked at me. “If it comes to surgery, we don’t ask Ethan for anything. I have money. I’m not taking anything from him.” Eighty-three thousand, six hundred. One week ago, the local clinic had recommended an urgent contrast CT and tumor markers panel for my mother. It came up eight thousand short. I called Ethan and asked if we could transfer eight thousand from our joint account. You know what he said? “Don’t rush into every test. The standard process is enough. Hospital resources aren’t for wasting.” Eight thousand dollars and he acted like it was too much to ask. But last night, when I’d gone home to get some documents, I’d checked the joint account transaction history on my way out. The very next day after he said it was wasteful, three hundred thousand dollars had been transferred out. Recipient: Hospital Finance. Note: Special care unit deposit and pre-surgery assessment — Mrs. Hayes. I pushed the card back to my mother. “Mom, keep it. Your treatment is my responsibility.” After I settled her into a budget hotel to rest, I went back to the apartment. Ethan had just gotten off his shift. He shrugged off his jacket and headed to the study without even glancing at me. “Did your mom get her appointment sorted? I looked at a few three-centimeter films today. Almost all benign. Stop scaring yourself.” I followed him into the study and slapped the printed transaction records on his desk. “My mom. Three centimeters. Eight thousand short for an urgent test. You told me to use the regular process.” “Sophie’s mom. 1.2 centimeters. You wired three hundred thousand for a private suite.” “Ethan. What am I to you? What is my mother to you?” He looked at the printout. Something shifted in his expression for just a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Hayes has severe anxiety. A 1.2-centimeter finding is a huge psychological burden for her. Sophie couldn’t handle it alone. I was just helping stabilize the situation.” He met my eyes. “The three hundred thousand is just a deposit. It’ll be refunded when she’s discharged. Are you really going to fight with me over a deposit?” “And my mother? She sat in a hospital corridor all night. She couldn’t even get an urgent test done. You don’t think she was scared?” Ethan picked up his glass and took a slow sip. “Your mother grew up hard. She’s used to it. She’s tougher than you think.” “That wasn’t the right setting to make exceptions. If you’re going to hold your mother’s minor condition over my head like some kind of leverage, then I really don’t know what to say to you.” I looked at the man I had been married to for five years. The neat shirt. The thin-framed glasses. The fluent medical vocabulary wrapped around what passed for principles. Rotten to the core underneath all of it. “Minor condition.” I nodded once. No shouting. No asking why anymore. I turned and walked out of the study and closed the door behind me. There was no point reasoning with someone like that. That was my mistake. I didn’t go home that night. I sat on the hotel bed until morning, photographing all of my mother’s imaging files with my phone and sending them through the online consultation portal at a hospital in New York. The consultation fee plus express surcharge came to twelve hundred dollars. I put it on my credit card. Three days later, the specialist called. “Is this the family of Susan Jones?” A pause. “I’ve reviewed the scans.” Another pause. “The nodule is three centimeters, with pronounced spiculated margins and pleural traction. The probability is strongly in favor of malignancy, with early signs of peripheral infiltration.” I went rigid on the edge of the bed. “We recommend surgery as soon as possible. No delays. When can you get here?” “Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning.” I hung up and went straight home for my mother’s ID. I stepped out of the elevator and found the front door wide open. Moving men were hauling things inside.

The guest room had been mostly cleared out. The hallway floor was covered in scattered belongings. The pillowcase my mother had sewn for me. The old bedding she’d used when she stayed. The nebulizer I’d bought. And the worn canvas tote full of her CT films. One of the movers stepped right on it. A black boot print pressed into the fabric. Ethan was in the living room directing everything. “Move that therapy bed in there. Put it by the window.” He saw me and spoke as if nothing had happened. “Good timing. Mrs. Hayes needs a quiet environment to recover after her tests. Sophie can’t manage on her own, so I’m letting them use the guest room for a few days.” I looked at the canvas tote on the floor. Inside were my mother’s handwritten symptom notes. And a hospital receipt from when I was a child, running a fever. She’d carried me through the dark to the town clinic that night. She’d kept that receipt all these years. “Those are my mother’s things.” Ethan glanced at them. “Stop carting all this old paperwork around. It’s easy to lose. The guest room’s been sanitized. Be considerate when Mrs. Hayes moves in.” Sophie’s voice came from the other end of the apartment. “Ethan, I really can’t thank you enough. Giving up your only free room and letting my mom stay here — she would have been so frightened otherwise.” His tone softened. “Don’t mention it. Just let her focus on getting better.” My phone rang. A nurse from the hospital admissions department. “Is this the family of Dr. Ethan Smith? The cardiothoracic bed you’d been waiting for — Dr. Smith signed the transfer today. It’s been reassigned to another patient. You’ll need to re-queue.” I didn’t respond. I ended the call. I crouched down and picked up the canvas tote. I brushed off the boot print and folded the scattered papers back inside one by one. Then I went to the study and pulled open the drawer. The divorce agreement. I’d printed it out a long time ago. I laid it on his desk. I pulled the ring off my left hand and set it on top of the papers. I took the house key off my keychain and tucked it into the canvas tote. I picked up my bag and walked out the door. No argument. No goodbye. Downstairs, I sent my mother a message. Mom, pack your things. I’m taking you to New York. Early train tomorrow morning. She replied almost immediately: Is Ethan coming too? I don’t want to take him away from work. I stood outside in the cold wind. It slipped under my collar. I looked up once at the window of the apartment I’d lived in for five years. Warm light. Voices. Laughter. I typed back: No. He won’t be part of this anymore. On the train, my mother hugged the old canvas tote to her chest. She sat curled against the window and didn’t touch her water. “Does Ethan know?” “Mom, stop worrying about him.” I pressed the cup into her hands. “I’ve got everything arranged with the specialist in New York. We go straight to admissions when we arrive.” She didn’t respond. She just looked down and ran her thumb over the black boot print on the canvas. Four hours later. New York Cancer Center. Admission paperwork. Blood work. Pre-surgical assessment. No hassle. No queue. No night spent shivering in a corridor. When I paid, I swiped my credit card. The balance hit zero. Somehow I felt steadier than I had in weeks. At eight o’clock that evening, my mother fell asleep in her hospital bed. I was sitting on the bench in the corridor when my phone started going off. Ethan. I picked up. “Where the hell have you been?!” He didn’t even take a breath before he started. “Mrs. Hayes is about to be discharged and move in. Why haven’t you made the bed in the guest room? There’s nothing fresh in the refrigerator. What have you been doing all day?!”

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The day I tried on the wedding dress, my fiancé Ethan called out the wrong name. He was looking at my back when the words slipped out of him. “Clara, you look beautiful.” Clara was my sister. She was also Ethan’s first love. She died in an accident during the year they loved each other most. From that moment on, she carved a place in his heart that could never be erased. Every year on Clara’s anniversary, I would go with Ethan to lay flowers at her grave. Ethan promised me they were in the past. One day a year, he allowed himself to grieve. The rest of his days belonged to me. But clearly, he broke that promise. Clara had never left his heart. Not for a single moment. And I understood — the living can’t compete with the dead. If I couldn’t win, then I was done trying. A man who can’t let go of the past — I don’t want him anymore. Soft morning light drifted through the window and settled over the white wedding dress. It cast a kind of sacred glow over a dress that was never really mine. Ethan recovered quickly. He smiled and walked over to me like nothing had happened. “You look beautiful in that dress.” “More beautiful than Clara?” My smile didn’t waver. Ethan looked at me the way you’d look at a child throwing a small tantrum. Gentle. Composed. Nothing like love. “We agreed not to bring her up.” Some people are meant to stay buried in your heart. I nodded quietly and let it go. I went back into the dressing room and slipped off the dress that had never really belonged to me. When I came back out, the saleswoman’s smile turned syrupy. She handed me a glass of water and poured on the flattery. “Ma’am, you’re so lucky — your fiancé is handsome and so generous.” “A wedding dress that costs over a million, and he didn’t even blink.” Ethan came from a very particular kind of family. Wealthy, but allergic to excess. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, he reminded me constantly. Stay composed. Keep a low profile. Don’t give people anything to talk about. And yet here he was, spending a small fortune on a dress this extravagant. For Clara, I thought. It had to be. For that one moment when he looked at my back and saw her instead. A wedding is supposed to be a happy thing. And I was marrying a man who looked perfect on paper. I should have smiled back at the saleswoman’s well-wishes. But for some reason, my face just wouldn’t cooperate. I looked up. Ethan had already walked outside. He was holding a cigarette. Seven years he’d been clean. This was the first time he’d broken that. A small flame flickered at his fingertips, stuttering in and out. I wondered if he was lost in the past again. I didn’t walk over to interrupt that moment. I waited until his brow finally relaxed before stepping back to his side. “It’s getting late. Let’s head home.” “Your grandmother’s waiting for us for dinner.” The lighter clicked rhythmically in Ethan’s hand. After a brief silence, he let out a quiet sigh. “Let’s go.” He had accepted his fate. Marrying a woman he didn’t love — all for the sake of his family. We got in the car. Out of habit, Ethan reached toward the breast pocket of his jacket. His calm expression shifted into something frantic. He got out of the car and rushed back into the store. I was pretty sure I knew why. He’d left a necklace in the dressing room. The necklace he and Clara had exchanged as a promise. When we first got together, Ethan stood in front of me and buried every one of Clara’s belongings in the ground. He swore to me, over and over, that he had moved on. That our life together was what he wanted now. But he lied.

That necklace had been with him every single day, pressed close to his skin. Tucked away with all the love he still carried for Clara. I hesitated for a moment, then pulled out my phone and sent a message to my best friend. She replied fast, a string of shocked reactions following close behind. “Abroad? Are you insane???” “You and Ethan are literally about to get married — you want to go study overseas now? What about your future husband?” “A catch like him isn’t going to wait around for three years.” “Wait, something happened, didn’t it?” “Did Ethan do something? Did he cheat? Did he change his mind?” Not exactly. His heart had never belonged to me to begin with. I filled my best friend Zoe in on what happened at the bridal shop. She called me immediately on FaceTime. “Yvonne, you need to think this through.” “Your two families have been tied together for years. Missing someone from the past isn’t exactly a deal-breaker.” “We’ve all watched how well he treats you. You can’t throw that away over one moment.” I knew all of that. But the thing that breaks a camel’s back is never just one straw. And my decision to leave Ethan wasn’t about this one thing either. By any reasonable measure, I had no business marrying Ethan at all. He was the heir to one of the most powerful families in the city. I was just the illegitimate daughter of the Shaws. A secret. An afterthought. The family’s real daughter was Clara. And we couldn’t have been more different. Clara was the product of two great families coming together in love. She was the princess everyone adored, raised in warmth and admiration. Following the path life had laid out for her, she would have married into the most prestigious family in the city. She would have gone from the cherished Shaw daughter to the celebrated Mrs. Crawford. And I would have spent my life in some quiet, forgotten corner. Invisible. But life doesn’t follow anyone’s plan. An accident. A car crash. Clara was gone. Her father’s hair turned white overnight. Ethan aged ten years in what felt like moments. Ethan swore he’d never remarry. But the Shaw family wasn’t ready to let go of the connection — or the power that came with it. Using my mother’s life as leverage, they pressured and maneuvered until they managed to send me in Clara’s place. I was living under someone else’s roof. I didn’t have a choice. I had to do what I’d always done since arriving at the Shaws’. Walk carefully. Make myself useful. Keep everyone satisfied. I paid close attention to Ethan’s preferences. I showed up exactly when he needed someone. I quietly imitated the way Clara used to speak and move, hoping to earn even a fraction of his sympathy. Ethan was sharp. There was no way he hadn’t noticed. But he never once called me out for it. And unlike the Shaws, he never looked at me with that cold, dismissive stare — the kind that reminded you exactly how little you mattered. Instead, he’d gently suggest I change out of something that didn’t suit me, his voice easy and unhurried. “Yvonne, you don’t have to do this.” “You’re a good person. But my heart already belongs to Clara.” In the end, he agreed to let me stay. On one condition: he would never love me. That was fine. Staying was enough. I had no way to escape the Shaw family’s grip on my life. And Ethan had no way out of the grief that still followed him everywhere. I needed his protection. He needed someone to take care of things. And so, in this strange and distant kind of arrangement, we held each other up and walked through seven years together. In those seven years, my mother’s health stabilized, and I earned a place at a university abroad. The day I received my acceptance letter, I said goodbye to Ethan — politely, calmly, like it was nothing. But in the second before my flight was supposed to take off, Ethan appeared. He got every plane on the tarmac grounded. And then he searched that airport for me. For a long, long time.

When he finally found me, he broke down. He stood there and cried. “Yvonne, please don’t go.” “Since you left, my whole world has felt empty.” “I think I’ve been falling in love with you — and I didn’t even realize it until now.” “I’ve already lost someone once.” “I can’t lose you too.” How could a girl who had never been loved turn down a confession like that? Especially when she had been quietly in love with him for years. So I gave up my spot. I stayed by his side. An illegitimate nobody, suddenly becoming Mrs. Crawford. For a while, I was genuinely happy. I thought I had finally found something good. I thought that even someone like me deserved to be loved. But fate doesn’t stay kind for long. While I was decorating our new home, I found a letter. It was something Ethan had written to Clara. A confession, tucked away and forgotten. “Clara, I miss you so much.” “My family keeps pushing me toward this arranged marriage. How am I supposed to forget you?” “The woman they want me to marry is Yvonne — your stepsister, the one you always said you couldn’t stand.” “When she and I get married, do you think you’ll be so annoyed you’ll come back to haunt me in my dreams?” “Honestly, I hope you do.” “At least then I’d get to see you one more time.” Tears had blurred parts of the writing. Some of the middle was unreadable. But the last line came through perfectly clear. “Clara, I promise you — no matter who’s beside me, you are the only one I will ever love.” His feelings for me were a lie. His feelings for Clara were the truth. He confessed to me out of defiance. Out of distraction. To fulfill a family obligation and find someone presentable enough to stand beside him. Love had nothing to do with it. Everything I had built my life around collapsed in an instant. My world went back to rubble. Even my voice, when I finally spoke to Zoe, came out broken. “I spent the whole night trying to convince myself to pretend I never found it. To keep going like nothing happened.” “I had everything I used to dream about. I told myself I should be grateful.” “But today — the moment Ethan said Clara’s name out loud — I realized I can’t do it.” Silence on the other end of the line. Then, a screenshot appeared. A flight booking. “Go. Don’t come back.” “I’ll figure out how to cover for you with Ethan.” “Safe travels.” My vision blurred. Then the car door opened. Ethan hadn’t noticed my tears — his eyes went straight to my phone screen. “Why are you looking at flights? Honeymoon planning?” “Rome or Paris? Your pick.” Neither. I wanted somewhere without Ethan. Somewhere without any of this. I was afraid he’d read my face. So I smiled and steered the conversation elsewhere. “Just browsing. Oh — can you stop at the light up ahead?” “I want to grab some macarons. Your grandmother loves them.” Ethan smiled. The kind of smile that came from finding a lost necklace. And from having a fiancée who remembered his grandmother’s favorite treat without being asked. “You’re so thoughtful. I really did find the perfect daughter-in-law for this family.” For the family. Not for himself. After all this time, I finally heard what had always been hiding inside that joke.

The line at the macaron shop was long. By the time we got back, the dinner had already started. The elders were deep in conversation, trading drinks and talking about things I had no part in. I pushed my steak around on my plate. And found myself thinking about the night Ethan and Clara got engaged. Gifts had filled more than a dozen rooms. Everyone had gathered around her — fussing over her, asking if she was warm enough, if she needed anything. But at my engagement dinner, the conversation was about business. Strategy. What the alliance between two families was worth. Not a single person had asked whether I was happy. Ethan noticed. Under the table, he quietly took my hand. “Bored? Let’s step outside for a bit.” “I’m here. They won’t say anything.” He was always like this. Attentive. Considerate. Three parts genuine, seven parts performance. Just enough to keep me off balance. I was about to answer when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it. His expression shifted fast. “Something urgent came up at work. I have to go handle it.” “Yvonne, stay and keep the elders company for me.” As Ethan hurried out, his grandmother’s face tightened. She never let her displeasure show in front of him. That was reserved for me. “Your husband has to leave and you can’t do a thing about it.” “You’re nothing like your sister.” Mrs. Shaw clicked her tongue in agreement, adding her own twist of the knife. “What do you expect? She’s just a bastard. No class.” The table turned on me. Back and forth, one comment after another, each one designed to remind me exactly where I stood. Before, I would have smiled through all of it. Too afraid of making things difficult for Ethan. But not anymore. None of that mattered now. I pushed back my chair and left the table. I soaked in the bath until the tension of the day started to loosen. When I got out, my phone had a new message. A video. And it wasn’t subtle. In it, Ethan had his arm around a young woman, whispering against her ear. “You little troublemaker — faking sick just to get me over here on a night like this.” “You’re going to pay for that.” The girl curled into him, laughing and pouting. Ethan smiled and kissed her harder. The sounds echoed in the room. The ease between them — loose, flirtatious, completely at odds with the composed, controlled man I knew — hit me like a stranger wearing his face. I stared at the screen. Then the girl turned toward the camera. Her face. Her expression. She was the image of Clara. Down to the smallest detail. My vision blurred. My chest pulled tight, a dull throb that wouldn’t let up. It was all fake. Everything. The marriage. The love. Ethan had betrayed what we had. And in doing so, he had betrayed even the love he claimed to carry for Clara. At least Clara was gone now. And I would be gone soon enough. Less than twenty-four hours until my flight. One more sunrise. That was all I had to get through. After that, I’d be free of all of it. Morning came, and Ethan still hadn’t come home. His grandmother, worried, kept nudging me to go check on him. I figured I could use one last look at his face anyway. Ethan hadn’t expected me to show up. He looked caught off guard. On instinct, he tugged his collar up to hide the marks on his neck. Then, with a trace of guilt in his voice: “What are you doing here? Did someone give you a hard time last night?” I shook my head. “No.” I had long since gotten used to being looked down on and talked over.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “413759”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

After witnessing my parents’ deaths, I lost the ability to shift. Even the smell of another werewolf made me throw up violently. The only person I could bear to be near was my adoptive brother, Alpha Alexander. So he kept me by his side for ten years, forbidding anyone from gossiping about me or insulting me. Everyone said he loved me. Until he brought in that “therapist,” Chloe. She said I was too weak, that I needed exposure therapy. The first time, she dumped me into a chaotic Rogue camp. I almost got killed by those lunatics. The second time, she forced me to watch slaves fight to the death. The smell of blood sent me into shock right there on the spot. The third time, she dangled my parents’ urns outside a 28th-floor window and made me climb a rope ladder to retrieve them. I froze for a single second, the memory of my parents’ deaths flashing through my mind—the urns plummeted from the sky and shattered into pieces right in front of me. I broke down sobbing. Alexander gave me a hard slap across the face. “That was flour! Are you done with your tantrum yet?” I knelt on the ground, staring at that smug woman, and finally understood. He wasn’t doing this for me. He just wanted to be rid of me—the burden who’d brought him shame. That night, I sent a message to the Alpha of Frostmark Pack, far away in the north: “Uncle William, that offer you made before, about coming to live with your Pack? I accept.”

Seraphina’s POV Everyone in the werewolf world knew that Alpha Alexander of Dusklight Pack had a “glass rose” he’d been pampering for ten years. That was me. Because I’d watched my parents die brutally in battle, I’d developed severe PTSD. It made shifting completely impossible. Just seeing another werewolf shift, or witnessing any kind of fighting, would trigger violent physical and psychological reactions—mild cases meant nausea and dizziness, severe ones meant suffocation and fainting. For my sake, Alexander had built a special mansion that blocked out almost all outside sounds, sights, and smells. No werewolf was allowed near the property. Even our maids and housekeepers were human. If anyone in the Pack dared discuss my condition, he punished them harshly. If gossip from another Pack reached his ears, he’d launch a brutal attack and kill the gossipers without mercy. Everyone assumed Alexander would protect me like this for the rest of my life. Until that therapist Chloe showed up. She was human, but bright and bold, like a wild rose blooming under blazing sun. Even an iceberg like Alexander melted for her. Because Chloe said one sentence—”She’s just spoiled and too weak. She needs strong stimulation”—I was forced into so-called “exposure and shock therapy.” The first time, she tricked me into a chaotic Rogue camp, calling it “adapting to the real living environment of werewolves.” I lasted less than half an hour before having a complete breakdown, throwing up until I passed out. The second time, Chloe took me to a dungeon and forced me to watch two werewolf slaves fight to the death up close. The bloody scene dragged up my worst memories. I went into shock right there. The third time… this last time, Chloe hung my parents’ urns outside a 28th-floor window and forced me to climb an unsecured rope ladder to get them. She framed it as: maybe under extreme conditions, I could finally overcome my fear and shift. I finally snapped. I slapped Chloe hard across the face and stormed straight to Alexander, demanding he fire that crazy woman. “Alexander, where the hell did you find this lunatic?” I pointed at him, my voice shaking. “I have a psychological trauma. I’m not just being weak! Why would you bring in some human who barely understands werewolves to torture me? She used my parents’ ashes to threaten me. Is that something a doctor should ever do?” Alexander completely ignored my anger. His eyes went straight past me to Chloe. Five clear finger marks were swelling up on her pale cheek. She bit her red lip and stared at Alexander stubbornly, eyes full of hurt but somehow still strong. “I know this kind of shock therapy is painful,” she said, voice catching slightly. “But I’m experienced. This will help Seraphina overcome her psychological barriers. As long as she cooperates, I’m sure she’ll soon be able to face the real werewolf world. She might even shift.” I watched the ice in Alexander’s eyes melt away, replaced by tenderness and concern. “I’m sorry, Chloe. Seraphina wasn’t always like this. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” Chloe gave him a small, understanding smile. “It’s fine. As a doctor, getting misunderstood by patients comes with the territory. But I’ll never give up on any patient of mine.” The admiration in Alexander’s eyes only deepened. Then he turned to me, his expression instantly turning cold and disappointed. “Seraphina, what’s happened to you? Chloe is doing all this for your own good. How could you raise your hand against her? Where’s the dignity an Alpha’s daughter should have?” My eyes were red. I screamed back hysterically, “She used Mom and Dad’s ashes to threaten me! Don’t I have the right to slap her? Alexander, can you really stand there and let someone desecrate our parents’ ashes? Should they not get any peace even after death?” “Enough!” Alexander’s voice cut me off sharply. “Seraphina, your parents protected you too much when they were alive. That’s why you turned out so fragile! And whose fault is it they can’t rest in peace? If you’d just gotten over this barrier earlier and learned to face the world, would they still be worrying about you?” His words hit me like a thunderclap. Tears rolled down my cheeks, one after another. “So… you’re blaming me?” My voice trembled. “You won’t blame Chloe for abusing me, but you’ll blame me?” For a split second, something flickered in Alexander’s eyes—maybe guilt. But it vanished, replaced by hard resolve. “Seraphina, just listen. Chloe is helping you. Cooperate with her and overcome this. Then you can become my Luna and rule the Pack with me.” Chloe chimed in from the sidelines, looking like a victor. “Yes, Seraphina. My methods may be a bit intense, but they work. After the first two sessions, your tolerance to a ‘werewolf environment’ has improved slightly. That’s huge progress. If we just keep going, you’ll succeed.” Alexander’s hardness, his absolute refusal to listen, made my chest hurt so badly I couldn’t breathe. Before, Alexander never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do. When had he ever yelled at me like this? I wiped my tears and stopped fighting. No matter what, I couldn’t let anything happen to my parents’ ashes. I obediently climbed the ladder. Chloe stood below, smiling encouragingly. “You can do it, Seraphina.” Her grace only made me look more “irrational” and “unreasonable.” But I was the one being hurt. I’d always been the one being hurt. The wind was strong up there. It chilled me to the bone. Chloe wouldn’t allow me any protective gear or comfort items. Said it would ruin the “extreme stimulation.” So I climbed in nothing but thin clothing. I forced myself past my fear of heights, climbing one rung at a time. The higher I went, the stronger the wind got, and the closer I came to those dangling urns. Then Chloe’s voice came from below: “Hurry, Seraphina. To control the time and reduce your anxiety, I’ve set a countdown. One minute until the mechanical claw releases automatically.” My heart slammed in my chest. How dare Chloe? Forgetting my fear, I scrambled up the ladder as fast as I could. But I couldn’t even shift. I’d spent my entire life inside a safe mansion. How could I have a normal werewolf’s reflexes or strength? One minute wasn’t nearly enough to cover the remaining distance. Just as my fingertips finally brushed the urns with everything I had— The mechanical claw released. I reached out, desperately trying to grab them, and watched helplessly as my parents’ urns slipped through my fingers. They fell from twenty-eight floors up and smashed onto the concrete below, shattering into pieces. “NO—!” I screamed until my throat tore. In total despair, I leapt off the ladder. Thankfully, I still had a safety harness on. When I touched down, ghostly pale and trembling, Alexander didn’t check on me first. He charged up and slapped me across the face. “Seraphina! Have I been too soft on you?” He roared, “You’ve got such a temper now you’d throw your own life away to spite us? How can you face your dead parents like this? Chloe already told you—those were just prop urns. They were filled with flour. You really think she’d be insane enough to actually use your parents’ ashes?” I froze, my cheek burning. Chloe rushed over, throwing herself between us, all virtue and sainthood. “Alexander, don’t blame Seraphina. This is my fault. Maybe this aggressive therapy is too soon for someone in her current state.” Before she could finish, I shoved her hard from behind. “I don’t want your fake kindness!” Chloe fell forward, hitting her forehead on the steps. A trickle of blood appeared. “Seraphina, that’s enough!” Alexander scooped Chloe up in his arms, shooting me an icy glare. Then, without sparing me another glance, he turned and walked away. I knelt on the ground, tears falling onto cold concrete, one after another. In that moment, a thought floated through my mind: Alexander doesn’t belong to me anymore. I cried as I tried to gather the shattered pieces, scooping up the gray-white powder. Did anyone really think a daughter wouldn’t recognize her own parents’ urns? I had even carved special marks on them to tell which was which. Flour, my ass. It was all lies. Before I could finish, a gust of wind swept the ashes into the air, and they were gone forever. The image of my parents’ deaths replayed in my head—the blood, the screaming, all of it pressing in around me. I dry-heaved twice. Then everything went black, and I passed out. When I woke up, I was lying in the Pack’s hospital. Special aromatherapy filled the room with mild herbal scents, calming my nerves. There were no other werewolf scents in the room, which made things much easier. I struggled to sit up to get some water and faintly heard Alexander on the balcony outside, talking on the phone. “I know Chloe’s methods are extreme, but if we don’t do this, Seraphina will never live like a real werewolf.” His voice sounded exhausted. “Always being so careful with her, protecting her. Ten years of this. I’m exhausted.” “I know what my adoptive parents wanted, but Seraphina can’t even shift.” “I can’t be tied down for life by a defective mate who can never shift, who has to stay locked behind glass. As an Alpha, I need a strong mate who can stand beside me. The Pack needs a strong Luna. Is that wrong?” A huge hole tore open in my chest, and a freezing wind blew straight through it. Alexander was the adopted son of my parents—the late Alpha and Luna of Dusklight Pack. He was technically my brother, but everyone in our circles knew exactly what my parents had in mind when they took him in. He’d been chosen to be my mate and protector. They figured a werewolf raised from childhood would be more loyal than a fated mate. I’d always known this. I’d given my heart to that strong, gentle man a long time ago. I’d thought we’d naturally end up spending our lives together. Now I knew Alexander didn’t see it that way at all. To him, I was just a burden he couldn’t shake off—a stain on his perfect record. I laughed bitterly, tears sliding silently down my face. If he’d never planned to spend his life with me, he didn’t have to come up with such noble excuses. He didn’t have to bring in a maniac to torture me. I didn’t blame him for wanting a strong, normal life. I just hated the way he was crushing my dignity, denying that I had any worth at all. I pulled out my phone and opened the encrypted email that had been sitting in my drafts for so long. I thought for a moment, then hit reply: “Alpha William, your offer for me to join Frostmark Pack? I accept.”

Seraphina’s POV An international call came through almost immediately. William’s steady, concerned voice was on the other end. “Seraphina, my dear girl, you’ve finally come to your senses!” “Your situation isn’t suited to staying in Dusklight Pack at all. That environment will only keep traumatizing you. Things are peaceful here, and being far away from everything might help you heal.” “I suggested you come years ago, but you couldn’t bear to leave. I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind.” I forced out a pale smile. “Then… could I trouble you with the international flight arrangements and passport?” William’s voice was grounding and reassuring. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve handed it all to Julian. He says he’ll use every resource available to handle the documents as fast as possible.” “In the meantime, just wrap things up over there. Julian will come pick you up himself.” “Okay,” I answered softly. I’d just hung up when Alexander pushed open the door. “Seraphina, you’re awake? Who were you calling?” I shook my head, said nothing, and quietly flipped my phone face-down on the bed. Alexander assumed I was still angry. Out of habit, he reached out to ruffle my hair, but I dodged. His hand stopped awkwardly in midair. He paused, then withdrew his hand. His voice softened. “Seraphina, are you still mad at me?” “I’m doing this for you. Once you overcome this, you can live like a normal werewolf instead of being mocked behind your back.” For me? I laughed bitterly inside. Before, I really had believed he was doing it for my sake. I’d just been too naïve. Now I knew—he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it to get rid of me. Ten years of accommodating his “defective” sister had been more than enough for him. He was desperate to shake off the burden who lived in a glass bubble and embarrassed the Pack. When I still didn’t speak, his patience ran out. “Seraphina, Chloe worked hard putting together a treatment plan for you. You don’t appreciate it, fine—but you pushed her and hurt her. Once you’re feeling a little better, I want you to apologize to her.” I forced down the bitter ache in my chest. My voice came out cold. “Apologize? Not happening. She destroyed my parents’ urns, and I’m supposed to apologize to her? Alexander, you must be dreaming.” His face darkened instantly. His voice came out cold as ice. “You’ll apologize, or I no longer have a sister.” I turned and stared at him in disbelief. “Alexander, are you actually threatening to disown me?” I steeled myself. Each word was sharp and clear. “I will never apologize to that woman. Not as long as I live.” He laughed, furious, and nodded. “Fine. Great. If you refuse to see reason, then from this day on, you don’t set foot inside the Alpha’s mansion. Not until you apologize.” My eyes burned red as I stared him down. “Why? That’s my home! That’s what my parents left me! If anyone’s leaving, it should be you—the outsider! I don’t need a brother like you!” The word “outsider” clearly cut him deep. Alexander’s face went terrifyingly dark. The one thing he hated most was being reminded of his adoptive status. He shot me a venomous glare without saying a word, then slammed the door on his way out. I stared at the closed door, all color drained from my face. I’d never expected things to end between us over some human woman we’d just met. For the next several days, Alexander didn’t come to the hospital once. No calls. No messages. I told myself I didn’t care. I went home alone to that empty mansion. I didn’t have much time left. Maybe a clean break was better. I could leave without looking back. No more lingering attachments. Back home, sitting in the dark living room, I happened to scroll past a new SnapChat post from Chloe. In the photo, sunlight bathed a green lawn. Chloe wore a pure white wedding gown, her arm hooked through Alexander’s, who was in a sharp tailored suit. Both of them were beaming under the sun, looking like the perfect couple. The caption read: “Some people have nowhere else to go, so they end up being my free model.” “Shoot in progress. Just the test photos, but weddings are exhausting!” The comments were full of congratulations and likes from mutual acquaintances. Chloe didn’t bother explaining whether it was for work or anything else. She just replied with a tongue-out emoji. My phone slipped from my hand and dropped onto the carpet with a soft thud.

Seraphina’s POV I hesitated for a long time, but in the end, I couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at me. I bundled myself up tight, put on my special mask, and tracked down the location Chloe had tagged. It was a wedding photography studio in the small town nearby. The weather was clear and warm. I searched for a while before finally spotting them by a European-style flower garden. It was a break in shooting. I hid in the shade of a tree and watched as Alexander gently pulled out a tissue to wipe sweat from Chloe’s brow. He even unscrewed a water bottle and held it to her lips. The deep affection in his eyes was impossible to hide. Chloe had changed into a long, flame-red dress, looking like a fresh bloom. She leaned against him bashfully. Both of them were stunning. Just standing there, they were a sight, and everyone around—staff, other couples shooting their wedding photos—kept stealing glances. I looked down at myself. In my drab clothes, I was like a ghost who couldn’t bear sunlight, like a rat hiding in a gutter, only able to peek at someone else’s happiness from the shadows. My heart felt like someone was crushing it. The pain made it hard to breathe. In that moment, I felt it for real—Alexander had only ever seen me as a sister. No, less than that. As a burden he had to shake off. The tenderness from these past ten years had been about duty. About my parents’ last wishes. It was never love. Never had been. I’d just been deluding myself. I wanted to leave, but my feet felt like lead. Like a masochist, I kept watching them shift through pose after pose. My goggles fogged up with tears. Chloe seemed to glance my way casually. The corner of her mouth quirked up. Then she suddenly cried out in fake panic. “Oh no! My bracelet! My diamond bracelet—it’s gone!” “That was… that was the last thing my mother left me! What am I going to do?” Her eyes welled up, like she was about to cry. The staff around them immediately dropped what they were doing and started searching. Alexander gripped her shoulders, comforting her over and over. “Don’t panic, Chloe. It has to be nearby. Security here is good. We’ll find it.” Chloe suddenly raised her hand and pointed at my hiding spot. Her voice turned shrill. “That person! That person has been acting really suspicious. I just saw them lurking around. Did they steal my bracelet?” I was bundled up head to toe, hiding in an inconspicuous corner. I really did look suspicious. A few security guards and staff immediately closed in on me. Panic surged through me. I instinctively wanted to explain, but the menacing crowd terrified me. I turned and ran. But the more I ran, the more guilty I looked. “Stop! Catch the thief!” The shouts came from every direction. Disoriented, I slammed into a trash can and went down. Then security caught up and pinned me to the ground. I struggled wildly. “Let go of me! It wasn’t me! I’m not a thief! I was just walking by!” But nobody believed me. “Not a thief? Then why were you sneaking around?” “You won’t even show your face! Guilty conscience for sure!” I begged through tears. “Please… I was just passing by…” They didn’t listen. Someone suggested, “Pull off her mask! Let’s see what this thief looks like!” A wave of despair crashed over me. Being treated like this—the hostility, the pressure—my deep, instinctive fear started spreading. Several rough hands grabbed my head. Despite my screams and struggles, they yanked off my mask and hat. Exposed to so many strangers’ eyes and scents, my face went white in seconds. My body started shaking uncontrollably. Cold sweat broke out everywhere. To them, it must have looked bizarre. Someone muttered, “What the hell? Why’s she freaking out like this?” “Weird. Probably mentally ill. Stay back!” People backed away like I was contagious. I struggled to push myself up, raising my arm to shield my face from those piercing stares. “No… please… I just…” I tried to explain my PTSD, but the words stuck in my throat. A passerby with an iced coffee in hand walked over, his face twisted in disgust. “Oh, please. She’s just one of those psychos who fakes a fit when they get caught stealing. Stop scaring the kids around here!” With that, he dumped the entire iced coffee, ice and all, over my head. Cold brown liquid and ice cubes hit me. The cold and humiliation made me shake harder. Around me, scattered laughter and cheers broke out. “Yeah, teach this freak a lesson!” Some people even started picking up small stones from the ground and throwing them at me. I curled up on the ground, covering my head. My mind went blank. The horror of past memories blurred with the present, and I could barely breathe. Through the gaps in the crowd, I looked desperately into the distance. Alexander and Chloe were standing right there, watching this circus play out with cold detachment. A final, weak hope flickered in my chest. I called out in a tiny voice, “Alexander… Alexander, help me…” If he didn’t help me, I didn’t know what would happen to me. Alexander’s expression seemed to falter. He took a half-step forward. But Chloe immediately grabbed his arm. “Alexander, did I just hear Seraphina’s voice?” Chloe said, pretending to be confused. He stopped, frowning. “How is that possible? Seraphina should be at home reflecting on what she did. And in her condition, why would she be in a crowded place like this?” “True.” Chloe linked her arm tighter through his and smiled. “Must have been my imagination. Looks like some psycho is causing a scene over there. Let’s not get involved, it’s bad luck. We’ve still got a few more shots to take. After we wrap, I’ll buy you a fancy dinner to thank you for stepping in today.” Alexander’s face relaxed. He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you want. We don’t need to get involved.” The two of them turned and walked away. Neither of them looked back. In that instant, the last bit of light inside me went out. I stopped struggling. I let the cold and shame swallow me. I let those stones strike my body. Consciousness faded. Right before the darkness took me, I thought: Maybe it’s better this way. I’m finally not anyone’s burden anymore.

Seraphina’s POV When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in my own familiar bed. My whole body felt cold. My head was splitting. I turned my head and saw Alexander sitting on the couch by the bed, eyes closed. A bowl of steaming cream of mushroom soup sat next to him. He sensed me moving and turned. A familiar tenderness softened his eyes. “You’re awake. Hungry? I had the kitchen make your favorite soup.” His tone was casual, intimate—like we hadn’t fallen out at all just days ago. Like I hadn’t almost broken down in public. I turned my head away, not wanting to look at him. But my chest ached. Every time we fought, the next day he’d act exactly like this—warm and easy, like nothing had happened. “Why are you here?” My voice was hoarse. “Didn’t you say I wasn’t allowed back here?” His face stiffened. His tone turned colder. “Are you really still trying to fight me about that? You knew that was just me being angry.” “If someone hadn’t called me, I never would have known you’d gone outside alone, that you’d been treated like a thief and bullied!” “Seraphina, if something had happened to you, how could I face Mom and Dad?” At the mention of my parents, my eyes welled up again. “Dying would have been better. At least I could be with them. Then I wouldn’t be a burden anymore. Without me dragging you down, you can finally have the strong Alpha life you’ve always wanted.” I’d torn open my deepest, ugliest thought, and his face went iron-gray. “Seraphina! What did you say? After ten years, that’s how you see me?” he growled. I trembled, but threw it back at him. “How else am I supposed to see you? You brought in Chloe to torment me, didn’t you? Just to get rid of me?” He shot up and started pacing the room, agitated. “Seraphina, I really have spoiled you these past few years. I should have cured you sooner. Otherwise, how could your thinking get so dark and twisted?” The air in the room froze. Alexander rarely talked to me like this. But ever since Chloe showed up, his exceptions had become the rule. Just then, the door opened. Chloe walked in with a tray, her voice gentle and pleading. “Seraphina, you really have Alexander all wrong. He cares about you with his whole heart. He literally dreams about you overcoming your barriers, about you being a normal werewolf again. Saying things like this hurts him so deeply.”Alexander looked at her, his eyes softening, and shot her a grateful glance. Their eyes met in the air, sharing some kind of intimate understanding that left no room for outsiders. Watching them, my heart felt like it was being pricked by needles. I let out a cold laugh. “Who do you think you are? This is my home. Since when do you get a say?” The smile froze on Chloe’s lips. Her face went pale in an instant, like she’d been wronged in the worst possible way. Alexander immediately stepped forward, putting her behind him, glaring at me. “Seraphina! When did you become so cruel and unreasonable? Chloe poured her heart into making this plan for you, and this is how you treat her? Looks like Chloe was right—you don’t know how to be grateful!” “Treatment needs to speed up. Starting today, Chloe will move into the estate until you’re fully recovered!” With that, ignoring my shock and protests, he grabbed Chloe’s hand and led her out. Just as the door was about to close, Chloe turned her head. Those eyes, hidden from Alexander, held no trace of victimhood. They were full of triumph and provocation. She mouthed the words silently to me: “Seraphina, I won’t ‘disappoint’ you.”

Seraphina’s POV The day after Chloe moved in, my life turned into hell. She took complete control over my food, clothing, and living arrangements. Because of my psychological condition, I was extremely sensitive to anything that carried a strong werewolf scent. But to Chloe, all of that was just “spoiled behavior” and “psychosomatic.” With one wave of her hand, she dismissed every human maid in the mansion and replaced them with werewolves. And items started appearing in my room with intense, unfamiliar adult werewolf scents—bloodstained blades, silver daggers. Even during meals, she’d play loud, frantic music. I took a deep breath and forced down the urge to smash everything. Just a few more days. I didn’t want to fight with this lunatic anymore. I’d consider it my final exercise in patience. Seeing that I had barely touched dinner, Chloe curled her lips and asked with fake concern, “Seraphina, is the food not to your taste? I noticed you’ve barely eaten.” I kept my expression cold. “Not hungry.” Chloe’s eyes welled up immediately. She turned to Alexander. “Alexander, is there a problem with the meal I arranged? I know Seraphina has issues with me, but she shouldn’t take it out on her health. If my presence is bothering her, I can eat elsewhere from now on.” She made a show of standing up. Alexander grabbed her hand. “What are you doing? You’re an honored guest. You’re our therapist. You’re not eating anywhere else. Sit down!” Chloe gave me a troubled look. “But…” Alexander’s eyes turned cold as they landed on me. “Seraphina, there’s a limit to your tantrums. Chloe has stayed up nights perfecting your treatment plan. All of this was designed with care. If you can’t appreciate it, fine—but who are you putting on this attitude for?” I didn’t answer. I set down my napkin and dabbed at my mouth. “I’m full. Enjoy your meal.” I stood and started to leave. As I passed Alexander, he grabbed my wrist with shocking force. “Seraphina! I’m talking to you! Where are your manners?” Sharp pain shot through my wrist. I winced and yanked my hand free, staring at the red mark blooming on my skin. “You call this dinner?” I gestured at the unsettling background and music. “Look around. Listen. Is this something I can handle? Did you forget what these things do to me?” Alexander froze. His eyes softened, and a flicker of guilt passed through them. But Chloe immediately spoke up softly. “Alexander, this is part of exposure therapy. Tolerance training is important too. A lot of Seraphina’s discomfort is actually psychosomatic. We need to break those false associations.” The guilt vanished from Alexander’s eyes. He hardened again. “Seraphina, Chloe is right. This is psychological. As long as you slowly accept it, your body and mind will adapt.” “If you don’t want to accept it, you can go hungry.” He turned coldly to his Beta, Joseph. “No special meals for her without my permission. All her arrangements need to go through Chloe. Let her starve a few days. Once she’s calm, she’ll learn to listen.” Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t say anything. I just turned and walked away, not wanting them to see me cry.

Seraphina’s POV This time, Alexander was dead set on forcing me to be “normal.” For days, my surroundings were full of deliberate, unbearable stimulation. Before, even when we fought, he’d leave me some breathing room. Now even that last bit of peace was gone. I didn’t know when my relationship with Alexander had become this. But it wouldn’t be much longer. I looked at the encrypted message I’d just received on my phone. From Julian: “Everything is arranged. In five days, the plane will be waiting at the agreed location. Seraphina, I look forward to meeting you.” I rubbed my burning eyes. Five days. After days of constant emotional stress, I’d visibly deteriorated. My face was paper-white, dark circles under my eyes. When Alexander came to check on me, something complicated flickered across his face at the sight of me—but it was quickly replaced with cold detachment. Chloe came too. She stood at my doorway and whispered in his ear: “Alexander, hold steady. This is the darkness before dawn. Once we get through this, she’ll be reborn, and you’ll finally be free.” Alexander’s jaw tightened. He nodded. By the morning of the fourth day, while going down the stairs, I collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition. Everything went black. When I woke up, Alexander was sitting by my bed holding a bowl of plain oatmeal porridge. His tone was unusually conciliatory. “Seraphina, you win.” He sighed, his voice hoarse. “I just want you to live like a real werewolf. Is that wrong? Why can’t you understand my intentions?” Looking at this Alpha—famous in the werewolf world for his ferocity and brutality—now looking helpless and frustrated with me… There was nothing left in my heart but a cold exhaustion. I turned my head, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll try to cooperate with Chloe,” I rasped. But all I was thinking about was getting out of here as fast as possible. His eyes seemed to brighten. He reached out, wanting to pat my head like he used to. But his hand stopped mid-air. In the end, he just said stiffly, “Get some rest. No more foolish stunts.” I forced out a weak smile. Right. No more foolish stunts. Because in five days, I’d disappear from his world for good. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chloe standing in the doorway. Her eyes were dark and cold. Her fists were clenched. She turned and left. Something about that look sent a chill down my spine.

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When Adrian and Isla had another screaming match, both of them grabbed their suitcases, ready to walk out on me. He gripped my arm, his face dark. “Are you really going to stay with a girl like her? She’s reckless. Come with me.” Isla’s explosive temper flared, and she spat out the words without thinking: “Cut the righteous act, Adrian! Whose lace panties are those in your pocket? You think just because Maeve can’t speak, you can play her for a fool?” Panic seized me. I made desperate, choked sounds, my hands flying in a flurry of frantic signs, begging them both to stay. There’s a mistake, Isla. He’s not like that. Please, don’t go. But the screaming only escalated. By the end of the night, one had headed North, the other South. I was torn, caught in the wreckage of their anger, but in the end, I chose to follow Isla. She had always been the one to bend, to tolerate Adrian’s coldness just to keep the three of us together. I reached her apartment and turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. From inside the bedroom, the unmistakable, breathless sounds of my best friend drifted down the hall. “If you’d just told me you bought them for me, we wouldn’t have fought so hard…” And then, Adrian’s voice. The cold, untouchable Adrian Locke, now thick with a raw, restrained lust. “As if you don’t scream loud enough already. Keep it down. What if she…” Isla let out a low, knowing laugh. “You know Maeve. She’s too busy trying to keep the peace. She’s so terrified of choosing between us that she won’t follow either of us.” She paused, her voice turning sharp and teasing. “Besides, when it comes to this, do you really prefer that quiet little mute girl?” Adrian didn’t answer. But the sudden, violent creak of the mattress was answer enough. My feet felt nailed to the floor. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Slowly, I raised my hand and knocked on the door. … Both of them turned toward me, their eyes wide with shock and guilt. “M-Maeve… how did you get in here?” Adrian scrambled to shove Isla away, hurriedly pulling up his pants. He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor, completely unable to meet my eyes. I stood in the doorway. The mango cream cake I had bought in the city to cheer Isla up slipped from my fingers, splatting onto the hardwood floor. Isla’s tears fell first. She rushed over, grabbing my wrists. “Maeve, please, let me explain. It’s not what it looks like…” Her bare shoulders were covered in fresh, dark hickeys. I pulled my hands back. Slowly, deliberately, I signed: Don’t touch me. You both disgust me. Adrian pushed past her, barking, “Get some clothes on! Let me talk to Maeve!” He grabbed my hands, his palms burning and wet with sweat. “Maeve, listen to me. It was just physical. A release. If you’re angry, take it out on me. Isla saved your life once—please, don’t blame her.” It was sick. Even now, his first instinct was to shield her. I remembered the night Isla saved me from those thugs in the alley. She was a singer at a local dive bar back then. When Adrian finally arrived, he didn’t even thank her. Instead, he spat venom at her: “If Maeve didn’t hang around trash like you, she would never have been in danger!” He had even called her a whore. Because those thugs had strangled me so hard they ruined my vocal cords, leaving me unable to speak, the hatred between Adrian and Isla seemed written in stone. Adrian looked down on her, constantly warning me to cut ties. “You’re too naive, Maeve. She’s the neighborhood bicycle. I’m just looking out for you.” And Isla would sneer back: “He acts so clean, but he’s a closet freak. Watch your back, or he’ll leave you looking like a fool.” I had spent years playing peacemaker, secretly feeling blessed that the two people who loved me most were simply overprotective. But they were fucking. Looking at the red scratches on Adrian’s chest, my stomach churned. I raised my hands to sign: Adrian, let’s get a div— Before I could finish the sign for divorce, a sharp shriek echoed from the bedroom. Adrian bolted inside. I followed. Isla was slumped on the floor, her wrist slashed open, blood pooling around her feet. My instinct was to help, but Adrian shoved me away so hard my shoulder hit the wall. “Isla! Isla!” He scooped her pale body into his arms, throwing a look of pure, unadulterated disgust at me before running out. I followed them to the hospital in a daze. When the doctor said she’s out of danger, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I turned to leave, but the doctor’s next words froze me. “Her previous miscarriage already took a heavy toll on her body. As her boyfriend, how could you let her slit her wrists?” My chest tightened. A miscarriage? They had a child. Adrian didn’t deny it. “Doctor, will this affect her ability to get pregnant again?” When the doctor reassured him, the tension in Adrian’s shoulders melted away. Behind the door, tears streamed silently down my face. Isla caught my reflection in the glass. Panicking, she tried to sit up. “Maeve, don’t look at me like that! The baby… it was an accident…” Adrian’s first move isn’t to look at me; it’s to hold Isla steady. He looked up at me, his eyes dark with a suppressed, simmering irritation. “Maeve, she’s highly unstable right now. Can we talk about this later?” A choked, broken sound escaped my throat. I signed rapidly: Is this why you refused to have a baby with me? Adrian looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard before he spoke. “You got pregnant once too, Maeve.” “But when you and Isla were pregnant at the same time, I had to choose. Be honest with yourself—you’re mute. How could you possibly take care of a baby?” My hands trembled as I sign: So you aborted my child behind my back? Adrian looked down, silent. The last fragile thread of hope inside me snapped. In their sick, twisted game, I had already lost before I even knew I was playing. I left them there, looking like a perfect, worried little family. I walked home in the pouring rain. My mind flashed back to when Adrian first tried to learn sign language for me. He was so clumsy, tracing the gestures with a fierce, earnest devotion. I don’t want to miss a single word you say, he had signed. I want to be the one you turn to when it hurts. Now, that patience was gone. In the middle of the night, a clap of thunder woke me. My phone buzzed with an anonymous video message. I clicked it. It’s Isla, her heavy makeup smeared with tears, screaming at Adrian. “Call me a whore! Call me a cheap slut! But don’t you dare pretend you don’t feel anything for me!” “I paid those guys to rough up Maeve. I wanted her voice gone so you’d see how much better life is with me!” The world stopped spinning. The room went cold. On the screen, Isla’s crazed voice continued: “Go on! Tell her! Tell your precious little angel that her best friend is the reason she can’t speak! Let’s see if she still looks at you the same way!” She beat her fists against Adrian’s chest, sobbing hysterically. Then, Adrian’s voice cut through the noise, chillingly calm. “Fine. We bury this. We bury it forever. She never finds out.” My brain exploded into white noise. That night. The dark alleyway. The hands ripping my clothes. My screams cut short as a rough cloth was tied around my neck, choking me until my throat filled with the metallic taste of blood. Just as the darkness was closing in, Isla had appeared, shattering a beer bottle over their heads. She was my savior. I had defended her against Adrian’s insults. I had even slapped him once when he spoke ill of her. And all along, the people who claimed to love me most were the ones who dragged me into the dark. I ran to the hospital, bare feet hitting the wet pavement. I slammed open Isla’s door, my hands moving so fast they were a blur: Adrian was right. You are a disgusting, pathetic whore. But signing those words felt like driving a knife into my own chest. Isla shrank back, her eyes wide with terror. I remembered when we were young, and she worked at that sketchy bar to feed her family. When men harassed her, I broke a glass bottle and stood in front of her, almost getting my face slashed. When I caught a high fever, she stayed by my bedside for three days and nights. I don’t care what they say, Maeve. As long as you believe in me. Suddenly, Adrian burst into the room. “Maeve! How dare you scream at her!” “You were pinned down by those thugs too! You’re no saint, Maeve. Stop acting so pure!” His words rang in my ears, deafening me. When it happened, he had hunted those men down. He had blamed Isla for dragging me into her world. Now, he was tearing open my deepest wound, using it to stab me. With tears streaming down my face, I signed one last question: You knew what Isla did to me. You knew the whole time, didn’t you? Adrian froze for three long seconds. There was shock in his eyes, but no remorse. “It’s in the past, Maeve. Let it go. Isla lost a child—isn’t that punishment enough?” Three years. Three years of silence. Three years of being looked down upon at job interviews, of having no one but her. I had wanted to end my life so many times, but the thought of leaving them behind kept me alive. And now, he wanted to sweep it under the rug. I clenched my fists, my chest heavy as lead. I pulled out the divorce papers and signed: Adrian, let’s divorce. Adrian blinked, his chest stalling. Then, a flicker of relief washed over his face. “Maeve… you’re doing this so I can take care of Isla, right?” I looked at his smug, confident eyes, and slowly nodded. He sighed with relief, quickly signing his name on the dotted line. “She’s your best friend. She’s lost so much blood and has no one. I’m glad you’re being sensible about this. Once she’s out of the hospital, we’ll get remarried.” They both relaxed, the tension in the room evaporating. Neither of them noticed the utter hollow deadness in my eyes. Even my consent to a divorce is just another convenience for them to play house. I took the signed papers and went home to pack. At 3:00 AM, the front door flew open. Adrian stood there, his face contorted in a dark rage. Before I could react, his hand flew out, striking my cheek. The force of the blow sent me stumbling, my vision spinning. I looked at him, bewildered, signing: What are you doing? What’s wrong? Adrian was shaking, his eyes wild. “Stop playing dumb, Maeve! You proposed the divorce just to clear your name, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t suspect you!” “She took your voice, so now you’re taking her life!” I shook my head frantically, signing over and over: It wasn’t me! I don’t know what you’re talking about! But he had no patience left. He dragged me out of the apartment, throwing me into his car, and drove to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. “Since you hired them, you go in and get her out. If we’re too late, she’s going to die!” Looking at the dark, menacing structure, I shook my head in terror, signing: It wasn’t me. If I go in there, they’ll kill me. Adrian hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, a curdling shriek echoed from the top floor of the warehouse. “Adrian! Help me! I’m so scared!” Hearing Isla’s voice, Adrian lost his mind. He dragged me up the stairs. Isla was tied to a chair, gagged, tears streaming down her face. “Take her instead!” Adrian yelled at the masked kidnappers. “Let Isla go!” Without a word, the leader unties Isla and shoves me against a concrete pillar, binding my hands tightly. With my mouth free but my voice gone, I could only make desperate, muffled whimpers. Adrian didn’t look at me. He was too busy checking Isla for injuries, whispering sweet comfort, inspecting her wrists. Only when he was about to carry her out did he cast a brief glance back. “You deal with your own mess, Maeve. Once Isla is safe at the hospital, I’ll come back for you. We’ll talk.” He turned and walked away. No matter how hard I thrashed against the ropes, he didn’t look back. As his shadow disappeared, I stopped struggling. The leader of the kidnappers pulled down his mask, revealing a scarred face. My heart dropped. Shane. He was one of Isla’s frequent drinking buddies at the bar. He had openly chased her for years. He drew a switchblade, tracing the cold metal against my cheek. “Isla told me to just ruin your face, but you made her slit her wrists. How can I let you off that easy?” He pressed the tip of the blade against my chest, right over my heart. I closed my eyes. I welcomed the silence. Suddenly, the metal doors burst open. “Get away from my daughter! Take me instead!” My breath caught. My mother. I shook my head frantically, begging her to run, but no sound came out. As I struggled violently against the ropes, a sickening squelch cut through the air. She had thrown herself in front of me, taking the blade meant for my heart. Hot, thick blood splattered across my face. The world lost all sound. The air froze. She collapsed to the ground, her body heavy and still. Her phone slid across the dusty floor, landing near my feet. The screen was lit up. A single name flashed on the caller ID: Isla. It was Isla who had called my mother. She had sent her to “save” me. I fell to my knees, my bound hands desperately hovering over my mother’s cooling body. “Let’s go! She’s dead! Run!” the men panicked, dropping the knife and fleeing into the night. In the empty, rotting warehouse, a ragged, guttural howl finally broke from my ruined throat. At dawn, with my mother’s ashes sealed in a heavy urn and my body covered in bruises, I boarded the earliest flight out of the city. As soon as the plane touched down, my phone exploded with hundreds of messages from Adrian and Isla. I didn’t read a single one. I blocked them both, deleted their numbers, and disappeared into the crowded streets. Keep playing your tragic, twisted love story, Adrian. I’m done.

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Every night after my father cheated, Mom washed his body with steel wool. She would spray rubbing alcohol onto his raw, bleeding back, her voice a manic, repeating whisper. “Dirty. You’re so dirty, Wesley. So dirty.” Dad’s face would go bone-white from the agonizing sting, but his eyes were always swimming with guilt. He never flinched, never pulled away. Instead, he would look at my wide, bewildered eyes and offer a gentle, quiet comfort. “Daddy made a mistake, Gemma. Mommy is doing the right thing.” But on my sixth birthday, Dad asked if he could take a shower by himself. The knife shook in Mom’s hand as she sliced my birthday cake. Suddenly, she snapped, lunging at him and tearing desperately at his shirt. “Are you sleeping with her again? Your little apprentice, Amber? Is she that desperate? Can’t she live without you?” “You’re pathetic, Wesley! You have a family right here, but you’d rather ruin your career and throw away your reputation just to sleep with garbage!” After Mom slapped him for the eighteenth time, Dad finally reached his breaking point. He caught her wrists and yanked up his sleeve, exposing a jagged, angry wound on his arm. “I nearly lost my arm fixing the main press at the plant today, and you don’t even care! All you do is obsess over who I’m sleeping with! When does it end!” “Even if Amber is messy, she’s still better than you. At least she didn’t grow up fooling around with her own stepbrother! I’d rather sleep with her any day. What of it?” The candle on my cake flickered out without warning, plunging our small company-housing apartment into a dim, suffocating twilight. Mom’s hand fell limp at her side. The fierce, manic light in her eyes simply vanished. I knew then: Mom was tired. Truly tired. She was ready to let go. … 1 The dry air in the room was thick with a dead, heavy silence. Dad was the first to snap out of it. He tugged the pull-string switch, and the dim, yellow bulb cast a flickering shadow across the room. He reached out instinctively to grab Mom’s hand, but he caught only empty air. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” “The machine malfunctioned today. I got hurt while trying to repair it. I only wanted to wash up myself because I didn’t want you to worry.” “Look at me, Meredith. I’m clean. There’s no scent of another woman’s cold cream on me. I swear.” Mom’s stepbrother had been an orphaned boy her stepfather brought home when they were kids. Two years older than her, she had been thrilled to finally have an older brother. She never expected that years later, he would pin her against a wall, trying to make her his. It was Dad who had happened to walk by and save her, promising never to speak a word of it to anyone. But now, he was the one using it as a weapon to tear her apart. Mom didn’t say a word. She turned her back to him, picking up the cold dishes to put them back into the steamer to reheat. Only then did Dad realize he was two hours late getting home. Two hours. That was a very specific, agonizing number in our house. A year ago, when Dad was two hours late, Mom had been so worried she ran out into a torrential downpour to find him at the plant. Peering through the dusty glass of the control room, she saw Dad and Amber tangled together. I had been riding piggyback on Mom, giggling innocently. “Is Daddy playing a game? He’s riding on Auntie Amber’s back just like I ride on yours!” “Daddy is like a puppy, playing so happily with Auntie Amber.” Mom had quickly covered my eyes, whispering for me to look away. I only remembered how hard it rained that night, the thunder shaking the earth. But as she carried me home on her back, she wept louder than the storm. Remembering this, Dad’s face drained of color. He mumbled, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. There was really an emergency at the plant.” “I promise you, nothing like that will ever happen again. Let’s just live our lives quietly.” Mom kept her back turned, offering no reply. Assuming her silence was a quiet acceptance, Dad let out a long, relieved sigh. He went to change his clothes and sat back down at the table, his bandaged arm resting quietly. “Happy birthday, Gemma. And here’s to many more years just like this for us.” To many more years, through every season. That had been their wedding vow. They used to repeat it to each other every year. But tonight, Mom didn’t complete the sentence. She just kept silently scooping food into my bowl. Dad sighed softly and pulled two beautifully wrapped gifts from his coat pocket. One was a pair of pearl earrings; the other was a porcelain doll. “I bought these on my business trip down south. I knew you two would love them.” Though I was thrilled, I stole a glance at Mom’s face first. She gave me a small, reassuring nod, signaling that I could accept them. A spark of hope lit up Dad’s eyes. He leaned in gently, trying to slip one of the pearl earrings into Mom’s earlobe. But before he could secure the clasp, the front door was hammered so violently by the night watchman that the frame rattled. “Engineer Wesley! Come quick! The calibration is off, and Amber got her sleeve caught in the assembly line again!” Dad’s hand slipped. The sharp metal post of the earring gouged into Mom’s earlobe, and blood began to bead and run. Mom gasped from the sudden sting, tears welling in her eyes. Without looking back, Dad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against her bleeding ear, already heading for the door. “There’s an emergency at the plant. I have to go.” We both knew there was no emergency at the plant. There was only Amber. And Dad’s injury from earlier wasn’t from a rogue machine—it was from shielding Amber. Mom stared down at the handkerchief left in her hand. It was embroidered with a wild rose—Amber’s favorite flower. After a long, quiet moment, Mom let out a soft, hollow laugh. She stroked my hair, whispering a gentle apology. “I’m so sorry I ruined your sixth birthday, sweetie.” “But Mommy can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving your father.” When Mom took me to the municipal registry office, it was already the next morning. Dad hadn’t come home all night, and Mom hadn’t slept a wink. She held her red identification booklet, staring blankly at the clerk, taking a long moment to process the words spoken to her. “What do you mean our marriage certificate is invalid? Wesley and I aren’t husband and wife?” The clerk, a kind-faced older woman, sighed with deep sympathy. “I checked the registry database multiple times. Wesley is indeed registered as married. But not to you. His legal wife is Amber.” “They filed the paperwork with a special unit exemption a year ago.” One year ago. That was exactly three months after Amber had first moved into our house. When Mom first brought her home, Amber was black and blue, covered in cuts and bruises. Mom had told us she was a broken soul, and that we must treat her with kindness. I remembered Dad complaining in private back then, calling Amber a troubled girl from the streets, warning that keeping someone like her around would ruin my upbringing. That was the first time I ever saw Mom raise her voice at him, accusing him of lacking basic human empathy, making him swear he would treat Amber like his own sister. Once Amber recovered, she clung to Dad, eventually becoming his apprentice at the plant. Mom had been genuinely happy, thinking Amber was finally on the right path, and that Dad had let go of his prejudices. She never expected the path would lead straight to her own undoing. Dad came home early that evening. Seeing the dining table bare, he arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry about missing dinner yesterday. Let me make it up to you. I’ll take us out to a nice restaurant.” Mom didn’t move. She simply pointed to our framed wedding portrait on the wall. “Wesley, when did your heart change?” “Was it a year ago, or was it the very first moment you laid eyes on Amber?” The photograph on the wall was already yellowing, its edges curling. In it, Dad looked stiff and formal, while Mom’s lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line. But in the photos of Dad and Amber at the plant, they both laughed with radiant, carefree abandon. Dad froze for a second, then let out a dismissive laugh. “You’re angry over a piece of paper? If you want to take new pictures, we can go to the studio right now.” “Amber is young and brilliant; her talent shouldn’t be wasted. Marrying her was just a formality to secure her residency and her spot in the plant’s fast-track program.” “It’s just a legal loophole. If it bothers you this much, I’ll file for divorce immediately.” I tugged at the hem of Mom’s shirt, looking up with innocent confusion. “Is that why the school wouldn’t let me register? Because of that paper?” Dad went rigid, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. I was already past the age to start school. Every time Mom took me to register, the administrators always told her my paperwork didn’t meet the requirements. Mom had spent weeks running from office to office, wearing out two pairs of shoes, only to receive a quiet warning from an old clerk: “Are you sure about your husband’s legal status? You should look into that before you try registering the child.” Mom had assumed it was because Dad worked on confidential projects for the plant. She didn’t know that her husband wasn’t legally her husband, and that I was an illegitimate child—a ghost with no legal standing. Mom held me close, keeping her silence. Dad cleared his throat, softening his tone. “Once Amber gets her union tenure, I’ll divorce her. Then we’ll get Gemma into the best private academy in town. Just wait a little longer, okay?” Mom slipped out of his reach, looking up with calm, empty eyes. “So you never had feelings for her? It was all just a favor?” Dad nodded vigorously, trying to pull us both into a tight embrace. “I swear to God. In my heart, there is only you and Gemma.” I wrinkled my nose, pulling away from him in disgust. The scent clinging to his collar was the unmistakable, sweet aroma of Amber’s cold cream. Just then, the door creaked open. Amber stood there in a delicate floral sundress, her bottom lip trembling, her eyes rimmed with red. “Wes… I’m pregnant.” I looked up, catching the unmistakable flash of joy that crossed Dad’s eyes before he could hide it. Amber slid a medical form onto the table, her expression torn. “I know you only married me to help me get my union status. I won’t keep this baby.” “I only came because I wanted the baby’s father to know he existed. The doctor said… it’s a boy.” Tears trickled down Amber’s pale cheeks, catching the light of the pearl necklace around her throat. It was a perfect match to the earrings Dad had given Mom, only hers was far larger, far more expensive. Amber touched her neck, looking sheepish. “Wes gave this to me as a reward for winning the plant’s design competition. If it makes you uncomfortable, sister, I’ll take it off.” Dad’s eyes darted around in panic. He opened his mouth to explain, but Mom cut him off. She calmly took off her own pearl earrings and tossed them onto the table. “You already wear my old clothes and sleep with my husband. Since you love my secondhand trash so much, you might as well take these too.” Amber’s mock-innocent smile stiffened, but she quickly recovered, flashing a sharp, triumphant grin. She picked them up and put them on. “Thank you, sister. You’re so generous. It seems Wes was right to sleep with me. Compared to your flat, cold body, I obviously know how to keep him happy.” “After all, he told me that no matter how wild I am, at least I never slept with my own brother. I’m clean where it counts.” “Amber! Shut your mouth and get out of here!” Dad roared, stepping between Amber and Mom. Amber’s eyes flooded with tears, and she spun around, running out into the twilight. Dad hovered in place for a second, then tried to sound casual as he looked back at Mom. “It’s getting dark. It’s not safe for her to be out alone in her condition.” “You two wait for me here. I’ll be right back.” Beneath the table, Mom’s nails dug so hard into her palms that her knuckles turned white. I never imagined Mom’s deepest, most painful secret would be whispered in bed to Amber as a joke. And I never imagined Dad would defend Amber, leaving Mom behind once again. Mom watched his retreating figure as he ran down the street, then quietly began packing our bags. As she locked the door behind us, I kept looking down the empty road. Mom took my hand, shaking her head softly. “Don’t look back, sweetie. He’s not coming back.” As we walked toward the train station, thin flakes of snow began to drift down from the gray sky. Suddenly, Amber stepped out from the shadows of an alley, blocking our path with a cruel, satisfied smile. “I knew you’d run. That’s why I waited here. See how well I know you?” Mom didn’t want any trouble. She picked me up and tried to walk past her, but several rough-looking men stepped out from the darkness, surrounding us. Amber’s eyes gleamed with malice as she stepped closer. “Do you remember these men, Meredith? You’re the one who rescued me from them in the first place.” “They made me a whore, and you took me into your home like a saint. You’re just too good to be true, aren’t you?” Mom held me tighter, her body tense. “What do you want, Amber?” Amber let out a sharp, cold laugh. “I want you to become exactly like me. That way, Wes won’t look at you like you’re some pure, untouchable angel anymore.” “I wonder what Wes will think when he gets here and finds you stripped and ruined in the dirt?” Her eyes shifted slowly toward me, a twisted grin spreading across her face. “Little Gemma is so small, but even little girls have a certain sweetness to them, don’t they?” Mom’s eyes went wild with terror. She pulled a small utility knife from her pocket, her fingers trembling violently. “Get back! Touch her and I will kill you!” It was the hunting knife Dad had given her years ago. I buried my face in Mom’s neck, crying in terror as the men laughed, closing the circle around us. I felt a cold, greasy hand brush against my cheek. Mom screamed, swinging the knife blindly into the air. A man cried out, clutching his arm, and curses filled the snowy air. Mom didn’t stop, slashing frantically to keep them away. Suddenly, Mom’s back hit a solid wall of chest. A familiar, stern voice boomed from above us. “Meredith! When are you going to stop this madness!” Amber was already on the ground, curled in a patch of blood-stained snow. She clutched her stomach, a tragic, fragile smile on her face. “Don’t blame sister… she saved my life once… if she wants to destroy me like this, I accept it…” “But my baby… he was so small… he hadn’t even kicked yet…” Dad looked down at Mom, his voice colder than the ice beneath our feet. “Meredith, you’d better pray to God that Amber’s baby survives.” He scooped Amber into his arms and ran toward the clinic. He ran so fast, never noticing that Mom’s hand was deeply gashed, blood dripping onto the snow. I dragged Mom to the clinic myself. The nurse on duty stitched her wound with brutal, careless tugs, making the skin tear further. I tried to blow on Mom’s hand to ease the pain, glaring at the nurse. “Listen here, you little brat,” the nurse snapped, wrapping the bandage roughly. “I’m doing your home-wrecking mother a favor just by stitching her up.” Mom immediately covered my ears, her voice sharp and cold. “Apologize to my daughter.” The nurse rolled her eyes, pointing toward the private recovery room down the hall. “Engineer Wesley and Amber are legally married. Their child is the legitimate one here. A mistress should learn to keep her head down instead of demanding respect.” Dad stood in the doorway, his eyes softening slightly as he saw the blood soaking through Mom’s fresh bandage. He sighed, walking over to gently re-wrap her hand. “Thank God Amber is going to be okay. But we can’t just let this go.” “There’s been a leak of proprietary blueprints from the design office. The ministry is investigating. I need you to take the blame for Amber.” Mom froze, staring at him as if he had struck her. “You want me to take the fall for Amber?” Dad frowned, his tone matter-of-fact. “Amber is young; a security mark on her record will ruin her career forever. But you… you’re a housewife. It won’t affect you. I’ll still provide for you and take care of you.” Tears streamed down Mom’s face, burning her cheeks. “And what about Gemma? She can’t have a mother with a criminal record! She’ll never be allowed to go to school!” Dad wiped her tears away, remaining silent for a long moment. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Amber legally adopt Gemma. That way, her records stay clean.” Mom went completely rigid. When she realized what he was saying, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around me in a desperate, suffocating grip. “Amber sent those men to hurt us! I was only protecting my child!” “I didn’t steal any data! You can’t take my baby away!” From the recovery room, Amber’s weak voice drifted out. “If sister doesn’t want to, forget it, Wes… I don’t want to make things hard for you…” The horn of an official vehicle honked outside the clinic. After a moment of hesitation, Dad stepped forward and began tearing me from Mom’s arms. “It’s just a routine inquiry, Meredith. They just need to ask you some questions.” I screamed for Mom, kicking and scratching at Dad’s face. Two security officers came in and dragged Mom out, her knees scraping hard against the gravel driveway, leaving a smeared trail of blood. She wept, crying out into the cold night air. “I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t!” “Gemma! My baby!” “Wesley, I hate you! I hate you!” The security vehicle sped away into the dark. It didn’t return until three days later. But Mom didn’t come back. Only the plant director did. He looked at Dad, who was currently sitting with his arm wrapped around Amber, and hesitated. Dad’s eyes fell to the white shirt the director was holding. It was the shirt Mom had been wearing when she was taken. It was stiff with dried mud and stained with dark, heavy blood. The smile died on Dad’s face, his heart leaping into his throat. “Meredith’s transport vehicle was caught in a flash mudslide on the mountain road. She died on impact.” “These are her belongings. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

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Less than a year after I faked my death, Thomas Oswald found me. But no matter how he knelt on the cold ground, begging, I refused to go back with him. Until he used his power to throw my elderly parents into a state penitentiary. “Novia, if you don’t want me supporting Lydia, I won’t bring her into our lives anymore. Just come home. Can’t we go back to how we were?” Thomas’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice thick with desperation. “You don’t want your parents spending their remaining years rotting in a maximum-security prison in the frozen North, do you?” I screamed every curse I knew at him, but he only laughed, a sound raw and bordering on madness. “Novia, without you, I’ve been out of my mind anyway.” In the end, I broke. When I returned, Thomas really did seem like a changed man. He stayed by my side constantly. He even proposed sending Lydia away to a secluded clinic in Vermont. Right in front of my eyes, he burned the trust fund agreements he’d prepared for her. He handed me the keys to the entire Oswald estate, telling me that from now on, everything was mine to rule. Our son, Henry—who had once screamed that he wanted Lydia to be his mother—now trailed after me, desperately trying to win my favor with sweet words and shy smiles. I actually believed they had changed. I was just about to write a letter to my savior, telling him I had no further requests. But then, I saw them. At the secluded chapel on the estate grounds, I caught Thomas. He was holding Lydia’s arm with a gentle, protective reverence as she prayed. And my son, Henry, was clinging to Lydia’s leg, looking up at her with a sweet, adoring smile. “Aunt Lydia, when is my baby brother coming out of your tummy to play with me?” Thomas gently pulled the boy back. “Don’t play around, Henry.” “And don’t mention your brother. You almost let it slip in front of your mother last time.” I froze where I stood. After a long, breathless moment, I tightened my grip on my umbrella and stepped forward. 1 “Remember, your mother is also coming to the chapel today to pray for your grandmother. We can’t stay long,” Thomas said, keeping his voice low and solemn. “And not a single word about the baby in front of her. Do you understand?” Henry nodded, though his lower lip trembled. “Dad… when can we bring Aunt Lydia back to the house? It’s so cold out here, and she doesn’t even have anyone to take care of her…” Thomas stroked the boy’s hair, a sigh escaping him. “We can’t rush this. We have to plan carefully. I’ll figure out a way once she’s closer to her due date.” But Henry wouldn’t let it go, mumbling petulantly, “It’s all Mom’s fault. She’s so selfish and jealous! Aunt Lydia is so sweet, but Mom just wants to keep you all to herself. She hates Aunt Lydia!” “Quiet!” Thomas snapped, cutting him off. “That is your mother. Don’t let me ever hear you speak of her with such disrespect again!” Silence fell over the small chapel. Henry pouted, tears welling in his eyes. Lydia gently pulled the boy behind her, lifting her tear-rimmed eyes to look at Thomas. “Thomas, please don’t blame the child. It’s my fault,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That night… you were so drunk. I was careless. I forgot to take the morning-after pill, and now we’re in this mess. I’ve made things so hard for you.” “I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life in isolation, never disrupting your life with Novia.” “But… if this child is born in some hidden clinic, they will grow up branded a bastard. They’ll face nothing but cruelty and scorn.” She slowly sank to her knees, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I don’t care what happens to me. But please, Thomas, give this baby a chance. As long as you don’t abandon them, I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever…” “Get up,” Thomas said, reaching down to pull her to her feet, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll find a way.” “There’s no need to find a way,” I said, closing my umbrella as I calmly stepped over the threshold. “There is no time like the present. You can bring Lydia back to the house today.” My sudden entrance made Thomas stiffen. Every drop of color drained from his face. Yet, his hand instinctively moved to shield Lydia’s stomach. “Novia… let me explain,” he stammered, his throat working hard as he searched for words. “This baby… it was an accident. That night, I drank too much. I thought she was you…” “It was only that one time. I swear to you, only once.” He spoke in a frantic rush, his eyes locked onto mine. “I only wanted to bring her back so she could have a safe delivery, and then I was going to find a quiet place in the countryside for them. If you don’t want her in the house, I won’t do it. I swear I won’t…” I cut him off softly. “Thomas, I didn’t say I disagreed.” He blinked, utterly lost. “Are you… are you angry?” “No,” I said, my voice smooth and level. “I was just thinking that Lydia always preferred the Lakeside Cottage. I’ll move my things out tonight so she can have it.” Thomas stared at me as if I were a complete stranger. Slowly, his brow furrowed, and the panic in his eyes turned into something darker, sharper. “Novia, can you stop being so damn passive-aggressive?” I met his gaze, offering a small, polite smile. “You’re overthinking it. I’m not being passive-aggressive. I simply sympathize with how difficult pregnancy must be for Lydia, and I want to help.” Thomas lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. His grip was so tight I could feel the bones grinding together. His eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. “What do you want from me? I told you it was an accident! Why do you have to keep twisting the knife?” I looked down at his hand bruising my wrist. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t cry out. “You’re overthinking it, Thomas.” “I’m just doing what a good wife is supposed to do.” He violently flung my hand away, taking two steps back. With a sudden burst of rage, he swept his arm across the altar table, sending the brass chalice and offering plates crashing to the stone floor. “Fine! Beautiful!” “You’re burning with rage inside, but you’d rather die than show it. Who are you playing this saintly, uncaring martyr for?” I let out a soft breath, having no desire to argue with him. My silence only infuriated him more. He glared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Suddenly, he grabbed Lydia’s arm, pulling her roughly to his side. “Fine. Since you’re so incredibly generous, I’m bringing Lydia back today.” “After all, your parents are still at my mercy. You wouldn’t dare run. Let’s see how long you can keep up this little act!” Lydia stumbled as she was pulled, glancing at me with a look of feigned terror, but as she lowered her head, I caught the swift, triumphant curl of her lips. Looking at the two of them, I felt a strange sense of detachment. I wasn’t surprised by her petty malice; I was surprised by myself. The girl who used to cry, shake, and lie awake all night at the mere mention of her name seemed to belong to another lifetime. “Of course,” I said, stepping aside to clear the doorway. “I’m a bit tired. I’ll head back to rest.” Thomas froze behind me for a second, then chased after me, his voice raw and heavy. “Novia, haven’t you punished me enough?” “I’ve done everything to accommodate you this time. I just wanted us to have a normal life. What do you gain by torturing me with this coldness?” I paused, but I didn’t turn around. His arrogance only existed because he was absolutely certain I could never leave him. But what he didn’t know was that during the year I had faked my death, I had saved the life of Governor Bradley. The Governor had promised me a favor—any favor. Originally, I was going to write to him to say I needed nothing. But now, I wanted to ask for a formal, legally binding decree of divorce and protection. I wanted to be truly free of Thomas Oswald. When I returned to the estate, I ordered the maids to move all my belongings to the carriage house at the far edge of the property. Mrs. Higgins, the old housekeeper who had once served Lydia, hurried in when she heard the news. She immediately began snooping around. “Ma’am, far be it from me to speak out of turn, but when Mr. Oswald furnished the Emerald Suite for Miss Lydia before, he cleared out three entire vaults of treasures for her.” “The cabinets were filled with fine imported porcelain, and the drapes were pure silk. This Lakeside Cottage… it’s a bit rustic. I’m afraid Miss Lydia won’t find it to her taste.” I set down my teacup and smiled. “Mrs. Higgins, take a few girls to the vault. Whatever Lydia likes, move it in.” “You can tear down and rebuild every brick of this cottage to match her exact taste.” Mrs. Higgins blinked, startled, before her face split into a wide, greedy grin. “Your generosity is a blessing to this household, ma’am. I’ll get right on it!” As Mrs. Higgins scurried away with a smug swagger, my maid Lucy ran to me, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “Ma’am, she’s just a widow! Why does she get to push you around like this over and over?” I stared out the window at the white magnolias in the yard. “It’s just a house, Lucy.” “If she wants it, let her have it.” Hardly had the words left my mouth when Thomas stepped into the courtyard. Mrs. Higgins was leading a group of maids carrying furniture. Running straight into him, she offered a fawning smile. “Mr. Oswald! You’ve come at the perfect time. The mistress is having us redecorate the cottage exactly to Miss Lydia’s liking.” “It’s just… the white magnolias in the yard are a bit of a problem. Miss Lydia has always despised the scent of magnolias; she says they give her a headache. What do you think…” I chimed in from the doorway, “Rip them out. Plant whatever she prefers. Peonies, roses—whatever Mrs. Higgins deems appropriate.” A suffocating silence fell over the yard. Thomas stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of disbelief. “All of you, get the hell out,” he commanded. The servants scrambled to leave, terrified. Lydia didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she took a step closer to him, her voice soft and soothing. “Thomas, please don’t upset yourself. I can sleep anywhere, really. There’s no need to argue with Novia on my account…” “You too. Leave,” Thomas said, without even looking at her. Lydia’s sweet smile froze. Her lips parted, but she didn’t dare utter another syllable. She lowered her head and quickly retreated. Thomas strode over, towering over me. His chest rose and fell in violent, ragged breaths, the corners of his eyes so red they looked ready to bleed. “Novia Oswald. Do you have any idea that every single brick, every tree, every flower in this place was chosen because you loved them?” “I hauled these magnolias myself from three hundred miles away. I buried them in the dirt and watered them every day for weeks just to keep them alive. And now you’re telling them to tear them out?” “No matter how much you want to spite me, you shouldn’t stomp on my heart like this!” “Thomas,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Lydia is carrying your child. She should be kept comfortable. I am only thinking of the Oswald legacy.” He suddenly let out a laugh. It was a terrible, broken sound, uglier than any sob. “Novia… you are unbelievable.” “Since you’re so eager to give everything away, then get out! I’ll stay in this Lakeside Cottage tonight and sleep with Lydia.” I bowed my head slightly. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll take my leave.” The moment I turned, he lunged at me like a wild beast, locking his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against his chest. His fingers clamped onto my jaw, forcing my head back as his mouth crashed down on mine in a brutal, punishing kiss. The metallic taste of blood immediately spread between us. I didn’t struggle. I simply stood there like a block of wood, letting him tear at my lips. He must have felt my total lack of response, because he pulled back slightly, his eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate terror before he pressed down even harder. It was as if he believed that if he just forced it enough, he could spark the old warmth, the old passion we used to share. He carried me to the bed, tearing at my clothes. But when his fingers ripped at my silk camisole, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged up from my stomach. I wrenched myself from his grip, leaned over the edge of the bed, and retched violently. “You…” Thomas froze on the mattress, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “For the year you were gone, I swear I didn’t touch another woman. Lydia’s baby… it was a drunken mistake.” “I’ve explained this a thousand times. Do you still not believe me?” He fell silent for a moment, then whispered, “Or is it… do you think I’m dirty? Because I touched someone else, do I disgust you?” I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief, slowly sat up, and pulled my torn shirt together. “You’re overthinking it, Thomas.” “I’m just not feeling well. I’m afraid I’ll make a poor companion tonight. You should go to Lydia.” Thomas stared at me, his gaze searching, trying to find a crack in my composure. Suddenly, he swept his hand across the nightstand, sending the porcelain water pitcher crashing to the floor. Shards of ceramic exploded everywhere. “Fine! If that’s how you want it!” He stepped back, his chest heaving, his voice grinding out between clenched teeth. “Since you’re so desperate to push me into her bed, I’ll give you exactly what you want!” He let out a cold sneer. “Novia, since you’re so noble, so entirely unbothered, you can kneel outside our door tonight and wait to bring us fresh water.” “I’m worried I might lose control with Lydia. It’ll give me peace of mind to have our resident doctor waiting just outside the door.” He stared intensely at my face, begging for even a flicker of pain. But I merely stood up and smoothed my skirts. “Then please wait a moment. I will go boil the water.” As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, I heard the muffled sound of something heavy slamming violently against the bedroom wall. I didn’t look back. When Lydia brushed past me on her way in, she paused, her lips curving into a triumphant smirk. She leaned close, whispering, “Novia, just watch. This time, I’m taking everything you have left.” I didn’t even blink. “You don’t need to waste your energy on me, Lydia.” “Within three days, I’ll be gone from this place.” She turned to look at me, her eyes wide with disbelief, searching my face for any sign of a bluff. I didn’t look back at her. I simply adjusted my coat against the chilly night breeze and kept walking. I had already sent a trusted contact to the capitol with my token. It wouldn’t even take three days before I was completely free. That night, he called for fresh water seven times. And seven times, I stood outside the door, listening to the sounds from within, carrying heavy buckets of boiling water in and empty basins out. By the time dawn broke, my body was numb with exhaustion. As I turned to leave, my son came sprinting into the courtyard, practically bursting with excitement. “Dad! Mom! Look! Aunt Lydia got me an admission gift for my new school! I love him so much! He’s so good, he never bites!” Seven-year-old Henry was leading a massive mastiff, nearly as tall as he was. The beast’s tongue lolled out of its mouth, its dark eyes locked instantly onto me. My blood ran cold. They both knew—both my husband and my son—how deathly terrified I was of dogs. “Henry, stop…” But instead of stopping, Henry let go of the leash. The mastiff lunged. Instinctively, I scrambled backward, tripped over my own skirt, and crashed hard onto the stone pavers. As the dog bore down on me, I reached out toward Thomas, trying to hide behind him. But Lydia suddenly let out a shrill scream. “Ah! It hurts! Thomas, my stomach…” Thomas hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking between me and Lydia. Then, without a backward glance, he turned and ran to her. When the dog’s teeth sank deep into my calf, I didn’t scream. It turns out that when pain reaches its absolute limit, you lose the ability to make a sound. Blood began to pool beneath my leg. I lay flat on the cold ground, my entire body shaking violently. The raw, bone-deep terror was far worse than the physical pain of the bite. I curled into a ball, unable to even crawl. “Mom, you are so dramatic,” Henry said, standing a few feet away, his head tilted in disgust. “Aunt Lydia said Buster never bites. You must have let him do it on purpose just to make Dad feel bad for you.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Thomas had already scooped Lydia up in his arms, roaring at the terrified servants standing nearby. “What are you doing? Get the doctor! Get every single doctor on this estate right now!” Everyone was running toward Lydia. I lay on the ground, my skirt soaked through with blood, the mastiff still standing over me, growling, teeth bared. I couldn’t even cry. Terror clawed at my throat, cutting off my breath. Suddenly, Lucy threw herself over me, violently shoving the dog away with her bare hands. The mastiff stumbled, snarled in fury, and lunged again. With a desperate cry, Lucy pulled a heavy silver hairpin from her hair and plunged it deep into the dog’s front leg. The beast howled in pain, tucked its tail, and bolted toward the gates. “Ma’am! Ma’am, where are you hurt?” Lucy wept, her hands shaking as she tried to lift me. “Insolent wench!” Henry’s face flushed purple with rage. He pointed a finger at Lucy, screaming, “You hurt the dog Aunt Lydia gave me! That’s my dog! Someone drag this useless maid out and beat her!” Two heavy-set older housekeepers stepped forward, grabbing Lucy by her arms. “Don’t you touch her!” Where the strength came from, I didn’t know. I grabbed Lucy’s wrist with a death grip, refusing to let go. “She is my maid. No one touches her.” “What a touching display of loyalty.” Thomas’s voice dropped from above. I looked up. He had walked back, looking down at me with cold, detached eyes. “You throw my feelings in the dirt without a second thought, yet you care so much about a common maid?” He crouched down, pinching my chin tightly. “Get rid of her.” “No!” I grabbed his leg, my voice cracking. “Thomas, please… punish me. Don’t hurt Lucy…” I slammed my forehead against the stone floor. Once. Twice. “Lydia spent weeks picking out that dog for Henry. Your maid injured it. Don’t you think, as her mistress, you owe Lydia and the dog an apology?” I froze, staring at him in utter disbelief. He wanted me… to apologize to the beast that had just tried to maul me? “If Novia doesn’t want to apologize, I suppose there’s another way,” Lydia said, leaning on a maid’s arm as she walked over, her hand resting gently on her stomach. “I only want to prove that Buster doesn’t bite for no reason. If Novia is willing to sit in the dog’s pen for just fifteen minutes, we can call it even and let the maid go.” Slowly, I turned my head to look at Thomas. “From now on, Lydia will share equal status with you in this house,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “What she says is my command.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Fine.” Without a single hesitation, I dragged my bleeding leg and stepped inside the iron dog pen. The moment the gate clicked shut, the cornered, agitated mastiff locked its eyes onto me. “No, ma’am! Please! You’re terrified of dogs! Lucy would rather die than see you humiliated like this!” Lucy screamed, fighting against the housekeepers holding her. With a sudden burst of desperation, she broke free and lunged toward the concrete pillar nearby, intending to end her own life. “Lucy, no!” I threw myself against the iron bars, my fingers clawing at the gaps, tears finally blinding my vision. At that exact second, the mastiff struck. Its massive weight slammed me to the ground, a heavy paw pinning my shoulder blade down, trapping me. Its hot, foul breath washed over my face. Outside the pen, Thomas’s voice came soft, almost conversational. “Be reasonable, Novia. Just swallow your pride, stop fighting me, and I’ll let you out.” “Everything in this house can go back to being yours.” But before he could finish his sentence, the heavy iron gates of the estate were thrown open with a resounding crash. A fleet of black government vehicles rolled into the courtyard, followed by a squad of armed federal marshals. The lead envoy stepped out of the lead car, holding a sealed document high in his hand. “Federal decree! Let Novia Oswald step forward to receive it!”

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It happened during Spirit Week. My son’s teacher had the class vote on the “most disgusting” student. My eight-year-old won. When Sam got home, he didn’t even drop his backpack. He ran straight into the hallway bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. I knocked, my heart tightening at the sound of his muffled, ragged breathing. “Sammy? What’s wrong, sweetie?” Through the door, his voice cracked, thick with tears. “Mama… am I really disgusting?” My mind went entirely blank. A cold, sharp ringing started in my ears. It took me twenty minutes of gentle pleading to get the story out of him. That afternoon, Mrs. Geller, his homeroom teacher, had run a classroom poll. She asked the class to vote on the “Most Disgusting Kid.” Sam had won by a landslide. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone. I opened the parent-teacher group chat and typed: Did anyone else’s child participate in a classroom vote today? Mrs. Geller replied almost instantly: Mrs. Davis, let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. I stared at the screen, a cold, hard laugh bubbling up in my throat. A molehill? Fine. I’ll show you what a mountain looks like. I didn’t reply to her. I let my phone sit, but the chat was already a hornet’s nest. … Mason’s mom was the first to jump in: Sam’s mom, Mrs. Geller is usually so dedicated. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. Another parent quickly chimed in: Maybe we should look at Sam’s hygiene habits? Mrs. Geller is probably just trying to help him. Exactly. The school is deciding on the Citizenship Banner this week. Let’s not blow this out of proportion and ruin it for the class. That last message felt like a slap. I stared at the words Citizenship Banner, my palms turning icy cold. I ignored them all and knocked softly on the bathroom door again. “Sammy, I’m not going to ask any more questions. Come on out. I’m making your favorite chicken noodle soup.” The bathroom was quiet for a long time. Finally, the lock clicked, and the door opened just an inch. Sam stood in the shadow of the doorframe, his eyes red and terribly swollen. He was only eight. His school polo shirt was crumpled, and there was a sticky gray patch on his chest where his name tag had been torn off in a hurry. I knelt down so we were eye-to-eye. “You are not disgusting.” Sam stared down at the tips of his sneakers. His voice was barely a whisper. “But everyone raised their hand, Mama.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest. “Mrs. Geller said majority rules,” he whispered, looking up at me with raw, searching eyes. “Mama, if the majority says it… does that make it true?” I placed my hands on his small, trembling shoulders, swallowing the hot tears threatening to spill over. “No, baby. Even if a thousand people agree on a cruel thing, it is still a cruel thing.” Sam blinked at me, lost. “Tonight, I want you to remember only one thing,” I said, holding his gaze. “You are not a label voted on by a room of children. You are my son. You are Sam Davis.” His lower lip trembled, and then he finally collapsed into my arms, sobbing. I held him tight, rocking him on the living room rug for a long time. My phone kept buzzing on the coffee table. Mrs. Geller had posted a long, defensive paragraph in the group chat: Today was simply a small, lighthearted activity to address classroom hygiene. The children used humor to point out areas of improvement. The goal is progress, not public shaming. At the end of her text, she had added a passive-aggressive smiley face. I flipped the phone face down. Sam looked up, his eyes wide and anxious. “Mama, are you going to yell at Mrs. Geller?” “No, I’m not going to yell.” “Are you going to make me stay home tomorrow?” That question broke my heart more than anything else. I stroked his hair. “Let’s take tomorrow morning off. I’ll go to the school with you, and we’ll figure this out together.” Sam panicked. He grabbed my sleeve, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t go to my classroom! Please, Mama. They’ll say I’m a snitch.” I gently took his small hands in mine. “I won’t put you in that position. Adults made this mess, and adults are going to clean it up.” I made him soup and boiled an egg, but he only took two bites before whispering that his throat felt too tight to swallow. I didn’t push him. Once he finally fell into a restless sleep, I quietly went to his room and picked up his backpack. Tucked into the front pocket was a crumpled piece of wide-ruled paper. Written at the top in Mrs. Geller’s neat handwriting was: Hygiene Improvement Contract. Below it, Sam had written in his messy, uneven print: I promise not to make everyone think I’m disgusting. My fingers went cold. At the bottom right corner of the page, Mrs. Geller had written in red ink: To be shared at tomorrow’s class meeting for peer feedback. I sat at his desk, staring at the paper for a long time. When I unlocked my phone again, the group chat had become a one-sided lecture from Mrs. Geller about “parental cooperation.” Children do not harbor malice, she wrote. If parents overreact and overanalyze, it only damages class unity. I finally typed my reply: Mrs. Geller, I will be at the school tomorrow morning. Please have the lesson plan for yesterday’s activity, the names of the nominators, the exact wording of the poll, and your reasoning for making an eight-year-old sign this ‘contract’ ready for our meeting. I laid the crumpled contract flat on the kitchen table. Under the overhead light, the word disgusting looked like a scar on the page. The chat fell dead silent for three minutes. Then, Mason’s mom posted: Sam’s mom, you’re making things very difficult for the teacher. I stared at her profile picture and typed: It’s only difficult because she was wrong. No one else replied. The next morning, Sam woke up early. He didn’t put on his school uniform; instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his jacket. I asked him if he wanted to wait in the car with me. He shook his head, then nodded. “I just want to know if Mrs. Geller is going to call me a liar,” he whispered. I called the school to request a half-day excused absence, then drove him to a small diner down the street from the campus. He sat by the window, nervously spinning a straw, refusing to look toward the school gates. I didn’t rush him. I sent Mrs. Geller a text: I am outside the school. Are you available to meet? Eight minutes passed before she replied: I have class first period. If you are feeling emotional, I highly recommend taking some time to calm down first. I replied: I am perfectly calm. Two minutes later, she sent: Fine. Meet me in the Dean’s Office. The Dean’s Office was on the second floor of the administration building. A colorful banner hung outside the door: Where Every Child Belongs. The irony was suffocating. Mrs. Geller arrived quickly. She was in her mid-thirties, wearing a crisp white button-down, her district ID badge swinging from her neck. She didn’t look at the paper in my hand when she entered. Instead, she let out a long, weary sigh. “Mrs. Davis, I understand you’re acting out of maternal instinct. But parent-teacher communication is impossible when we let emotions dictate.” I slid the contract across the table. “This isn’t emotion. This is a fact.” Mrs. Geller glanced at it, her brow furrowing. “This is simply a tool for self-reflection. Sam’s hygiene has been a consistent issue. He leaves trash in his desk, gets food stains on his clothes, and keeps dirty tissues in his pockets.” “And your solution to that is a public class vote?” “I didn’t initiate the vote,” she corrected quickly. “The students did. It’s part of our classroom autonomy program. The children have a voice.” I stared at her. “An eight-year-old actively chose the word ‘disgusting’ to describe a classmate?” Mrs. Geller’s face hardened. “Children have a wider vocabulary than you think, Mrs. Davis. Let’s not underestimate them.” Beside her, the Dean of Students, Mr. Collins—a graying man with a practiced, diplomatic smile—cleared his throat. “Let’s find a middle ground here,” Mr. Collins said. “Mrs. Geller’s intentions were clearly positive. Perhaps the execution was a bit insensitive, but we can handle that internally.” “I didn’t come here to talk about ‘intentions,’” I said. I placed my phone on the table, showing the screenshot of Mrs. Geller’s text about the “humor style” of the activity. “Mrs. Geller claims this was a lighthearted exercise. Does this district permit the use of humiliating public labels as a tool for elementary classroom management?” Mr. Collins tapped his fingers rhythmically on the desk, looking uneasy. Mrs. Geller cut in, her voice rising. “Mrs. Davis, you’re twisting things. We’ve been using a peer-reminder point system all semester. Every child gets a turn to be reminded of things they need to work on.” A turn. The word chilled me. “You’ve done this to other children?” Realizing she had slipped up, Mrs. Geller quickly pivoted. “My point is, every child has to learn to accept feedback from the collective group.” Just then, there was a tentative knock on the door. A woman in a navy windbreaker stood in the doorway, looking incredibly anxious. “Mr. Collins? I’m Grace’s mom, Heidi. May I come in?” I recognized her. Grace was Sam’s desk mate. Her mother was usually entirely silent in the group chats. Mr. Collins looked surprised. “Are you here about yesterday’s incident as well, Mrs. Miller?” Heidi nodded. She stepped into the room, taking a deep breath as if gathering every ounce of her courage. “My daughter cried all night,” Heidi said, her voice shaking. “She told me Mrs. Geller forced every table group to nominate a candidate. She said any student who didn’t raise their hand to vote had to stand up and explain why. Grace didn’t want to vote for Sam, but the other kids were staring at her, so she got scared and raised her hand.” Mrs. Geller’s face drained of color. “Mrs. Miller, you need to be very careful with these accusations. Children’s memories are highly subjective.” Without a word, Heidi reached into her bag and pulled out a reading textbook. Tucked inside the front cover was a small pink sticky note. Written in a child’s shaky pencil print was: I didn’t want to vote for Sam. I was just scared Mrs. Geller would say I wasn’t being honest. The room fell dead silent. Mr. Collins’s diplomatic smile vanished. I didn’t touch the sticky note. I kept my eyes on Mrs. Geller. “Was this just ‘classroom autonomy’ too?” Mrs. Geller pressed her lips into a thin line. After a few agonizing seconds, she said, “Parents colluding behind the school’s back does not foster a productive educational environment.” I almost laughed. “I didn’t collude with anyone, Mrs. Geller. Grace’s mom is here today because her daughter was coerced into becoming your accomplice, and it broke her heart.” Heidi’s eyes welled with tears. “Grace told me that when Sam went to get water after the vote, the other kids plugged their noses and ran away. She wanted to go talk to him, but she was terrified the others would say she was disgusting too.” A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. Yet Mrs. Geller remained defiant. “Which is exactly why we need to address his hygiene. Poor habits destroy peer relationships.” “You destroyed those relationships,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “And now you’re blaming an eight-year-old for not fitting in.” Mr. Collins sat up straight, his tone suddenly very firm. “Mrs. Geller, do you have the lesson plan for yesterday’s class meeting?” She hesitated. “I have a brief outline.” “Go get it.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an authority that left no room for argument. Mrs. Geller didn’t move. She shot a look at me, then at the Dean. “The outline is in my office. Actually, today is Parent Observation Day. I was planning to showcase our peer-mentorship program anyway. We can review the materials then.” I caught the word immediately. “Showcase?” Mr. Collins frowned. “What showcase?” Mrs. Geller looked momentarily uncomfortable. “The district is reviewing candidates for the Exemplary Educator award. I prepared a case study based on our class. The topic is ‘Growth Through Peer Mentorship.’” Heidi let out a sharp gasp. In that single moment, everything clicked. Sam wasn’t just the victim of a poorly planned activity. He was the prop. He was the negative case study Mrs. Geller was using to prove her “management system” worked. When we stepped out of the office, Mr. Collins assured us the school would investigate. But I didn’t plan on leaving Sam’s dignity in the hands of a school investigation. The school had its bureaucracy, but a mother operates on a different timeline. Sam was still waiting at the diner. The moment he saw me walk through the door, he stood up, searching my face for clues. I sat across from him and pushed his warm milk closer. “Mrs. Geller didn’t call you a liar.” Sam’s small shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. “And Grace’s mom came to the school too,” I added softly. “Grace doesn’t think you’re disgusting, Sammy. She was just scared.” He stared down at his cup, quiet for a long moment. “What about everyone else?” I didn’t want to make excuses for the other kids, but I refused to let him grow up carrying a grudge against the world. “Some of them made a mistake. Some of them didn’t understand. And some of them were just following what the adult in the room told them to do. We’re going to make sure they understand why it was wrong.” He nodded, a single tear slipping into his milk. “But do I have to go back to that classroom tomorrow?” I reached across the table, covering his small hand with mine. “Not until this is made right. You are not going back there alone.” That afternoon, I focused on three things. First, I booked an appointment with a child therapist. I didn’t want Sam to feel like he was “broken,” so I explained it to him gently: “Sometimes Mama’s heart hurts when I hear these things, and teachers will try to make excuses. Let’s find someone whose only job is to listen to kids.” Second, I called Heidi. She spent the first five minutes of the call apologizing. “I saw your message in the group chat last night,” she whispered. “But I was too terrified to speak up. I was so scared Mrs. Geller would target Grace next.” “I understand,” I told her. “The power dynamic between a teacher and a parent isn’t something you can dismantle with just a sudden burst of courage.” Heidi was quiet for a moment. “I want to go to the Parent Observation Day this afternoon. But I don’t want Grace to be singled out.” “She won’t be,” I promised. “We are going to talk about the teacher’s process, not the children’s choices.” Third, I called Toby’s father. Toby rode the bus with Sam every morning; they lived in our neighborhood. His father was a quiet, practical engineer who usually only posted “Received” in the school group chats. When I explained what had happened, Toby’s dad went quiet. “Toby told me last night that Mrs. Geller asked the class if Sam was holding the group back,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. My grip tightened on the phone. “Those were her words?” “Yes. He said she wrote ‘Hygiene Black Hole’ on the white board, then asked who needed help. When a kid yelled out ‘disgusting,’ she didn’t stop them. She told the class the word was harsh, but it would make the lesson stick.” He took a heavy breath. “I actually scolded Toby last night. I thought he was being a bully. But then he started crying and said that if he didn’t raise his hand, Mrs. Geller would accuse him of not caring about the class.” I closed my eyes. That was Mrs. Geller’s real genius. She didn’t order the children to be cruel. She packaged humiliation as a collective responsibility, framed silence as dishonesty, and let the children push each other down a path she had carefully paved. “I’m taking the afternoon off,” Toby’s dad said. “I’ll see you at the observation.” “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “Today it’s your son. Tomorrow it could be mine.” At one o’clock, the observation schedule was posted in the parent group. Mrs. Geller’s tone had returned to its usual professional warmth: Dear parents, our third-period open house will proceed as scheduled. The theme is ‘A Clean Classroom, A Shared Responsibility.’ We look forward to showing you our students’ wonderful self-governance skills. Immediately below, the Parent Association President—Mason’s mom—posted: Please cooperate with the school’s schedule, everyone. Let’s keep our questions focused and professional. Our class is a frontrunner for the Citizenship Banner this month; let’s not let minor misunderstandings get in the way of the children’s hard work. Minor misunderstandings. I stared at those words, and the anger inside me suddenly cooled into a quiet, steady resolve. Too many people are willing to overlook a wound as long as it isn’t bleeding on their own child. They decide silence is a cheaper price to pay. I typed my response in the group chat: I will be there. Mason’s mom immediately sent me a private message: You’re being too idealistic. Every classroom needs discipline. If you make a scene, your kid is the one who will pay the price. It was the classic threat used to silence protective parents. Fear for your child, so tolerate the abuse. Protect the institution, so quiet the victim. Mind your own business, so call someone else’s pain ‘sensitivity.’ I locked my phone and walked into Sam’s room. He was sitting at his desk, working on a writing assignment. He had stopped at the prompt: I love my school because… I reached over, took the pink eraser from his pencil case, and gently rubbed out his half-hearted attempt. “If you don’t feel like writing ‘love’ right now, you don’t have to,” I told him. “Just write a fact.” Sam looked up at me. “What kind of fact?” “Like, ‘My school has a playground.’ Or, ‘My school has a sweet-olive tree.’” He thought about it for a second, then carefully wrote: My school has a big sweet-olive tree in the courtyard. He paused, looking at the pencil in his hand. “Mama, will I ever love my school again?” “Yes,” I told him, smoothing down his collar. “But not by pretending you weren’t hurt.” The parent observation began at three. I arrived twenty minutes early. The hallway was already crowded with parents whispering in hushed tones. A few of them glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Mason’s mom was wearing a neat pencil skirt, clipboard in hand. She walked over to me with a tight, practiced smile. “Sam’s mom, the kids are all inside. Let’s make sure we keep things professional today.” I took the pen from her and signed my name. “I will.” She let out a visible breath of relief. “I will make sure,” I added, looking her dead in the eye, “that no child in that room is used as a prop ever again.” Her smile froze. The classroom door was half-open. The desks had been arranged into small group clusters. On the blackboard, colorful letters read: A Clean Classroom, A Shared Responsibility. Directly beneath the title, three large sheets of paper were taped to the wall. The first: Hygiene Monitor Duties. The second: Peer Feedback Process. The third sheet had a single name printed in bold black marker: Focus Student of the Week: Sam Davis. My blood ran cold. Under his name, several “peer recommendations” were bulleted: – Do not touch shared classroom items without washing hands. – Do not spill soup on your shirt during lunch. – Do not keep used tissues in your pockets. – Please accept the classroom’s help and supervision. The word disgusting was gone. Mrs. Geller was smart. She had scrubbed the vulgar language away, leaving behind only the sterile, polite vocabulary of modern bureaucracy. Toby’s father walked up beside me and slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Toby wrote this down for you,” he whispered. “He said he only wants you to read it. He’s too scared to have his name called out.” The note was short but devastatingly clear: Mrs. Geller said we needed to pick someone who needed help. When someone said Sam was gross, Mrs. Geller said that word was mean but it would make him remember. I handed the paper back to him. “Keep it. If the time comes, you decide if you want to use it.” He nodded, the veins on the back of his hand tightening. At three o’clock, the bell rang, and Mrs. Geller stepped into the classroom. She scanned the room, her eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second before she turned to the audience with a bright, welcoming smile. The children sat perfectly straight. Sam’s desk was empty, but a clean sheet of paper sat on his desktop. I recognized it immediately. It was a rewritten version of his “Hygiene Improvement Contract”—the handwriting was far too neat to be his. Someone had made him copy it over. “Welcome, parents,” Mrs. Geller began, turning on the projector. “Today, we are showcasing how our students participate in classroom self-governance.” The first slide appeared: From Peer Evaluation to Self-Reflection: A Case Study in Grade 2 Hygiene Habits. “Children at this age require tangible, visual feedback,” Mrs. Geller explained, her voice smooth and practiced. “Simple lecturing has limited results. By transferring the responsibility to the peer group, we teach them accountability.” She clicked to the next slide, showing photos of the kids sweeping the floor. The third slide was a bar graph titled: Distribution of Peer Feedback Votes. The tallest bar on the graph didn’t have a name. It was simply labeled: Focus Student. But every single child in that room knew exactly whose name belonged there. From the second row, a small boy let out a snicker. The girl next to him quickly nudged his arm, pointing subtly toward the back of the room where the parents stood. “We are not here to punish,” Mrs. Geller continued smoothly, picking up the rewritten contract from Sam’s empty desk. “We are here to show the student that the collective class has expectations for them. Sam is absent today, but he prepared his reflection. Since his mother is here, perhaps she would like to hear the class’s suggestions on his behalf.” Heidi’s face went white. Toby’s dad took a sharp, angry step forward. Mrs. Geller pointed her laser pointer toward me, her smile tight and victorious. “Mrs. Davis, would you like to step up and hear what the class has to say?” I pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked straight into the classroom.

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We got caught in a sudden downpour during our weekend getaway. By the time we finally made it back to the hotel, my best friend was already shivering and complaining. “I swear my brain is completely waterlogged,” Polly grumbled, tossing her damp jacket onto the armchair. “Who in their right mind decides to go sightseeing in a storm like this?” “Then why don’t you just pour the water out?” I replied absentmindedly, throwing our room key onto the dresser. Polly paused and nodded seriously. Tilting her head to the side, she began wiggling her finger deep inside her ear canal, wincing slightly as if she were actually trying to drain her skull. I smiled, waiting for the punchline. But in the next second, my heart skipped a beat. A thick, steady stream of liquid began to pour from her ear. It wasn’t just a few stray droplets—it was a heavy, rushing flow. And it wasn’t clear. It was a dark, sickly crimson, thick with the unmistakable scent of copper. Blood. My eyes stretched wide, a cold knot of terror tightening in my chest. “Polly… what… what are you doing?” Polly stared straight at me, her eyes completely blank, though a flicker of mild confusion crossed her face. “What’s wrong, babe?” she asked, her voice perfectly casual. “We got absolutely soaked out there. Aren’t you going to drain yours?” 1 I stood frozen, barely two feet away from Polly. I could only watch in mute horror as the bloody water continued to cascade from her ear like a miniature, grotesque fountain, pooling onto the cheap carpet. Yet, she didn’t show even a flicker of discomfort. In fact, she looked at me with genuine, helpful encouragement, as if emptying a pint of bloody fluid from your skull was as routine as brushing your teeth. “What are you waiting for?” Polly nudged, tilting her head the other way. Another splash of crimson sloshed out, splattering onto the floorboards. “Doesn’t it feel heavy in there?” Every instinct in my body screamed that the thing standing in front of me was not human. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, the sharp sting of pain anchoring me to reality. I forced my lips to stretch into a tight, artificial smile. “I… I had my umbrella up most of the time,” I stammered. “My head actually feels fine. I don’t think there’s any water in there.” It was just the two of us in this cramped hotel room. If she—if it—realized I was different, I had no idea what would happen. I had to play along. She shrugged, seemingly satisfied with my answer, and climbed onto the king-sized bed. Within seconds, she was scrolling through TikTok. When a video of a shirtless fitness influencer popped up, she gasped and giggled, turning the screen toward me just like she always did. “Oh my god, Mandy, look at those abs,” she sighed, shaking her head. “If I ever strike it rich, I’m buying a dozen of him.” In that moment, she was entirely normal. She was the same girl I’d grown up with, the hopeless romantic, the dork who shared her fries and her deepest secrets. I swallowed the lump in my throat, carefully sitting on the very edge of the mattress. “Hey, Polly? I’m kind of starving. I was thinking of ordering some oyster chowder from the place downstairs. Do you want some?” Polly immediately dropped her phone, her eyes narrowing in irritation. “Are you serious, Mandy? You know I have a massive shellfish allergy. Your family literally sent me to the ER for a week when we were kids because of those lobster rolls! How could you forget that?” I mumbled a frantic apology, but my mind was spinning out of control. This thing had Polly’s memories. It had her exact personality, her history, her outrage. What was it? Was I losing my mind? Was the bloody puddle on the floor just a stress-induced hallucination? No. The dark, copper-scented stain was still there, slowly soaking into the beige fibers of the hotel carpet. It was entirely real. I waited until Polly was distracted by another video, then grabbed an empty plastic water bottle from the nightstand. I knelt down, scooped a sample of the bloody water into it, and made a quick excuse. “I’m just going to run down to the lobby and grab a soda from the vending machine.” The moment the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my phone with trembling hands and dialed 911. “There’s something wrong… my friend, she’s not herself. I think she’s been replaced. Someone hurt her…” The dispatcher told me officers would arrive in ten minutes. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back up to the room, so I shrank into one of the plush velvet armchairs in the lobby, shivering. The middle-aged receptionist, a woman named Marsha, noticed my pale face and walked over. “Are you alright, dear? Do you need some help?” I nodded quickly, holding up the plastic bottle. I wanted her to look at it, to validate that it was indeed blood, to tell me I wasn’t crazy. But before I could utter a single word, Marsha reached out, took the bottle from my hand, unscrewed the cap, and drank it. 2 “What… what did you just do?” My voice cracked, a high-pitched squeak of pure terror. Marsha wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking thoroughly refreshed. “It’s brain-water, isn’t it? Rich and metallic. Delicious. Why else would you offer it to me?” My stomach turned. I wanted to vomit. She had just swallowed a bottle of bloody brain-water like it was a morning juice cleanse. And no one else in the lobby even blinked. The bellhop, the couple checking in, the family sitting near the fireplace—no one cared. It was perfectly, terrifyingly normal to them. My head throbbed. It wasn’t just Polly. Everyone here was wrong. But what about the police? What about the officers who were on their way? Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the lobby’s quiet ambiance. “You’re all insane! This is sick!” I whipped my head around. A woman in disheveled pajamas burst out of the elevator, sobbing, her eyes wild with panic. Behind her, a man in a business suit casually walked out, holding his own eyeball in his hand, trying to pop it back into his socket like a loose contact lens. She was like me. A normal human. Terrified out of her mind. I wanted to run to her, to hold her, but my survival instinct screamed at me to freeze. What happened to the ones who broke character? Marsha and two other hotel staff members immediately lunged at the screaming woman, pinning her to the floor. Right then, the police cruisers pulled up, sirens wailing. The staff handed her over to the officers. “Officer, we’ve got another lunatic here,” Marsha said, smoothing down her skirt. “She’s hysterical, claiming we can’t take our organs out. Can you believe it? How else are we supposed to clean them when they get dirty?” The officer nodded grimly, clicking handcuffs around her wrists. “Don’t worry. We’ll take her to the facility for correction. She’ll be back to normal soon.” Correction. What did “normal” mean to them? Popping out eyes and washing them like dirty laundry? A cold dread settled deep in my bones. My phone suddenly buzzed in my hand, making me jump. It was the police dispatcher calling me back, but the officer standing in the lobby saw my screen light up. He walked toward me, his boots clicking heavily on the marble floor. “Are you the one who called about a domestic disturbance?” I swallowed hard, forcing my facial muscles to relax. “Oh… yes, Officer. But it was a complete misunderstanding. My friend is perfectly fine.” The officer’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “A misunderstanding? You sounded convinced she had been replaced. What exactly did you see?” 3 Panic gripped my throat. I didn’t know how to answer. When I called, I had told them there was a “strange creature” in my room. That meant they were already looking for anomalies. If they suspected me, I’d be thrown into that police car and taken to the “correction” facility. I had to speak their language. I had to pretend I was one of them. “I… I was just confused,” I stammered, offering a sheepish laugh. “We got caught in the rain, and I had already drained my brain-water. But when I looked at Polly, she was just sitting there, not doing it. I thought she was losing her mind, behaving like one of those ‘un-drained’ crazies. I panicked. But then I realized she was just wearing noise-canceling headphones, listening to an audiobook. Once she took them off, she tilted her head and drained her ears right in front of me. We had so much left over, we even shared some with Marsha at the front desk. Right, Marsha?” Marsha smiled, licking a faint smear of dried copper from her lip. “That’s right, Officer. Quite a tasty batch, too.” The officer’s tense posture relaxed slightly. “I see. Good. It pays to be vigilant. Those lunatics are a threat to public safety. Show me to your room, though. Just a quick welfare check and I’ll be out of your hair.” If he saw Polly, and she didn’t play along with my specific story, or if he saw through me… Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from outside. The pajama-clad woman had broken free from the police cruiser, her forehead bleeding as she scrambled across the wet asphalt. “I am not crazy! You’re monsters! All of you! If you rip out your heart, you die!” Her voice was raw, filled with a desperate, agonizing truth that echoed my own silent thoughts. But I couldn’t help her. To survive, I had to mock her. “Wow,” I said, forcing a mocking chuckle. “She really is far gone, isn’t she? Are there really that many of them, Officer?” “Not for long,” the officer muttered, turning on his heel to chase after her. The moment he was gone, I practically ran to the elevator, my clothes soaked in cold sweat. Back in the room, Polly was still scrolling on her phone. “Where’s the food?” she asked without looking up. “A crazy woman was making a scene in the lobby. The police locked the place down. Total nightmare,” I lied, collapsing onto my bed. I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time Polly snored, my heart leaped into my throat. Who was I living with? What had happened to my world? At 3:00 AM, staring at my phone screen in the dark, I searched desperately for any keywords related to the “crazy people.” Finally, deep in a hidden thread on an obscure forum, I found a post written in a complex cipher. Fortunately, my background in cryptography made it easy to crack. Is there anyone left out there? Anyone who hasn’t been turned into them? 4 My fingers trembled as I typed a reply. What do you mean? What monsters are you talking about? The reply came almost instantly. If you’re asking, you already know. If you don’t trust me, ignore this. My heart hammered against my ribs. I trust you. Please. The world has gone mad. I need to know what’s happening before I lose my mind. The user sent a coordinates link to an address in a neighboring state, then went completely offline. The next morning, I packed my bag with trembling hands. “Polly, my mom just called. There’s an emergency at home, I have to take the first train back,” I lied. “I’ll Venmo you for my half of the hotel.” I fled to the train station. Outside the terminal, my Uber driver finished his cigarette, casually unbuttoned his shirt, pulled his lungs out of his chest cavity, and shook them out to clear the soot before stuffing them back in. I swallowed my vomit, kept my face completely blank, and got into the passenger seat. At the station, I saw the pajama-clad woman from the hotel. Had she escaped? I felt a surge of hope and took a step toward her. But before I could speak, she paused, reached into her eye sockets, pulled out both eyeballs, wiped them on her sleeve, and popped them back in. The man from the elevator walked up, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Honey, thank god. You’re finally back to normal.” She smiled, looking slightly dazed. “Did something happen? I feel fine.” She had been “corrected.” Her memories of the truth were wiped. She was one of them now. I backed away, my blood turning to ice. I couldn’t let anyone know. Not my parents, who had texted me earlier saying, Your heart has been acting up, Mandy. Make sure you take it out and check the valves tonight. Not my boyfriend. No one. I arrived at the coordinates. It was a run-down diner in a quiet town. A man was sitting in the corner booth, wearing a heavy trench coat and a low-brimmed hat despite the warmth. His voice was a dry, exhausted rasp. “Are you BlueJay99?” I nodded, sliding into the booth. “I’m Mandy. Please, you have to tell me. What is happening to everyone?” He looked at me, his eyes hollowed out by a deep, eternal fatigue. “In forty-eight hours,” he whispered, “you’re going to become one of them, too.”

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