I was caught red-handed by the owner of a Rolls-Royce in the parking lot while trying to slip him flyers. What’s even more embarrassing is that the owner turned out to be my ex-boyfriend from five years ago, the one I dumped because he was poor. What’s that saying again? It’s not that I’m afraid of exes being awful, it’s that I’m afraid of exes who are successful! My ex smiled and said, “Now that I’m rich, you have no reason to dump me again, right?” 1 The rain was a fine, freezing mist, slicking the pavement of the private parking garage. I shoved another flyer under the windshield wiper of the idling Rolls-Royce Phantom, tugging the hood of my cheap plastic poncho down to shield my face. Even the bodyguard holding an umbrella near the driver’s door was wearing a suit that cost more than my life’s net worth. I awkwardly shifted the canvas bag full of flyers behind my back, calculating the exact angle required to snatch the neon paper back and vanish into the concrete labyrinth without being noticed. But I was too slow. A hand, pale and elegant, reached out from the cracked window and slid the flyer out from under the wiper blade. “’Lonely? Need a listener? Voice companionship, ten dollars for thirty minutes.’” A short, derisive scoff cut through the damp air. “Harper. Is this really what you’ve been reduced to?” Oh, God. I wanted to know the answer to that question myself. Harper, the brilliant overachiever in college. Harper, the cold, pragmatic realist who dumped her dirt-poor boyfriend without a second thought to throw herself into the arms of a trust-fund heir. By all accounts, my future was supposed to be bright and lined with silk. How the hell had I ended up at the bottom of the barrel? And as if my spectacular failure wasn’t tragic enough, why did the ex-boyfriend I ruthlessly discarded have to suddenly be filthy rich? I kept my chin tucked to my chest, my voice muffled by the plastic collar of my poncho. “Sorry, man. You’ve got the wrong girl.” I spun on my heel to bolt, but a long arm shot out, blocking my path. The black umbrella didn’t quite cover his outstretched arm. I watched the freezing rain bloom into tiny, dark flowers against the fabric of his sleeve, disappearing instantly into the expensive, non-waterproof wool. Then, Cole’s voice drifted over, cool and detached. “Harper. I’ll pay ten times that. I’m buying an hour.” Look at this. A plot straight out of a trashy soap opera. The destitute boy, ruthlessly abandoned in his youth, returns as a billionaire, eager to use his newfound wealth to humiliate the wicked woman who broke his heart. “Not for sale,” I muttered. I might be desperate for cash, but I wasn’t an idiot. “Are you sure?” Cole’s tone was dangerously slow. “This is a private garage. The fine for soliciting and distributing flyers is five hundred dollars. Do you want me to call security?” My neck stayed rigidly locked, staring at the concrete until I thought my cervical spine might snap. “Your time starts now. You have fifty-nine minutes.” Cole gave a microscopic nod to his bodyguard. The heavy door swung open. “Get in.” 2 I climbed into Cole’s car. Years ago, I had been the girl who callously declared, I’d rather cry in a Porsche than be happy on the bus. Now, thanks to peddling cheap flyers, I was sitting in a car that made a Porsche look like a toy. But the owner of this car was the ex-boyfriend who hated me down to his marrow. The social mortification was a physical weight on my chest. How was he going to tear me apart? Would he call me a gold digger? Tell me I got exactly what I deserved? As my mind spun, vividly imagining Cole stepping all over my remaining dignity, my nose tickled. I couldn’t stop it. A violent sneeze ripped through me. A thick, blindingly white towel immediately hit me square in the face. “Dry yourself off. Don’t ruin my leather.” Fierce. I rubbed the dampness from my face and hair, noticing that the heat was already blasting. The biting cold of the garage melted away. He leaned back in the seat next to me, eyes closed, silent. For a long stretch, I wondered if he had actually fallen asleep. I glanced at my cheap wristwatch. He had the perfect opportunity to stand on the moral high ground and verbally eviscerate his heartless ex, and he was sleeping through it? His brain must be short-circuiting. I decided to quietly excuse myself. But the moment my weight shifted to rise, the man beside me opened his eyes. His voice was colder than the rain outside. “You have thirty-five minutes left.” Jumpscare. He wasn’t asleep. I sank back into the plush leather, unable to hold back anymore. “Cole, what exactly do you want from me?” If he wanted revenge, couldn’t he just make it quick? He didn’t even bother to fully raise his eyelids. “Just shut up.” I snapped my mouth shut, but my eyes betrayed me, drifting over to his face. The boyish softness was gone, replaced by sharp, unforgiving angles. His skin was paler, the chest beneath his tailored shirt looked solid and tense, and I swear his legs were inches longer than I remembered. Damn it. How was this bastard still so gorgeous? “Harper.” The man with his eyes closed suddenly spoke, the tips of his ears flushing a suspicious shade of pink. “Turn your head around.” I whipped my gaze toward the window. “How do you know I’m looking at you?” “Because your hot breath is blasting directly onto my forehead. Obviously.” I swallowed hard. “Sorry.” A few minutes later, the car rolled to a smooth stop. The window hummed down. Cole, who had been perfectly still, suddenly sat up straight, pointing a long finger at a bustling, high-end retail street outside. “See that? My commercial real estate.” He waved his hand. The car glided forward, stopping a few blocks later outside a towering, ultra-luxury residential high-rise. “The development I built.” Down into another subterranean garage. “My car collection.” Finally, we drove out to the edge of the city, stopping near a sprawling, meticulously kept orchard in the valley. “My hundred-acre cherry orchard.” Cole arched an eyebrow, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. “I can juice them, I can dry them, or I can let them rot on the branches. I do whatever I want with them.” I stared at the endless rows of trees. “Why are you showing me this?” “Pure spite,” Cole answered, clean and sharp. “When you dumped me for Brooks, I thought you were at least stepping up in the world. Looks like I overestimated you.” “I doubt you ever imagined the broke kid you couldn’t stand the sight of would be sitting where I am today.” His dark eyes locked onto mine. “Harper, this is your karma.” 3 Dammit. He really nailed the delivery. When he finally let me out near my neighborhood, I furiously plucked two massive handfuls of cherries from the branches near the gate and stuffed them into my coat pockets, just to feel a shred of vindication. I finished handing out the rest of my flyers and trudged back to my apartment building, only to freeze. Smeared across the brick exterior in glaring red spray paint was a single word: CONDEMNED. Eviction. I slapped a hand over my mouth. Tears, hot and heavy, spilled over my lashes, my shoulders shaking as a sob trapped itself in my throat. My landlord, a burly guy in a stained undershirt, clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “What the hell are you crying for? It’s my building getting torn down. Pack your crap and get out. And when are you paying the three months of rent you owe me?” I wiped my face, sniffing aggressively. “Look, since I’ve rented this place for so long, don’t I technically get a cut of the developer’s buyout money?” He smiled. He told me to go to hell. Beautiful, poetic English. Thirty minutes later, because I was flat broke and refusing to leave, my landlord dragged me to the local police precinct. Thirty minutes after that, Cole walked into the exact same precinct to file a report because my cheap paper flyer had jammed the window motor of his Rolls-Royce. Cole and I stared at each other from across the fluorescent-lit room. Even the desk sergeant looked confused. “Harper,” Cole said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t need to go to these extremes just to try and get me back.” Good God. Kill me now. It was literally my first day handing out flyers! I didn’t know the paper was that thick! 4 Cole bailed me out anyway. And, for some inexplicable reason, he paid off my back rent. “You’re going to be in debt either way. Might as well be in debt to me,” he said. The city neon blurred into streaks of light outside the passenger window. The scent of cedarwood—so familiar, so maddening—filled the enclosed space. His voice was buried in the dark, stripped of any readable emotion. “I’ll pay you back.” “Pay me back?” He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over me in the dim light. “How?” I immediately crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. I might be desperately poor, but I had boundaries! He let out a dry, disgusted laugh and turned his eyes back to the road. “In your dreams.” “The window repair, the rent—every single cent goes on your tab.” Right. Of course. With his current net worth and that face, he could have any woman in the city. There was absolutely no reason for him to pick up the trash he threw away five years ago. When we pulled up to the curb outside my condemned building, I quietly thanked him for the ride. He held out a hand, palm up. “Uber fare for this distance is thirty-two bucks.” I stared at him, aghast. “Did you think your ‘thank you’ was legal tender?” His face was stone. When he saw my freezing, trembling hands fail to produce even a few quarters from my pockets, he waved me off. “Forget it. Add it to the tab.” He rattled off a string of ten digits. “My number. You transfer the installment on the first of every month, and you send me a screenshot.” I nodded. “Did you memorize it?” I nodded again. It was the same number he had in college. I knew it by heart. The tension in his jaw seemed to soften for a fraction of a second before the window rolled up, severing us. I watched his taillights disappear into the mist before turning toward the stairwell. Just then, something massive hurled out of a second-story window. It hit the overgrown bushes with a sickening thud. I ran over. It was my duffel bag. My landlord leaned out the window above. “Your rent’s paid, my building’s getting leveled. We’re square. Get out tonight.” Before I could speak, a cascade of my meager belongings rained down on me, scattering across the wet grass. “Hey! At least let me come up and pack properly!” I yelled into the dark. “Yeah right, so you can squat in the bathroom? I changed the locks! Don’t make me call the cops again!” The window slammed shut. The blinds snapped down, and the lights clicked off. I was left standing in the mud, picking up the pieces of my life. There wasn’t much. A few worn-out clothes, some cheap toiletries, and a photograph from years ago—Cole and me. Faded t-shirts, bright, unburdened smiles. My hands shaking from the cold, I quickly slid the photo behind a picture of just myself, hiding it inside a wooden frame with cracked glass. Once everything was shoved back into the bag, I sat down on the concrete steps of the open-air stairwell. The streetlights flickered with an ugly yellow glow. I could barely make out a few stars through the overcast sky. I tried to hype myself up, making mental plans of where I could sleep, what I could do. But the bone-deep exhaustion pulled me under, and I fell asleep sitting against the brick wall. The next morning, the world came into focus as two incredibly long legs in tailored trousers planted themselves in front of me. I blinked through the haze and mumbled, “Cole?” “Yeah.” The adrenaline spiked, and I shot up straight. It wasn’t a dream. “What are you doing here?” “You didn’t add me on iMessage,” he said, staring down at me. His eyes were pitch-black and unreadable. “Reason?” “Oh.” My brain was running on a delay. “My phone died. Sorry. On the first of the month, I’ll send the money, I promise.” He ignored the apology, his gaze drifting from my shivering frame to the bulging duffel bag beside me. “What’s this?” “Ah.” I rolled my deadened shoulder. “I’m moving.” His lips pressed into a harsh, thin line. His brows snapped together, and it took him a long moment to force out the words. “Running away?” “What? No.” I shook my head frantically. “I’m just moving.” “Where?” “I… haven’t figured that out yet.” “So, you’re running. Where’s Brooks? Is he just leaving you out on the street?” “We broke up a long time ago.” Cole stared at me, his eyes heavy and dark. Without another word, he reached down, grabbed the strap of my duffel bag, and started walking toward his car. “Cole!” I scrambled after him, my legs numb and uncooperative. “My stuff is garbage! It’s not worth anything, it won’t cover my debt!” He didn’t answer. “I swear on my life I’ll pay you back!” But my short legs were no match for his stride. By the time I reached the curb, my bag was already in the trunk of the Rolls-Royce. “Look, man, that’s everything I own in the world. Please don’t throw it away.” I stood by the door, hobbling slightly, pressing my palms together in prayer. He popped the passenger door open. “Get in.” Huh? He looked at me over the roof of the car. “If you want your stuff, get in.” I numbly climbed into the leather seat. He didn’t speak to me for the entire drive, not until we pulled through the gates of an aggressively modern, stunningly expensive piece of architecture. “Where are we?” “My house.” His voice was his usual brand of cold detachment. “Harper, your moral compass is practically nonexistent. I don’t trust you. To make sure my money doesn’t vanish into thin air, you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you until the debt is paid.” What? “Live… here?” “Rent is two grand a month. Added to your tab.” “No, stop, I can’t afford that!” I lunged for my duffel bag in his hand. My crappy apartment had been eight hundred dollars! He lifted the bag effortlessly out of my reach. “If you agree to do some light housekeeping, we might be able to negotiate.” “But—” “If you cook, we can knock off a little more.” “Look, I—” “If you feed the cat and walk the dog, I might even end up owing you money.” I stared at him. “Deal.” 5 By some cosmic joke, I was living with my ex-boyfriend. Five years ago, he was penniless, and I kicked him to the curb. Five years later, he was drowning in money, and I was his indentured servant. Life comes at you fast. Cole showed me to my room. It was sprawling, flooded with natural light. Central heating, an en-suite bathroom, endless hot water. No roaches, no fear of rats chewing through my bags in the middle of the night. “The sheets and duvet are brand new,” Cole said, dropping my bag on the floor. His phone buzzed. He took the call, speaking in low, rapid business jargon for a few minutes before hanging up and looking at me. “I have to head to the office.” I nodded, watching him walk toward the door. At the entryway, he programmed my fingerprint into the smart lock. “I’ll be back for dinner around seven.” He paused, his hand on the handle. “You can clear your schedule for that, right?” I nodded again. Once he was gone, I unpacked my few things and immediately opened my gig-economy apps. I picked up a promo shift at a nearby grocery store handing out milk samples. The pay was daily. I spent eight hours in a suffocatingly hot, plush cow costume. By the time I stripped it off, I was dizzy and on the verge of a heatstroke. But I had a crisp hundred-dollar bill. I bought groceries on the way back, took a scalding shower, and got to work in his massive, stainless-steel kitchen. Just as the chicken soup started to simmer, the electronic chime of the front door echoed through the house. I glanced at the clock on the stove. It wasn’t even close to seven. Assuming Cole was home early, I popped my head around the corner to say hi. Instead, I froze. There was a woman slipping off her heels in the foyer. Jesus. Cole hadn’t mentioned he was having company. As she straightened up, the blood drained from my face. It wasn’t just any woman. It was Vanessa. Beautiful, polished Vanessa. The girl from our university who had thrown herself at Cole relentlessly, even when she knew perfectly well that he and I were together. She jumped when she saw me, her perfectly manicured hand flying to her chest. As her eyes adjusted and recognition set in, her expression morphed into pure, unadulterated disgust. “Harper?” I forced a polite, dead-eyed smile. “Hi, Vanessa.” She looked me up and down, taking in my wet hair and oversized t-shirt. Her brow furrowed into a tight knot. “What the hell are you doing here?” The tone was venomous. As far as she was concerned, I was a rat in her kitchen. “I owe Cole some money, so I’m staying here temporarily to pay off the debt.” I figured if she had the passcode to his house, they were deeply involved. I needed to de-escalate immediately. “Owe Cole money?” She repeated the words slowly, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You? The girl who practically tripped over herself to leave him for Brooks because Cole’s wallet wasn’t thick enough?” She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Let me guess. You saw he made it big, got jealous, and now you’re trying to claw your way back into his bed?” I kept my face perfectly blank. “No.” “No? It’s been five years. Why on earth would you suddenly owe him money? Did you track him down, cry about how pathetic your life is, and use this little ‘debt’ scheme to squat in his house?” She scoffed. “God, you are so repulsive.” I took a slow breath. “This is between Cole and me. If you have an issue with it, take it up with him.” I turned on my heel to walk back to the stove. The soup was going to boil over. Before I could take three steps, a freezing wall of water slammed into the back of my head, soaking my shirt and dripping down my spine. “Have some dignity, Harper!” Vanessa screamed, holding an empty crystal vase. “Cole hates you. He told me he despises traitors, and he will never forgive what you did. The only reason he’s letting you stay here is to watch you humiliate yourself. He wants to see the pathetic little gold-digger grovel. Do you really want to stay here and play the clown?” She dropped the vase onto a rug with a muffled thud. “If I were you, I’d crawl back into whatever hole you came out of so you stop making the rest of us sick!” The cold water dripped steadily off my nose and chin. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, calmly picked up a half-full glass of water from the island, and chucked the contents directly into her face. Vanessa shrieked, stumbling backward in pure shock. She clearly hadn’t expected the rat to bite back. She cursed violently, frantically wiping at her face. In her panic, one of her false eyelashes peeled off, hanging precariously from her eyelid. My eyes were dead. “Like I said, this is between me and him. I don’t owe you an explanation.” “Fine! You want to play it like that?” Furious, she ripped open her designer purse and pulled out a platinum credit card, hurling it at my chest. “You owe him? This has ten grand on it. Is that enough? I’ll pay him for you!” When I didn’t react, she started pulling out card after card, snapping them at me like throwing stars. One clipped my cheekbone. “I don’t care what sick game you’re playing, Harper. You walked away five years ago. Do not come back and try to ruin us!” Her voice was shrill, echoing off the high ceilings. “He is my boyfriend!” Boyfriend. The word stung, just a little. It had been five years. I didn’t expect him to live like a monk. But if he had a girlfriend, what the hell was he doing locking me in his house just to set me up for this kind of humiliation? “Harper, I brought the Rainier cherries you like. Try not to embarrass yourself.” The front door clicked shut. The orchestrator of this little domestic nightmare had arrived. Cole walked in, slipping his shoes off, looking perfectly at ease with a brown paper bag in his hands. He looked up, finally taking in the scene: Vanessa and me, both dripping wet, standing in the middle of his living room like drowned rats. His brows snapped together. He dropped the bag on the console and crossed the room in three long strides. “Cole,” Vanessa started, her voice suddenly trembling and fragile, a masterclass in playing the victim. Cole didn’t even look at her. He bypassed her completely, coming straight to me. His large hands came up, framing my face, his thumbs brushing over my wet cheeks, his eyes scanning every inch of my features. His voice was tight, laced with an urgency I hadn’t heard in years. “What happened to your face? Why are you soaking wet?” I pushed his hands away. My spine was rigid, my smile perfectly polite and entirely hollow. “There’s chicken soup on the stove. You and your girlfriend enjoy it. Consider it interest on the loan. No need to thank me.” I turned, walked into my bedroom, grabbed my duffel bag, and marched straight out the front door. 6 I ran until my lungs burned. The early spring wind cut through my wet clothes like glass. The streetlamps flickered overhead, blurring together into streaks of yellow. Crap. I had been running blind. I stopped, spinning around on the empty pavement. I had no idea where I was. Panic flared in my chest for a second before a voice drifted through the dark. “Lost?” I whipped around. Cole was standing at the end of the block, wearing a heavy camel-hair coat. The tips of his ears were red from the cold. Before I could run again, he closed the distance between us, shrugging off his heavy coat and aggressively wrapping it around me, swaddling me like a burrito. Then, he lifted a hand and flicked me hard on the forehead. “I knew it. Harper, your character is fundamentally flawed. You’re entirely untrustworthy. Trying to skip town before the debt is paid.” He flicked me again for good measure. “Little liar.” I rubbed my forehead, furious but genuinely shocked that he had run after me instead of comforting his girlfriend. Was he really that desperate for my two thousand dollars? Cole sighed, crouching down in front of me. He unlaced his impeccably polished leather oxfords and placed them by my feet. “Not only do you try to skip out on a debt, you try to steal my slippers while doing it.” I looked down. I was wearing his oversized, open-toed house slides. My ten toes were bright cherry-red from the freezing asphalt. Honestly, the adrenaline had been pumping so hard I hadn’t even realized I left the house in them. “Let’s go.” When I didn’t move, he literally picked up my foot and shoved it into his massive, warm leather shoe. He stood up, looking down at me. “Pay your debts. Come home for dinner.” I stared at his feet, now shoved into the flimsy house slides. It was objectively ridiculous, but I couldn’t find it in me to laugh. “Cole, your girlfriend said she’d pay off my debt.” “Girlfriend? Who? Vanessa?” He let out a dark, mocking laugh. “She’s not.” He paused, looking away. “I’ve been single.” What? Cole? Single? With that face, that body, and that bank account? Cole reached out and gently pushed my jaw up, closing my gaping mouth. “If I wasn’t single, do you think I’d be insane enough to move you into my house? Am I suicidal?” His thumb brushed my cheekbone again, lingering this time. “And for the record, if someone throws something at your face, throw something back. Don’t just stand there and take it. Are you stupid?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a massive, flawless cherry, and popped it past my lips like he was pacifying a toddler. “It’s sweet. Eat it and you won’t hurt as much.” I chewed stubbornly, my voice muffled. “I didn’t throw anything at her face. I threw water at her.” I thought I’d see a flash of pity for Vanessa in his eyes, something to prove he was lying. But there was none. If anything, he looked profoundly satisfied. “Good. If I’m not around, I can’t have people bullying you.” He grabbed my duffel bag and started walking. I had no choice but to follow, shuffling clumsily in his massive shoes. “But she had the code to your house. Girls don’t just walk into guys’ houses.” “That’s because my passcode is incredibly stupid.” “What is it? 1-1-1-1-1-1?” “No.” Cole looked back at me over his shoulder. In the dim light, his dark eyes lost that icy, untouchable edge. “My childhood pig’s birthday.” Excuse me? He raised pigs? “She still called herself your girlfriend!” “A lot of people call themselves that. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still…” He trailed off, the words dying in his throat. We walked in silence for a long time before he finally spoke again. “Harper, you just have terrible taste.” I didn’t know how to respond.

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I was moving to London to teach, and Declan was my biggest cheerleader. Everyone told me I’d hit the jackpot with him. They whispered that he was secretly planning a wedding, a grand romantic gesture to surprise me before I left. But then I found the files. Hundreds of emails and formal requests saved on his laptop, all petitioning the department head for one specific transfer. He wasn’t just sending me away; he was trading me. He was bringing a girl named Lacey back to the States. And the wedding files in the hidden folder? The bride wasn’t me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things. I didn’t even cry. I actually found myself wishing them well. Because, honestly? I just didn’t care anymore. I only felt bad for the Declan who would look for me later, the one who would eventually lose his mind when he realized I was gone for good. 1 “Nora, are you absolutely sure about this? You know checking this box makes the transfer indefinite, right?” The department secretary lowered her voice. “And… shouldn’t you check with Declan about the date? This clashes directly with that ‘big event’ he’s planning.” I stared at the screen of Declan’s open laptop, my eyes unfocused on the rows of pdfs. My colleagues had been winking at me all week, telling me to act surprised, that Declan was in full groom-mode. Declan himself had been tight-lipped, vibrating with a nervous energy I had foolishly mistaken for romance. I thought, Finally. After eight years, he’s trying. But every vendor contract, every venue inquiry, every draft invitation on this screen bore the names Declan & Lacey. Not Nora. It all made sense now. The way he’d practically packed my bags for London. He wasn’t supporting my career; he was clearing the board. My departure was the condition for her return. A one-for-one swap. I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper, then looked the secretary in the eye. “The wedding… it doesn’t concern me. Keep the flight date as is.” Eight years of devotion, and this was the severance package. If that was the price of his love, I couldn’t afford it anymore. The moment the ticket confirmation landed in my inbox, Declan’s ringtone cut through the air. “How long are you going to make everyone wait?” His voice was sharp, impatient. “I know it’s your going-away party, Nora, but do you have to act like a princess and show up late?” I glanced at the clock. The reservation wasn’t for another thirty minutes. His irritation had arrived ahead of schedule. I mumbled a non-committal excuse and hung up. My eyes fell on his phone case—a custom one I’d bought us as a joke for our anniversary. He hated it. Called it tacky. Said it made him look unprofessional at the university. He’d promised to only wear it at home, to humor me. Looking at it now, a wave of nausea rolled through me. I tossed it into the nearest trash can and headed for the restaurant. The moment I walked in, a colleague shoved a massive bouquet of red roses into my arms, winking frantically toward Declan. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Nora! Look at this!” Usually, when I upset Declan, he bought flowers to apologize. But never roses. It was always carnations—cheap, supermarket filler. My colleague, caught up in the excitement, snatched the small card from the bouquet and read it aloud before I could stop her. “To my dearest Lacey. You are as timeless as a rose, and I will always protect you. Love, Declan.” The room went dead silent. I dug my fingernails into my palms, letting the sharp pain tether me to my dignity. I forced a smile. “Oh! Right. These… aren’t for me.” Footsteps clicked on the hardwood floor behind me. A petite woman in a pale dress stopped at my side. She reached out, took the heavy bouquet from my hands, and buried her face in the blooms, inhaling deeply. “Declan hasn’t changed a bit,” she sighed, her voice sugary and light. “He always sends me roses.” She turned to me, beaming. “You must be the ‘bro’ Declan talks about! Thank you so much for agreeing to the swap so I could come home from London.” 2 I looked at the roses in her arms and let out a soft, dry laugh. I remembered a night years ago. Declan had smashed a set of dishes in a temper tantrum. He hadn’t replaced them. When I came home late from work, hungry and tired, there were no plates. He felt guilty, so he ran out into a pouring rainstorm. He came back soaking wet, holding a bundle of white carnations. At the time, I had laughed, calling him hopeless. “Who buys carnations for an apology? They look like funeral flowers.” Seeing Lacey holding those deep red roses, I realized he wasn’t hopeless. He wasn’t lacking in romance. He just didn’t want to waste it on me. That was why, for eight years, I only ever got the cheap stuff. “Right,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m Declan’s ‘bro.’ Let me show you to the table.” When Declan saw Lacey walk in, he shot out of his chair, his eyes glued to her. Carter, Declan’s best friend, slid into the seat next to me. “Nora, look, don’t read into it. He just hasn’t seen Lacey in a long time. Don’t be that jealous girlfriend.” I waved a hand dismissively. “Who’s jealous? Don’t they look good together?” Carter frowned. This was the same man who had watched me drag myself out of bed with a 102-degree fever to bring Declan hangover meds. The man who had answered my 3:00 AM calls when Declan didn’t come home. To Carter, and probably to Declan, I wasn’t a partner. I was a placeholder. A warm body. That’s why he felt comfortable coordinating Lacey’s arrival. Carter didn’t know what to say, so he drifted away. Declan had left his phone on the table. I flipped it over. The case was gone—the one I bought him. In its place was a clear case, displaying a passport-style photo of him and Lacey, heads leaning together. I picked it up, my hands trembling. In eight years, Declan didn’t have a single photo of me on his phone. “We see each other every day,” he’d say. “Why do we need photos?” I believed him. Like an idiot, I believed him. But his laptop was a shrine to Lacey. Thousands of photos. Every angle. Every smile. The party that was supposed to be my farewell turned into Lacey’s homecoming. Declan didn’t leave her side. He blocked every glass of wine offered to her. When I kept a polite, frozen smile on my face, Declan leaned over and hissed, “Stop looking at her like that. Can’t you be generous for once? What is wrong with you?” My head pounded. The acid in my stomach rose. He had traded my life for hers, and I was the one being selfish? I grabbed a margarita from a passing tray, needing something to dull the edge. Declan’s hand shot out, knocking the glass from my grip. It shattered. Red liquid splashed everywhere. His other hand immediately clamped over Lacey’s eyes. “Lacey, don’t look! You know you faint at the sight of blood.” Lacey giggled, peeling his fingers away. She pinched his cheek. “Oh my god, Declan. That was a lie I told during Truth or Dare in high school. You still remember that? You dork.” Tears finally pricked my eyes. Not because of the wasted drink. But because Declan remembered a throwaway lie from high school, yet he couldn’t remember a single thing about me. I hated the color blue. I’d told him a hundred times. Yet when we moved in together, he painted the living room navy. “I thought you liked blue,” he’d said, looking genuinely confused. I used to tell myself he just had a bad memory. I was too afraid to admit the truth: he didn’t want to remember. Eight years is a long time to leave no trace. Lacey walked over, patting Declan’s chest soothingly. “Nora, don’t be mad. He gets intense when he drinks. I used to make him hot water with honey, and he’d settle right down.” 3 I didn’t answer. I just watched Declan lean into her touch, like a plant turning toward the sun. “Nora,” Lacey chirped. “Do you have honey at your place? I can text you the recipe. You should make him some.” She was the childhood sweetheart. The one who got away. How could I compete with that mythology? I couldn’t. It was better to just fold. “Why don’t you come back to our place and make it for him?” I said. Declan’s head snapped up. He looked shocked, then panicked. We hailed a cab. There was only one. Declan opened the back door for Lacey, ushering her in. He started to hold it for me, but I stepped back. “No thanks,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on a reunion ten years in the making.” Declan ducked his head, refusing to meet my eyes. Inside the cab, I watched them. Declan rested his head on her shoulder. When he felt sick, he sat up and breathed through the window. I laughed out loud. “What, you aren’t going to puke on her?” When I used to pick him up, he’d vomit all over the upholstery. I was the one who had to apologize to the driver and pay the cleaning fee. He respected her too much to ruin her dress. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and looked away after two seconds. But he stayed upright. When we got to the apartment, the honey water worked its magic. “Declan,” Lacey said, looking around with wide eyes. “I just got back and… I haven’t found a place yet. Can I crash here?” Declan agreed before she finished the sentence. He grabbed her luggage and carried it straight into the master bedroom. “Declan,” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you sleeping in there with her tonight?” He stopped. His voice was ice cold. “That’s none of your business.” I chuckled. Why did I even ask? I went to the guest room. To my surprise, Declan followed me in a few minutes later. “Nora, look. It’s not what you think.” I almost applauded the audacity. “I know,” I said. “I get it.” “But, Declan… we’re breaking up.” He frowned, opening his mouth to argue, but Lacey burst into the room, tears streaming down her face. “Declan! I’m scared! I feel like someone is watching me through the window!” We lived on the 28th floor. Unless Spiderman was a peeping tom, nobody was watching her. But Declan didn’t hesitate. He rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared. I’ll stay with you.” I watched him make a pallet on the floor of the master bedroom. Fine by me. Let them have the bed I paid for. Back in the guest room, I knocked over a lamp in the dark. It shattered, slicing a deep gash into my palm. Blood welled up immediately. I had to go to the ER. Declan saw me in the hallway, holding a towel to my hand. He frowned. “I’ll drive you.” Old Nora would have been grateful. New Nora just shook her head. “No.” His face darkened. He walked me to the door, his hand on the knob. “Nora,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t do unnecessary things to get attention.” There it was. When you don’t love someone, even their pain is an inconvenience. The last flickering ember of my love for him finally went out. 4 I dragged myself home at dawn. Declan was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. In eight years, he had never cooked for me. Not once. Even when I was pulling double shifts, he’d call me to ask when I was coming home to make dinner. The smell of bacon and eggs made my stomach turn. I wasn’t qualified to eat his cooking. That was a premium subscription feature reserved for Lacey. I ignored the bowl of porridge he’d set out for me and grabbed a packet of instant oatmeal. Declan snatched the packet from my hand. “You just got back from the hospital—” “Declan!” Lacey’s voice drifted from the bedroom. “Come read to me! I want to sleep in a bit longer!” She poked her head out, looking at me with big, innocent doe eyes. “Sorry, Nora. He’s just so used to babying me. You don’t mind, do you?” Declan dropped the oatmeal packet. “Ignore her,” he muttered to me, and walked away. My phone didn’t ring, but his did. Over and over. “Hello, sir. Regarding the wedding venue… any other specific requests?” To ensure this bridge was thoroughly burned, I decided to leave them a parting gift. I sat at the table eating my dry toast. Declan walked in, holding Lacey’s hand. When he saw me, he dropped her hand like it was hot iron. “She… she gets dizzy in the mornings. I didn’t want her to walk into a wall.” I smiled pleasantly. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want her to bruise before the big day.” Declan stared at me, stunned. Usually, I fought for every scrap of affection. I used to start a war if I caught him texting another girl. Now? I was Zen. “Nora,” Lacey said, buttering a piece of toast. “Declan booked a bridal fitting for me this afternoon. It’s a surprise for… well, just for fun. You should come help me choose!” “Declan, you’re crazy,” she giggled, hitting his arm. “Making me wear a wedding dress right after I land!” I shook my head. “Can’t. Haven’t finished packing for London.” Declan slammed his fork down. “What is wrong with you? She doesn’t know anyone here. Would it kill you to be nice for one afternoon?” I set my spoon down gently. “I am moving to another continent. My flight is next week. I need to pack. Is that valid enough for you?” Declan deflated slightly. He looked down at his plate. “The flight isn’t until next week?” He was pushing me out the door, yet didn’t even know when I was leaving. When I didn’t apologize, his temper flared again. “Nora, you think I’m going to beg you to stay? You think that little breakup speech last night means anything?” He laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. “Fine! We’re done! Happy?” He grabbed Lacey’s hand and stormed out. I finished packing. I looked around the apartment and realized there was almost nothing of me here. I checked Declan’s social media. His pinned post was an announcement for a “Welcome Home” party tonight. A wedding reception in all but name. My flight was actually today. I’d lied about the date. I recorded a video message for the happy couple, scheduled it to send, and headed to the airport. As I sat on the tarmac, my phone began to buzz. Once. Twice. Then a continuous vibration. “Where are you?! Why did you post that video?” “It’s not what you think!” “Come back right now!” I declined the call and powered off the phone. The engines roared to life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394649”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Everything changed the day my parents brought Daisy home. My parents, my older brother, my fiancé—the entire axis of my world tilted in her favor. I went from being the Huntington family’s crown jewel to a pariah, unwanted and unseen. Every scream, every tear, every desperate clawing for attention was just an attempt to reclaim a fraction of the love I’d lost, but it was all futile. Then, just as I decided to let go of everything, my mind shattered. I developed dissociative amnesia. The doctor called it a defense mechanism; my brain simply chose to delete the people and memories that caused me pain. At Daisy’s engagement party to my fiancé, I looked at him and saw a stranger. On my birthday, which I spent entirely alone, I forgot the brother who once swore to protect me forever. And on the day my parents threatened to disown me for Daisy’s sake, I forgot I even had parents. In the end, I left the city without a backward glance, unburdened and free. And that was when they all began to regret. 01 “Blair, are you done making a scene yet?” Harrison’s voice drifted up from the living room, dripping with disgust. I stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the tableau below. My parents, Archer, and Harrison were all clustered around Daisy, seated on the plush velvet sofa. When they looked up at me, their eyes held nothing but estrangement and loathing. It felt as though the marble steps beneath my feet had physically cleaved the world in two. In their world, Daisy was the fragile princess, the celestial body around which they all orbited. I was the villain in her story, the malicious stepsister whose every breath was met with impatience and defensiveness. But in my world, it felt like standing in a freezing, ceaseless downpour. I was running aimlessly, soaked to the bone, unable to find a single overhang to shelter me. It wasn’t always like this. I forced my face into a mask of indifference, though my eyes betrayed a hollow confusion. Before Daisy arrived, I was the cherished daughter. I was spoiled, yes, but I was loved. My parents were busy, high-powered executives constantly flying between New York and London, but whenever my father came home, he would catch me as I launched myself into his arms, lifting me high into the air. “Did my little Blair Bear miss her daddy?” he’d ask, his voice thick with indulgence. And if I screamed, “Yes!” he would laugh, rubbing his stubbled cheek against mine until I shrieked with giggles. The gifts they brought back would practically bury me. Even when they were away, I was never lonely. I had the best big brother in the world, and the gentlest boy next door. Archer and Harrison filled the silence of the big house. Even though Archer was five years older, neither of them ever treated me like a nuisance. They played my childish games with infinite patience. I basked in that golden glow until I was seventeen. That was the year my parents brought home a girl my age. Daisy. And the lights went out. Daisy was the daughter of my mother’s college roommate, a woman named Florence. They had stayed in touch over the years, though Florence, proud and middle-class, refused to take handouts from the wealthy Huntingtons. Their friendship lived mostly in emails and holiday cards. Then came the car accident that killed Daisy’s parents. My mother, heartbroken for the girl and furious at relatives who were tossing Daisy around like a hot potato, decided to take her in. “Blair,” my mother had said, her hands on my shoulders, “Daisy is tragic and fragile. You need to yield to her. Make space.” I made space. And in doing so, I lost my place entirely. 02 Daisy and I were nothing alike. She was delicate, ethereal, with eyes that always seemed to be brimming with unshed tears. If anyone raised their voice a decibel above a whisper, she would crumble. On the very first day, I made her cry. All I did was call out “Mom.” The word apparently triggered Daisy’s grief for her deceased parents. I stood there, stunned, as my mother shot me a look of sharp reprimand, forcing me to take a stumbling step back. In the first month, I was accused of pushing her into the lake. Behind the Huntington estate lies a sprawling garden centered around a private lake. Near the water stands a treehouse my father commissioned for me when I was six. It was my sanctuary. Daisy was always crying. Mom said she missed her parents. Mom insisted I take Daisy to the treehouse. I refused. The treehouse was mine. It was the repository of my secrets, the place where I watched the stars when I was sad, the place where Archer would always find me to wipe away my tears. “Can’t we go somewhere else?” I asked, reluctant. “It’s okay, Auntie,” Daisy said, her voice thin and trembling. “If Blair doesn’t like it, I won’t go.” My mother’s voice sharpened, leaving no room for argument. “Blair Huntington, is this how I raised you?” Defeated, I led Daisy to the garden. Standing by the lake, looking at my sanctuary, I felt a sullen heaviness. But I swallowed it, ready to play the good hostess. That was when Daisy stumbled. She collided with me, and we both toppled into the dark water. By the time they found us, the cold had seeped into my bones, sapping my strength. Through the hazy, waterlogged blur, I saw Archer swimming toward me. My heart screamed, Archer, save me, please save me. But from the shore, my mother’s voice pierced the air like a hammer, shattering my hope. “Archer! Get Daisy first! She’s weak! If anything happens to her, how will I explain it to the dead?” In my despair, I saw Archer hesitate. He looked at me—a look of agonizing guilt—and then turned his back on me, swimming toward Daisy. I opened my mouth to scream his name, but the bitter lake water rushed in, filling me up like the grief that would soon drown my life. I was eventually hauled out by security. Daisy recovered quickly. I, however, had inhaled too much water and lay in a coma for three days. When I woke up, the world had rewritten itself. My mother looked at me with pure disgust. “I can’t believe I raised such a vicious daughter.” My father shook his head, disappointment etched into his features. “Blair, we taught you to be kind.” Archer looked at me with a mix of guilt and confusion. “She wasn’t a threat to you, Blair. Why did you try to drown her?” That’s when I learned that Daisy had woken up three days prior. She had spun a tale through her tears: I had pushed her. I had told her I would only be happy if she disappeared. “That’s not true!” I screamed, my throat raw. “I didn’t push her! She fell into me!” But truth is a currency, and I was bankrupt. The more I explained, the more guilty I looked. From that day on, the pampered princess became the villain. I couldn’t do anything right. If I crossed paths with Daisy, I was accused of bullying her. When my parents returned from business trips, they brought gifts only for Daisy. I was forgotten. After six months, I finally exploded. “Mom, Dad, who is your actual daughter? This is cruel!” I saw a flicker of guilt in my mother’s eyes, but she quickly armored herself in self-righteousness. “Daisy has no one. We have to care for her more. Why are you so petty? You’re nothing like me.” My father sighed, reaching for his wallet. “Here’s a card, Blair. Go buy yourself something nice, okay?” But Daisy was crying again. That soft, inescapable sound. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, ensuring everyone heard. “It’s my fault. I don’t want the gifts. Give them to Blair.” My mother’s face hardened. “Blair, look at yourself. We are so disappointed in you.” I watched Archer wipe Daisy’s tears and felt a chasm open up between us. I was terrified. I was insecure. I was heartbroken. But I only knew how to be proud. I bit my lip and shouted, “I don’t want your charity!” before running to my room. I refused to cry. Dad used to say, Blair is a princess, and a princess’s tears are diamonds. You can’t waste them. I tossed and turned that night, agonizing over the why. Was Daisy simply more lovable? The acid of jealousy burned in my chest, making it hard to breathe. But I wouldn’t lose. My pride wouldn’t let me bow. I decided that if Daisy had stolen everything, I would simply steal it back. 03 From seventeen to twenty-three. I spent six years learning a brutal lesson: The tighter you try to grasp sand, the faster it slips through your fingers. I became a complete failure. Family, love, career—I had nothing. All I possessed was my parents’ irritation, Archer’s cold indifference, and Harrison’s resentment. I lifted my chin, mimicking the posture of the princesses in the stories Harrison used to read to me. A princess never bows her head. “I’m done making scenes,” I said, my voice steady. I looked down at the group in the living room—the people I once thought were my eternal safety net. My family. My lips curved into a faint, ironic smile. “You’re all a happy family now. What reason do I have to cause trouble?” Archer looked up at me. His finger twitched. He knew me best; he had watched me grow from a newborn into a woman. Something in my tone made him flinch, a sudden, inexplicable panic rising in his chest. But before he could grasp that feeling, Mom spoke, shattering the moment. “Blair, I don’t care what game you’re playing. Tomorrow is Daisy’s engagement party, and you will be there.” Tomorrow. Daisy and Harrison. It had taken me a month to process the reality of it. Or rather, to be forced to swallow it. I tilted my head, my hand instinctively brushing the fresh bandage on my arm beneath my sleeve. Mom must have forgotten. When I was seven, Harrison had stripped the thorns off a rose from his mother’s garden with his clumsy little fingers and brought it to me. “Blair,” he had whispered, “when we grow up, can I marry you?” Our parents and Archer had laughed at the two toddlers making life plans. But Harrison hadn’t laughed. He stood there, blushing and earnest. “Harrison,” my mom had teased, “do you know what marriage means?” “It means protecting Blair forever,” he had said solemnly. “She’s so delicate, Auntie. No one else will take care of her properly.” Every year on that day, he would ask the room, “Am I big enough yet? Can I marry Blair now?” It wasn’t until middle school that he realized how silly he’d been, but he still took my hand that year and said, “Blair, I promise. I’ll make you my wife one day.” The boy who promised to protect me forever was now standing in front of Daisy, looking at me with hatred, as if I were a monster about to strike. I felt suddenly exhausted. I had wasted my life in this house, tallying up moments of affection like a miser, comparing my share to Daisy’s. If I got a scrap more, I was happy. If I got a scrap less, I crumbled. Somewhere along the way, I had lost myself. And for what? To be branded the villain? These people downstairs were my blood, my heart. If they didn’t love me, who ever would? I had tried. God, I had tried. Maybe my childhood had been too happy, and now the universe was balancing the ledger. Since seventeen, I had been paying off a debt I didn’t know I owed. I nodded. “Understood. I’ll be there.” I didn’t have the energy to decipher their expressions—shock, relief, suspicion—as I turned and walked back to my room. 04 The moment the door clicked shut, the steel rod in my spine dissolved. I slid down the wood to the floor. My mind was a blur of everything and nothing, the world feeling distant, as if wrapped in gauze. My fingers absently traced the scab on my arm. I had used a razor blade a few days ago. For the last year, the desire to leave this world had grown from a whisper to a roar. With Daisy here, my death wouldn’t leave a ripple in their lives. Yet, I kept struggling to breathe. Every time I held the blade, memories of childhood warmth would flood in—unwanted, uninvited—weakening my grip. I unlocked my phone. My contacts list was a wasteland. Since Daisy arrived, I had been tethered to her. I got into an Ivy League school; Daisy didn’t. Mom donated a new library wing to force her in. After graduation, I joined the family business. Daisy was immediately placed in my department. Thanks to her performance, everyone saw me as the high-handed, temperamental heiress. No one wanted to get close to me. Daisy was the trembling victim, easily winning hearts and buying “friends” with Huntington money. I had nowhere to vent. Resentment, numbness, and agony bounced around inside my ribcage, threatening to tear me apart from the inside out. I curled into a ball on the plush carpet. After a long silence, a single tear escaped. Dad, you lied. My tears aren’t diamonds. No one cares if I cry. I wanted to scream, to run downstairs and shake them. Tell me! What do you want me to do? But instead, I pulled my knees tighter to my chest. Sleep, Blair. Just sleep. When you close your eyes, the day ends. My sleep was jagged, eyes darting beneath lids, breathing shallow and fast. But as dawn approached, a strange calm settled over me. My breathing steadied. I woke to a pounding on the door. I pushed my aching body off the floor and opened it. Archer stood there, cold and impatient. “Why aren’t you ready? It’s Daisy’s engagement party. Don’t tell me your princess syndrome is flaring up again?” My head throbbed. I ignored his taunt. Perhaps seeing how pale I was, his voice softened imperceptibly. “What’s wrong with you?” I took a step back. “Nothing.” He looked offended by my distance. “Blair, you used to be so sweet. You used to—” “I’m tired of hearing about what I used to be. Go be with your favorite sister. If you keep talking, I really will miss the party.” I shut the door in his shocked face. As the warm water of the shower hit my skin, I frowned. Engagement party? Daisy and… who? 05 It wasn’t until I was dressed, seated in the car, and arriving at the luxury hotel that I saw the photo outside. I read the names on the welcome board. “Daisy… Harrison.” When I said the second name, a faint confusion floated in my voice. Harrison. It sounded familiar. But when I searched the archives of my mind, the file was missing. I followed the guests into the banquet hall, moving like a ghost. Everyone was terrified I would cause a scene, so I had been essentially banished to the foyer, mingling with distant acquaintances rather than family. Cause a scene? Why would I do that? “Well, well. If it isn’t the difficult Miss Huntington.” A shrill voice grated on my ears. I looked over. Harper. Daisy’s attack dog. For years, she had been Daisy’s loyal shadow, taking every opportunity to mock me. Usually, I would bite back. I lifted my chin. “Still auditioning for the role of family servant? Being Daisy’s lackey isn’t enough?” Harper eyed my custom couture gown with envy before sneering. “You’ve only got your mouth left. Everyone knows today is Daisy and Harrison’s day. Even your parents can’t stand you. Maybe you should reflect on why.” Usually, these words would sting. I would yell, causing a commotion. But strangely, clarity washed over me. To the outside world, I was pathetic. Why was I holding on? “So?” I asked, my voice flat. “Even if you fight Daisy’s battles, my parents aren’t going to adopt you too.” Harper blinked, surprised I hadn’t taken the bait. Usually, Daisy would swoop in about now, crying and hiding behind Archer until Mom scolded me. “Harrison and Daisy are getting engaged,” Harper pressed. “They’re soulmates.” I nodded agreeably. “Sure. Soulmates.” “He doesn’t love you anymore, Blair. Pretending to be calm won’t bring him back.” With a sneer, she “accidentally” tipped her glass of red wine. The crimson liquid splashed across the front of my dress. “Blair! What are you doing?!” she shrieked. Heads turned. The ceremony was about to begin. Harrison and Daisy were walking toward the stage. Whispers crawled into my ears. “That’s the biological daughter. The black sheep.” “The Huntingtons prefer the adopted girl.” “Imagine being so toxic your own parents choose a stranger over you.” “She’s lucky they haven’t disowned her.” “Marrying the adopted daughter is the same for the business merger, anyway.” My hand clenched the fabric of my dress. “Blair, not again!” Archer marched over, brows furrowed. “Sorry everyone, please continue.” I looked at him calmly. “Harper threw the wine on me.” Archer scoffed. “Always the victim. You just want to ruin this for Harrison, don’t you? You need to grow up. Feelings change. Harrison loves Daisy. Why can’t you accept that?” His voice was drowned out by the officiant. “Two hearts, one vow…” I heard something snap in my mind. A clean, sharp break. I looked at Archer. “Why can’t I accept it?” He sighed. “Blair, if Daisy hadn’t insisted, you wouldn’t even be allowed here. She treats you like a sister. She wanted you to witness her happiness. Just be good, okay?” 06 As Archer dragged me out of the banquet hall, I wondered: Was I really not good? He stopped a few feet away from the doors. “Let go of your obsession with Harrison. The childhood stuff was just a joke. Don’t take it seriously.” He shoved a credit card into my hand, dismissing me. “Go buy a new dress. Change. We have a family dinner tonight. Don’t be rude.” I looked at him and finally asked the question that had plagued me all morning. “Who is Harrison?” Archer’s face contorted. “Blair, stop it.” He rubbed his face in frustration. “Who am I?” “Archer,” I said lightly. “And who am I to you?” “My brother.” “See? You remember. You’re terrible at faking amnesia. I have a speech to give. If you cause one more problem, I really won’t defend you anymore.” He glared at me. “It’s been six years. Stop being selfish. Just be a sister to Daisy, alright?” I didn’t answer. I just held the card. The heavy doors of the banquet hall swung shut, sealing my past inside. I walked slowly out of the hotel. The red wine stain looked like a gaping wound on my chest. I used to panic if there was a single wrinkle in my clothes. Now, after years of emotional battering, I didn’t care. I walked until I reached the bridge overlooking the river. I stood on my toes, peering over the railing at the dark water. I heard that when you die, you get a next life. Would my next parents love me? Hope flickered in my chest. Maybe next time, I’d get to be the happy one. Without thinking, I reached out, struggling to hoist myself over the cold metal railing. “Excuse me.” A deep, magnetic voice spoke from behind me. 07 A suit jacket, still warm from body heat, was wrapped around my waist. Strong hands gripped me, lifting me effortlessly back onto the pavement. I turned around. First impression: A man. Second impression: Old money. He was wearing a black shirt, buttoned all the way to the top—repressed, austere. I couldn’t guess his age, but his aura was terrifyingly calm. His eyes were like the deep ocean, steady and unreadable. He stepped back politely. “What are you doing?” I snapped. Old habits die hard; defensiveness was my armor. He didn’t frown. He just tilted his head. “You were flashing the traffic.” I almost laughed. I wanted to die, and he was worried about my modesty? I thought he was going to give me a “life is worth living” speech. I pursed my lips, the suicidal impulse fading. I wasn’t that fragile. “Thank you,” I mumbled, looking down. “Mr. Roman, it’s 2:10,” a man said, stepping out of a black Maybach parked nearby. The man—Roman—looked at me. I moved to hand the jacket back. “Keep it,” he said, his voice cool. “Your dress is ruined.” He got in the car without another word. I stood there holding the jacket, and found a business card in the pocket. Roman. I had heard Archer mention him. The head of one of the city’s oldest dynasties. A shark in the business world, barely thirty but feared by men twice his age. Archer worshiped him. On the back was a private number. It was probably an accident. I didn’t want to owe a man like that anything. I tore the card into confetti and tossed it into the river. Before I went home, I threw the jacket in a dumpster. By the time I walked back to the villa, it was dark. My parents and Archer were in the living room. Daisy was sobbing softly. As soon as I entered, my mother stood up and swept a crystal fruit bowl off the coffee table. Crash. “Blair! You didn’t come back to the dinner! Harrison’s parents think you disapprove of the marriage! They’re looking at Daisy differently now!” My feet were bleeding from walking miles in heels, but no one looked down. I looked at the scene I had lived a thousand times. “Daisy,” I asked, “aren’t you tired of crying for six years?” Daisy froze, then wailed louder. “I know you hate me, Blair! I’m sorry! I just wanted a family! I’m sorry I’m so greedy for Mom and Dad and Archer’s love…” Mom pulled her into a hug, glaring at me. “Blair, you have turned this house into a war zone. If you can’t behave, I’m cutting you off.” I stood straight. It had never been about the money. It was about the love. “Mom,” I said, the word fragile on my tongue, “why does her need for a family mean destroying mine?” 08 For a second, my mother faltered. But then Daisy whimpered, looking like a wilted white flower. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll leave so Blair isn’t angry.” Mom’s face hardened into stone. “Don’t think a few pathetic words will fix this. Blair, until you genuinely accept Daisy as your sister, you don’t get a dime.” I looked at my father. He looked away. I looked at Archer. He was handing Daisy a tissue. “Okay,” I nodded. “I understand.” If I fought, I lost. If I surrendered, I lost. “Since you’re so stubborn,” Mom said coldly, “don’t bother sleeping here tonight. Pack your bags.” I stiffened, then nodded. No one remembered that tomorrow was my birthday. I went to my room, dragged out a suitcase, and threw in some clothes. I sat in the dark, waiting for dawn. Before Daisy, the night before my birthday was magical. I would go to sleep buzzing with excitement. I would wake up to Archer waiting at my door to lead me to the “Gift Room.” He would spend the whole day with me. At midnight, he would give me a necklace. “Our little princess is a year older.” After Daisy arrived, she watched my birthday celebration and then swallowed a handful of sleeping pills. After that, no one celebrated my birthday. Only Archer would remember to buy a small cake. I waited all day. Archer didn’t come with a cake. I dragged my suitcase to the front door just as Archer and Daisy walked in. “Why are you still here?” Archer frowned. “Mom told you to leave.” I walked past him without a word. I caught Daisy’s triumphant smirk in my peripheral vision. I wasn’t a princess. Princesses are brave. I just wanted to run and forget. I couldn’t beat Daisy. So I surrendered. Walking out of the gates, I felt strangely light. I had no money, just a suitcase, walking until the world spun. Blackness took me. When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital room. A man was sitting there. The guy who got engaged to Daisy. I searched the depths of my mind for his name. “Harrison?” It felt foreign on my tongue. “What did you call me?” He looked angry. Was that wrong? Maybe he preferred a title. “Brother-in-law?” I tried. Harrison looked agitated. “Call me what you used to call me. I’m just engaged to Daisy. Our feelings haven’t changed.” I propped myself up. “Used to?” “Did we know each other before?” 09 Harrison stood frozen, staring at me with horror. He slammed his hand on the nurse call button. His fingers were trembling. Weird. Isn’t he Daisy’s fiancé? Why is he panicking because I forgot him? Doctors and nurses swarmed in. “We need a psych consult,” one said. “No head trauma. She fainted from exhaustion.” I thought about it. Why didn’t I sleep? I couldn’t remember. So I lay back. My parents kicked me out because of Daisy. I accepted that. But the years before that… Huh? The memories were foggy, chopped up, missing key frames. The psychiatrist arrived. “Dissociative Amnesia,” he concluded. “The patient has undergone severe stress and has subconsciously chosen to block out painful memories. Recovery depends on her willingness to remember. There is no pill for this.” I smiled at the doctor. “Thank you. I don’t need treatment. If the memories hurt, I’m better off without them.” Behind the doctor, a glass crashed to the floor.

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To celebrate my promotion, my boyfriend, Asher, insisted on treating me to dinner. He also invited his childhood friend, a woman who allegedly worked in the police force. Throughout the meal, this friend, Audrey, didn’t stop lecturing me. “With your profile,” she said, tapping a manicured fingernail on the table, “at the Fraud Division, we’d classify you as a classic high-risk case.” Asher sat beside her, nodding enthusiastically like a bobblehead. “Audrey sees this stuff every day. If she says something’s off, it’s off.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. I excused myself to use the restroom, but as I walked down the corridor, their hushed voices drifted from the slightly open door of our private booth. I stopped, the silence of the hallway amplifying their words. “Ash, seriously, your girlfriend is suspicious,” Audrey’s voice was sharp, clinical. “I just ran a background check. Three properties in her name, two luxury cars. She’s a mid-level corporate manager; where does she get that kind of liquidity?” “She’s definitely a ‘Pig Butchering’ scammer,” she continued, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The ‘fattening’ phase. She packages herself as a wealthy socialite to lure you in, makes you feel secure, and then—bam. She gets you to invest, and you lose everything.” “I’ve worked cases like this for years. These women are ruthless. You need to cut her off immediately. Push her WeChat… I mean, give me her number. I’ll go undercover. I guarantee I’ll leave her with nothing.” My grip tightened around my phone until my knuckles turned white. A cold fury, distinct and sharp, settled in my chest. I turned on my heel and walked to a quiet corner of the lobby, dialing my father. “Dad,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Call Uncle Grant at the precinct. Tell him I think there’s a mole—or an imposter—in his Financial Crimes Unit.” … When I returned to the booth, Asher and Audrey were laughing, a picture of old friends reconnecting. The moment I stepped in, the smile vanished from Audrey’s face, replaced by a mask of professional severity. “Sloane,” she began, clasping her hands on the table. “Asher and I were just discussing your situation. I think a warning is necessary.” “Someone like you—young, no obvious family wealth, yet spending far beyond your tax bracket—you’re a magnet for criminals. Or, you are the criminal.” Asher shifted closer to me, taking my hand. His palm felt clammy. “Audrey is an elite officer, Sloane. She’s doing this for your own good. She’s worried you’re getting mixed up in something.” I pulled my hand away, a cold sneer forming internally. Worried I’m getting scammed? The biggest scam is sitting right across from me. “Thank you for the concern, Officer,” I said, my voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze vodka. “I’ll be careful.” My indifference clearly annoyed her. She glanced at the Patek Philippe on my wrist—a gift to myself for the promotion—and let out a scoff of disbelief. “Careful? How? That watch alone costs more than your annual salary,” she said, leaning back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but vanity is a slippery slope. It leads girls like you down dark paths.” Asher looked uncomfortable now, caught in the crossfire. He tugged at my sleeve. “Sloane, come on. Audrey means well. Don’t be stubborn.” “Just tell us where the money comes from,” he pleaded, his eyes wide and earnest. “We can analyze it for you. Make sure you aren’t inadvertently laundering money for someone.” I trembled, not from fear, but from a rage so pure it felt like adrenaline. I whipped my head toward Asher. “What is that supposed to mean? You suspect me, too?” I had always thought he was just easily influenced, a bit soft. But looking at him now, I realized the rot went deeper. He actually agreed with her. He bought into this absurd, fabricated narrative. Under my questioning gaze, Asher flinched, but he doubled down. “I’m not suspecting you, I’m worried about you,” he insisted, though his voice wavered. “You come from a normal family, Sloane. Where did you get the money? Audrey’s right. It doesn’t add up.” Audrey seized the momentum. “Asher, you’re too naive. In my line of work, we see this all the time. Victims think they’re wealthy, only to realize they’re just mules for a cartel. Or worse, they’re part of the scam.” Her eyes narrowed, fixing me with a predator’s stare. “Sloane, I’m asking you one more time. Is your source of funds legitimate? If you confess now and cooperate, I might be able to pull some strings for leniency.” The other diners in the open area nearby began to whisper. “She’s a cop, she must know what she’s talking about.” “Yeah, you see it on the news all the time. Fake heiresses laundering crypto.” The humiliation pricked my skin like needles. I forced myself to breathe, to find that quiet center my father always talked about. “Every cent I have is clean,” I said, my voice low and controlled. “But you, ‘Officer’—abusing your alleged authority to investigate a private citizen’s finances without a warrant and discussing it in public? I’m pretty sure that violates about a dozen departmental protocols.” Audrey’s face stiffened. She hadn’t expected the pushback. Asher immediately jumped to her defense, his tone sharp. “Sloane! Watch your tone! She’s trying to save us! If you have nothing to hide, why are you scared of an investigation? Show us your bank statements. Prove us wrong.” My heart turned to ash. This was the man I had loved for three years. Faced with baseless accusations, he didn’t stand in front of me; he stood with my accuser, demanding I strip myself bare to prove my innocence. I stood up, grabbing my purse. The leather felt cool and grounding against my palm. “I’ve lost my appetite,” I said. “Asher, I’m leaving.” I turned to go, but Asher lunged, gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise. His face was flushed, eyes red with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “Sloane, if you walk out that door right now, don’t expect me to come begging for you back!” Audrey chimed in, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Oh, Asher, calm down. She’s just embarrassed. Girls have thin skin when they’re caught.” She draped a hand on his arm, practically gluing herself to his side. “Sloane, don’t be mad. It’s an occupational hazard. I just want what’s best for you.” I looked at her—at the smugness barely concealed behind her concern—and felt a wave of nausea. “Don’t bother,” I said, ripping my arm from Asher’s grasp. “My affairs are none of your business, Officer.” I looked at Asher one last time. “As for you… I hope you don’t regret this.” I walked out without looking back. Behind me, I heard Audrey’s triumphant voice. “See, Ash? She ran. Guilty conscience. Women like that… you can’t be too nice to them.” I had barely stepped into my apartment when my phone buzzed. It was Chloe, my best friend. “Sloane, what the hell is going on with Asher?” Chloe practically screamed into the phone. “He just posted a status saying he ‘finally saw someone’s true colors’ and thanked his ‘brother in arms’ for the wake-up call. And there’s a picture of him and that Audrey girl!” I collapsed onto the sofa, the silence of the empty apartment wrapping around me. I gave her the short version. “Are you kidding me?” Chloe yelled. “Is he blind? He throws away a diamond to pick up a rock? A fake rock, at that?” My nose stung, tears threatening to spill. “I’m done, Chloe. I want to break up.” “Break up? You need to destroy him! Stay there, I’m coming over.” A few minutes after hanging up, my phone rang again. Asher. I picked up, and his voice assaulted my ear immediately. “Sloane, you’ve got some nerve. Tattling to my mother?” I blinked, confused. “I didn’t call your mother.” “Don’t lie! She just called and chewed me out, told me I should apologize to you. If it wasn’t you, was it Audrey?” He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “Trying to use my mom to pressure me? I didn’t realize you were this manipulative.” I actually laughed. “Asher, are you delusional? I only called my dad. If your mom is yelling at you, it’s because she has more sense than you do. And for the record, we are done. Do not contact me again.” He paused, stunned by the breakup, before his anger surged back twofold. “Done? You’re dumping me? Stop playing hard to get, Sloane! Audrey analyzed this—it’s a classic manipulation tactic. You think if you throw a tantrum, I’ll come running?” “I haven’t even started counting your shady assets yet, and you’re acting like the victim?” In the background, I heard Audrey’s voice, sweet and poisonous. “Ash, don’t fight with her. She’s just spiraling. Give her time to cool off. She’s scared. If she’s really innocent, she’ll cooperate with the investigation. Acting like this just proves she’s guilty.” That was the spark Asher needed. “Did you hear that? Even Audrey is more mature than you! I’m giving you three days, Sloane. Think it over, then come apologize to Audrey. Otherwise, we are officially over!” He hung up. A second later, a photo landed in my WeChat. It was a selfie of Audrey leaning intimately on Asher’s shoulder. The background was Asher’s bedroom. The caption read: Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sis. Men like women who are compliant. Your little games don’t work on an expert like me. The doorbell rang. Chloe. She took one look at my face, grabbed the phone, saw the photo, and exploded. “Oh, absolutely not. This bitch is dead.” She hit the dial button on my phone. Audrey picked up. “Hello? Sloane? Ready to apologize?” Chloe didn’t hold back. “Apologize my ass! You homewrecking, fake-badge-wearing psychopath! You think you can steal a man and act tough? I will rip that weave right off your head!” Silence for two seconds, then Audrey let out a pitiful, trembling sob. “Why… why are you yelling at me? I was just trying to help Asher avoid being scammed…” Then Asher’s voice, thundering. “Sloane! You got someone to harass Audrey? You have no class! She’s trying to help, and you treat her like this? You are venomous! I was blind to ever date you!” “We are done! Do you hear me? Done!” I took the phone back from Chloe. My voice was eerily calm. “Asher, relax.” “From this moment on, we are strangers.” “I hope you and your bitch live happily ever after.” I thought the breakup would be the end of it. But when I returned to the office on Monday, the internal announcement for my promotion had been pulled. Colleagues I usually lunched with averted their eyes, scattering like roaches when I walked down the hall. I was blindsided. Before I could process the atmosphere, the Department Director called me into his office and slammed a stack of printed screenshots onto his desk. “Sloane, look at this mess! The whole company is talking about how my department is harboring a scam artist. You’re embarrassing me!” I picked up the papers. My pupils constricted. It was a thread on the company’s anonymous forum: Exposing the “Heiress” Supervisor: Is she running a Pig Butchering Scam? The post was a masterpiece of slander. It listed my job title, my recent purchases, my car model—details only someone close to me would know. “…Her assets are totally disproportionate to her income. Large, unexplained transfers. Typical money laundering profile.” “A friend in the PD told me this is a new type of romance scam. They package themselves as rich, bait executives or trust fund kids, and drain them dry.” The dagger was at the end. The author had tagged Asher’s corporate account. “Rumor has it her latest target was Asher. Luckily, his friend in the force exposed her just in time. She’s been dumped, so watch out—she’s hunting for a new victim in the office.” The comments section was on fire. And there, in the middle of it, was a reply from Asher’s verified account: Thanks for the heads up. Eyes wide open now. Consider it a lesson learned in fraud prevention. His comment felt like a physical slap. The Director tapped the desk impatiently. “HR and Legal are taking this very seriously. Your promotion is frozen. Until this is cleared up and the reputation damage is fixed, don’t expect to move up.” As I walked out of the office, dazed, a commotion erupted at the main entrance. Audrey walked in, arm-in-arm with Asher. She looked victorious. She scanned the room, locked eyes on me, and smirked. She marched up to me, pulled a laminate ID card from her purse, flashed it quickly, and adopted her ‘official’ voice. “Sloane Sterling, in light of the public outcry and significant discrepancies in your asset origin, I am formally requesting you accompany me to the station for an investigation. This is official police business.” Asher stood beside her, looking at me with a mix of pity and self-righteousness. “Sloane, I told you to come clean. Audrey can help you. Why did you let it get this far?” Colleagues gathered around, whispering, pointing phones. I felt like a prisoner being paraded before execution. Just as Audrey puffed out her chest, convinced she had me cornered, my phone rang. It was Dad. Audrey frowned. “No calls during an investigation!” I ignored her and answered. My palms were sweating, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Dad…” My father’s voice came through, steady as a mountain, calm as deep water. “Sloane, I spoke to Captain Grant. He ran the roster for the entire precinct and the city’s Fraud Division. There is no officer named Audrey on the payroll.” In a split second, the fear, the confusion, the humiliation—it all evaporated. So that’s it. I looked at Audrey, tapping her foot impatiently, and the foolish man standing next to her. The corner of my mouth quirked up. I hung up the phone without saying another word to my father. I looked Audrey dead in the eye. “Okay,” I said, my voice smooth. “I’ll go with you.”

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Word on the street was that the moment the Huntington heir graduated, his parents gifted him ten million dollars and a ten percent stake in the family empire. I sat in my cubicle, gnawing on a stale bagel I’d saved from the day before, practically drooling with envy. I ran the numbers in my head. Even if he never lifted a finger for the rest of his life, just living off the interest and dividends, he’d be pulling in a cool six million a year, easy. For a pathetic, corporate drone like me, getting paid to do absolutely nothing was the ultimate dream. It was the summit of my existence. Then came the day the Chairman and his family found me. They told me I was their biological son, lost for twenty-three years. My buddy warned me, “Look, Wes. Families with that kind of money? They have rules. Dozens of them. You won’t survive it. Besides, they’ve raised Tristan for over twenty years. They won’t have any real feelings for you.” I flashed him a jagged, cynical grin. “It’s fine. I’m not in it for the love. I’m in it for the cash.” I was whisked away to the Huntington estate. On the drive over, the butler briefed me on the lay of the land. … The Huntingtons had three children: the eldest daughter, Harper; the second daughter, Blair; and the third son, Tristan. After I went missing all those years ago, Mrs. Huntington—Catherine—was inconsolable. To fill the void, they went to an upscale orphanage and adopted a boy. That was Tristan. Tristan was smart, sensible, and achieved straight A’s effortlessly. He had grown up basking in the adoration of his parents and sisters. The moment the car pulled up to the manor, I was blocked at the entrance by the second daughter, Blair. She raked her eyes over me, her gaze lingering on my cheap sneakers and worn-out jeans with undisguised disgust. She scoffed, looking at me sideways. “So. You’re Wes?” I nodded and pointed to the butler beside me. “Apparently. That’s what they tell me. But you can still call me by my real name, Wes Miller.” She sneered, a cold, sharp sound. “You look like trash. You don’t even compare to Tristan’s little finger.” She took a step closer, her perfume expensive and overpowering. “Give up now. Even if you’re back, you will never replace Tristan. This family only has one son, and that is Tristan! You can’t compete with him in anything.” “I’m warning you,” she hissed, lowering her voice. “Know your place. Be polite to Tristan. Don’t do anything that makes me hate you. Otherwise, I have a million ways to make you disappear.” Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and marched into the villa. I rolled my eyes at her retreating back. Who cares if she hates me? I’m here to secure the bag, not to fight for affection. Once I get the money, she won’t have to chase me out; I’ll be on the first flight to the Caribbean. Tristan, the adopted son, got ten million and ten percent of the shares just for graduating. As the biological son, asking for an extra two million wouldn’t be excessive, right? I was about to push the heavy oak doors open when they were pulled from the inside. A guy about my age stood there. Our eyes locked. He quickly plastered a radiant smile on his face, grabbing my hand with an enthusiasm that felt rehearsed. “You must be Wes!” “Come in, come in! Mom and Dad are waiting for you!” No surprises here. This was the legendary Tristan—high EQ, high IQ, the golden boy. He ushered me into the living room. On the plush velvet sofas, an elegant middle-aged couple immediately stood up. When she saw me, Catherine Huntington froze. She walked slowly toward me, her manicured fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to touch my face. “Wes… is it really my Wes?” Then, she pulled me into a desperate, crushing hug. “Mom has finally found you.” “All these years… did you have a hard life out there? I’m so sorry… Mom is so sorry…” I had prepared myself for a cold reception, but being suddenly embraced by this stranger who smelled like lavender and money… it stirred something complicated in my chest. I grew up in the system. I had never felt anything resembling familial love. Just as I was calculating the appropriate emotional response, the sound of shattering glass cut through the air, pierced by Tristan’s high-pitched scream. Everyone’s attention snapped to him instantly. He was sprawled on the floor, clutching his elbow, sobbing. “Mom… it hurts…” Drops of blood hit the pristine white marble floor. Catherine immediately released me and rushed over to him. Her eyes were filled with panic and heartache. “Tristan!” “Quick! Call the doctor!” Mr. Huntington, Richard, crowded around too. Once he saw the blood, he turned and roared at the hovering maids. “How do you do your jobs? Why did you let the Young Master pour the tea himself?!” Tristan grabbed Richard’s arm with his good hand, his voice trembling. “Dad, don’t blame them. I was just thinking… since my big brother is back, I wanted to pour him a cup of tea personally.” “It’s my fault. I’m too clumsy. I missed a step.” He leaned weakly into Catherine’s arms, defending the servants. He looked like a fragile angel. Anyone seeing this would feel their heart break for him. The family doctor arrived quickly. After a simple bandage job, Blair wasn’t satisfied and insisted they go to the hospital for a full check-up. Naturally, the whole family prepared to escort him to the ER. As they were heading out the door, Catherine seemed to remember I existed. She turned back, looking apologetic. “Wes, I had prepared a welcome dinner for you, but this… with Tristan…” Before she could finish, Blair stomped back, grabbed her arm, and cut her off. “Oh, come on, Mom. Why bother with a feast for a gutter rat? The priority is Tristan! He lost so much blood, aren’t you worried? Let’s go!” Two seconds later, I heard the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut. Instantly, the massive villa was silent. Just me. I sat on the sofa, glancing around the opulent room. My hand brushed against a leather-bound book on the coffee table. A photo album. I opened the first page. Tristan, holding a coconut, smiling brilliantly on a white sandy beach. Then came summer camps, international math competitions, and the whole family surrounding him for birthdays, blowing out candles on cakes that cost more than my rent. Most of the photos were from 2013. I was twelve that year. I hit a growth spurt in middle school. The orphanage was crowded, resources were thin. To make sure I got enough to eat, I went to the cafeteria right after school to help the lunch ladies wash vegetables in exchange for leftovers. While I was worrying about starving, he was vacationing in Fiji with his parents and sisters. Comparison really is the thief of joy. I sat in that living room until nearly midnight. There was no sign of them returning. I decided to head back to my apartment. I grabbed my bag and stood up just as the door opened. Catherine walked in, supporting Tristan. She looked surprised to see me. “Wes? It’s so late. Where are you going?” “It got late, and you guys weren’t back. I didn’t know where I was sleeping, so I figured I’d go home.” Hearing my answer, she paused, guilt flashing across her face. “Mom was just busy and forgot.” “Tch. Stop playing the victim,” Blair sneered from the doorway. Catherine turned to the housekeeper behind her. “Mrs. Higgins, take Wes to his room to rest.” “Mom, let me take my brother,” Tristan volunteered, stepping forward. Catherine smiled at him, relieved. “Tristan is always so sensible. Go ahead, take your brother up.” Tristan walked up, grabbing my hand with that practiced familiarity, and led me upstairs. He pushed open the door to a bedroom on the second floor. “Brother, you can stay in this one.” I looked inside. It was spacious, warm, beautifully decorated. Before I could speak, Blair dashed up and blocked the doorway. “No! This is Tristan’s room! Tristan, why are you giving your room to this hillbilly?” “People like him are manipulative. You’re too kind, don’t let him bully you!” Tristan looked at her, feigning a scolding tone. “Blair, the room Mom prepared isn’t as big as mine. I figured… Brother has suffered so much out there for years. I’ve replaced him here, enjoying all this happiness. Now that he’s back, I should compensate him.” “I occupied his spot. It’s time to give it back.” He turned to me, his eyes wide and fearful. “Brother, you won’t blame me, right? Don’t worry, I’ll return everything that belongs to you. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just… please don’t chase me away.” “I just love Mom and Dad so much. I can’t bear to leave them…” Jesus. So Tristan wasn’t just a golden boy; he was a master manipulator. A text-book “Pick-me” boy. “Nonsense! What replacement? You are my son, Tristan Huntington!” Richard Huntington had appeared behind us. Hearing Tristan’s speech, he barked out the words sternly. He walked over and ruffled Tristan’s hair. “Silly child, don’t think like that. Your mother and I raised you by hand. To us, blood doesn’t matter. You are the child we love the most.” Hearing this, Tristan’s eyes instantly filled with tears. He turned and clung to Richard’s arm, whining affectionately, “Dad, of course I’m your son. I just feel bad for Brother, and I don’t want to leave you guys…” While they enacted their touching father-son moment, I walked to the room next door and pushed it open. It was fine. Smaller than Tristan’s, but clean and bright. A hell of a lot better than my rat-hole apartment. “I’ll take this one.” Tristan froze, opening his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Relax. I don’t rob people of their things.” Without waiting for a reaction, I tossed my bag inside and shut the door. Reviewing the day, I realized that aside from Catherine showing a flicker of maternal instinct, the rest of them viewed me as an intruder. Rumor had it that the Huntington empire was originally Catherine’s family business. Richard had married into it. After the old patriarch died, and Catherine showed no interest in business, the reins were handed to Richard. But in this house, Catherine still held the purse strings. Which meant my strategy was simple: Suck up to Mom. Human beings die for wealth just as birds die for food. I’d treat this like a job. I gave myself one year. Get ten million cash and the shares, then I resign and vanish. The next morning, there was a knock on my door. It was Mrs. Higgins. She said the eldest sister, Harper, was back, and Madam wanted me downstairs. When I got down, the family was happily distributing gifts Harper had brought back. Harper saw me and paused, then picked up a gift box from the table and handed it to me. “You must be Wes. This is a gift I brought back from Europe. It’s the same as Tristan’s.” “Thanks,” I said politely, taking it. It seemed she was slightly more decent than Blair. I opened it. A diamond-encrusted watch. It looked heavy. Expensive. Harper was generous. She went onto the “Safe List.” Just as I was mentally calculating the resale value, Tristan shouted to someone off to the side, “Margot! Can I come to your birthday party the day after tomorrow?” I realized there was a stranger sitting on the sofa. She was beautiful, with an air of effortless arrogance. Old money. Perhaps sensing my curiosity, Harper introduced her. “This is my best friend, Margot.” Margot turned, her eyes meeting mine. For a split second, shock flashed through her gaze. But a moment later, her expression shifted. Her eyes crinkled into a smile, and she waved at me. “Hello there, Wes.” Tristan’s smile stiffened. “Oh, Margot,” Catherine interjected eagerly. “Tristan cares so much about your birthday. He’s been preparing a gift for months. If you don’t invite him, he’ll be heartbroken for ages!” Margot smiled politely. “Sure,” she said, her voice cool. “The more the merrier. Harper, bring both your brothers.” Tristan looked at me with disbelief, then forced a smile. “Don’t worry, Margot. We’ll definitely be there!” After Margot left, Tristan’s face fell. He sat on the sofa looking like a kicked puppy. Seeing this, Catherine pulled a black card from her purse and handed it to him. “Don’t be sad. She agreed, didn’t she? That’s huge progress compared to how she used to treat you.” “Take Mom’s card and go to the mall. Buy some new clothes, get a facial. Our Tristan is so handsome; you’ll make sure Margot can’t take her eyes off you!” “Don’t worry. The position of Margot’s husband belongs to our precious Tristan.” He took the card, glancing at Catherine with wide, teary eyes. “Thank you, Mom.” Catherine then noticed me standing there. She looked me up and down, a flicker of awkwardness crossing her face. “Um… Wes, maybe you should go buy some clothes too?” I looked at her and said bluntly, “I’m broke.” She seemed to remember something, pulled out her phone, and tapped on the screen. A moment later, my phone buzzed. Bank notification: Account credited $200,000. I glanced at the unlimited black card in Tristan’s hand. Still playing favorites, I see. I thought for a second, then put on my best pathetic face. “I’ve never been to a party like this. I don’t know how to dress so I won’t embarrass the family. Do I need jewelry?” Catherine paused. Then she nodded fervently. “Right, right. This is your debut as a Huntington. You need to look dignified.” She turned and went into her bedroom. A moment later, she came out holding a velvet box. She opened it in front of me. Diamond cufflinks. They sparkled so hard I almost squinted. She handed them to me. “Here. Wear these. I didn’t have a welcome gift prepared for you when you came back. Consider this Mom’s compensation.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan’s face twist in shock and rage. I suppressed my excitement and took the box with feigned politeness. For the first time, I called her Mom. “Thank you, Mom.” Hearing that, she beamed so hard I thought her face might crack. These cufflinks were worth at least half a million. She wasn’t just a mom; she was an ATM. Calling her ‘Mom’ was the least I could do.

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Caroline walked in wearing five-inch stilettos while I was in the middle of signing a merger agreement. She didn’t knock. That was her style. As the heads of two massive family conglomerates, we knew the geography of each other’s offices too well—her chair faced the floor-to-ceiling windows; mine was angled forty-five degrees, offering a perfect view of the glass curtain wall of her building across the street. We had grown up together, so close I could trace the arch of her eyebrows with my eyes closed. We were so close that when she said, “I want to call off the engagement,” I didn’t even pause the movement of my pen. “Reason,” I said. “I’m in love with someone else.” The nib of my fountain pen hesitated on the paper for a second. Just one second. I signed the final character, closed the leather folder, and looked up. She stood opposite my desk, spine rigid, chin slightly elevated—a posture of command she wore like armor. But her eyelashes were trembling, like a butterfly caught under the eaves before a storm. We had known each other for twenty-three years. I had seen her cry over an unsolved calculus problem; I had seen her stand at her father’s funeral without shedding a single tear. But I had never seen her look like this—cheeks flushed with an unnatural, feverish heat, eyes impossibly bright. That wasn’t the sharp, cold light of a boardroom killer. It was the manic glow of someone high on dopamine. … “Is it him?” I asked. “His name is Noah,” she said. Her voice softened three degrees when the name crossed her lips, as if she were dissolving a sugar cube on her tongue. “The one who joined the company this summer.” I remembered. Last week’s intern review. A boy standing in front of the projector, explaining user personas. His slide deck was a visual feast, flashy and modern, but the underlying data had three glaring errors. I had intended to point them out, but Caroline had spoken first: “A fresh perspective. I like the independent thinking.” She had even smiled, a rare occurrence. At the time, I thought she was just having a good day. “How long?” “One month and three days.” “And you think you know him?” “Enough.” She lifted her chin, defensive now. “He’s not like you people—obsessed with margins and bottom lines. He’s clean. He’s pure. When he looks at me—” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He doesn’t see a CEO.” I didn’t speak. Outside, the September evening light was fading, the sunset plating her silhouette in burnished orange. Twenty-three years ago, our families lived in the same exclusive gated community in Connecticut. She used to wear a sun-bleached floral dress, crouching under the old oak tree to count ants. I had walked over and asked what she was doing. She didn’t look up: “The ants are moving house. It’s going to rain.” It did rain that day. We hid in the mudroom, and she shared half a chocolate bar with me, softened by the warmth of her hand. Later, her father’s tech venture went public, and they moved to a larger estate. My father’s hedge fund caught the right tailwinds, and our families remained equals in tax brackets and influence. The engagement was set at a dinner party when we were seventeen—a half-joke made over brandy that solidified into an alliance. I remember she sat next to me that night, head bowed, aggressively stirring a bowl of crème brûlée, the tips of her ears burning a violent shade of red. From that day on, everything changed. She stopped punching my shoulder and calling me “Cole.” She stopped shoving failed test papers at me to forge her dad’s signature. She stopped calling at midnight to ask about physics. Instead, she started critiquing the color of my ties, criticizing my rapid speech patterns in meetings, and acting the perfect debutante in front of our parents. But alone with me, she turned into ice. It took me a long time to figure it out—she had taken it seriously. She had taken a drunk dinner table promise and treated it as gospel. And now, for another man, she was here to dissolve the very covenant she had spent years quietly honoring. “Okay,” I said. She froze. “…What did you say?” “I agree. The engagement is off.” I opened my drawer and pulled out the draft agreement, a document that had never actually been notarized. “It was a joke between our parents, Caroline. No need to make it a tragedy. Take it back, burn it, whatever you like.” The thin paper lay on the mahogany desk, clipped with a photo taken five years ago at a gala. She was in vintage Chanel; I was in bespoke Savile Row. We sat side by side, smiling politely, miles apart. She didn’t reach for it. “You…” Her lips parted. She looked like she wanted to ask a question but was terrified of the answer. I waited three seconds. “Anything else?” Her lashes finally dropped, heavy and defeated, curtaining her eyes. She reached out, grabbed the paper, and crushed it in her fist. The crisp sound of crumpling bond paper filled the silence. “Nothing else.” She turned and walked out. Her heels struck the marble floor—clack, clack, clack—a rhythm that faded into the corridor. The office returned to silence. I looked down and pulled the next file from the stack. The sunset outside sank behind the skyline, surrendering to the twilight. My assistant knocked and entered to turn on the lights. He saw my pen moving steadily across the page and hesitated. “Mr. Harrison, are you…” “Speak.” “Ms. Prest… she stood by the elevator bank for a long time after she left.” “Hm.” “She seemed to be waiting for you to go after her.” I flipped a page of the report. “Her new boyfriend. Is it the marketing intern?” My assistant blinked, struggling to keep up with the pivot. “Y-yes, sir. Noah Valenti.” “Competence?” “…Mediocre at best. But he’s very charming.” My assistant chose his words carefully. “Ms. Prest has been bringing him to events recently. There are rumors.” “What kind of rumors?” He didn’t dare say it. I said it for him. “That she’s lost her mind over a pretty face?” He lowered his head, a silent confirmation. I placed the signed document in the ‘Out’ tray. “Everyone has their own path.” “But sir, you and Ms. Prest have an engagement—” “Had. It’s dissolved.” My assistant’s head snapped up, shock written plainly across his face. He had been with me for seven years. In seven years, he had never seen me crack, and he wasn’t seeing a crack now. He opened his mouth, but eventually just said, “Yes, sir.” As he backed out of the room clutching the files, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time. I was already reading the next spreadsheet. Noah didn’t quit. Not because I wouldn’t let him go, but because Caroline wouldn’t let him. She transferred him to the Executive Office. His title shifted from “Intern” to “Special Assistant to the CEO.” Rumor had it she fought the board for two hours over it, finally slamming a stack of reports on the table: “My assistant, my choice.” Her executive secretary of eight years resigned on the spot. Caroline didn’t ask her to stay. When this news reached me, I was at a charity auction for the Met. The organizers had seated Caroline and me in the same row, separated only by the central aisle. She arrived late. When she entered, heads turned—not for her, but for the man on her arm. Noah was wearing a white tuxedo. The bowtie was perfect, and a faint, modest smile played on his lips. He was undeniably handsome—clean-cut, boyish, like a poet from a liberal arts college brochure. He walked half a step behind her, projecting humility and devotion. “Who’s the kid with Caroline?” “Heard he’s the new favorite at her firm.” “Christ, look at the way he looks at her…” The whispers rippled through the ballroom like a tide. Caroline didn’t notice, or perhaps she didn’t care. She turned to say something to Noah; he leaned in close to listen, his jawline tense but soft. It was a beautiful image. Cinematic. The auction reached lot seventeen—a Ming Dynasty jade archer’s ring. Opening bid: eighty thousand. I had no interest in jade, so I prepared to tune out, but then I saw Caroline raise her paddle. “One hundred thousand.” A murmur went through the crowd. The market value was sixty, maybe seventy thousand tops. “One-twenty,” someone countered. “One-fifty.” Caroline didn’t blink. Noah tugged gently at her sleeve. His voice was low, but pitched perfectly to be overheard by the surrounding tables. “Caroline, it’s too much. I’m not worth it.” Caroline turned to him. I had never seen that look on her face before—soft, exposed, almost begging to be used. “If you like it, you’re worth it.” She won the ring for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. She slid it onto Noah’s thumb right there at the table. He looked down at his hand, smiling shyly, like a delicate flower trembling in the wind. I took a sip of my champagne. My assistant leaned in, voice lowered. “Mr. Harrison, that ring is appraised at seventy thousand, max.” “Hm.” “Ms. Prest has always been such a disciplined investor…” “Love lowers the IQ,” I said. “It’s a physiological response.” My assistant choked on air. He looked at the couple holding hands across the aisle, then at my unmoving profile. He looked at me like I was a monster. “Sir,” he managed, “do you really… not care at all?” I placed the empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray. “She’s buying her boyfriend a gift. Why would I care?” “But you’re her fiancé—” “Ex-fiancé.” My assistant shut his mouth. When the auction ended, we moved to the dinner reception. I was heading for the bar when Noah blocked my path. He stood at the corner of the corridor, the recessed lighting stretching his shadow long and thin. His white suit was spotless, his eyes cast down in practiced deference. “Mr. Harrison,” he said softly. “I’ve admired you for a long time.” I stopped. “Caroline talks about you often. She says you’re the person she respects most. I’ve always wanted to learn from you; I’m glad I finally have the chance.” He paused, offering a sheepish, self-deprecating smile. “I know I have a lot to learn, but Caroline encourages me. I’m terrified of letting her down.” The speech was perfect. The tone was humble. It was flawless. I looked at him. He looked back, his eyes clear and wide, like a shallow stream where you can see every pebble at the bottom. “Do good work,” I said. He waited three seconds. When I didn’t add anything, his eyelashes fluttered. “You aren’t going to ask me… if my intentions with Caroline are real?” “That’s a question for her.” He pressed his lips together. The smile was slipping. “Aren’t you even curious? She broke off her engagement with you for me.” I finally looked him in the eye. He was twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. Smooth skin, innocent eyes. He had calibrated his tone perfectly—30% hesitation, 30% innocence, 40% predatory confidence. “Mr. Valenti,” I said. “That engagement was a dinner table joke between two old men. It was never legal. If she wanted to end it, I was always going to sign the papers.” He blinked, stunned. “As for whether you’re genuine—” I paused. “If she chooses to believe you, no one else has the right to comment.” I stepped around him and kept walking. From behind me, his voice drifted over, light as a sigh. “You really are a… strange man, Mr. Harrison.” I didn’t look back. At dinner, Caroline and Noah sat at the head table. She served him food, picking the bones out of his fish, placing the tenderest cuts on his plate. He whispered thank you, and she smiled—a smile that looked satisfied but exhausted, like a traveler who had finally found a place to rest her head. I sat two tables away, eating quietly. My phone lit up. Grace Miller: [How’s the auction? My mother is asking about the wedding timeline again. I told her you were busy.] Me: [Let’s discuss in person next week.] Grace Miller: [Sounds good. By the way, did you see Caroline today?] Me: [Yes.] Grace Miller: [Is she okay?] Me: [She’s in love. She seems fine.] There was a pause on the other end. Grace Miller: [Are you okay?] I stared at those three words. Outside, the November night was dark, the city grid carved up by neon and headlights. In the reflection of the glass, my face was a blank sheet of paper. Me: [I’m always okay.] December. The Prest Group Annual Gala. I was invited as a strategic partner. In previous years, Caroline and I would walk the red carpet together. This year, her plus-one had changed. Noah wore a custom suit, his cuffs fastened with the limited-edition Cartier links she had won at auction the week before. He stood by her side, smiling like polished jade, handling the media’s questions with rehearsed grace. “Mr. Valenti, what is your relationship with Ms. Prest?” He lowered his eyes, ears turning a charming shade of pink. “I am Ms. Prest’s assistant.” Caroline grabbed his hand, looking straight into the camera. “He is my boyfriend.” The flashbulbs nearly blew the roof off the ballroom. I stood on the periphery of the crowd, holding a glass of red wine I hadn’t touched. My assistant leaned in, voice barely audible. “Sir, PR is asking if we should suppress the trending topics.” “No need.” “But this affects your reputation—” “What reputation?” I turned to him. “My relationship with the Prest Group is purely commercial. Her romantic life is her freedom. It has nothing to do with me.” My assistant looked like he was going to explode. He stared at me, started to speak, stopped, and finally choked out, “Mr. Harrison, are you… a monk?” “Did you achieve nirvana in a past life?” I placed the wine glass on a passing tray and patted his shoulder. “Stop watching so many soap operas.” Halfway through the gala, Noah took the stage. Speaking as the “Special Assistant to the CEO,” he presented the quarterly results for the group’s digital transformation. The PowerPoint was exquisite—smooth animations, curated stock photos. But the data. There was a glaring logical fallacy in the user acquisition cost column. I frowned. Caroline sat in the front row, looking up at him, her eyes shining. She didn’t see the error. Or rather, she didn’t want to see it. The speech ended to thunderous applause. Noah bowed and left the stage. As he passed me, he slowed down. “Mr. Harrison,” he said, turning his head slightly so only I could hear. “Caroline told me you used to walk the red carpet with her every year.” I waited. “She said she wasn’t happy then,” he said. “But she’s happy now.” There it was. The long, drawn-out performance, the constant, deliberate flexing—it was finally out in the open. I looked at him. There was a secret smirk in his eyes, like a cat that had finally stolen the cream. “Mr. Valenti,” I said. “Do you know how long I’ve known her?” He hadn’t expected a question. He faltered. “Twenty-three years,” I answered for him. “In those twenty-three years, I know exactly when she was happy and when she wasn’t. I don’t need you to tell me.” The smile on his face stiffened. “Also,” I said, stepping past him. “Next time you run the numbers, triple-check them. That logic error in your deck? Anyone who bothered to do the math in their head caught it.” Silence behind me. I didn’t look back.

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On the day I was supposed to marry Preston Kensington, his adopted sister threatened to throw herself off the penthouse balcony. For her, Preston abandoned me at the altar, walking out without a backward glance while I stood there suffocating in layers of couture silk and tulle. Facing a ballroom full of Manhattan’s elite, their eyes glittering with pity and mockery, I walked straight to the microphone. “Whoever steps up to this altar right now,” I announced, my voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling, “is the man I will marry today.” Three years later, Preston returned to the Kensington estate, his adopted sister in tow. I was reclining on the cream leather sofa, sipping an expensive prenatal health tonic and idly watching a series on the flatscreen. Preston’s eyes locked onto the undeniable swell of my pregnant belly. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering dangerously in his cheek. “Whose bastard is that?” I took a slow, deliberate sip from my crystal glass, offering a faint smile. “A Kensington’s, of course.” … Preston stormed across the Persian rug, his face twisted in rage, and hauled me up by the arm. “You lying bitch! The day of the wedding, I took Paige and left. I haven’t been back in three years. How the hell could you be pregnant with my child?” A sharp laugh escaped my lips. I never said it was his. He wasn’t the only man in the Kensington dynasty. “Of course it’s not your child. You aren’t fit to be a father to my baby.” Paige gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in a practiced display of shock. “Blair! Even though Preston walked away from the wedding, he still let you keep the Kensington name. He let you live here in luxury. How could you be so shameless as to get knocked up with some stray’s baby?” My gaze snapped to her, cold and unyielding. “You’re his adopted sister, Paige. Yet you openly seduced your own brother. If we’re talking about being shameless, who could possibly compete with you two?” Instantly, Paige’s eyes welled with tears. She turned to Preston, her voice trembling. “Preston, we’ve been struggling out there for three years, keeping our boundaries, doing the right thing. And she… she gets pregnant with a bastard and makes a complete fool out of you.” The implication of being cuckolded hit Preston’s fragile ego like a match to gasoline. He raised his hand and struck me across the face with sickening force. “You whore! You get yourself knocked up and then try to throw dirt on me and Paige? Get the hell out of my house!” Pain exploded across my cheek, my vision spotting black for a few terrifying seconds. Three years ago, when Preston eloped with Paige, he left me to bear the humiliation of New York’s high society alone. Driven by pure adrenaline and rage, I had demanded a husband from the crowd. It was Preston’s uncle, Victor Kensington, who had stepped up to the altar. Victor was known as the grim reaper of Wall Street—a man whose cold, ruthless efficiency made billionaires tremble. Since the day I became his wife, doors that were previously locked flew open, and everyone who met me bent over backward to offer me their absolute best. When I finally got pregnant, Victor treated me like spun glass. He wouldn’t let a single hair on my head be harmed. For Preston to lay a hand on me today… if Victor found out, there would be blood. Partly to prevent an absolute bloodbath in the family, and partly to protect the fragile life growing inside me, I steadied my breathing. “If you both walk out that door right now, I will pretend this never happened.” Instead of taking the lifeline, Paige lunged forward, her fingers twisting violently into my hair. “She’s just guilty, Preston!” Paige shrieked. “She wants to kick us out so she can use this bastard to steal the Kensington fortune!” “So that’s your game,” Preston sneered, his eyes dark with malice. “I won’t let you get away with it.” I writhed, trying to break free from Paige’s grip, my hands instinctively guarding my stomach. “The day you ran away, Arthur officially struck you from the trust! Everything in this family has absolutely nothing to do with you anymore!” Paige let out a mocking laugh. “Grandpa was just angry. Preston is his only grandson. He would never actually cut him off.” Preston puffed up his chest, a sickeningly smug look on his face. “Grandpa told me long ago that the Kensington empire is mine.” I cradled my belly, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Not anymore. The child I’m carrying is the new Kensington heir.” I thought I had made it abundantly clear. But Preston’s face contorted into something monstrous. “You really are trying to pass off some mutt as a Kensington. I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He swung his hand again, a brutal backhand that sent me crashing to the hardwood floor. Panic surged through my veins. Looking at their deranged, feral expressions, a primal terror gripped me. They were going to hurt the baby. “He’s not a bastard!” I cried out, scrambling backward. “He is—” Before I could finish, Preston lunged down. He grabbed the shattered remains of my crystal glass, still coated in the thick prenatal tonic, and shoved it brutally against my mouth. “Paige and I have been living out of suitcases, starving on the streets for three years, while you sit here living like a queen off a bastard!” he roared. “You like drinking this trash so much? Drink it!” The jagged edge of the crystal tore into my lip and gums. The metallic taste of my own blood mixed with the thick liquid. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I raised my hands to fight him off, but Paige’s stiletto heel slammed down onto the back of my hand, pinning it to the floor. Agony shot up my arm. My body convulsed, but the scream remained trapped in my bleeding throat. After forcing the mess into my mouth, Preston spat on me and stood up, dusting off his hands like he had just taken out the trash. Then, Paige shifted her weight. Her thin stiletto heel moved directly over my swollen stomach. Pure, paralyzing horror washed over me. I ignored the blinding pain in my hand, grabbing her ankle with both of my bloody hands, desperately trying to hold her foot back. Victor was supposed to be completely sterile. This baby was a miracle, the result of three grueling years of specialists, IVF treatments, and quiet, heartbreaking disappointments. Paige looked down at me, a sadistic smile playing on her lips. “Look at you, Blair. You look like a pathetic bitch trying to protect her litter. It’s disgusting.” Preston stared at my stomach, his brow furrowing in disgust. “If word gets out that I’ve been cuckolded, I’ll be a laughingstock in the city. Squash that bastard, Paige.” I shook my head frantically, coughing up the thick liquid and blood. “My baby…” I gasped, my voice a broken rasp. “He is… Victor’s…” Preston froze. For a second, there was silence. Then, he threw his head back and let out a manic, booming laugh. “You really are a terrible liar! Everyone in New York knows my uncle is practically asexual. He’s sterile, Blair!” Preston sneered. “I am the only bloodline this family has. Why else do you think Grandpa practically forced me to marry you? To breed.” “Preston is the sole heir,” Paige chimed in, stepping harder on my hand. “Grandpa only froze his cards to force him to come home. It’s actually hilarious that you’d try to pin your mistake on Uncle Victor just to save your own skin.” They had been gone for three years. They hadn’t made a single phone call home. Arthur had been so profoundly disappointed in his grandson that he truly had cut him off. But looking at their dilated pupils and manic energy, I realized they were completely unhinged. Arguing with them would only get my baby killed. “I’m not lying,” I pleaded, tears cutting through the blood on my cheeks. “This is Victor’s child. If you don’t believe me, let me call him. Let me prove it.” Keeping one arm wrapped protectively over my stomach, I reached out for my phone on the coffee table. If I could just dial his number. Victor would move heaven and earth to get here. He would save us. My fingertips brushed the cold metal of the phone, but Preston snatched it away. With a violent flick of his wrist, he hurled it against the marble fireplace. It shattered into a dozen pieces. My heart plummeted into my stomach. Preston grabbed my chin, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw. “My uncle is a psycho. He’s the most ruthless man on Wall Street. If he finds out I can’t even handle a cheating wife on my own, he’ll think I’m weak. He’ll never hand the company over to me.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s why you wanted to call him, isn’t it?” “No,” I sobbed, shaking my head. “Please—” Before I could form another word, Paige pressed the tip of her stiletto into the curve of my belly. “Stop wasting time with this slut, Preston. Let’s get rid of the problem so we can go see Grandpa and claim what’s ours.” A sharp, agonizing cramp ripped through my abdomen. Inside, I felt the baby thrash frantically. A wave of maternal panic, darker and deeper than anything I had ever known, drowned out my pride. “Please,” I begged, looking up at them. “Please don’t hurt my baby…” Paige pulled out her phone and pointed the camera at me. “Get on your knees. Bark like a dog twice, and tell the camera you’re nothing but a cheap whore. Do it, and I’ll step off.” For my child, there was no line I wouldn’t cross. I dragged my battered body up, forcing myself onto my hands and knees on the glass-strewn floor. “Woof. Woof,” I choked out, my body trembling violently. “I’m… I’m a cheap whore.” Paige leaned down, a triumphant, wicked smirk on her face. “Remember when I was on my knees begging you not to marry Preston, Blair? Did you ever think you’d end up like this?” Years ago, Paige had come to my apartment, crying that she and her brother were in love, begging me to call off the wedding. But the Covington and Kensington merger involved billions in corporate assets. If I broke the engagement, my family would bear the financial ruin. I had refused her. She had carried that venom in her heart every single day since. I didn’t care about the past anymore. I looked up at them, my vision swimming. “Please… call an ambulance.” Instead of mercy, Preston drove his expensive loafer directly into the center of my back. “God, you are pathetic! You’ll do anything for this bastard, won’t you?” I slammed face-first into the hardwood. The impact sent a shockwave of fiery, agonizing pain radiating across my belly. “You said… you said you’d let him go…” I gasped, clutching the floor. Paige examined her nails, utterly bored. “I said I would let him go. Preston never promised anything.” “You used my name to live off my family,” Preston snarled. “You think I’m going to let you walk away from that?” He drew his leg back and delivered a brutal, sickening kick directly to my lower abdomen. A horrific tearing sensation ripped through me. A second later, a warm gush of dark, red blood soaked through my dress, pooling onto the floor between my legs. The frantic fluttering inside me slowed… and then stopped. A profound, suffocating emptiness eclipsed my soul. The despair was so heavy it felt like a physical weight crushing my lungs. I turned my head to look at them, my vision burning with a hatred so pure and absolute it felt divine. “Preston. Paige.” My voice was a hollow rasp, emptied of all humanity. “You are going to burn for this.” Paige stepped closer to Preston, her eyes flashing with malice. “She still isn’t sorry. I guess she hasn’t learned her lesson.” Preston smiled—a cold, dead thing. “Let’s see who burns first. Paige, get a rope.” Paige hurried into the foyer, returning moments later with heavy decorative curtain tie-backs. I tried to drag my bleeding, broken body backward, leaving a thick smear of crimson across the pristine wood. “What are you doing?” I choked out, terror flooding me anew. They didn’t answer. They were smiling. They bound my wrists and ankles together. Then, Preston grabbed the rope and dragged me out through the French doors, hauling me across the stone patio toward the infinity pool. With one swift kick, he sent me tumbling over the edge. The icy water swallowed me instantly. Bound and heavy with pregnancy, I sank like a stone. The water rushed into my nose and lungs, sealing my screams. The burning agony of suffocation overtook the pain in my body. Just as my consciousness began to splinter into darkness— Preston yanked the rope, hauling my head above the surface. “Have you learned your lesson, Blair?” he shouted from the edge. “Are you ever going to embarrass me again?” I gasped greedily at the air, coughing up water, but as I breathed, I felt a terrifying downward pressure in my pelvis. Victor and I had taken the birthing classes. I knew what this was. The trauma had triggered early labor. Even though I knew the chances were nonexistent, the primal instinct to save my child took over. “I’m sorry!” I sobbed out, treading water frantically. “I won’t do it again. Please. The baby is coming. Call an ambulance, I’m begging you!” Preston spat down at me. “Still thinking about the bastard? You haven’t repented at all.” “I am not letting that mistake walk out of my house alive!” He raised his foot to kick my head back under the water. I closed my eyes tightly, surrendering to the cold, dark end. Then, the massive iron gates of the estate blew open. Victor sprinted across the lawn, his eyes wild, his voice an earth-shattering roar. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”

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On my twenty-first birthday, my parents laid a dozen glossy photographs of America’s most eligible heirs across the mahogany dining table, gently nudging me to choose a fiancé. I looked at my father and told him to just shuffle them face down and let me pick blind. Because in my last life, I hadn’t hesitated. I had reached straight for Preston Sinclair, the golden boy of Manhattan’s Upper East Side elite. The man I had loved since childhood. It wasn’t until after the wedding that I learned the truth: his untouchable first love, the fragile girl he had been forced to leave behind, had been so heartbroken by our marriage that she got blackout drunk at a dive bar and was assaulted. She attempted suicide three times. And Preston? Preston decided I was the architect of all her suffering. To avenge her, he systematically dismantled my family. He funneled the entirety of the Kensington fortune into her hands, hollowing out my legacy until there was nothing left. And in the end, when she finally crept into our garage and severed the brake lines of our car, he looked the other way. The three of us—my mother, my father, and I—died crushed in a mangled fortress of steel and shattered glass. Given a second chance at life, I reached blindly into the pile and drew Miles Davenport. The elusive, fiercely private heir to a New England shipping empire—a man who spent more time in silent retreats and studying philosophy than in boardrooms. But when I walked into my engagement party, my arm looped gracefully through Miles’s, Preston Sinclair completely lost his mind. 1 I slid Miles Davenport’s photograph across the table toward my parents. They exchanged a loaded, uncertain glance. “Stella,” my father said softly. “Your mother and I know you’ve been infatuated with Preston since you were kids. If you want us to reconsider—” I shook my head, my voice eerily calm. “If this is what fate handed me, I think I’d like to see where it leads.” Especially since I already know the bloody, gasoline-soaked ending of forcing Preston to marry me. Seeing the quiet resolve in my eyes, my parents finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll reach out to the Davenports to discuss the arrangement,” my mother said, smoothing her skirt. “But the Kensingtons and the Davenports are both legacy families. The market will react. To avoid unnecessary media circus, we keep this strictly confidential until the engagement gala.” I agreed. But secrets bleed quickly in our world. That evening, as I stepped out of my town car to attend a charity gala at the Plaza, the paparazzi swarmed me like vultures who had caught a scent. “Miss Kensington! Is it true you’re finally settling on a marriage alliance?” Before I could even blink against the strobe of camera flashes, another reporter shoved a microphone forward. “Everyone knows you’ve been devoted to the Sinclair heir for years. Can we assume Preston is the lucky man?” I lifted my gaze. Right on cue, Preston Sinclair was walking up the red carpet. Our eyes locked. Even through the sea of flashing cameras, his expression was unmistakable: a familiar, chilling cocktail of profound boredom and absolute disgust. “Excuse me. Please step aside,” he commanded. His security detail aggressively parted the sea of reporters. Without missing a beat, Preston reached out and pulled Harper Quinn into his chest. She looked up at him, her pale, heart-shaped face the very picture of delicate vulnerability. “The only woman I have ever loved, and will ever love, is Harper,” Preston declared, his voice echoing over the manic clicking of cameras. “Even if I were forced by family obligations to marry someone else, I would not give a single fraction of my heart to another woman.” Harper’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of rose. She buried her face in his cashmere lapel, her arms tightening around his waist. A few feet away, a cluster of socialites who had always resented my family’s standing began to loudly whisper. “So what if she’s the sole heir to the Kensington empire? Preston doesn’t even want to look at her. He’d rather have the daughter of a lottery-winning nobody.” “God, she’s an embarrassment to her family name. Throwing herself at him just to play second fiddle to Harper Quinn.” The mockery grew louder. Harper tilted her head back from Preston’s embrace, finding my eyes through the crowd. A fleeting, razor-sharp smirk touched her lips before she hid it away. I didn’t react. I simply turned my head, fixing my posture, and walked into the ballroom. Of course, the universe has a sick sense of humor. The organizers seated Preston directly to my right. He dropped into his chair, radiating hostility. “Stella, I have told you a thousand times I don’t want to marry you. Why do you insist on suffocating me?” I had heard those exact words in my past life. Back then, they had shattered me. Today, they just felt exhausting. “I am not suffocating you, Preston.” He slammed his fist against the linen tablecloth. The crystal wine glasses shuddered. His face twisted with revulsion. “Then why the hell are you forcing this? You think just because the Kensingtons have more capital and social leverage, you can dictate the rest of my life?” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You are trampling on my dignity. Let me make this clear: even if they drag me to the altar, I will never look at you. Not once.” Oh, I know, I thought. You kept that promise perfectly last time. Just then, the fragile, adored center of his universe approached our table. Tears brimmed in Harper’s wide eyes. Without a word of warning, she collapsed to her knees right beside my chair. “Miss Kensington, I know you despise me,” she sobbed, her voice carrying just enough to turn heads at the neighboring tables. “But my parents are innocent. When you had your security throw them out of the country club yesterday, my father nearly had a heart attack!” She gasped for air, clutching at the hem of my gown. “Please, I’m begging you, let them be. If you want… if you need me to leave Preston so you can have him, I’ll do it. Just please…” Her voice cracked perfectly on the final syllable. Before I could even process the absolute fabrication of her story, Preston was out of his chair. He hauled her gently to her feet, pulling her behind him as he glared down at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Whatever is between us has nothing to do with Harper! Why would you target her family?” His self-righteous anger felt utterly bizarre. “I didn’t do anything to—” “You are exactly what they say you are,” Preston interrupted, his voice laced with venom. “Spoiled rotten since birth. You think the world is your plaything.” As the words left his mouth, a sycophantic junior executive scurried over, holding an exquisitely wrapped velvet box. “Mr. Sinclair, congratulations. A small token for your and Miss Kensington’s upcoming engagement—” Before the man could finish, Preston snatched the heavy box and, in front of half the ballroom, hurled it directly at me. “Apologize to Harper, Stella.” His chest heaved. “Or so help me God, even if my family goes bankrupt trying to keep up with yours, I will nuke this arrangement. I will never marry a woman as vicious as you!” 2 The box was wrapped in heavy, metallic foil. The sharp corner caught my jawline before clattering to the floor. A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding tables, but not a single person dared to intervene. I raised a hand to my chin. When I pulled my fingers back, my skin was smeared with bright, warm red. Looking at Preston Sinclair now, he felt like a stranger. Or rather, he felt exactly like the monster from my past life, the man who had publicly degraded me to elevate Harper time and time again. The last remaining embers of my childhood affection for him turned to ash. “I will not apologize for something I didn’t do,” I said, my voice eerily quiet, steady as a flatline. “Fine. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this!” Preston wrapped his arm protectively around Harper and stormed out of the ballroom. When my parents saw the cut on my face, they were frantic. We left immediately, and my mother had our private physician meet us at the penthouse to treat it. Sitting in my dressing room, watching my parents hover anxiously over me, a profound sense of gratitude washed over me. Thank God. The universe had given me a reset button. My parents were alive. The Kensington legacy was intact. All I had to do was stay as far away from Preston Sinclair and Harper Quinn as humanly possible. A few days later, the Davenport family’s engagement gifts arrived. The sprawling foyer of our estate was quickly buried in impeccably sourced treasures—rare art, deeds to properties, and at the center of it all, a velvet case containing a breathtaking diamond and emerald bracelet that had belonged to Miles’s great-grandmother. The sheer weight of the gifts was a declaration of absolute respect. Looking at the boxes, a painful lump formed in my throat. In my past life, the Sinclair family knew how desperately I loved Preston. They weaponized it. They told the press that they found me overbearing, that I was practically forcing their son to the altar. There was no engagement party. There was no dowry. The wedding was a sterile, rushed dinner between the two families. I remembered Preston’s parents mocking me thinly over the soup course. I remembered Preston’s icy silence. Seeing the Davenports’ overwhelming respect now only cemented my relief. To show my own respect, I decided to personally arrange Miles’s engagement attire. I was in a private, century-old bespoke tailoring house on Fifth Avenue, leaning over a heavy oak table with the master tailor to finalize the embroidery on the French cuffs. The bell chimed. Preston walked in, his fingers intertwined with Harper’s. The moment he saw me, his features hardened into a sneer. “What are you doing here?” The elderly tailor offered a polite smile. “Miss Kensington is being incredibly thoughtful. She’s personally designing the groom’s suit for the engagement.” Preston didn’t even look at the sketches. He tilted his chin up, exhaling a haughty breath. “I told you I have no intention of marrying you. I don’t care how many hoops you jump through, my mind won’t change.” He glanced dismissively at the table. “And for the record, I despise monogrammed cufflinks. It’s tacky.” I looked down at the sketch. The silver cufflink bore a sharp, elegant ‘M’. He obviously hadn’t looked closely enough. “Actually, these are for—” “Oh, Preston, look at this gown! It’s breathtaking.” Harper’s eyes were wide. She brushed past me, her fingers tracing the delicate, beaded bodice of a vintage, archive-scarlet silk gown hanging on the display form. Preston’s face instantly softened. “If you like it, we’ll have the tailor make one exactly like it for you.” “But I want to wear it tonight,” she pouted slightly, her voice dipping into a honeyed whine. “To the symphony.” Preston smiled indulgently at her, then turned to the master tailor with an entitled snap of his fingers. “Take her measurements and alter it immediately. We have a show to catch.” I frowned, stepping forward. “Preston, that is my engagement gown.” He waved me off like a nuisance. “I’m a busy man, Stella. I don’t have time to play dress-up for whatever pathetic gala your family is throwing to force my hand.” His eyes dragged up and down my frame. “Besides, Harper has the figure for a dress like that. You don’t.” Harper kept her back to me, staring at herself in the mirror. The triumphant gleam in her reflection was unmistakable. Yet, her voice dripped with fake guilt. “Oh, if Miss Kensington doesn’t want to part with it, it’s fine, Preston. A dress this luxurious… it really isn’t meant for a nobody like me.” “Don’t talk about yourself like that. The woman I love is no nobody,” Preston snapped, shooting me a venomous look. “Stella is nothing without her parents’ money anyway. Without her trust fund, she’s as common as they come.” Without asking, he pulled the heavy silk gown off the mannequin and shoved it into the tailor’s arms. The master tailor didn’t move. He simply looked at me, waiting for my instruction. His family had been dressing the Kensington men and women for five generations; we practically kept the shop in business. Seeing the tailor ignore him made Preston’s face flush with sudden, defensive rage. “Listen to me, you—” “If Miss Quinn likes it so much, let her have it.” I cut him off, my voice entirely flat. Preston exhaled, his posture relaxing slightly into a smug stance. “Since you’re finally learning how to behave,” he said, adjusting his watch, “I suppose I can tolerate having dinner with you once a month after the wedding.” He said it like he was tossing a scrap of meat to a starving dog. And in that precise moment, standing in the quiet tailoring shop, the puzzle pieces finally clicked together. I finally understood why, years ago, his attitude toward me had shifted so drastically. It happened the summer he realized the Kensington family sat at the absolute pinnacle of high society, while the Sinclairs were barely clinging to the bottom of the top twenty. When I was young and foolishly in love, I didn’t care about social rankings. I didn’t measure human worth in stock portfolios. But he did. From that summer on, he constantly brought up “my family’s money.” He relentlessly reminded me that I relied on my parents. He belittled me, mocked me, and weaponized my love for him just to tear me down. It wasn’t that he was too good for me. It was that he felt hopelessly, suffocatingly inferior. A quiet, genuine laugh slipped from my lips. “Preston,” I said, tilting my head. “What on earth makes you so incredibly certain that you are the man I’m marrying?” 3 Preston’s mouth curled into a mocking, asymmetrical smile. He looked at me like I had just told the funniest joke in Manhattan. “You’ve been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were ten. Every time you blew out your birthday candles, you wished you’d marry me by twenty-one.” He crossed his arms. “And now that the time has come, you expect me to believe you’d look at anyone else?” Harper leaned into his side, her voice laced with poison masked as playful teasing. “Well, you never know, Pres. With the Kensington money, I’m sure every trust-fund baby in the country is lining up to marry her.” “Let them line up,” Preston sneered. “She’d still only beg to be my wife.” They turned and walked toward the fitting rooms. Before stepping behind the velvet curtain, Preston called out to the tailor. “Have the dress delivered to my penthouse when you’re done. And change those tacky cufflinks. Make them square. No initials.” The master tailor watched them go, then let out a heavy sigh. He turned to me, looking pained. “Miss Kensington… how would you like me to handle this?” “I meant what I said. Let her have it. It gives me an excuse to design something entirely new anyway,” I said, calmly pulling my stool back up to the drafting table. “And completely ignore him regarding the cufflinks. He isn’t the groom, so he doesn’t get a vote.” That evening, I attended a friend’s birthday party at a private club downtown. Halfway through the night, Harper arrived fashionably late. One of Preston’s massive private security guards trailed behind her. The guard walked right up to my booth, holding a cheap, red plastic bodega bag. He dropped it onto the floor by my heels. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long, Miss Kensington,” Harper said, her eyes gleaming with malice under the neon lights. “I was going to return the dress right after the symphony, but Preston just insisted we take a detour in the back of his Maybach…” She giggled, twirling a strand of hair. “But you’re famous for being so forgiving. I’m sure you don’t mind.” I looked down. Inside the plastic bag, the three-million-dollar vintage archive gown was violently crumpled, treated like a dirty dishcloth. Stark against the dark red silk were glaring, dried patches of white, viscous fluid. Around us, the music seemed to drop away. Some people looked on in absolute outrage on my behalf; others whispered behind their drinks, thrilled by the drama. “She brought it right to her face. If Stella doesn’t snap now, she really is pathetic for him.” “What can she do? Preston only has eyes for the influencer.” “Honestly, it’s embarrassing. The Kensington empire is going to end up in Preston Sinclair’s pocket at this rate.” I didn’t even flinch. I just flagged down a busboy. “Please take this to the dumpster,” I said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Harper. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Miss Quinn.” The utter indifference in my voice was a wall her petty cruelty couldn’t penetrate. Her smug smile faltered. Robbed of her explosive reaction, she gritted her teeth, her hands balling into fists as she stormed off to the least desirable table in the back. But Harper couldn’t let it go. Less than an hour later, her Instagram account—boasting a few million followers—was trending. “The perfect night. Wearing a dress that fits perfectly, holding the hand of the man I love, listening to our favorite symphony.” The photo was a close-up of her and Preston aggressively kissing in the back of the car, his hand tangled in the red silk of the gown. The internet is ruthless. Within minutes, gossip accounts dug up my old, teenage posts where I had publicly gushed about Preston. They stitched them together into side-by-side comparison TikToks. It was a digital public execution. And on the most viral video of them all, Preston Sinclair had publicly ‘liked’ it from his official account. Memes of “Pathetic Stella” began flooding Twitter. My expression finally darkened. I opened my phone, permanently deactivated my personal accounts, and sent a single, three-word text to the Kensington PR crisis team: Burn it down. In less than ten minutes, every hashtag, every video, every mention of the situation vanished from the internet. Wiped clean, as if they had never existed. The day before my engagement party. I was walking out of the Kensington corporate headquarters when two massive men in dark suits blocked my path. Before I could call for my driver, they forced me into the back of an SUV and drove straight to the Sinclair estate. The moment I was pushed through the double doors, I saw Harper sitting on the plush living room sofa, crying hysterically. Preston was hovering over her, speaking in soft, cooing tones. But the second he saw me, his face turned thunderous. “You have gone way too far this time, Stella!” he roared. “Harper makes a harmless post, and you use your family’s muscle to have all her social media accounts permanently banned? You know her platform is her livelihood! You are trying to destroy her!” I stared at him, genuinely confused. “I told my team to scrub my name from the trends. I didn’t touch her accounts.” “Don’t lie to me! Who else besides the great Stella Kensington has that kind of power? You’re just insanely jealous of her!” “I am telling you, I didn’t—” “Are we really allowing a girl who isn’t even married yet to talk back to her husband in my house?” A sharp, haughty voice drifted down the grand staircase. Preston’s mother descended, looking at me down the bridge of her nose. She took a seat on the accent chair opposite me. Next to her, Preston’s father—a man who usually bent over backward to kiss my father’s ass at board meetings—was leaning back, legs crossed arrogantly. “Stella,” his father began, swirling a glass of scotch. “We don’t entirely approve of your spoiled, dramatic antics. But since you’re threatening suicide if our son won’t marry you, we are willing to graciously accommodate you.” He took a sip. “However, there are conditions. Your dowry—the assets transferred to the Sinclair estate upon marriage—must equal exactly fifty percent of the Kensington family’s total net worth. We have the prenup right here.” A cold, bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. I shook my head, stepping backward to leave. Suddenly, something slammed hard into the back of my knees. I gasped in pain, my legs giving out, and crashed to the hardwood floor. Preston’s mother snapped her fingers. A maid rushed forward, carrying a silver tray with a steaming porcelain teacup. “You’ll be a Sinclair soon enough,” his mother said, her eyes flashing with cruel authority. “I think it’s time you kneel and serve your new mother-in-law a cup of tea to learn your place. That’s not asking too much, is it?” 4 “Miss Kensington. You must crawl forward on your knees to serve Mrs. Sinclair.” The maid forcefully pressed the scalding teacup into my hands. The porcelain was straight out of the kettle. The moment the blistering heat bit into my skin, I flinched, dropping the cup. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces across the floor, splashing boiling water over my knees. “Stella! Have you zero respect for your elders?!” Preston barked from across the room. I looked down at my throbbing, blistered fingertips. Slowly, I shook my head. “I only show respect to my actual in-laws. You said you didn’t want to marry me, Preston. Which works perfectly, because I am not marrying you.” I placed my palms flat on the floor, ignoring the shards of porcelain, and tried to stand. Instantly, the two security guards grabbed my shoulders, forcing me back down. “Let go of me!” I yelled, struggling violently against their grip. “I am the heir to the Kensington family! You think you can touch me?” Mrs. Sinclair’s face contorted with rage. She stood up, marched over, and delivered a blinding slap across my cheek. The sharp sting exploded against my skin. The echo of the slap blurred perfectly with the memories of my past life—the countless times she had struck me when I was trapped in this very house. My breath hitched. I froze, paralyzed by a ghost of trauma. “Your engagement is tomorrow and you dare to speak to me like this?!” Mrs. Sinclair shrieked. “Preston, look at this animal you’re bringing into our home! Defiant, feral, completely lacking class!” Preston didn’t even look at me. He was busy stroking Harper’s hair. “She’s the one who practically begged on her hands and knees for this,” he muttered coldly. “If it were up to me, Harper would be the one walking down the aisle.” Right on cue, Harper’s tears started flowing again. “Oh, Pres. I dream of being your wife every single night. But my family is so small… we could never survive making an enemy of the Kensingtons.” Her manufactured despair sent Preston into a protective frenzy. He abandoned her side and stalked over to where I was pinned on the floor, looming over me like a judge delivering a sentence. “You wanted this marriage so badly you were willing to play dirty, Stella?” he sneered. “Fine. You want to be my wife? You will sign an agreement stating you have zero say in my personal life. You will never return to the Kensington estate. You will live here, you will serve my parents, and you will ensure Harper and I are comfortable.” A lawyer stepped forward, dropping a thick legal document onto the floor next to the broken glass. The bold header read: Asset Transfer Agreement: 50% Kensington Holdings. I curled my burned fingers into tight fists, refusing to touch the pen. When I looked up at him, my eyes were burning, bloodshot with fury. “Preston Sinclair! I am not marrying you!” Seeing my defiance, his mother saw her opening. She raised her hand and brought it down hard across my face again. “Is this the ‘elite breeding’ of the Kensington name? Raising a daughter who screams at her own husband?” she spat. “I am going to beat the manners into you today so you don’t embarrass us tomorrow!” I lost count of the times her hand struck my face. I lost track of how many times they forced my thumb onto an inkpad, trying to press it against the contract. All I knew was that when they finally grew tired and dragged me to the door, Mrs. Sinclair sneered one last command: “You are to wear black tomorrow. Harper will be wearing the white gown.” I looked back at them, my cheek bruised, my dress torn, and felt nothing but an overwhelming, hysterical urge to laugh. The next day at the engagement gala, I did not wear black. I wore the brand-new, breathtaking scarlet gown I had designed myself. My parents were mingling inside the grand hall with the Davenport family. I stood near the velvet ropes at the entrance, greeting the elite of New York society. It wasn’t until nearly noon that the Sinclair family finally arrived, walking with an entourage that demanded attention. They were dressed to the nines. Harper had her arm looped tightly through Preston’s. She was in a pure white gown, and he was in a sharp black tuxedo. They looked exactly like a bride and groom. Usually, at events like this, Preston’s father would be sweating through his suit, shaking hands and bowing to men far more powerful than him. Today, he walked with his chest puffed out, looking down his nose at billionaires, acting as if he owned the entire building. When Mrs. Sinclair spotted me in my scarlet silk, her face instantly soured. “Where are your parents?” she demanded loudly. “I need to have a very serious conversation with them about how horribly they’ve raised you!” There were senators and tech moguls walking past us. I had no desire to create a scene at my own engagement. “My parents are inside. You can go in and—” Before I could finish, Mrs. Sinclair aggressively jabbed her manicured finger into my shoulder. “You go fetch them and bring them to me!” I frowned, swatting her hand away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Preston strolling over, his expression utterly bored. He stood next to me, turning to face the arriving guests as if assuming his role as the host. “Well, Stella, you got exactly what you wanted. I hope you’re thrilled,” he muttered under his breath, not looking at me. “But don’t let it go to your head. You managed to buy my physical presence today, but you will never, ever have my heart.” His voice was dripping with venom. He truly believed I had ruined his life just by loving him. “Preston, I think you are severely confused. Today is—” “Are you ignoring me?!” Mrs. Sinclair screeched, cutting me off. “Did you forget how you looked sobbing on your knees in my living room yesterday?!” She yanked her phone out of her clutch, tapping the screen aggressively. Suddenly, the video of me—bruised, forced onto my knees among shattered glass—started playing at top volume. She shoved the screen toward the incoming guests. The socialites paused, staring in absolute shock. A few immediately pulled out their own phones to record her screen. The paparazzi, previously contained behind barricades, smelled blood. They broke the line, rushing up the steps with microphones thrust forward. “Miss Kensington! Is this your future mother-in-law hazing you?” “Does your submission on tape signify that the Kensington empire is officially bowing to the Sinclair family?” I sucked in a sharp breath. I signaled for my own security while violently grabbing Preston’s arm. “Tell your mother to turn that off right now!” He calmly peeled my fingers off his sleeve and casually adjusted his bowtie. “If public humiliation is what it takes for you to learn how to respect my mother, then it’s a necessary lesson.” “Preston, your entire family is psychotic!” “You literally begged on your hands and knees to marry me,” he shot back, his eyes flashing with disgust. “You have zero right to insult my family.” I had reached my absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the reception table, fully intending to smash it against the marble floor. But suddenly, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around my wrist. I turned. Miles Davenport stood there in a flawlessly tailored ivory suit. His eyes were perfectly calm, but the depth of the gaze he leveled at the Sinclairs was terrifyingly cold. “Mr. Sinclair,” Miles’s voice was smooth, quiet, and lethal. “Just how many lives does your mother think she has, to demand my fiancée kneel for her?”

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The first time I saw our new neighbor, the floating text materialized out of thin air. [This poor female lead. Her parents despise her, her brother loathes her, her husband discarded her, and now she’s dying of cancer.] [To think she survived being bullied in high school and sexually harassed by her boss, only for everyone to blame her. Maybe death really is her only escape.] [Do it. Jump off the roof. End this miserable, unloved life.] I stared at those blood-chilling words hovering in my field of vision like a translucent live-stream chat. Then, I looked at the girl standing on the edge of the roof—a girl so utterly hollowed out, there wasn’t a single spark of light left in her eyes. I lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar, and yanked her hard onto the safety of the concrete. Without missing a beat, I pulled out my phone and dialed the girls. “I need the sharpest tongues we’ve got. We’ve got a war to win. Hustle!” 1 From those floating comments, I pieced together the absurd reality: I was living inside a trashy, tragic romance novel—the kind where the heroine suffers endlessly just so the men in her life can feel guilty later. And the girl I’d just dragged off the roof was Summer, the protagonist. She was pure-hearted, kind, and hardworking. But because of a million contrived, tragic reasons, her twenty-odd years on this earth had been nothing but suffocating darkness. She had tried to save herself a thousand times. Yet the very people bound to her by blood and law—her so-called family and her husband—kept shoving her back into the abyss. Her voice had been entirely stripped from her. She believed the only way to prove her innocence, to finally be heard, was to die. Oh, you foolish, sweet girl, I thought. What on earth could possibly be more important than breathing? So you lost an argument? Big deal. We’ll just help you scream louder. As an NPC in this universe—one of the neighborhood busybodies whose only apparent literary function was to gossip and play cards—I possessed a very specific set of skills. And if there’s one thing a seasoned American woman cannot stomach, it’s seeing a good girl bullied. “Listen to me, honey,” I told her, cupping her pale face. “Some people are just born trash. If you don’t curse them out, they’ll think your silence is an invitation to walk all over you.” “You don’t even have to lift a finger,” Marge chimed in, already rolling up her sleeves. “You just need to know that there isn’t a soul alive that a pack of pissed-off old women can’t handle.” “Man, woman, young, old—doesn’t matter,” Shirley added, waving a dismissive hand. “We sit our asses down, kick off our shoes, and start clapping our hands. I guarantee we’ll have those bastards trembling in their designer loafers.” “They will never dare look at you sideways again! And don’t you worry about the cost, sweetie. Cursing people out is entirely free. We consider it vocal cardio. Don’t you dare feel guilty!” The girls practically tripped over each other bragging about their past “victories,” terrified Summer might underestimate our sheer, unadulterated audacity. Of course, while our mouths ran a mile a minute, our hands were just as busy. Diane was sweeping and mopping the apartment. Helen was aggressively chopping vegetables in the kitchen. The rest of us had already corralled Summer at the table and set up the Mahjong tiles. Summer held her tiles with a blank, shattered expression. Amidst our chaotic, deafening chatter, just as she was trying to figure out what tile to discard, her phone buzzed. It was Carter. Her brother. The second she answered, the vitriol bled through the speaker, slicing through the noise of our apartment. We froze, and I immediately reached over and tapped the speakerphone button. “Summer, who the hell do you think you are, skipping work?” Carter barked. “Your little stunt just cost the company a ten-million-dollar account. How exactly do you plan on paying us back for that?” Summer flinched. The tiny furrow between her brows deepened, and the absolute grayness swept back over her face, extinguishing whatever small warmth our kitchen had given her. Right then, a new comment floated past my eyes: [If she hadn’t skipped work, she would have been cornered by that disgusting executive today.] [It was Blair—the evil fake sister—who completely botched the pitch! Why is Summer taking the fall for a lost account?] [In these switched-at-birth tropes, the biological daughter always bleeds for the golden child’s mistakes!] I narrowed my eyes. I leaned right into the phone’s microphone and unleashed hell. “Let me get this straight,” I snapped. “Because Summer took a sick day, your company lost a ten-million-dollar deal? So, am I to understand that your entire corporate roster is a bunch of incompetent morons who can’t close a single contract without her?” “Good lord, Summer must be an absolute prodigy! I wonder what her compensation package looks like? Oh, wait. Three thousand dollars a month. No housing, no benefits. It’s a goddamn joke!” “You want an entry-level employee making pennies to shoulder a ten-million-dollar loss? If you’re that good at shifting the blame, why aren’t you running for President?” Summer stared at me, her mouth slightly ajar. On the other end of the line, the haughty brother was struck entirely dumb. “Who… who the hell is this? Put Summer on the phone.” I let out a harsh, venomous laugh. “I’m your worst nightmare, buddy. You want to talk to Summer? Get on your knees and grovel first. If I’m in a charitable mood, I might let a scumbag like you breathe in her general direction.” “Summer! Is this your idea of manners? Letting some stranger insult your own brother?” I cackled. “Oh, manners? You want to talk about manners? What kind of well-bred gentleman treats the girl who stole his sister’s life like a princess, while treating his actual flesh and blood like a punching bag?” “You don’t know anything!” he spat. “Summer has been a vicious, manipulative bitch since she got here. I acknowledge her as my sister, and she should be grateful for the charity!” I rolled my eyes so hard it physically hurt. “You pathetic, gaslighting loser. You can’t even close a business deal without blaming a junior employee. The dumbbells at my local gym don’t need your ‘charity,’ let alone a brilliant girl like Summer.” “If your business is failing, look in the mirror. If you needed her to save your pitch, then you call with some damn respect, not acting like you’re God’s gift to the boardroom!” “I don’t care what lies your precious little fake sister has been feeding you. Do not call this number again. As of today, Summer is fresh out of brothers!” 2 Click. I hung up. Blocked the number. Deleted the contact. A flawless, scorched-earth execution. The girls cheered, clapping their hands and telling me what a spectacular job I’d done. And there, sitting amidst the deafening warmth of a mid-morning Mahjong game, the heroine finally managed a tiny, fragile smile. “Alright, alright, clear the table! Food’s ready!” Helen hollered from the kitchen. We swept the tiles away in seconds. When the dishes hit the table, we descended like a flock of aggressive mother hens. We piled her bowl high with roasted chicken, garlic ribs, and buttery mashed potatoes until it looked like a small mountain. “Eat up. You’re practically skin and bones. You need meat on you!” “Once you’ve got your strength up, we’re taking you straight to the hospital tomorrow to get looked at.” “You’re young, honey, whatever it is, you’ll fight it. Look at me—breast cancer survivor of thirty years and I’m still raising hell.” “Finish that plate, and you’re coming to Zumba with us. I’m telling you, the one thing sickness hates most is a woman who knows how to have a good time!” “You stick with us, sweetie. We’ll make sure you never stop smiling.” Summer quietly chewed her food. Her eyes went glassy, the rims flushing a deep, bruised red. I knew what it was. She was utterly starved for love. Well, it was a good thing my girls and I had a suffocating, aggressive amount of love to give. We had enough to fill every hollow space her family had carved out of her. The next day, Marge and I marched Summer into the oncology wing. Just as the floating text had prophesied, it was late-stage cancer. The doctors told us that after a surgical resection, she would need aggressive chemotherapy and radiation. The road ahead was long, brutal, and terrifying. I looked the oncologist dead in the eye and asked for a timeline. “If she fights,” the doctor said softly, “and if we can get her through this first year… she’ll cross the hardest hurdle. After that, another ten or twenty years isn’t out of the question.” Relief washed over me. I grabbed Summer’s hand, ready to march down to billing and book the surgery suite. But Summer planted her feet. She looked down at the linoleum floor. “I don’t have the money. Maybe… maybe we should just let it be. The treatments are going to cost too much.” Right on cue, the translucent text flickered into view: [Her parents are filthy rich. Her brother is loaded. Her husband is a millionaire. But she’s practically destitute!] [It’s not that she hasn’t thought about asking them for help. But the misunderstandings are so deeply rooted, and they despise her so much, she knows they’d rather watch her die. Ugh!] I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then, I turned to Marge. “Call the troops.” Marge raised an eyebrow. “What are we doing? Robbing a bank?” I waved my hand dismissively. “No. We’re collecting a debt.” It took some doing. Summer hesitated, terrified of the confrontation, but we eventually bullied her into the passenger seat. Thirty minutes later, we were storming the wrought-iron gates of the Kensington estate. The moment we crossed the threshold into the immaculate, marble-floored foyer, Marge and Shirley put on a masterclass. They dramatically kicked off their orthopedics, dropped right onto the custom Persian rug, and made it perfectly clear: We are not leaving until we get paid. Diane and Helen unfolded the canvas lawn chairs they’d brought with them, popping open cans of Diet Coke and cracking sunflower seeds right onto the pristine floors. I stood flanked by the rest of our sharp-tongued brigade, keeping Summer tucked safely behind us as we faced our targets. Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. A housekeeper. A driver. When Mrs. Kensington—dripping in pearls and disdain—realized we were there for money, a sneer twisted her perfectly Botoxed face. She waved a manicured hand, instructing the housekeeper to fetch some cash. She literally tried to hand us each a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, like we were stray dogs she could shoo off the porch. The humiliation in the room was palpable. I could feel the heat radiating off Summer’s burning cheeks. Without missing a beat, we took those bills and tossed them right back into Mrs. Kensington’s face. She gasped, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Summer, where on earth did you find these panhandlers? Did you really think bringing a bunch of greedy vagrants into my home would shake me down for more?” “My aunts are not panhandlers—” Summer started, her voice trembling. I gently patted her hand. I met her eyes, silently telling her: I’ve got this. Then, I squared my shoulders, flanked by my sisters in arms, and engaged combat mode. 3 “Ahem.” I cleared my throat loudly, planting both hands firmly on my hips. I tilted my chin up, took a deep breath, and let it rip. “We didn’t come here to beg for your pocket change, Patricia. We came here for justice! We did our homework. Summer has worked at the Kensington Corporation for five years. For five years, she has been denied promotions. When she asked HR, they said the CEO wouldn’t approve it. When she tried to resign, the CEO blocked it. Five years, and she is still making a pathetic three grand a month! Meanwhile, your fake daughter—who just graduated three months ago—gets fast-tracked from intern to the CEO’s executive assistant, pulling in fifty grand a month! I want to know, on what planet is that fair? Is it just blatant favoritism, or is it a malicious, targeted campaign against your own biological flesh and blood?” Mr. Kensington scowled, adjusting his tailored suit jacket with arrogant dismissal. “It is neither. Summer’s professional capabilities simply do not measure up to Blair’s. She has made repeated mistakes over the last five years. The fact that I even allow her to remain on the payroll is an act of extreme grace on my part.” I didn’t blink. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a thick, bound portfolio Summer had prepared for me earlier, slamming it onto the glass coffee table in front of them. “Then I suggest you put on your reading glasses, Richard, and look at the actual receipts.” Mrs. Kensington’s face faltered. “What is this?” “These,” I enunciated clearly, “are the proposals, pitch decks, and executed contracts Summer has spearheaded over the last five years. While your golden boy Carter was busy playing golf and screwing around, Summer was bleeding herself dry for your bottom line. She closed deal after deal. And the commission bonuses for every single one of those contracts? Swallowed whole by Carter and your precious little Blair.” Mr. Kensington blanched, his arrogant facade slipping. “That’s impossible!” Mrs. Kensington clenched her jaw, her eyes darting nervously. “Summer, you are so desperate for cash you’ve lost your mind! You’re fabricating lies now? Carter and Blair would never stoop so low!” Hearing her parents instantly defend the people who had abused her, Summer let out a quiet, desolate laugh. It was exactly as it had always been. Under the crushing weight of their prejudice, any attempt Summer made to fight back only resulted in her own bruising. But thankfully… Today, she wasn’t fighting alone.

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Every single breath I took in that house had a price tag. Fifty cents for a glass of juice. A dollar for a hot shower. On the afternoon of my tenth birthday, I emptied my pockets of the sticky, crumpled dollar bills and silver coins I’d earned from hauling bags of crushed soda cans to the recycling center. “Dad, I want to buy a slice of birthday cake. No frosting, just the plain sponge. Is one dollar enough?” My father, Richard, looked down at me, his brow furrowing in distaste. “It’s two dollars. If you don’t have the money, you go hungry. It builds character. It teaches you independence.” I swallowed the hollow ache in my stomach. With my only dollar, I bought ten minutes of screen time on my mother’s iPad to watch a cartoon, just to feel like a normal kid for a fraction of an hour. But right in the middle of the episode, a bank notification dropped down from the top of the screen: Transfer Successful: $10,000 added to dependent card. Memo: A little pocket money for my precious boy. I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. I finally understood. The strict ledgers, the price tags, the lessons in “independence”—they were reserved strictly for me, their biological daughter. Early the next morning, before the sun had even touched the manicured lawns of our gated community, I walked out the front door. I didn’t get far before a rusted van idled by the curb. A man with a jagged scar across his cheek rolled down the window and asked if I wanted a piece of candy. I clutched the straps of my worn backpack, looking at him with wide, timid eyes. “How much does the candy cost?” He blinked, clearly taken aback. “It’s free, kid.” I reached out, took the bright plastic wrapper, and without a second of hesitation, climbed into the back of a van I knew was never coming back. 1 “Mister… does it cost money to ride in this car?” I asked, my small fingers nervously twisting the candy wrapper. “I had a dollar from selling cans, but I spent it watching cartoons.” The man with the scar threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, scraping sound. “Free! It’s all free, kid! Uncle Jax is taking you to a great place. From now on, eating and sleeping won’t cost you a dime.” A heavy, breathless sigh of relief washed over me. “So, Uncle Jax… are you going to sell me to someone else to be their daughter?” Jax chuckled, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Something like that. We’re finding you a new home.” My eyes lit up in the dim, stale air of the van. “In my new home… will I have to pay for drinking water?” Jax slammed on the brakes slightly, turning to stare at me. “You pay for water at your house?” “Yeah,” I nodded earnestly. “Twenty cents for tap water. Thirty cents if I want it warmed up. Fifty cents for juice.” “Jesus Christ,” Jax muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve been in the trafficking business for fifteen years, and I ain’t never seen a hustle that dark. Who raised you, Ebenezer Scrooge?” I didn’t know who Ebenezer Scrooge was. All I knew was that my mother, Valerie Croft, was the CEO of a publicly traded tech conglomerate. She was famous for her generosity. She wrote million-dollar checks at charity galas without blinking. I leaned my head against the cold, hard metal of the van’s interior. I watched through the dirty window as we drove further and further away from the mansion. … Meanwhile, back at the Croft estate. A gourmet breakfast spread was laid out on the massive marble dining table. Preston, my adopted brother, sat at the head of the table. Richard smiled warmly, serving him a plate of organic brioche French toast topped with imported berries. Valerie didn’t look up from her tablet. “Preston’s private piano lessons need to be renewed for the semester, don’t they? I’ll have my assistant wire the fifty grand.” “Thanks, Mom!” Preston beamed, his eyes crinkling with perfect, practiced sweetness. He turned his head, glancing at the empty chair near the kitchen door. My chair. The place where I usually sat, watching them eat. If I wanted a bite, I had to pay cash upfront. “Huh? Where’s Sally?” Preston asked, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “She’s going to be late for school. Is she throwing a tantrum again?” Richard frowned. Usually, by this hour, I would have polished everyone’s shoes and mopped the hardwood floors just to earn enough for a slice of toast. He dropped his silver serving spoon, his face darkening. “Is she giving me an attitude just because I didn’t let her buy that cake yesterday?” Valerie let out a cold, dismissive laugh, swiping to the next page of the Wall Street Journal app. “She’s spoiled. Let her skip two meals, she’ll learn. Go fetch her, Richard. Otherwise, today’s breakfast price is doubled.” A few moments later, Maria, the housekeeper, hurried into the dining room. She was clutching an iPad to her chest, her face pale. “Mr. Croft, Mrs. Croft… you need to see this.” Valerie took the tablet. On the screen, the security footage played in black and white. A tiny figure, carrying a frayed, secondhand backpack, slipping quietly out of the wrought-iron gates. Richard slammed his palm against the marble. “Unbelievable! She thinks she can just run away?” “How much money does she even have on her? Where could she possibly go?” Valerie’s eyes went flat and cold. She locked the iPad screen. “Don’t bother looking for her.” “She has no money. No survival skills,” Valerie sneered. “She’ll starve for a day out there, and then she’ll come crawling back, crying at the gates. And when she does, the re-entry fee to this house is going to be ten thousand dollars.” … But an entire day passed. And I never came back. 2 Richard’s face was drawn tight with fury. “A whole day! She is deliberately trying to defy me!” He paced the expanse of the living room. “Honestly, raising a stray dog would be more rewarding. You throw a dog a bone and it wags its tail. But her? I put all this effort into building her character, forcing her to be independent, and she treats me like the enemy!” “Maria!” Valerie called out, rolling her eyes. “Enough of this. Clear out her bedroom.” “Clear it out?” Maria froze. “But ma’am, when the young miss returns, where will she sleep?” Valerie’s gaze was glacial. “Tear down the wall between her room and the guest suite. We’ll expand it into a proper music studio for Preston.” “As for where she’ll sleep when she gets back…” Valerie took a sip of her espresso. “There’s still that storage closet in the basement, isn’t there? The rent is cheap. Five dollars a night. She should be able to afford that.” Preston’s eyes sparkled. “Really, Mom? I get the mega-studio?” “Of course, darling.” Valerie looked at him, her coldness melting into absolute adoration. “When has Mommy ever lied to you? You are my precious boy. You deserve the absolute best.” … Miles away, a filthy blindfold was ripped from my eyes. The pungent smell of rust, stale beer, and damp earth hit my nose. I was in an abandoned warehouse. Several men in grease-stained clothes were playing poker around a folding table. When they saw Jax walk in with me, they threw their cards down. “Damn, Jax. Premium merchandise this time,” a man with rotting, yellowed teeth leered, reaching out to pinch my cheek. Instinctively, I flinched and pulled away. Smack! The yellow-toothed man backhanded me across the face. Pain exploded across my cheek, hot and sharp. “Who told you to dodge, you little brat!” I fell hard onto the concrete floor. The metallic taste of blood seeped into the corner of my mouth. But I didn’t cry. I just lay there, staring dead into his eyes. “Ooh, look at the glare on this one.” The man laughed, pulling back his heavy work boot to kick me in the ribs. “Enough.” Jax caught the man’s shoulder, shoving him back. “Cut it out. This one’s completely healthy. We’re gonna get top dollar for her.” Jax crouched down until he was eye-level with me. “Listen to me, kid. You’re here, which means you play by our rules.” He pointed toward the darkest corner of the warehouse. “You see that cage?” It was a massive, rusted iron dog crate. Inside, three mangy, aggressive dogs paced back and forth, growling. “If you don’t listen, you sleep in there with them. If you listen, you get fed.” I slowly wiped the blood from my chin with the back of my hand. “How much to sleep in the cage?” I asked. Jax froze. The entire warehouse erupted into booming, ugly laughter. “Holy shit! Jax, is this kid mentally challenged?” the yellow-toothed man cackled. “She wants to pay to sleep in a dog cage? Ha!” Jax shook his head, staring at me like I was an alien. “It’s free, kid. Free lodging.” “And the food?” I asked, my voice steady. “Also free.” I nodded. I pushed myself off the ground, dusted off my knees, and walked straight toward the rusted iron bars. “Then I’ll sleep there.” As long as it didn’t cost money, anywhere was fine. Back at the mansion, sleeping in that tiny, unheated bedroom cost me two hundred dollars a month in rent. This place was filthy. It smelled like wet fur and decay. But it was free. I crawled into the cage, pulling my knees to my chest, making myself small as the dogs sniffed at my shoes. The men’s laughter echoed off the high corrugated ceiling. I knew they were laughing at my stupidity. But as I sat there in the dark, my heart felt lighter than it had in years. To me… anywhere in the world that didn’t demand coins for my existence was paradise. … That evening, the Croft estate finally received a phone call from the police. “Is this Valerie Croft? This is the precinct.” Valerie was in the middle of a Zoom call with her board of directors. She sighed, deeply annoyed. “Speaking. What is it?” “We found a backpack belonging to your daughter, Sally Croft, abandoned by a drainage canal on the outskirts of the city. We need you to come down and identify it.” Valerie’s tone was impeccably flat. “I do not have the time right now. I am in the middle of a vital executive meeting. When it concludes, I will dispatch my assistant.” The officer on the line was stunned into a brief silence. “Ma’am, this is your biological daughter. She could be in grave danger! You need—” “Officer.” Valerie cut him off sharply. “She is throwing a temper tantrum. She ran away from home to get attention.” “Furthermore, my time is currently valued at hundreds of thousands of dollars an hour. I am not going to waste it driving across town for a dirty backpack.” “Besides,” she added with a dry scoff, “we live in a civilized society. What exactly do you think is going to happen to her?” 3 Inside the police precinct, Officer Ramirez slammed the receiver down so hard the plastic cracked. “Is she even human?!” Ramirez seethed, her hands trembling with rage. “Her ten-year-old kid is missing, potentially dead, and she says looking for her is a waste of time?!” Detective Harrison leaned against the desk, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Did you run a background check on this Valerie Croft?” “Yeah. Richest woman in the city. Renowned philanthropist. Donates millions to children’s charities every year.” Ramirez let out a bitter, venomous laugh. “Philanthropist? More like a sociopath. She bleeds money for strangers to look good, but won’t spare a second for her own flesh and blood!” “Where did you say you found the bag?” “By that foul drainage river on the west side. Inside, there were just a few cracked textbooks and… this.” Ramirez pulled out a clear evidence bag. Inside was a small, spiral-bound notebook. The pages were warped and waterlogged, the ink bleeding at the edges. She opened to the first page. Written in shaky, childish handwriting: January 1st, 2026. Two strawberries: Owe $1.00 One plain piece of toast: Owe $0.50 Flushing the toilet (twice): Owe $0.40 Watching TV for 10 minutes: Owe $1.00 Ramirez read the entries aloud, her voice breaking. Her eyes swam with tears. “What kind of hell… what kind of absolute hell was this little girl living in?” Detective Harrison crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, his jaw locked tight. “Open a criminal investigation. Right now. This isn’t just a missing person’s case anymore. This is severe, systematic child abuse.” “Send a squad to the Croft estate. If they refuse to cooperate, put them in cuffs.” At the Croft mansion, Richard was standing in front of a gilded mirror, adjusting the lapels of a freshly delivered bespoke tuxedo. They had a high-profile charity gala to attend tonight, and he was taking Preston to introduce him to the city’s elite. The doorbell rang. Maria opened the door, and a team of uniformed officers shoved past her, led by Detective Harrison. “Richard Croft. We suspect your daughter, Sally, has been the victim of human trafficking, and that she has been subjected to severe, prolonged abuse within this household. You’re coming with us.” Richard was frog-marched out the front door and shoved into the back of a squad car. Preston stood at the top of the grand staircase, bursting into perfectly timed tears as he dialed Valerie’s private number. In the abandoned warehouse, I had survived my first twenty-four hours in the cage. It wasn’t bad. The scraps they threw me were greasy and cold, but they filled my stomach. And they didn’t cost a dime. When Jax was in a good mood, he even tossed me a piece of leftover steak. I was quiet. I was obedient. I never cried, I never screamed, and I even helped them pour kibble for the dogs. Those three aggressive mutts were now sleeping with their heads resting on my sneakers, wagging their tails when I pet them. But the strange peace didn’t last. A woman arrived at the factory. She wore heavy perfume and a sharp, tailored coat. “This is the premium stock you were bragging about?” she asked, her voice raspy from cigarettes. Jax practically bowed to her. “Madam Mae, take a look. The kid’s completely healthy. Quiet, too. You can beat the hell out of her and she doesn’t make a peep.” Mae stepped up to the cage and grabbed my chin through the bars, tilting my face to the harsh light. “Age?” “Ten,” I answered flatly. “A bit old for the adoption market,” Mae muttered, her brow furrowing. “Whatever. I’ll take her.” I knew what this meant. I was being moved to a new home. I looked at Mae, my heart pounding, and asked the only question that mattered: “Ma’am… does the new house have free food?” Mae blinked, thoroughly confused. Then, a slow, dark smile spread across her red lips. “Free? Little girl, there is no such thing as a free lunch in this world.” My chest tightened. I had to earn money again? Was it going to be like the mansion? Polishing shoes, scrubbing toilets, begging for scraps in exchange for copper coins? A heavy, suffocating despair anchored itself in my chest. At that exact moment, across town, Valerie Croft was sitting in the precinct’s interrogation room. She was staring at the waterlogged notebook inside the plastic evidence bag, a look of profound boredom on her elegant face. “What exactly is this supposed to prove? It proves my daughter has a strong head for economics and meticulous bookkeeping skills.” “My daughter lives in a twenty-million-dollar estate. She rides in armored SUVs. She attends an elite prep school. You call that abuse?” “Don’t you officers have actual criminals to catch? Why are you harassing my family over parenting techniques?” Detective Harrison slammed both hands on the metal table, getting right in her face. “Valerie! Read the damn page! ‘Owe Mom $1,000 for interrupting her phone call while mopping the floor.’ You look me in the eye and tell me that is not psychological torture!” Valerie faltered for a fraction of a second. She remembered that day. Her stock portfolio had taken a sudden dip, she was furious, and she had screamed at Sally just because the mop bucket made a splashing sound. A microscopic sliver of unease prickled the back of her neck, but she quickly buried it under a mountain of arrogance. “It was a joke. The child is simply too literal, too sensitive.” “We are done here. I am posting bail for my husband. When you find the brat, call my assistant.” She grabbed her designer coat and stood up to leave. But before she could reach the handle, the heavy door was violently thrown open. Officer Ramirez stood in the doorway, her face the color of chalk. “Detective! We found her!” “Where?” “At… at an underground clinic on the south side.” Ramirez’s voice was shaking violently. “The syndicate… they were in the middle of a procedure.” “What procedure?” “Organ harvesting.” For the first time in ten years, the mask of ice on Valerie Croft’s face shattered into pure panic. 4 Deep in the rotting underbelly of the city. The shrieking of police sirens tore the night wide open. Valerie sat in the back of a speeding squad car, her perfectly manicured hands gripping the wire mesh separating the front seats. “Drive faster!” she screamed at the officer at the wheel. “If something happens to my daughter… I will ruin your life! I’ll have your badge!” The cruiser slammed to a halt in front of a boarded-up storefront. “Freeze! Police!” Valerie sprinted out of the car, following Detective Harrison as he kicked the heavy metal door off its hinges. They tore through the dimly lit, moldering front room and breached the back office. In the center of the room sat a single, blood-stained surgical table under a blazing halogen light. Several people in filthy medical scrubs were already pinned to the linoleum floor by the raid team. But the operating table was empty. There was only a fresh, vivid puddle of blood. It hadn’t even begun to dry. “Where is she?!” Detective Harrison roared. He grabbed one of the underground surgeons by the collar, hauling him up and pressing the barrel of his Glock directly against the man’s temple. “Where the hell is the kid?!” The surgeon shook uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back in terror. He raised a trembling finger and pointed toward the back window. “She… she ran…” “Ran?!” “The anesthesia… it was wearing off too fast. She woke up… she bit me right to the bone, and she threw herself out the window…” Valerie rushed to the smashed window. Beneath it raged the brutal, churning rapids of the city’s concrete spillway. The water was dark, violent, and deafening. “Search the banks! Get choppers in the air now!” Harrison bellowed into his radio. Valerie’s knees buckled. She jumped? Into that water? How could a ten-year-old child survive that current? Just then, a tactical officer jogged into the room, dripping wet. “Detective! We found this on the concrete embankment downriver!” He held up a heavy-duty plastic ziplock bag. Inside was a piece of paper and a few crumpled, blood-smeared dollar bills. The paper was covered in jagged, frantic handwriting. Mom, Dad. I’m gone. I did the math. Over the past ten years, my total debt to you is exactly $35,200. The lady said a cornea sells for $50,000 on the black market. I’m leaving it for you to clear my debt. Keep the change as interest. From this moment on, I owe you nothing. In this life, and the next, I resign from being your daughter. Valerie stared at the note. The letters seemed to detach from the page and float in front of her, mocking her. She finally understood. Sally hadn’t been throwing a tantrum. She hadn’t run away for attention. She had left to settle her account. She had paid off her “family debt” with her own eye. “No… no, it’s not possible…” Valerie’s hands began to shake violently. “Who did she give it to?! Who is the woman?!” She lunged at the terrified surgeon on the floor, grabbing him by the scrubs and shaking him with manic strength. “Tell me! Where is her eye?! Do you have it?!” The doctor sobbed, blood leaking from where Sally had bitten him. “We… we didn’t do it… she took the scalpel… she did it herself… she slashed her own eye…” “What?!” The world around Valerie ceased to exist. “She did it herself?” She stumbled backward, her designer heels slipping on the bloody floor. She collapsed onto the linoleum, the stench of iron and bleach filling her lungs. Two thick, muddy tears carved their way through the flawless makeup on her cheeks. Right then, Harrison’s radio crackled to life. “Detective! Traffic cams just got a facial recognition hit! A little girl, matching the description, face covered in blood. She was spotted out by the southside crematorium.” The crematorium? Valerie shot up from the floor, her mind spiraling into absolute hysteria. Why would she go there? “Move! To the crematorium!” She bolted out the door, moving faster than the tactical officers. Her brain was a mess of static and pure terror. She only knew one thing. If that “account” was truly settled… she would lose her daughter forever.

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