The day the poor scholarship student ran for Student Body President, my childhood friend made sure everyone voted for me instead. Even though I wasn’t running. He didn’t do it for me. He did it because he got a sick thrill out of crushing the spirit of the pretty girl on financial aid, calling it a “lesson in reality.” Later, he would hospitalize the guys who bullied that same scholarship student. But then, the boy who had been my shadow since birth—the one who supposedly cared for me—leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and announced to the entire room, “Selene isn’t expensive. Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” I froze. Then, quietly, I transferred all my classes to the morning block to avoid him. On the rainy night my mother’s condition went critical, I swallowed my pride and asked him for money. He waited until his cigarette burned down to the filter before flicking the ash near my hand. “Selene,” he said, his voice void of warmth. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.” After he walked away, the top student in our year stepped out of the shadows and held an umbrella over my head. “Would you be willing to come to London with me?” I nodded. 1 On the first day of the semester, Piper stood at the podium, her cheeks flushed with hope as she delivered her speech for president. But when the votes were projected on the screen, her face went ghost white. There were thirty people in the seminar. Selene received twenty-nine votes. Beside me, Roman Carter watched Piper’s devastation with the focus of a predator. He started a slow, mocking clap. “Surprise, Selene,” he drawled, his voice dripping with faux affection. Piper looked like she was going to be sick. Her eyes filled with tears, shifting to glare at me with pure, unadulterated jealousy. I sighed, a silent exhale that vanished in the room’s tension. The girl who won by a landslide was me. I hadn’t even put my name on the ballot. And the guy next to me? Technically, he was my childhood friend. Realistically? I was the daughter of the help who used to live in his guest house. That dynamic shattered the summer after middle school. My father was driving Mrs. Carter—Roman’s pregnant mother—and my own mother when the car crashed. My mother was the sole survivor, but she never woke up. She’s been in a vegetative state ever since. From that day on, the Carters threw me out. My relationship with Roman curdled into something dark. Even though the police report cited brake failure—an accident—Roman never looked at me the same way again. The rumors at school were vicious. They said I was a jinx. A curse. The girl who killed Mrs. Carter and Roman’s unborn brother. Roman loved watching me take the heat. By some twisted fate, we ended up at the same university, in the same major. On the first day, he had taken my bag with practiced intimacy, whispering in my ear, “Been a while. I missed you.” During introductions, he jerked his chin in my direction. “Selene.” Everyone turned. The sunlight hit my profile, and for a second, it looked like a scene from a romance novel. Then Roman smiled. It was a cruel, jagged thing. “Her dad’s dead. Her mom’s a vegetable.” The room erupted in gasps. People awkwardly looked away, shuffling their feet. The professor eventually forced Roman to sit down. When it was my turn, I just gave my name. Roman was bored out of his mind until Piper showed up. Piper was the scholarship kid with a chip on her shoulder. She hated the Greek system, hated old money, and wasn’t afraid to say it. But when she spoke, her eyes lingered on Roman a little too long. Roman scoffed, winding a lock of my hair around his finger. “Don’t get too close to people with brain damage, Selene.” I had a feeling he was the one who would get close. And honestly? Good. 2 I was right. First, he humiliated Piper in the election. Then, in a bout of ironic courtship, he started working shifts with her at the diner to “experience the struggle.” When guys harassed her, he sent them to the ER. I kept my head down. I studied. I worked three jobs. I did people’s homework for cash. I thought our lives were finally diverging into parallel lines. Then I walked into the lecture hall and heard a recording blasting over the speakers. “Selene, you look desperate for cash. How much are you selling it for?” “Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” It was my voice. People screamed. Some laughed. Roman stood in the center of the room, looking like a king in his court. “I told you,” he announced, his tone light, conversational. “She’s cheap. Fifty or five hundred.” The room buzzed with noise. Disgusting, predatory looks crawled over my skin. I froze. The audio was doctored. In high school, I did people’s homework. The question had been about essay prices. I had answered honestly. Now, it was being played to the entire student body as a solicitation for sex. Piper threw herself into Roman’s arms, looking scandalized. “Why would you play that, Roman?” He ruffled her hair. “She stole your spot in the competition. She needed to be taken down a peg.” I sat down in silence. I pulled out my phone, found the old transaction logs—labeled distinctly as “Essay Editing” and “Math Tutoring”—and uploaded the screenshots to the class group chat. Then, I logged into the portal and transferred every single class I shared with them. They could play at being adults. They could find their entertainment in destroying people. I couldn’t. I had to pay back the Hale family a thousand dollars every month for my mother’s medical bills. I didn’t have the luxury of time for their games. Seeing no reaction from me, Roman cornered me after my new class. He sat on the desk in front of me, swinging his legs. “I was just helping you drum up business, Selene,” he said, a lazy smile on his lips. “Don’t I get a thank you?” I looked at him. Cruel. Arrogant. Broken. The sunny, polite boy from the estate was dead. He died in that crash, too. And the optimistic, confident Selene died with him. I lowered my eyes. My voice was dry. “Thank you.” His face darkened. His jaw ticked. “Don’t thank me.” Roman found out about the class transfer quickly. He brought Piper into the coffee shop where I worked. Piper “accidentally” tripped, sending a scalding latte all over my apron and arm. The skin turned angry red instantly. She frowned, stepping back. “Do you even know how to serve coffee? You splashed my dress! You couldn’t afford to replace this if you worked here for a hundred years!” I had crouched down to clean up the mess, but I paused. I looked up at her. She was wearing the season’s latest designer gear. Roman’s money, obviously. There was barely a drop on her hem. I stood up. “Call the police, then. The security cameras captured everything.” Including the way she had shoved her hand out to tip the cup. She choked, grabbing Roman’s hand. “Baby, the dress you bought me is ruined.” Roman glanced at her, then patted her head dismissively. “I’ll buy you another one.” Piper smirked. “Let’s go.” She hummed a tune as she linked arms with him, leaving me with a puddle of coffee and a burning arm. I stood in silence for a moment, then grabbed the mop. Later, a delivery driver dropped off a tube of burn cream with a note: Switch your classes back. I threw it in the trash. Two weeks later, final group projects were assigned. Every time I made eye contact with a classmate, they looked away. A girl I had tutored once whispered to me, “Someone told us not to team up with you. If we do, we’re blacklisted.” The professor sighed. “Selene, per the syllabus, groups must be two or three students.” I stared at my laptop screen. A text popped up from Roman. Come back. At that exact moment, a chair scraped against the floor next to me. It was Atlas Hale. The top student. The impossible standard. “Want to be partners?” he asked. 3 I exhaled, a sound I hadn’t realized I was holding in. It seemed like every time I hit a wall, Atlas Hale was there to open a door. The last time was the summer after high school. I was sitting in the parlor of the Hale estate, terrified, waiting to beg his grandfather for a loan. Atlas had walked in first. I had jumped to my feet. He smiled, a gentle expression that reached his eyes. “Don’t be nervous. I’m Atlas. Grandfather is… eccentric.” I knew who he was. Everyone did. National Go champion. Heir to the Hale empire. “I’m Selene,” I managed, clutching the hem of my cheap shirt. He poured me tea. “You’re early. Grandfather was up all night gaming, he won’t be up for a while.” “I can wait,” I whispered. “Play a game with me?” he asked. I blinked. “Go?” He pulled out a board. “Five-in-a-row. I heard you were unbeatable in middle school.” We played all morning. His presence had a grounding effect, calming the storm in my chest. It was the same now. “Can we wait to submit the form?” I asked him quietly. If we didn’t submit it yet, Roman wouldn’t know. If Roman knew, he would go nuclear. Atlas nodded. “Whatever you need.” After a beat, he added, “If you need help with anything else, tell me.” On the deadline day for the project, I got fired from the coffee shop. The manager was vague, mumbling something about “complaints from influential customers.” I stood outside the shop, the rain soaking through my thin jacket. I didn’t know where to go. The rain was silent, but my mind was screaming. I went to the hospital. My mother lay there, still and silent. She had aged so much. The Carters always said Mrs. Carter was going out for a spa day. Why did she take my mother? My phone buzzed. Roman. Come to The Lounge. I’ll give you a grand. I typed back: Transfer it first. The Lounge was an upscale bar near campus. The smell of expensive scotch and designer perfume couldn’t mask the rot underneath. Roman waved me over. “Here.” I sat next to him. The leather was still warm from someone else. I tried to stand, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you come to me?” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “If you don’t come back to my section, who’s going to partner with you?” “Is Professor Zhou going to let you fail?” I said nothing. He bit my earlobe hard. “Selene, why the hell won’t you speak?” “How can you be so calm?” “How can you pretend nothing happened?” “My dad is dead!” “Your mother is a vegetable!” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Piper came back from the restroom and froze when she saw me in her seat. She stormed over, grabbed a drink, and threw it in my face. “Get up! That’s my spot.” I was almost grateful for the interruption. “Okay.” I said one word, blood mixing with the alcohol on my lips. As I stood up, someone tapped Roman on the shoulder. A guy looked at me, confused. “Dude, she’s partnered with Atlas Hale.” 4 There was no time to react. Roman yanked me back down onto the sofa. His hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing. “How did you get to Atlas?” “Did you sleep with him? Was he good?” “Fifty or five hundred, Selene?” I clawed at his arm. Black spots danced in my vision. Blood from my bitten cheek leaked out, dripping onto his hand. Roman released me as if burned. He caught me as I slumped forward, his grip shifting from violence to a desperate embrace. His voice sounded wrecked. “Talk to me, Selene.” “Ignore me again, and I won’t let go next time.” I couldn’t speak. I wanted to vomit. But I didn’t have the energy. I smelled like vodka, rain, and blood. I must have been repulsive. Roman buried his face in my damp, cold neck. “I only have you, Moon.” “Don’t leave me.” I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the darkness. The whole table was terrified. Especially the guy who dropped the news about Atlas. He looked ready to bolt. Piper was the only one with nerves of steel. “Roman,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You still have me.” Roman didn’t hear her. He only saw me. The next day, he transferred me five thousand dollars. The incident at the bar was swept under the rug. The only thing that changed was that he forced his way into my life again. He insisted I join him and Piper for the big semester project. He paid for my time. I couldn’t refuse the money. Which meant I had to bring Atlas along. We met at a different café. The manager practically bowed when we walked in. Roman saw Atlas and smirked. “How’s the old man holding up?” Atlas nodded calmly. “He’s well. Your father brought your brother by to visit him recently.” Roman’s face went rigid. The “brother” was the illegitimate son his father brought home freshman year—a kid only a few months younger than Roman. Proof that Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s “perfect marriage” was a lie long before the accident. Atlas knew exactly where to aim. He glanced at me. “It’s crowded here. Let’s go to the back.” I nodded quickly. Roman looked like he wanted to kill someone. Once seated, Atlas pulled out some blueprints. “Can you model these for me? Five grand per model. Cash on delivery.” I looked at the papers. They were prototypes for Hale Industries. Confidential ones. He was handing me money. It was charity, wrapped in work. “Thank you,” I said. Mom’s condition had worsened. I needed every cent. He smiled. “I’m not doing you a favor. You’re the best modeler in the department.” I managed a weak smile. 5 Rumors started flying that Atlas and I were together. Some said the Hales gave me a huge sum of money—a dowry, they joked. Atlas didn’t care about the gossip. Maybe because he was leaving. He was going to London for a semester exchange in the fall. Roman remained volatile. He liked to summon me to the bar, just to have me sit there while he drank and stared at me. One night, he was wasted. He leaned heavily on my shoulder. “Do you know why your dad died?” I had heard this rhetorical question a thousand times. But his next words stopped my heart. “He was drunk. He deserved it.” “But my mom? Why did my mom have to die with him?” I shoved him away. Hard. I slapped him across the face. The sound cut through the music. “Don’t you dare lie about my father,” I said, shaking. “He never drove drunk. Never.” Roman’s head snapped to the side. He laughed, a wet, sloppy sound. “He drank! Are you stupid? A driver with twenty years of experience just ‘loses control’? The autopsy found alcohol! Your dad killed a car full of people!” He was pointing a crooked finger at me. “The report proved it!” Piper appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Roman’s arm, screaming at me. “Your dad is a murderer!” The accusation rang in my ears. Dizziness swamped me. Years ago, the crash was ruled an accident. Brake failure. I had never seen the autopsy report. But Dad… he wouldn’t. By the next morning, the whole campus was buzzing with the “truth.” They looked at me with disgust. They looked at Roman with pity. In high school, I was a jinx. Now, I was the daughter of a murderer. I walked through the day like a ghost. It rained all day. When the hospital called, thunder was shaking the windows. Acute intracranial pressure. She needed immediate surgery. One hundred thousand dollars. High risk. Low success rate. Do you want to proceed? Every word was a hammer blow to my chest. “Miss Selene? Miss Selene?” I looked down at my shoes. I couldn’t cry. I was too empty. “Give me one day.” I found Roman at The Lounge. When I walked in, his friends jeered. “Hey look, it’s Fifty.” “Fifty is too cheap. Let’s say five hundred. I like to take it slow.” “If I were her, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now.” I didn’t hear them. I walked straight to Roman, bent my knees, and knelt on the sticky floor. “Lend me a hundred grand. Please.” His hand paused halfway to his mouth. He looked down at me through the smoke. “Is your mom dying, too?” I didn’t answer. Ash from his cigarette fell onto my arm. It burned a small, grey circle into my skin. I didn’t flinch. Finally, the cigarette burned down to his fingers. He stood up. “Selene. I don’t owe you anything.” He walked away. I collapsed on the floor. When I left, the rain was still pouring. I walked into the storm, letting it soak me to the bone. Steps approached rapidly from behind. An umbrella appeared over my head. A warm jacket was draped over my shoulders. “Selene,” Atlas said. “Grandfather says he’ll cover your mother’s treatment.” “Don’t be scared.” I looked up. Finally, the tears came. Atlas wiped them away with his thumb. “The medical facilities in London are better. We can transfer her there.” He paused. “Will you come to London with me?” “UAL. The best design program in the world.” “Grandfather insists. He says he wants to hire you for Hale Corp immediately after graduation to exploit your talent.” I stared at him for a long time. Then I nodded. He pulled me into a hug. It was warm. Safe. With Atlas’s help, the application was instant. We didn’t tell anyone. In the last month of freshman year, we flew to London.

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Kate cried. Not the happy kind of crying. When I handed her the pregnancy test, she froze for a solid three seconds. Then the tears just started falling. “Kate?” She didn’t say a word. She just grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and turned her back to me. I thought she was overwhelmed with joy for me. Mark and I had been married for eight years. We’d been trying for a baby forever. Finally, it had happened. But the way she was crying felt wrong. Her hands were shaking. When she left, she stood in the doorway for a long time, her lips parting as if to speak, but she swallowed the words and walked away. The next day, she came back. She was holding a manila envelope. Inside was a divorce settlement agreement. Blank. “Sarah,” she looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “This baby… I need you to think really hard before you keep it.” 1. I thought my sister had lost her mind. “Kate, what the hell is this?” I shoved the envelope back across the coffee table. A blank divorce agreement. Why would she bring this into my house? “You and Mark are good, right?” She didn’t answer my question. She just countered with one of her own. “Of course we’re good.” “Is he working late a lot recently?” “Yeah. He just got promoted to Project Director. The hours come with the territory.” “How late?” “Eleven, midnight. Sometimes later.” “When he’s working late, and you call him, does he answer?” I paused. “Sometimes he doesn’t. The signal is trash in his office garage. He told me.” Kate set her coffee mug down. Her hand was still trembling. “Sarah… have you ever checked his phone?” “Checked his phone?” I actually laughed. “Kate, I’m not that kind of wife. Marriage is about trust—” “Check it.” She cut me off. Her voice was quiet, but it had the weight of iron. “Just once. Tonight. Wait until he’s asleep, and just look.” I studied her face. She wasn’t joking. There were deep purple bruises of exhaustion under her eyes, and her lips were chapped, like she hadn’t slept in days. “Kate, what is going on? Can you just tell me?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. “I can’t just tell you,” she said. “Because you won’t believe me. You’ll just think I’m trying to drive a wedge between you.” “You’re my sister—” “I’m your sister, which is exactly why you won’t believe it.” She stood up. “You’ll think I’m jealous because you married well. You’ll think that because I’m divorced, I can’t stand seeing you happy.” That stung. Kate divorced three years ago. Her ex-husband cheated, left her high and dry, and she’s been raising her daughter alone ever since. “Kate, I have never thought that—” “I know.” She picked up her purse. “That’s why I’m not telling you. You have to see it for yourself.” She walked to the door and stopped. “Sarah.” “Yeah?” “No matter what you find, remember one thing—you are not alone.” The door clicked shut. I stood in the living room, still clutching that manila envelope. It was light. But suddenly, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Mark came home late that night. Eleven-forty. He brought a gust of cold Chicago wind in with him. He saw me still sitting on the couch and offered a tired smile. “Still up?” “Waiting for you.” “Babe, don’t be silly. You’re pregnant. You need your rest.” He placed his phone on the entryway console table—his habit. Phone down, shoes off. I used to think it was discipline—disconnecting from work to be present with me. Tonight, I stared at that phone and it looked less like a device and more like a locked box. He went to shower. The sound of water running filled the apartment. I sat on the couch, staring at the console table. Kate’s voice echoed in my ear: Check it. Just once. I didn’t move. The water stopped. He came out, toweling off his hair, and saw me still sitting there. “What’s wrong? You look zoned out.” “Nothing.” “Come to bed. I’ll drive you to your appointment tomorrow.” “Okay.” I followed him into the bedroom. Lay down. Lights out. His breathing evened out quickly. I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the dark ceiling. The phone was in the hallway. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic. I didn’t move. Not because I was scared. But because I didn’t want to know. If that box was empty, I was paranoid for nothing. If it wasn’t— I closed my eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. 2:00 AM. I got up to use the bathroom. Passing the hallway console, I stopped. The phone sat there, face down. I picked it up. The passcode was my birthday. He’d never changed it. He loves me, I told myself as I punched in the six digits. It unlocked. iMessage. Three pinned conversations. First was me. Saved as “Wife.” Second was his mom. Saved as “Mom.” Third— The contact name was just an emoji. A house. No name. Just a little house. I tapped it. The latest message was from tonight, 9:17 PM. A photo. It was a little boy, maybe two years old, wearing dinosaur pajamas, lying on a bed, grinning. Below it, a caption: Son is waiting for you. He refuses to sleep. 2. I put the phone back on the console. Face down, exactly how it was. I went back to the bedroom and lay down. Mark rolled over, draping a heavy arm across my waist. “Mmm… you cold?” “No.” His hand was warm. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, frozen. That little boy in the dinosaur pajamas. Big eyes. Single eyelids. Mark has single eyelids. I didn’t sleep all night. The next morning, Mark got up and made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. He bustled around the kitchen in his apron, looking back to smile at me. “Want some bacon? Gotta keep the protein up for the baby.” “Sure.” I sat at the dining table, watching his back. I had watched this back for eight years. Eight years ago, he was making forty grand a year, and I was making sixty. Our first apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up with no AC. Every day after work, he’d carry the groceries up the stairs for me, then run back down to park the car. Five trips sometimes. Later, when we bought a place, we didn’t have enough for the down payment. I borrowed eight grand from my mom, five from a college friend, and drained my entire 401k savings. He said, “Sarah, when I make it big, I’ll pay you back double.” Then he switched jobs. Salary bumped up. Switched again. Another bump. From forty grand to eighty, to one-fifty, to two hundred… now he was pulling in nearly four hundred thousand. When the money started coming in, he said, “Don’t worry about the bills anymore. I’ll handle the finances.” I thought he was taking care of me. He took over the household accounts. He transferred me a set allowance for groceries and bills every month, and told me he was investing the rest. “Once we save enough, we’ll get a real house. Something in the suburbs.” I believed him. For eight years, I managed the household, paid the mortgage, and sent his mother money every month. He said the rest was in savings. In “growth funds.” I never asked to see the numbers. Because I trusted him. I thought about last winter. November. Our anniversary. I took a half-day off work. Went to the market at 3 PM. Bought the expensive short ribs he loves, fresh herbs, a bottle of wine. I bought flowers, too. I rarely bought flowers—waste of money—but seven years felt like a milestone. By six, dinner was ready. Four courses. The flowers were in a water glass because I didn’t own a vase. Seven o’clock. He wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. I called. Straight to voicemail. Nine o’clock. A text: Meeting ran late. Don’t wait up. I took the flowers out of the glass. I needed the glass to drink water. He came home at eleven. “Did you eat?” “Yeah, we ordered takeout at the office.” The food on the table was cold. Congealed fat settled on top of the ribs. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll put it in Tupperware.” He didn’t notice the flowers. He didn’t remember what day it was. I heated up the ribs and ate them alone at the counter. Now I wonder—when he didn’t answer at 9 PM that night… where was he? Who was he with? Was a toddler in dinosaur pajamas calling him Daddy? Breakfast landed in front of me. Scrambled eggs, bacon, perfectly buttered toast. “Eat up while it’s hot.” He sat opposite me, beaming. I looked down at the plate. “Mark.” “Yeah?” “What time did you get in last night?” “Eleven-ish? I told you, we’re pushing hard on this project launch.” “Right.” I took a bite of toast. It felt like dry wall in my throat. He got up to clean the kitchen. I heard the faucet running. When I finished, I rinsed my plate. He was putting on his coat, checking his watch. “Gonna be late again tonight, babe. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” The door closed. I sat back on the couch. I pulled out my phone and texted Kate. Kate, you were right. She replied in three seconds. Like she had been staring at the screen. What did you see? I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how to type it out. I sat there for a long time. Then I got up and gathered his laundry from last night. As I was checking the pockets of his jacket, a receipt fell out. Nordstrom, Kids Department. Total: $128.00. Item: Patagonia Fleece, Blue, Size 4T. Size 4T. That fits a two or three-year-old. 3. Kate came over. This time, she didn’t beat around the bush. She brought a clear plastic binder packed thick with documents. “This is everything I’ve collected over the last six months.” She dropped the binder on the coffee table. I didn’t touch it yet. “Six months?” “Yes. Six months ago, I saw his car in the parking garage at the mall. There was a woman in the passenger seat. And a car seat in the back.” I stared at her. “You saw that, and you didn’t tell me?” “I wasn’t sure—” “You weren’t sure, so you investigated him for half a year while I played house?” She didn’t speak. “Kate,” I said her name sharply. “Six months. You let me live a lie for six months.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I was scared you couldn’t handle it. You had just found out about the fibroids, you hadn’t even had the surgery yet—” “So you decided for me?” “No—” “How are you any different from him?” I asked. It was cruel. I knew it was. She wasn’t Mark. But in that moment, the betrayal felt universal. Six months. I slept in the same bed as that man, cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and got pregnant with his child—while my sister watched me play the fool. Kate looked down, crying silently. I sat opposite her, dry-eyed. “Give me the binder.” She slid it across. I opened it. Page one: A photo. Grainy, taken from a distance in a parking lot. Mark’s Tesla. A woman with long hair in the front seat. The silhouette of a car seat in the back. Page two: An address. The Aston Apartments, East Side. Unit 1402. “I followed him,” Kate said. “Twice. Both times he went there. Once he stayed the whole night. Once was a Lesleyday afternoon, stayed for four hours.” Page three: Property records. Unit 1402 Owner: Emily Lesley. Date of Purchase: Two years and three months ago. “Your husband paid for it,” Kate said. “But her name is on the deed.” I flipped the page. Bank transfer screenshots. Mark Smith -> Emily Lesley. 8th of every month. $3,000. Memo: Monthly. Six screenshots. Six months. Three grand times six is eighteen thousand. That’s just the six months Kate tracked. What if it’s been two years? Three thousand times twenty-four… Seventy-two thousand dollars. I did a quick mental calculation of my household budget. Mark transferred me $800 a month for groceries. He sent his mom $400. I paid the mortgage, $1,800 a month. My salary was decent, but after the mortgage and bills, I was usually in the red. I dipped into my own savings, my yearly bonus, my overtime pay to cover the gap. And he was sending that woman three thousand dollars a month. I closed the binder. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “Thank you for getting this.” “Sarah—” “But I don’t want to talk about you hiding this right now.” She opened her mouth to speak. “We’ll talk about that after I deal with Mark.” I picked up the binder and stood up. “You should go, Kate. He’ll be home by seven.” Kate lingered at the door. “If you need anything, call me.” “I will.” The door closed. I sat alone in the dimming living room. The water glass she hadn’t touched was still on the table. Outside, the sky turned purple, then black. There was leftover rice in the fridge. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed two eggs. Made fried rice. Ate it alone. Washed the bowl. Wiped the table. Then I sat on the couch and waited for Mark. 7:20 PM. The lock clicked. “Babe, I’m home! Early today.” He beamed as he kicked off his shoes. “Oh, you cooked? Smells good.” “Fried rice. Yours is in the pan.” “Awesome.” He headed for the kitchen. I watched his back. That back I’d looked at for eight years. For the first time, it looked like a stranger’s. 4. For the next three days, I did nothing. I went to work. Came home. Cooked dinner. Talked to Mark. But I started watching his phone. Details I used to ignore now pricked like needles. He always went to the balcony to take calls. His auto-lock settings changed from 30 seconds to immediate. He took his phone into the bathroom when he showered—he never used to do that. On the third night, he worked late again. Midnight. When he crawled into bed, I smelled detergent on him. Not our detergent. We use Tide. He smelled like lavender Downy. “Working this late?” “Yeah, grinding on the proposal.” “You work so hard.” “As long as you appreciate it, babe.” He kissed my forehead. The smell of lavender suffocated me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. On the fourth day, I called in sick. I drove to The Aston. It’s a nice complex. Forty minutes from our place. Modern, good landscaping. The kind of place young professionals live. Unit 1402. I stood outside looking up. The blinds on the 14th floor were pink. Clothes were drying on the balcony—a man’s white dress shirt, a woman’s sundress, and tiny, colorful children’s clothes. It looked like a home. Another home. I sat in the bakery across the street for two hours. At 10:30, a woman came out pushing a stroller. Long hair, beige trench coat, sunglasses. A little boy sat in the stroller. Dinosaur hat. The kid from the photo. She pushed him to the small park next to the complex. Sat on a bench. The kid toddled around, tripped, and started wailing. She scooped him up, bounced him twice. He stopped crying and wrapped his arms around her neck. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. I knew exactly who was receiving that picture. At noon, I got back in my car. I sat there for a long time. Then I opened Mark’s banking app—the password was his mom’s birthday. He made me memorize it years ago when he set it up. He didn’t know I still remembered it. Credit card statements. I scrolled down, line by line. Cartier: $12,000. Date: Three months ago. I never received any jewelry. Luxury Post-Partum Center: $8,500. Date: Two years ago, May. Two years ago in May. I was on a business trip. Gone for two weeks in Seattle. Mark texted me: Take care of yourself, wifey. Miss you. He was spending that month helping another woman recover from birth. Gymboree: Annual Fee $2,200. Payer: Mark Smith. Kindred Photography: $600. Carter’s: Multiple charges. I closed the app. My hands were on the steering wheel. They were shaking uncontrollably. I took a deep breath. I pulled out my phone. I looked at the photos from Kate’s binder. Kate only tracked six months of transfers. But the banking app went back three years. Three years. $3,000 a month to Emily Lesley. That’s $108,000 just in cash transfers. Plus the jewelry, the luxury care center, the preschool, the clothes, the daily expenses. I did the math. Over $250,000. And my savings for the last three years? I opened my own banking app. Balance: $4,217.65. Eight years of marriage. That was all I had. I bought a coffee at the bakery. Held it in my hands. Didn’t drink it. Sat until it was cold. Then I dumped it in the trash and drove home. On the way, I made a call. “Kate.” “Sarah? What’s wrong?” “Page three. The condo at The Aston. Did you pull the full deed history?” “I did. 900 square feet. Bought March 2022. All cash. Purchase price 320,000. He bought her a condo in cash.” “Sarah—” “Plus the monthly transfers and expenses. Three years. He’s spent at least half a million dollars on them.” Kate stayed silent. “I’ve been married eight years. I have four thousand dollars.” “Sarah, listen to me—” “Kate, does your file have her ID info?” “Yes. Emily Lesley. Born 1994. She went to the same college as Mark.” College alum. Mark told me he never dated anyone seriously in college. “The kid. Date of birth?” “January 2023.” January 2023. I counted back. Conception would have been around April 2022. April 2022. That month, Mark and I were actively trying. I was taking prenatal vitamins. He told me: Don’t stress, babe. Let nature take its course. Nature took its course. We tried for two years. Nothing. She got pregnant. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “There’s something I don’t get.” “What?” “I tried for two years. We went to the fertility clinic. The doctor said I was fine. He said Mark was fine. But it never happened.” On the other end of the line, the silence stretched out. Heavy. “When you get home,” Kate said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “go check the nightstand. Or wherever you keep your water.” 5. I didn’t go straight to the water. Kate’s implication was too dark. I needed to confirm it myself. That night, Mark worked late again. Eleven PM. I went into his home office. Third drawer down. He always said it was for old tax documents and warranties. I dug for five minutes. Inside an envelope labeled “Receipts,” tucked way in the back, I found a blister pack. Small white pills. Aluminum foil backing. I held it under the desk lamp. Ethinyl Estradiol / Drospirenone. Birth control pills. More than half the pack was gone. Seventeen pills missing. These weren’t mine. I wasn’t on the pill. This pack was in his desk. And every day, the water I drank… he poured it. Every morning, he woke up before me, filled a glass of water, and set it on my nightstand. “Babe, hydrate before you get up.” He’d been doing it for two years. I thought he was thoughtful. I sat in his office chair, holding that blister pack. I stared at it for a long time. I didn’t cry. I just felt cold. Bone-deep cold. I took out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I put the pills back exactly where they were. Envelope back. Drawer closed. I went to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. Let the water run. I scrubbed my face. Looked up at myself in the mirror. Thirty-one years old. Fine lines appearing around my eyes. He said: You work so hard, honey. He said: Get some rest, babe. He said: When we save enough, we’ll get that dream house. He said all of that while crushing a contraceptive pill into my water glass every single morning. Ensuring I stayed barren for two years. Because the woman across town had already given him a son. He didn’t need two. I turned off the tap. Dried my face. Walked out to the living room. I opened my laptop. Opened Excel. Eight years of accounts. I calculated every penny. Mortgage: $1,800 a month. Eight years is $172,800. The first three years I paid it alone. Later he said he’d handle it, but the auto-pay never changed. It still came out of my account. Down payment: My loans and savings, total $60,000. Household: He sent $800, but actual costs were $1,500. I covered the gap. Eight years. That’s nearly $70,000. Support for his parents: $400 a month. Nearly $40,000. My bonuses: Every year, used to pay off debts, cover vacations, buy gifts for his family. Total. I ran the sum three times. $420,000. In eight years, I poured over four hundred grand into this marriage. And in three years, he spent over five hundred grand on her. My eight years. Her three years. I opened Kate’s binder to the property page. The Aston. $320,000. Cash. Our condo? I paid the down payment, and we still owe the bank $200,000. He gave his mistress a paid-off home. He gave me a mortgage. I closed the laptop. Picked up my phone. “Kate.” “I’m here.” “Find me a divorce lawyer. The sharkiest one you know.” “Already did. Mr. Sterling. Tomorrow, 3 PM.” She’d been ready for six months. “Thanks.” “Sarah… are you still mad at me?” “Yes.” “…” “But I’m going to destroy Mark first.”

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The bouquet didn’t just land in my hands; it collided with my chest, a soft, fragrant thud amidst the chaos of the reception. Every pair of eyes in the ballroom pivoted to Gary. It was a reflex, a collective expectation built over the eight years we’d been together. The chanting started almost immediately, fueled by champagne and sentimentality. “Marry her! Marry her!” “You’re up, buddy! Put a ring on it!” The crowd surged, pushing Gary toward me. I stood there, clutching the white roses, my face flushing with a heat that felt like hope. I waited for the smile, the drop to one knee, the words I’m finally ready. Instead, Gary reached out. His expression was terrifyingly calm as he plucked the bouquet from my grip. He turned and handed it to the bridesmaid standing next to him. “She caught it first,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable, and loud enough to silence the front row. He turned back to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Be a good girl. We’ll get the next one.” The spotlight swung away, chasing the flowers. I watched the bridesmaid—a twenty-two-year-old girl named Paige—giggle, feigning shock and shyness. I forced a smile. It felt like cracked plaster on my face. Gary didn’t know there wouldn’t be a next time. My wedding was next week. … Becca’s face went dark instantly. She looked ready to commit a felony. I caught her wrist just as she raised her hand. She whipped around, her eyes rimmed with red, tears threatening to spill. “That bitch did it on purpose, Nora! I told every single bridesmaid to back off. That bouquet was meant for you…” “Becca,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “The wedding isn’t over. Don’t ruin your night.” The room’s attention had already drifted. They were looking at Paige, the girl holding my flowers. She cradled them like a prize, casting a dewy-eyed glance at Gary, who had already retreated to the safety of the sidelines. The MC, a seasoned pro, cracked a few jokes to salvage the awkwardness, and the music swelled. Becca let out a frustrated huff, glaring daggers at Gary’s back before turning to finish her duties. For the rest of the reception, I sat at the head table, the maid of honor exposed to a hundred pitying glances. Gary sat three tables away with his finance buddies, laughing, a drink in hand. Paige sat next to him. She wasn’t supposed to be a bridesmaid. The groom had added a groomsman last minute, and Gary had suggested Paige—his executive assistant—fill the slot. He took her everywhere lately. “Mentorship,” he called it. Apparently, that mentorship extended to my best friend’s wedding. During the toasts, Becca dragged her new husband over to our table. She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe, whispering venomously into my ear: “That girl has been throwing herself at Gary for six months. I had someone look into her. She’s a shark, Nora. And Gary…” “Becca,” I rubbed her back, cutting her off. “You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. Let’s focus on that.” She gritted her teeth but nodded. When the venue finally cleared out, Gary strolled over. “Ready to head back?” He reached for my purse naturally, his other arm moving to drape over my shoulders. I stepped sideways, letting his arm fall through empty air. “You’ve been drinking. I called an Uber.” He didn’t seem to notice the rejection. “Smart. Okay.” The car ride was quiet. The city lights blurred against the window, mirroring the exhaustion in my reflection. My makeup was perfect, but my eyes looked dead. “About earlier,” Gary said, breaking the silence. “Paige technically touched the flowers first. She’s young, probably just wanted to feel part of the magic.” He paused. “Don’t overthink it.” I stared at the passing neon signs. “I’m not.” He waited, then finally looked up from his phone. He scooted closer. “You’re mad.” “We said ‘next time,’ right?” His fingers brushed the nape of my neck, a familiar, possessive gesture he used to soothe me like a temperamental pet. “Our wedding is going to blow Becca’s out of the water. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” A familiar acid rose in my throat. It was always like this. A gentle tone, a vague promise of “someday,” and the expectation that I would just… settle. “Gary,” I said, watching his reflection in the dark glass. “Yeah?” “Becca and I made a pact when we were seven,” I said, my voice steady. “Whoever got married first, the other one had to get married within a week. We were supposed to wear the dresses we made for each other. We were supposed to witness it together.” The air in the car went still. His hand stopped moving on my neck. “You’re holding onto a childhood game?” He chuckled, but the sound lacked warmth. His hand resumed its motion, lazily now. “Plans change, Nora. Venues, vendors, logistics—that stuff takes a year to prep. We’ll plan it properly. Why the rush?” He didn’t explain why he couldn’t just say I’ll marry you in front of our friends. He just skipped straight to the logistics of a hypothetical event. I remembered a month ago, when Becca dragged me to the fitting room to show me the bridesmaid dress she’d designed. Pale champagne silk with tiny pearls at the waist. Becca had cried when I put it on. “You look stunning, Nora. I made this for you. Just wait until I design your wedding dress. It’s going to be a masterpiece.” Gary had been there, buried in his emails. He’d glanced up for half a second. “Nice,” he’d said, before diving back into his phone. At the time, I felt happy for Becca, but a cold wind had blown through the center of my chest. Eight years, and I was still just the audience. The car pulled up to our building. Gary unbuckled. He leaned in, assuming the fight was over, expecting a kiss. I put my hand on his chest, stopping him. He froze. “I’m tired, Gary.” He stared at me for a beat, then patted my shoulder. “Being a maid of honor is exhausting. Go get some sleep. Paige just texted—she can’t get a ride from the venue. It’s not safe for her to be alone out there. I’m going to loop back and drop her off.” “Okay,” I said. He didn’t move. He was waiting for the script. He was waiting for me to say, Be careful, or to whine, Do you have to? Instead, I opened the door and got out. I walked into the lobby without looking back. Upstairs, I collapsed onto the sofa. It took me an hour to summon the energy to walk down the hall. I paused outside the “Spare Room.” When we bought this place four years ago, it was the “Nursery.” Now, it was a storage unit for dead dreams. I went inside. From the dusty crib, I pulled out a heavy box. Handwritten letters, ticket stubs, photo booth strips—the archaeology of a relationship. At the bottom was a photo from college graduation. He was giving me a piggyback ride under a cherry blossom tree. On the back, in his messy scrawl: I’ve got your back forever. Promise. The dim light of the living room made the ink look gray. A silent mockery. I heard his car pull into the garage below. I didn’t move. I listened to the elevator, the key in the lock, the muffled footsteps. “Still up?” He stood in the doorway. I didn’t turn around. I was kneeling on the floor. “Yeah.” “Cleaning house?” He asked, his tone light. “Getting nostalgic?” “Did you get her home?” I asked quietly. He paused. “Yeah. She lives way out in Queens. Hard to get a cab.” “Okay.” I placed the photo back in the box and closed the lid. “Come on, let’s go to bed,” he said, reaching out a hand to help me up. I stood up on my own, ignoring his hand. My legs were numb. I stumbled slightly. “Gary.” “Hmm?” He stopped halfway to the bedroom. “I want to break up.” He froze, then laughed. He loosened his tie, shaking his head. “Still on about the bouquet? Don’t be petty, Nora.” He used that tone again—the one for a tantrum-throwing toddler. “Fine. I’ll buy you a massive arrangement tomorrow. Five hundred roses. Happy? Now go wash your face, I have a board meeting at 8 a.m.” He turned his back on me and walked toward the bathroom. “I’m getting married,” I said to his back. “In less than a week.” His hand, reaching for the bathroom door handle, stopped. Slowly, he turned around. The mask of tolerant amusement finally slipped. “Nora, stop it.” He rubbed his temples. “Marriage is a legal contract, not something you do to win an argument.” “October 28th,” I said. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Did Becca put you up to this? Just because she rushed into things doesn’t mean the whole world has to be impulsive.” “Gary,” I cut him off. “The invitations go out tomorrow.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you think this works on me? This just makes you look childish, Nora. I am in the middle of the most important quarter of my career. I don’t have time for your drama to derail my focus.” “You just want to be a bride that badly?” His words hit like stones. Once, they would have made me panic, made me apologize, made me beg for him to understand. Now? I felt nothing but a vast, cool silence. His attention had always been the most expensive thing on the menu. He saved it for investors. He saved it for his “promising” assistant. The late-night texts, the birthday surprises, the “business trips” that included spa days… There was never any budget left for me. I looked him in the eye and nodded. “Yeah. All my friends are married. I want to have a family.” I walked past him into the bedroom. On the nightstand sat a bridal magazine from six months ago. The headline screamed: The 3-Month Countdown: A Bride’s Guide. I had bought it excitedly. He had seen it, said “What’s the rush?” and I had never opened it again. Lying in the dark, my phone buzzed. A text from Becca. You up? I can’t sleep. I’m so angry thinking about that girl’s face. What is WRONG with Gary? What was wrong? Nothing. Or everything. Some flowers just don’t bloom, no matter how long you water them. Becca typed again: Remember our pact? One week apart. Who knew your guy would be such a block of wood? You catch the bouquet and he still doesn’t get it? It’s been eight years, not eight weeks! Whatever. I give you a pass this time. You can break the pact. My fingers hovered over the screen. I typed: Babe, when have I ever broken a promise to you? Gary moved into the corporate apartment near his office the next day. He claimed my “wedding hysteria” was suffocating him and he needed peace to work. Good. It gave me the space to breathe. I handled everything in silence. I listed our condo—the one we bought together but was solely in my name because his credit was tied up in the business back then—on a real estate app. The afternoon I handed the keys to the agent, I was clearing out the last of the junk mail when I found a project file Gary needed. I hesitated, then decided to drop it off. The door to his corporate apartment was closed, but I could hear laughter inside. I raised my hand to knock, but a familiar female voice floated through the wood. “Gary, stop, I feel terrible! I didn’t mean to catch the bouquet. Now everyone in the Slack channel is making jokes. They’re asking if we’re…” “You have to clarify it in the group chat, or I’ll never be able to show my face in the breakroom again!” My hand froze in mid-air. Before Gary could answer, one of his frat-boy business partners laughed. “Come on, Paige. Do you really want him to clarify it, or are you fishing to hear him say something else?” Laughter followed. Flirty, knowing laughter. “Stop teasing her,” Gary’s voice cut in. It was warm. Indulgent. “Don’t worry about it, Paige. People talk. They’ll forget in a week.” They’ll forget in a week. The memory hit me like a physical blow. Two years ago, I went to his office to drop off lunch. He had hugged me, forgetting where we were. A junior analyst saw us. Within an hour, Gary had sent a company-wide memo regarding “professional conduct” and clarifying that visitors should not be mistaken for partners. He told everyone not to misunderstand. I had understood then. I stopped visiting. My fingertips went cold. He didn’t hate office romance. He hated being seen with me. A woman who offered no strategic value to his empire. Another voice inside the apartment spoke up. “Speaking of… Gary, how did you handle the Nora situation? I actually got a digital invite this morning. Is she serious?” Silence. Then Gary chuckled. It was a dry, hollow sound. “Let her have her moment. I spoil her too much usually. She needs to learn that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “Damn,” someone laughed. “So you’re really not going?” Gary didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Then, a hesitant voice: “Gary, are you sure about playing chicken? You guys have been together forever. We’ve all been waiting for that wedding…” The voice dropped lower. “Unless… you have other plans? Maybe… a certain Ms. Paige?” “Mr. Reynolds!” Paige squealed, her voice dripping with artificial shock. “Don’t make jokes like that! Gary knows… he knows what he’s doing.” She said the last part softly, intimately. Gary didn’t correct them. A low ripple of laughter went through the room. “Honestly,” another guy said, “Gary’s a saint. Eight years? I would have bailed ages ago. Nora’s great, but what does she actually bring to the table? Paige here is sharp, she’s in the trenches with us…” “Oh, stop it!” Paige giggled. The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off, plunging me into darkness. I placed the file on the doormat and nudged it until it slid halfway under the door. Then I turned around and walked away.

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In all of the Harbor, everyone knew that Elena and I were a package deal—two souls bound by a single, knotted cord of fate. Thirty years ago, during the Great Dock Riots, she took a blade to the spine for me. In return, I had a rusted rebar rod driven through my abdomen, pinning me to the concrete while the world burned around us. We crawled out of that pile of corpses together, and from the ashes of that night, we built the Iron Covenant. For three decades, we had no children. She was my only kin, my only blood. She used to tell me that God didn’t give us children because He was afraid we’d give our lives away to someone else. He wanted us to keep all that fire for each other. I believed her. Until my fiftieth birthday, when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private chapel she had maintained for thirty years—the place where she supposedly kept a “perpetual flame” burning for my protection. The scent of expensive sandalwood was choked by the musky, unmistakable stench of sex. A boy young enough to be my son looked up from her embrace, his eyes wide and startled. In the moment our gazes met, I felt a sickening jolt of vertigo. It was like looking at a ghost. He was the mirror image of me—young, clean, and terrifyingly innocent. Elena didn’t flinch. She calmly pulled his shirt over his shoulders, shielding him. Her eyes held no guilt, only the cold, flat indifference of a woman who had let time erode her soul. “Silas,” she said, her voice steady as stone. “You’re getting old. Don’t let your temper get the better of you.” I smiled, a slow, jagged thing. I reached behind my back and drew the pistol from my waistband, pressing the cold muzzle directly against her forehead. “My temper is fine, Elena,” I whispered. “That’s why today, I’m only killing one of you.”

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Four years. That’s how long I’d been with Miles. He was all sharp angles, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thoroughly glacial temperament. He had ruthlessly rejected an endless parade of women who threw themselves at him, his public excuse always the same: I have no interest in romance. I’m only focused on my research. I was the only one who didn’t take the hint. Eventually, the entire campus knew: Harper was an idiot, trailing after Miles like a lost puppy day in and day out. I remember the day it all culminated. It was pouring. After my nth rejection, I slipped and wiped out right into a muddy drainage ditch. I crawled out looking like a drowned rat and slumped against the wet hedges by the science building. I pulled out my phone and called my best friend, Stella. “Oh my god, he’s just…” I wailed into the receiver. “Lose my number,” Stella replied, and hung up. … The next morning, I was the top trending topic on the university’s anonymous forum: A Day in the Life of a Hopeless Romantic. Attached were several photos, including a spectacularly pathetic shot of me sitting by the curb, drenched in the rain. There were thousands of comments underneath: Pretty face, absolutely zero brains. Hey gorgeous, consider me instead! I can… Beauty paired with literally anything else is a killer combo, but sadly, she’s got nothing else going on upstairs. But nobody saw it coming. Through sheer, unadulterated persistence, I actually landed the ultimate prize. The problem was, not every prize is exactly what you bargained for. After Miles and I got together, he rarely smiled, and he was always, invariably, busy. I’ve always been someone who craves noise and life. Stella used to drag me to every party in the city, but then she and the rest of our circle started coupling up, settling down. That left me in a relationship that felt dangerously close to being a widow. He didn’t show up on my birthday. He had been bogged down with a massive field project and had essentially been MIA for an entire month. I bought a cake anyway. I sat in the quiet apartment, mentally counting the minutes, my chest tight with the stubborn, foolish hope that he might make it home early. The second the clock struck midnight, I made a wish to the empty room and blew out the candles myself. Miles came home hours later. It was raining again. He stood in the entryway, radiating the damp cold of the storm, the shoulder of his jacket entirely soaked through. I broke up with him. I had a million reasons loaded in the chamber, but looking at his exhausted, emotionally detached face, the words just died in my throat. Honestly, he wasn’t terrible to me. Stella always told me I was self-sabotaging. I couldn’t deny it. But I also couldn’t stomach the sudden, month-long disappearances. I was left alone to work, to wander the city by myself. Whenever I sent him a text buzzing with good news, it vanished into a void. Occasionally, I’d get a sterile reply hours later: Busy. Let’s talk when I’m back. When I was upset, I was always guarding a phone that wouldn’t ring, dialing his number over and over just to stare blankly as it went straight to a dead-end voicemail. I began to deeply question myself. Why had I chased him so blindly back then? What was the point of all this? “I deserve better.” That was the only reason I managed to articulate. I sounded like an insatiable, demanding girlfriend. Miles stood there in the quiet apartment. He listened to me, was completely silent for a long moment, and then simply said, “Okay.” The night we broke up, I threw every single memento of our relationship into the dumpster. That included a Prada crossbody bag, the strap of which I had accidentally ripped off while frantically using it to bludgeon a cockroach to death. I got black-out drunk that night. The next morning, battling a skull-crushing hangover, my phone rang. Stella told me he was getting married. Running on pure, chaotic adrenaline, I dragged my hungover, disheveled self straight to the front doors of The Ritz-Carlton. Stella was trailing right behind me, tugging desperately at my arm. “Harper, please do not do anything crazy. It’s the man’s wedding day…” It was a big day, sure. But whether it was going to be a happy one was entirely up for debate. I calmly handed over my cash gift envelope at the reception desk and took a seat in a dimly lit corner. I wanted to see exactly what kind of blind, delusional woman had agreed to marry him! The soaring notes of the wedding march swelled through the ballroom. The bride and groom made their grand entrance. I saw the groom’s back. He looked… a little heavier. Wow, leaving me must have done wonders for his mental health, I thought bitterly. It’s barely been a day and he’s already gained weight. Thankfully, the orchestra was loud enough to drown out the sound of my sobbing. God, I loved him so much. Even knowing he had seamlessly replaced me—probably cheating on me while we were together—I still couldn’t let him go. Stella shoved a cloth napkin over my mouth to muffle my wailing. The tragic, suffocating aura of my grief seemed to infect everyone at our table. A few of the guys sitting next to me even had red-rimmed eyes. That was the exact moment I realized the table we were sitting at had a small placard that read: Ex-Girlfriends. I sat there, looking like a complete trainwreck, watching them pledge their lives to each other. Watching them exchange rings. Watching them kiss. I felt like I had fed the best years of my youth to a stray dog. Seeing an opening during the dinner service, I decided to make the most of it. I pulled out photos of myself on my phone and started taking shots with every single person at the table, trading war stories and pouring our hearts out. By the time the newlyweds began making their rounds for the toasts, I had mostly pulled myself together. I wanted to see the look on his face. Let’s see how he handles a table full of ghosts from his past. The bride floated over, champagne flute in hand, a perfect, practiced smile plastered on her face as she made introductions. Then her eyes landed on me, and the smile completely froze. I let out a cold, sharp laugh. I extended my hand. The words, Hi, I’m his ex, were already locked and loaded on the tip of my tongue. Suddenly, the bride dug her manicured nails brutally into the groom’s arm. Her words hissed out through gritted teeth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any exes?” The groom whipped his head around. For a split second, our eyes locked. Who the hell is this? Where is Miles? This guy was a little stockier. His features lacked the sharp, striking intensity of Miles’s face. He looked… softer. But the resemblance was uncanny. The immediate, sobering realization hit me: I crashed the wrong wedding. Suddenly, someone seized my wrist, yanking me hard out of my chair and off to the side. A chillingly familiar, calm voice drifted over me. “What exactly are you doing here?” I blinked stupidly, tilting my head up to meet Miles’s quiet, dark eyes. He was wearing a sharp, tailored suit. Pinned to his lapel was a boutonniere identifying his role—Brother. A brother. A twin brother. The groom was his twin brother! … This was entirely too absurd. Stella has terrible vision. First thing tomorrow, I am booking her an appointment with an optometrist. A few minutes later, Miles dragged me up to the hotel’s rooftop terrace. I was standing there in a little black slip dress, my hair an absolute rat’s nest, eyeliner tracks streaming down my face like war paint. I sniffled loudly, the tears flowing like a river. “They told me you were getting married!” I still lashed out at him anyway. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a twin?!” Miles pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. When I refused to take it, he let out a heavy sigh and stepped in to wipe my face himself. I completely lost my grip on reality, my voice cracking. “Did you ever even plan on marrying me?! What the hell was I to you?!” Since my Prada bag was ruined, I had brought a much smaller, cheaper clutch. I started whacking it against his chest. It probably felt like a mosquito bite to him. “Stop moving.” He grabbed the little clutch out of my hand, his tone shifting into that cold, commanding register I knew too well. “Settle down.” That only made me cry harder. I shoved a finger aggressively against his lips, furious. “Don’t you talk! Let me finish!” “Do you want to get back together?” Miles cut right through my hysterics, taking the lead. I stared at him, hiccuping through a sob. For a long second, the silence hung heavy before my utter lack of backbone betrayed me. “…Yes.” “But…” My voice wavered, thick with tears. “Can I get my cash envelope back? I don’t even know your brother…” As we walked out of the hotel lobby, the humiliation began to set in, burning hot under my skin. Miles had asked me how much I put in the envelope. “Five hundred bucks,” I muttered. He immediately Venmoed me the money. But this whole transactional dynamic made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. My dramatic streak flared up again. I instantly declined the transfer and insisted, stubbornly, that I needed my actual physical cash back. Miles humored me. He walked back inside with me to track it down. At the reception table, my envelope stuck out like a sore thumb—it was absurdly thick compared to the others. I spotted it instantly and lunged for it. But Miles was taller, his reach longer. He pressed his hand down on the envelope right over my shoulder, picking it up before I could. “You’re too good to me,” he remarked dryly. Then, he flipped the envelope over. I watched the array of complex emotions flicker across his normally stoic face. One eyebrow arched up as he read the messy scrawl on the back, pronouncing every word with agonizing clarity: “Miles is a piece of shit.” I ducked my head, though my petty streak wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Well, you are a piece of shit,” I mumbled. He spoke with excruciating slowness. “Every word is worth its weight in gold, I see.” I tilted my head up, my little clutch knocking rhythmically against my shin. I watched as Miles calmly pocketed the envelope. My eyes went wide. “Are you seriously that broke?!” Miles leaned down, plucking the clutch from my grip with infuriating ease. “Are you done insulting me?” “No.” He nodded. “That’s why I’m keeping it. Consider it compensation for being called a piece of shit.” I realized I’d been backed into a rhetorical corner and jumped up, trying to snatch it from his pocket. “I wasn’t finished yelling at you!” Miles held the envelope high out of my reach, then suddenly dipped his head, pressing a firm kiss to my lips. “Go ahead. Keep yelling. I’m listening.” Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but my ears betrayed me, burning bright red. “You can’t just bully me because I’m not as articulate as you,” I said, my voice thick with lingering tears. This time, Miles actually laughed—a rare, entirely unapologetic sound—and took me home. His apartment looked exactly the same as the day I left. It was a disaster zone. Miles clearly hadn’t even bothered to clean up. My fuzzy pink slippers were still sitting exactly where I’d left them on the shoe rack in the entryway. My rabbit-eared mug was sitting on the coffee table. The half glass of milk I’d left in it was gone, the mug scrubbed impeccably clean. My silk nightgown was draped haphazardly over the arm of the sofa—it must have been pulled straight from the dryer and never folded. I stood rooted to the spot in the entryway, feeling completely numb. Miles broke the silence. “Have you eaten?” I hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. Now that the adrenaline and the crying had burned off, I was actually starving. But we had literally just been in the middle of a screaming match. My pride wouldn’t let me just say yes. Instead, I became his shadow, following him around the apartment. Wherever he went, I went. Right outside the bathroom door, Miles stopped dead in his tracks. He shot me a cold look over his shoulder. “Care to join me?” I snapped out of my daze and scrambled backward a few steps. Miles leaned down so we were perfectly eye-level. His gaze was sharp, unyielding. “Harper, if you’re going to keep throwing these little tantrums, I don’t mind finding a different room for you to throw them in.” I caved instantly. “I’m hungry,” I mumbled. “Who’s hungry?” I turned my head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I… I’m hungry.” Whatever happened, I refused to die on an empty stomach. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Miles’s mouth. He straightened up. “Wait here.” People always said I was domestically useless. I couldn’t boil water if my life depended on it. After Miles and I started dating, I had a sudden burst of inspiration one afternoon. I bought all these ingredients and somehow managed to put together a massive, elaborate dinner for him. I rested my chin on my hands, beaming, and asked him how it was. Miles took one sip of the tomato bisque. He looked at me and said, “It’s good. Never make it again.” Right then and there, I decided Miles was the one. He was gorgeous, in incredible shape, cooked like a chef, and treated me well. Once we got married, this man would be entirely mine. Who could have predicted he’d just vanish for a month like a ghost? Did he even want to marry me? Stella told me I was nothing more than a convenient distraction to him. But doesn’t a distraction deserve to have dreams too? As we ate the meal he threw together, I kept stealing glances at him. I nudged his knee with my foot under the table. His chopsticks paused mid-air. “Do you want to die now, or wait until you’re full?” I’d prefer neither, honestly. “Did you… did you ever actually think about marrying me?” I knew it was an incredibly awkward question to drop out of nowhere, but I asked it anyway. “If you want to get married, we can. When?” I had played out a hundred different responses in my head. That was the absolute last thing I expected him to say. I sucked in a sharp breath, covering my mouth with both hands. “Wow. What a massive surprise.” Miles watched my theatrical performance with utter, deadpan indifference. Feeling slightly foolish, I dropped my hands and bit down on my spoon. “You’re supposed to propose first. There needs to be a ring, at the very least. And we have to meet the parents…” Miles set his chopsticks down. “…And we need to pick a honeymoon destination.” Miles stood up from the table. “…A villa by the ocean.” Miles walked around the table and scooped me up into his arms in one fluid motion. I shrieked, instantly throwing my arms around his neck to steady myself. Miles pinched the back of my neck lightly, right at the pressure point, like handling a unruly kitten. “Keep dreaming. You can have all of that when you’re asleep.” “No! Let me finish! Miles, you never listen to me!” He carried me straight into the bedroom, kissing me to shut me up, spinning us around before dropping me onto the mattress. Miles’s mattress was notoriously firm. Every time I slept on it, I woke up feeling bruised. I kicked my legs in protest. “I am not laying on the bottom!” Miles stopped. He looked down at me with that infuriatingly stoic expression. “A firm mattress is essential for spinal alignment.” “My spine is fully aligned! I’m done growing!” Miles lowered his gaze slowly to my neckline. “Debatable.” Without entertaining another word of protest, he pressed me down into the sheets. I obviously wasn’t going down without a fight. “This is psychological manipulation!” Miles casually pointed to the constellation of scratches and faint bite marks already littering his collarbone and neck. “If this is manipulation, I must have manipulated an absolute feral cat.” With that, he flipped us over, dropping onto his back and giving me exactly what I wanted. Even then, I was still utterly exhausted by the end of it. At first, I had the energy to be wild and combative, but it didn’t take long before I was completely quiet. Life got happy again after Miles came back into the picture. He was just as busy as before, but now he spent the vast majority of his day working from his laptop at the kitchen island. I constantly tried to bridge the gap and find common ground. One day, I leaned over his shoulder, stared at a ridiculously complex architectural blueprint, and gasped, “Oh my god! It looks exactly like Hello Kitty!” He very gently picked me up, carried me into the bedroom, and we didn’t emerge for two hours. I learned my lesson. I rarely dared to interrupt his working hours after that. One lazy afternoon, I was curled up on the couch rewatching an old, tragic early-2000s romance movie. I had cried my way through half a box of tissues. I sniffled, turning my head to look at Miles, who was laser-focused on his screen. “Do you love me?” Miles, the man who had agreed to marry me without batting an eye, actually hesitated. He peered over the top of his laptop, the wire-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He looked at me with an intense, deadly serious expression. “Harper, do you even know what love is?” I felt completely blindsided. We’ve been dating for years, and you’re dropping this question on me now? Was that supposed to be an insult? I padded over barefoot, leaned down, and planted a loud, wet kiss right on his thin lips. I looked him dead in the eye and said with absolute conviction, “I love you.” Miles just shook his head. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close, but didn’t say another word. I started overthinking everything. “Is it possible I don’t actually love him?” When I floated the theory to Stella later, she rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck in the back of her head. “You think what you feel is love? Please. You’re just thirsty. You’re obsessed with his body and the fact that he cooks for you. I’m not trying to insult you, but Miles literally keeps you fed and pampered like a house cat. What have you ever actually done for him?” I scowled, defensive. “I… I… I let him kiss me! I hug him! I give him—” “Exactly. You’ve never put any actual emotional labor into it. Go home and seriously reflect on your life choices.” That evening, I got caught right in the middle of rush hour traffic. Stella and I were sitting in the back of an Uber, casually gossiping. As we went through a busy intersection, a sedan blew a red light. Our driver swerved, couldn’t clear it in time, and slammed hard into the guardrail. The impact caused a massive pile-up behind us. The force of the crash nearly knocked my soul straight out of my body. By the time we made it to the ER, Stella realized her phone was gone. She panicked and borrowed mine to call her family. I was left sitting alone on a crinkly paper bed in an examination room, letting a nurse clean and bandage a nasty gash on my forehead. When I finally wandered out to the hallway, I heard Stella was stuck in line at the billing department. I just sort of aimlessly paced the corridor. A gurney went flying past me, a swarm of doctors shouting about a code blue. A second later, a voice rang out over the chaos. “Family of Harper!” “Here!” I yelled back. “And what is your relation to the patient?” the nurse asked the man standing at the desk. The man didn’t miss a beat. “I’m her husband.” The voice sent a shock down my spine. I whipped my head around. Miles was standing at the nurses’ station, his face entirely devoid of color. “Alright, I just need you to verify some information for me.” My brain was still scrambled from the crash, but all I registered was the word husband. Something visceral slammed against my ribs, desperate to break free. Without thinking, I practically skipped toward the desk, chirping loudly, “Husband!” Miles froze at the sound of my voice. He snapped his head around, his eyes locking onto me instantly. The moment he saw me, his eyes went pitch black. He closed the distance between us in three massive strides. I opened my mouth to say, How did you know I was here? Before I could get a word out, Miles grabbed me by the arms, dragging me flush against his chest. A second later, a torrential downpour of pure fury unleashed on me. “Where the hell is your phone?! You’re in an accident and you don’t call me?! You just wait until I track you down?! What are you doing wandering around a massive hospital by yourself?!” I was too stunned to speak. My own parents had never spoken to me with that kind of terrifying, commanding intensity. Miles just had. My bottom lip jutted out. The terror and shock I had been suppressing since the crash suddenly bubbled over. It mixed with a sudden, overwhelming wave of grievance, turning instantly into hot tears that streamed down my face. God, I had been so terrified. After the crash, people were screaming in the street, some drivers were physically fighting. I had just stood there shivering on the side of the road, holding my bleeding forehead, terrified the paramedics wouldn’t see me and would just leave me behind. Miles’s shirt smelled exactly like the floral laundry detergent I always bought. I buried my face in his chest, wiping my snot on his shirt, and mumbled into the fabric, “Miles, please stop yelling at me. I was so scared.” Miles stopped breathing for a second. His massive hand slowly came up, resting heavy and warm against the back of my head. “When did the doctor say you need the dressing changed?” “The 8th.” Because of the concussion and the stitches, I had to take sick leave. I didn’t have to go back to my job at the preschool for an entire week. The director called to check on me, telling me I worked too hard anyway and that I’d get full paid time off. I completely morphed into a couch potato. Between the lingering headaches and my general lack of energy, all I did was sleep. I didn’t know if I was imagining it, but Miles seemed to be sleeping a lot more too. He’d pull me into his arms, and we’d sleep from noon straight through until the sun went down. One night, Stella sent me a link. I opened it to find a Cosmopolitan-style article: 99 Ways to Capture Your Boyfriend’s Heart. Since I got you yelled at by Miles the other day, consider this playbook my apology. I had always thought things like this were stupid. I mean, I was adorable. How could he not be obsessed with me? But then I remembered yesterday, when Miles had looked me dead in the eye and asked, Do you even know what love is? A dark cloud of doubt settled over me. Maybe Miles really didn’t love me the way I thought he did. Time to put in the work! Rule 1: Cook for him. Absolutely not. Pass. Rule 2: Take an interest in his hobbies. Find common ground. Right. Looking for Hello Kitty in architectural schematics. Pass. Rule 3: Never joke about breaking up. Too late. Pass. Rule 4: Be gentle with him. I glanced over at his nightstand. The cash envelope from the wedding was still sitting there, my jagged handwriting screaming Miles is a piece of shit in black ink. Pass. Rule 5… I ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, my phone was placed perfectly on the nightstand, and Miles was sitting in the armchair next to the bed, reading. I wiped a trail of drool from my chin and reached across Miles to grab my phone. My arm blocked his view of the book. Miles sighed heavily. “If you’re planning on putting any of those ‘tactics’ from that article into practice, I highly recommend you don’t.” I froze, phone in hand. “Why?” Miles snapped his book shut and pulled me by the waist until I was flush against him. “Because applied to you, that list is essentially 99 Ways to Get Dumped.” I thought about it for a second, pulled my arm back, and deliberately tugged on the collar of his shirt. “You’re right. I think the direct approach is much more effective.” Miles looked down at me, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. His eyes were slowly darkening with heat. “Is your head feeling better?” he murmured, brushing a thumb lightly near my bandages. I tossed my hair over my shoulder, fully draped across his lap, grinning like an idiot. “Miles, let me take very good care of you.” He scoffed, completely ignoring my absolute lack of subtlety. In three swift motions, he stripped me down and dragged me under the covers. Early the next morning, I was still drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking when I heard Miles’s phone ring. He answered it briefly, then stepped out into the living room. My feminine intuition immediately sounded the alarm. Something was off. I padded out to the living room just in time to catch the end of the conversation. “Let’s find time to meet,” I heard a woman’s voice say faintly through the speaker. Miles was standing on the balcony, his back to me. “Alright. I’ll make a reservation.” He hung up the phone. When he turned around and saw me standing there, his expression was completely unreadable. I threw my hands up. “Do you have anything you want to share with the class?” Miles stared at me in silence for a long time before simply saying, “No.” Fine. Perfect. He was sneaking around having secret dinners with other women! That night, I went to a massive outdoor music festival with Stella and a few other girls. The heavy bass rattled my teeth, the chaotic, euphoric energy of the crowd washing over me. Stella leaned in close. “Where’s Miles tonight?” “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Thinking about the secret phone call made my blood boil, so I chose to just shut it out. I screamed the lyrics until my throat was raw. The festival didn’t wrap up until almost 1 a.m. Throughout the night, a handful of guys tried to hit on me, but Stella blocked them like a bouncer, flashing a brilliant fake smile. “Sorry, boys. She’s extremely taken.” My ego was through the roof. “See?!” I shouted over the noise. “I have absolutely no shortage of options!” Stella rolled her eyes. “With the way your brain is wired, unless you lock down someone rock solid, any random toxic guy could play you like a fiddle.” Stella’s fiancé, Colin, picked her up, and they were nice enough to drop me off right outside my apartment building. At this hour, the only thing open was the 24-hour convenience store on the corner. I pushed the glass door open, lingering by the feminine hygiene aisle for a minute, before catching the cashier giving me a sympathetic “I’ve been there” look. I pivoted hard, marching over to the refrigerated section. I grabbed two cartons of whole milk, a dozen eggs, and then, completely ignoring the cashier’s bewildered expression, pointed at a small bag of premium short-grain rice. “How much for this one?” He gave me an awkward smile. “Oh, that’s just a promotional giveaway.” I fluttered my eyelashes. The poor kid turned violently red. A few minutes later, I walked out of the store clutching my free bag of rice like a trophy. The lights in Miles’s apartment were completely off. I hadn’t expected him to be home anyway. Taking another woman out to dinner and lying to my face about it? He had another thing coming. The second he walked through that door, I was dumping him. I stepped into the pitch-black entryway. Before I could even reach for the light switch, a heavy body crashed into mine, spinning me around and pinning me hard against the reinforced steel of the front door. SLAM! The door rattled in its frame. The grocery bags slipped from my hands, everything crashing to the floor. “Ah! Mmm—” The hand I tried to use to grab my phone was suddenly seized and pinned firmly behind my back. “Harper. Where were you?” I froze instantly. It was Miles. He had been drinking. The sharp, bitter scent of alcohol hung heavy in the dark space between us. His massive frame pressed flush against mine. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath my ear, biting down with a possessive, punishing pressure. “Where. Were. You?” I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I slowly, cautiously wrapped my free arm around his waist. “Did you have a few drinks?” I asked softly. He kept his head buried in the crook of my neck, refusing to say a word. He seemed… incredibly upset. “Ah! Wait!” His hand slipped beneath the hem of my dress, his fingers finding the zipper with practiced, terrifying efficiency. “Miles! I’m exhausted! I don’t want to!” His hand stopped instantly. His breathing was ragged, hot against my skin. He went completely rigid. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with an icy, devastating bitterness. “Are you tired of playing with me?” “You used to just want my body, but now you don’t even want that, do you?” Playing? Playing?! Has he lost his damn mind?! He let out a hollow, mocking laugh, gripping my chin and forcing my face up, kissing me with an aggressive, desperate intensity. “What do you want to do then? Break up?” If this had been the old me, I would have thrown a massive fit and screamed, Yes! But inexplicably, my intuition kicked in. Every instinct screamed: Do not provoke the lion. You will not survive. I swallowed the venomous retort hovering on my tongue. Instead, I wrapped both arms securely around his neck, gently rubbing his back. “Did you eat dinner?” I asked softly. He stopped moving entirely. He stood frozen against me in the dark for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Four years. Four years, Harper, and this is the first time you’ve ever asked me if I’ve eaten.” Was that… the faintest trace of joy in his voice? It made me feel like an absolute monster. Now that I thought about it… he was probably right. “Well, did you eat? Don’t give me that attitude! If you’re hungry, use your words!” I snapped back, perfectly mimicking the stern tone he usually used on me. It felt incredibly validating. Miles answered instantly. “No.”

The day we buried my father, the grief was a physical weight that finally crushed me. I collapsed right there on the manicured grass of Arlington National Cemetery. When consciousness slowly trickled back, the scent of lilies and damp earth filled my lungs. Then, I heard the voices through the ajar door of the cemetery’s reception room. It was Carter. Carter Kensington and his father, a high-ranking senator. “Carter, with the Secretary of Defense gone, the Harper family has zero political capital left in D.C. Have you thought about your engagement to the Harper girl…?” The older man was cut off. Carter’s voice drifted in, low, gravelly, and entirely detached. “I know, Dad. It’s bad timing this week, but give it a few days. I’ll find a PR-friendly excuse to break it off. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the Croft family’s daughter anyway. This just accelerates the timeline.” His words were surgical strikes. They bypassed my skin and splintered right into my ribcage. And just like that, the bleeding heart I’d carried for him stopped beating. It went entirely, numbly cold. It was in that quiet, devastating clarity that I decided to accept the arrangement my late father had secretly orchestrated—a marriage alliance with Nathaniel Prescott, the heir to a massive political dynasty up in New York. Later that evening, my mother, Caroline, took my trembling hands in hers. Her voice was a fragile whisper. “The President called. Out of respect for your father, he’s authorizing a full Secret Service motorcade to escort you for the move. Do you have a preference for who heads the security detail?” “Let Carter do it,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We grew up together. I know he’ll get me there in one piece.” 1 My mother froze, staring at me as if searching for a fever. Tears immediately pooled in her exhausted eyes. “Mia, sweetie… are you still holding onto him? If you are, please don’t punish yourself like this.” I reached out, my thumb gently catching a tear before it could fall into her laugh lines. “I’m not a fool, Mom. I stopped caring about him the second I realized he never cared about me. Marrying into the Prescott family keeps the Harpers on the map. It ensures you’re protected here in D.C. It’s the smartest move we have left.” A knot seemed to loosen in her chest. She rubbed the back of my hand, exhaling a shaky breath. “Okay. If you’re sure. The Prescott representatives are waiting in the drawing room to finalize the date for next week. I’ll go give them our answer.” She stood up, smoothing down her black mourning dress. “Mom,” I called out before she reached the door. “Let’s keep Carter out of the loop on this. No need to give him a heads-up and invite unnecessary drama.” She gave me a helpless, weary sigh, nodded, and quietly closed the door. Once I was alone, a hollow ache bloomed in my chest. To say I felt nothing would be a lie. You don’t just erase a boy who took up the entirety of your teenage years. By mid-afternoon, I had our driver take me back to my father’s freshly covered grave. Dad used to rave about Nathaniel Prescott over Sunday dinners. A sharp mind, Mia. A good, steady man. Looking at the flowers piled on the dirt, I knew this would have made him proud. I sat there talking to the headstone until the D.C. sky bruised into shades of violet and gray. It was dark by the time the towncar pulled back into our Georgetown driveway. Parked idling by the gate was a sleek black SUV. Carter was already walking toward me, hands in his pockets, a devastatingly arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “Mia,” he said smoothly. “I just left your mother. I’ve come up with a flawless solution. A way for you to still have the life you were promised.” My heart stuttered. For a terrifying second, I thought my mother had cracked and told him about the New York arrangement. I forced my posture straight, locking my knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Carter closed the distance between us. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the expensive scotch and leather clinging to his jacket. Heat rushed to my cheeks, an involuntary betrayal of my body. Seeing the flush, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Vanessa Croft will be my wife on paper. But I’m going to set you up in a penthouse downtown. You can move in the same day she and I get married. I’ll even buy you the white dress. What do you say?” The heat instantly evaporated into a sickening, icy dread. It felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my lungs. I took a massive step back, staring at his smug, handsome face. “I say you’re out of your mind. It’s late. I’m going inside. Move, Carter.” But he didn’t take me seriously. He chuckled, stepping out of my way but maintaining that predatory gaze. “Mia, I broke the engagement. No one in D.C. high society is going to touch you now. We grew up together; I’m not just going to leave you out in the cold. My people are already drafting the trust fund papers for you. You’re going to be mine, one way or another.” He didn’t even wait for my answer. He turned, got into his SUV, and sped off into the night. Beside me, my family’s longtime driver brushed the gravel dust from his suit, muttering under his breath. “Thank God you aren’t marrying him, Ms. Harper. The staff here despises him. He acts like he’s the only man on earth who would want you.” I gave him a tired smile, told him to keep his voice down, and walked into my empty house. 2 Carter wasn’t bluffing. The very next morning, before I had even finished my coffee, a fleet of luxury delivery vans pulled into our courtyard. Movers in pristine uniforms began hauling in absurdly expensive, custom-made furniture and designer wardrobe boxes—all bearing the subtle logo of the Kensington family’s holdings. My mother looked out the window, her palms sweating. “Mia, the Prescott family’s wedding gifts are supposed to arrive any minute. If they cross paths… what do we do?” Before she could finish, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the grand foyer. Carter was already making himself at home on our velvet sofa. And sitting right beside him, draped in a Chanel tweed jacket, was Vanessa Croft. My mother opened her mouth to speak, but I squeezed her arm, stopping her. Carter caught the silent exchange. He stood up, offering a polite, practiced nod to my mother. “Caroline, there’s no need to thank me. The Kensingtons and Harpers have decades of history. I’m not going to let Mia become D.C.’s biggest tragic spinster. I talked to her last night. She’s going to move into the city property the same weekend Vanessa and I have our ceremony.” He glanced at Vanessa. Her smile was tight, but Carter looked absolutely thrilled with his own diplomacy. He patted the hand she had resting on his arm. “Caroline, Mia… Vanessa is incredibly understanding. She’s fine with the arrangement. She even insisted we buy your furnishings from the same Italian designers we’re using. You two are going to be great friends.” Vanessa shifted her weight, feigning grace, and walked over to take my hand. “Carter is right. We have to stick together, don’t we, Mia?” Thinking of the New York convoy arriving soon, my only goal was to get them out of my house before the collision. I plastered on a fake, compliant smile and nodded. Seeing that I wasn’t fighting back like last night, Carter’s ego inflated further. “The White House just gave me an assignment,” he boasted. “In three days, I’m heading up a security detail to escort some VIP bride across state lines. The second I get back, my mother is going to pick a date for the two of you to get settled.” My mother, catching my drift, smiled tightly and played along. Believing he had masterfully conquered the situation, Carter exchanged a few more pleasantries before leading Vanessa out the door. The moment they were gone, I stepped out onto the front porch. A group of wealthy D.C. socialites were walking their purebred dogs down our brick-lined street, their voices carrying over the wrought-iron fence. “…did you hear about the massive motorcade heading to New York? Someone is marrying into the Prescott family. I heard the engagement ring alone is worth a small country.” “They’re shutting down the interstate in three days for it.” One of them looked up, catching my eye. The gossiping smiles instantly vanished. “Keep walking, keep walking. Stay away from the Harper house. With the Secretary dead, they’re radioactive. Such a tragedy.” “I heard the Kensington boy dumped her. How embarrassing. Let’s cross the street.” They hurried away, pulling their dogs tightly against their designer leggings. These past few days had been a masterclass in human cruelty. But honestly? I didn’t care. The social exile worked in my favor. With no one paying attention to us, the massive Prescott family moving trucks slipped into our service entrance completely unnoticed. Sometimes, hitting rock bottom is the best camouflage you can ask for. 3 The next morning, the White House called. I dressed in a sharp, tailored blazer—the closest thing I had to my father’s formal uniform—and headed to the Oval Office. My stomach was in knots the entire drive. I kept wondering if Carter had pulled some string to sabotage me. When I was ushered into the room, the President was signing documents. He looked up, his expression softening, and walked around the Resolute Desk. “Mia. Your father gave his life serving this country. And now you’re moving up to New York to marry the Prescott boy. An alliance between our two greatest political families. Tell me, what can I do for you? Name it.” Hearing my father mentioned brought a sharp, stinging tear to my eye. I stood tall, though my voice wavered. “With my father gone, the Harper name isn’t what it was. My only fear is leaving my mother here alone, unprotected in this city.” His voice boomed, warm and commanding. “Done. In two days, you will leave D.C. with the security clearance and motorcade of a visiting head of state. And I will personally see you off from the Capitol steps. After that, I assure you, no one in this town will dare look down on your mother.” “Thank you, Mr. President,” I whispered, the crushing weight on my chest finally lifting. “That is all I could ever ask for.” Walking out of the West Wing, I felt like I could breathe again. Carter’s petty threats meant nothing now. But my relief was short-lived. Exiting the gates, I practically collided with Carter and Vanessa. Seeing me in my formal blazer, Carter leaned against the wrought-iron fence, a mocking grin on his face. “Well, well. Dressed up for the West Wing, Mia? Don’t tell me you went crying to the President because you aren’t happy with the penthouse I picked out.” Vanessa’s personal assistant, lingering behind them, scoffed. “As if complaining would do anything. Your dad is gone. The President doesn’t care about you anymore. My boss is being more than generous, and you’re just being ungrateful.” Vanessa gave her assistant a half-hearted scolding, but her eyes danced with malicious triumph. I was about to fire back when my eyes locked onto something in the assistant’s hands. She was mindlessly twirling a hand-braided paracord keychain. I had made that for Carter years ago. My fingers had bled weaving it. Now, it was a discarded toy for a stylist. Carter followed my gaze and cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Mia, it dropped in the car. Chloe just picked it up. She’s young, she was just playing with it.” He was a terrible liar. The cord was frayed and worn down. She’d been using it for weeks. Vanessa, sensing the tension, turned and snapped at the assistant. “Give that back immediately! Why are you touching trash anyway? We have a whole vault of jewelry at home!” She lunged to snatch it, but the assistant fumbled, dropping the keychain onto the pavement. Looking at it lying in the dirt, I remembered the nights I stayed up making it. A quiet, pathetic ache flared in my throat. I knelt down to pick it up. Just as my fingers grazed the cord, Vanessa’s red-bottomed stiletto slammed down directly onto my hand. She put her entire body weight into it. A blinding, white-hot pain shot up my arm. The heel dug into my bones, breaking the skin. I gritted my teeth, yanking my hand back with violent force. Because I pulled away so hard, Vanessa lost her balance. She shrieked, tumbling onto the concrete. “Carter! Oh my god, it hurts! I think my wrist is broken!” she wailed. I looked down at my hand. It was an ugly, bloody mess. Before I could even stand up, Carter’s shadow loomed over me, his voice dripping with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mia?! She was trying to help you get your stupid keychain back! If you didn’t want it, fine, but did you have to shove her? Do you really think she stepped on you on purpose? Could you not just endure it for one second?” I looked up at him. My hand was actively bleeding onto the White House pavement, right in his line of sight, and he was telling me to endure it because Vanessa took a clumsy fall. It was as if someone had taken a knife and dragged it slowly down my sternum. The sheer injustice of it forced hot, angry tears from my eyes. Seeing me cry, Carter’s tone softened slightly, pivoting to a patronizing lecture. “You have to learn to share my life, Mia. You need to fix this attitude if we’re all going to coexist. Go home. I’m taking Vanessa to the hospital.” He helped her up and walked away. A few steps down the sidewalk, Vanessa glanced back over her shoulder at me, a cruel, victorious smile curving her lips. 4 For the next two days, the gossip in our household staff was that Carter had spent every waking hour at the Croft estate, showering Vanessa with apologies and gifts. He didn’t have a spare second to bother us. It was a blessing. Under the radar, the rest of the Prescott family’s wedding gifts arrived, quietly filling our private storage. Then came moving day. I was fully dressed in a breathtaking, custom white gown, standing in my childhood bedroom. Just as we were about to leave, Carter suddenly barged into the house in his full tactical uniform. From the top of the stairs, I listened to him speak to my mother. “Caroline, I’ve got to run this detail for the White House. Tell Mia not to panic. The second I get back, I’ll move her into the city. Start packing her things.” My mother forced a smile, nodding politely until she managed to shepherd him out the door. As Carter walked out to the driveway, my favorite bodyguard, a guy who had been with our family for years, called out to him. “Commander Kensington! Big mission today?” Carter puffed out his chest. “Escorting some VIP bride out of state. The President authorized a presidential-level motorcade. Must be a cabinet member’s daughter. Don’t ask questions you don’t have the clearance for, kid.” Once Carter’s SUV pulled away, my bodyguard looked up at my window and shot me a wicked grin. “Ms. Harper, I would pay a million dollars to see his face in about twenty minutes.” He vanished around the corner. My mother helped me with my veil, and we slipped out the back. A private car whisked us to the secure staging area behind the Capitol building. Through the tinted windows of the Maybach, I could see Carter at the rear of the convoy, sitting tall in the lead security SUV, barking orders into his comms. Right on the dot, the President stepped up to the podium on the Capitol steps. His voice echoed across the plaza through the PA system. “Today, a daughter of D.C. travels to New York to join two of our nation’s greatest families. It is a profound honor to personally send off this brilliant young woman. May she and her husband have a lifetime of peace and prosperity!” Over the muffled radio chatter coming from the vehicles, I heard Carter’s voice over the open frequency. “Anyone get a visual on the bride? Who merits the President himself…” His voice cut out as the President’s booming announcement filled the air. “Please welcome the bride, daughter of our late, great Secretary of Defense… Mia Harper!” A shockwave of murmurs ripped through the gathered press and security detail. I lowered the tinted window just an inch. The wind caught the edge of my white veil, fluttering it against the glass. I looked back at the lead security SUV. Carter was staring right at my car. His face was the color of chalk.

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When we were six years old, the monsters who took us made a game of our survival. They told us one would be the voice, and the other would be the prop—a mute beggar to kneel on the city sidewalks and bleed sympathy from strangers. I dropped to the concrete, sobbing, begging them. “Please don’t hurt him! Let me do it. I’ll beg! I’ll bring back so much money, I promise!” In the end, it was acid. It burned a fiery, agonizing trail down my throat, and from that day on, my voice was nothing but a graveyard of sound. The day the police finally pulled us from that dark basement, Cole held me. His tears soaked into my collarbone, hot and desperate. He swore, his voice cracking with a boy’s fierce conviction, that he would protect me forever. That he would be my voice for the rest of our lives. Yet, years later, when the most popular girl in our high school framed me for stealing her diamond necklace, I found myself standing in the principal’s office, frantically signing, trying to explain my innocence. Cole didn’t defend me. He just looked at my trembling hands, his expression a mask of cool indifference. “She says,” he translated to the room, his voice perfectly level, “that she took it.” “She says she realizes now that she’s a thief, and she’s willing to apologize to Blair in front of the entire school.” 1 I stared at Cole, the air rushing out of my lungs. I waved my hands wildly, a harsh, panicked “uh” and “ah” tearing from my ruined throat. But the principal’s face had already hardened into stone. The disappointment radiating from the faculty felt like physical blows to my chest. I reached for a pen, desperate to write the truth, but Cole grabbed my arm and yanked me out into the fluorescent-lit hallway. He shoved me into a corner, his jaw tight with irritation. “If you stole it, just own up to it. Making up lies is just going to make everyone look down on you more.” But I didn’t steal it! I signed, the movements sharp and frantic, tears of absolute frustration threatening to spill over. “So what, Blair’s lying?” Cole sighed, a cruel, mocking edge creeping into his tone. “Stella, just because you’re disabled doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to bend over backward to cater to you.” My heart plummeted, hitting the floor of my stomach. The tears finally fell, hot and humiliating. Why? I looked at him, searching for the boy who had held me in the dark. Why don’t you believe me? When I walked back into the classroom, numb and hollow, I found my desk had been dragged to the very back of the room, isolated in the corner. “I’m not sitting next to a kleptomaniac. I don’t want to have to count my cash every time I go to the bathroom.” The girl who said it was standing next to Blair. They both looked at me with open, theatrical disgust. The room went dead silent. The whispers that followed were loud enough to be intentional. “The mute girl always looked so pathetic. Guess she’s got sticky fingers.” “Honestly, I feel bad for Cole. He’s been dragging around that dead weight for years.” “Well, you know disabled people. They’re always a little twisted in the head.” Cole was standing in the doorway. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. His face was a blank canvas. He looked like he hadn’t heard a single word. I lowered my head, silently shoving my notebooks into my backpack, and took my new seat in the corner. From that day on, I became a ghost in the hallways. No, worse than a ghost. People ignore ghosts. I was the school thief. The burden. The morally bankrupt mute. People threw crumpled paper at the back of my head. If I sat at a lunch table, the others would stand up and leave. When I raised my hand in class, boys in the back would mockingly wave their hands in fake sign language and snicker. Only Cole would occasionally step in. If someone blatantly tripped me, he’d offer a hand to pull me up. If someone poured chalk dust into my water bottle, he’d frown and mutter, “Alright, knock it off.” But the desperate, heart-wrenching protectiveness was gone from his eyes. All that remained was a heavy, suffocating blanket of obligatory pity, mixed with exhaustion. Whenever he did help me, Blair would magically appear, looping her manicured arm through his. “Come on, Cole, let’s go. Don’t waste your breath on her,” she’d coo. And Cole would turn and walk away with her. Leaving me kneeling on the linoleum, slowly picking up my scattered textbooks. I thought of the damp, rotting smell of the basement when we were six. I thought of the kidnapper’s belt lashing across Cole’s back. He had bitten his lip until it bled, refusing to cry out. I had thrown my tiny body over his, taking the hits, babbling nonsensically, my fingers making wild, frightened shapes in the air. I’ve got you, Stella, he had whispered into my hair, his tears burning against my skin. I’ll protect you. Always. The vow still echoed in my ears, but the words had turned to ice. 2 I spent three days suffocating in plain sight, a fish thrashing on dry land. The malicious glares, the whispers, the cruel pranks—they were killing me by a thousand tiny cuts. I had to clear my name. During the lunch hour, I slipped past the cafeteria and snuck into the security office. Mr. Henderson, the old guard who always smiled at me, was on duty. When he saw my frantic gestures and read the desperate plea I scribbled on his notepad, his eyes softened with a grandfatherly sadness. He didn’t ask questions. He just rolled his chair over to the monitors and pulled up the footage of the junior hallway from the afternoon the necklace went missing. Minutes ticked by. I stared at the screen so hard my eyes burned, my heart hammering against my ribs. And then, there it was. The classroom was emptying out. Blair lingered by the door, pretending to organize her tote bag. When the room was finally clear, she reached into her pocket, pulled out the silver chain, and swiftly shoved it deep into the front pocket of my backpack. She even smiled. A wicked, satisfied little smirk. It wasn’t me. It was never me. A tidal wave of euphoric relief and profound, agonizing vindication crashed through my chest. I started to shake. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, entirely unprompted. I pointed at the screen, looking at Mr. Henderson, letting out rough, broken sounds that were half-sobs, half-laughter. Mr. Henderson sighed heavily. He clipped the video file and transferred it to an old, battered flash drive. When he handed it to me, he patted my shoulder gently. I gripped the flash drive so tightly its plastic edges dug into my palm. It felt like a glowing coal. It was my weapon. My salvation. My immediate, undeniable instinct was to find Cole. I needed to run to him, to shake his shoulders and say, Look. I didn’t do it. She set me up. Even you were wrong about me. I practically sprinted toward the West Wing. Cole had detention duty today; he was supposed to be cleaning the science labs. The door to the chemistry lab was cracked open. I could hear the wet slosh of a mop and the loud, echoing laughter of the boys on the basketball team. I reached out to push the door open, but the words drifting into the hallway stopped me cold. They poured over me like a bucket of ice water. “Man, Cole, that was brutal,” one of the guys laughed. “The little mute is practically a pariah now. She just hides in the corner. Bet she won’t dare cling to you anymore.” “For real. Look at her, walking around like a kicked puppy, actually thinking you were gonna play her knight in shining armor forever. She’s a broken toy. What did she expect?” Their laughter was sharp, jagged glass in my ears. Then, I heard Cole’s voice. It was the voice I had memorized over a decade. The voice that had narrated my entire life. But right now, it sounded bored. Cold. Utterly inconvenienced. “She’s so damn loud. Always waving her hands around. Just looking at it exhausts me.” I heard the screech of a metal stool being kicked back. “Blair’s idea with the necklace was actually brilliant. I just rode the wave. Saves me from Stella constantly weaponizing that childhood trauma against me. She looks at me like I owe her my soul.” “Cole the savage! She definitely won’t have the guts to come near you now. Gotta hand it to Blair, that was a one-hit knockout.” “Hey, we should thank Cole for his generous sponsorship of the fake evidence!” …I couldn’t hear the rest. The hallway dissolved into a ringing, high-pitched static. The world narrowed down to Cole’s indifferent, careless words, looping endlessly in my mind. It wasn’t a sharp pain. It was a slow, agonizing flaying. So that was it. He wasn’t manipulated. He wasn’t blinded by Blair’s lies. He just thought the mute girl was annoying. A nuisance. An eyesore. And that totally oblivious, idiotic mute had been sprinting down the hallway, carrying a flash drive like a trophy, desperate to prove her innocence to him. Desperate to earn a shred of his guilt or an apology. How unbelievably pathetic. 3 I ran. I fled blindly until I collapsed in a forgotten stairwell, crying until my ribs ached and there was nothing left inside me but a vast, hollow crater. When I finally tried to leave, a shadow blocked the landing. It was Blair, flanked by two of her loyal disciples. She wore a sugary-sweet smile, but her eyes were venomous. “Well, well, Stella. Where are you rushing off to? Running away because you feel guilty?” I took a defensive step back, calculating a way around them. Before I could move, she lunged and snatched my backpack right off my shoulder. I threw myself forward to grab it back. “Ooh, she’s feisty today,” Blair mocked, sidestepping me smoothly. One of the girls beside her shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward. They closed in, pushing and herding me down the hall until we reached the abandoned girls’ bathroom at the end of the corridor—a place slated for renovation, plumbing shut off, completely dead. With a hard shove, I hit the tiled floor inside. Bang. The heavy wooden door slammed shut. The metallic clack of the exterior deadbolt sliding into place echoed like a gunshot. I scrambled to my feet, pounding my fists against the wood. I threw my entire body weight against it, but it didn’t even rattle. Panic, dark and suffocating, began to rise in my throat. “Save your energy,” Blair’s voice drifted through the thick wood, dripping with malicious glee. “Let’s play a little game, Stella.” I slid down the door, my knees pulling into my chest. The air was freezing. Outside, I heard the faint beep-boop of a phone dialing. Then, Blair’s voice, sickly sweet and whining: “Hey… Cole? Where are you?” She was calling him. I held my breath, my fingernails biting half-moons into my palms. “Yeah, just got out of practice… I miss you,” she purred. “Oh, by the way. Your little mute shadow tried to corner me again just now. She is so annoying.” My stomach free-fell. Through the phone’s speaker, Cole’s voice filtered through the wood, tinny and distorted. “She’s bothering you again? Just ignore her. She’s acting like a psycho.” “Cole…” Blair’s voice softened, testing the waters. “Tell me the truth. Did you ever, even for a second, have feelings for her? I mean, she did lose her voice for you.” The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Those few seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity. Against all logic, against all the shredded remains of my dignity, some pathetic, dying part of my heart waited for his answer. Then came his laugh. Short. Derisive. “Have feelings for her? Are you insane?” He paused, and when he spoke again, the sheer resentment in his voice made my blood run cold. “Honestly? Sometimes I think… if the kidnappers had just killed her back then, it would have been better. Just rip the band-aid off. Then I wouldn’t have spent the last ten years emotionally blackmailed, walking around like I owe her my life. I’m so sick of it.” He hesitated, then added, “But she’s stopped following me around. Leave her alone from now on, alright? You guys have been taking it a little far lately.” I didn’t hear whatever Blair said next. I didn’t hear the beep of the phone hanging up. There was only his voice, a drill boring directly into my brain, dragging out bloody, ragged chunks of my soul. If she had just died back then. The sacrifice that cost me my voice, my childhood, my entire identity—to him, it was a mistake. An inconvenience. He wished I had died so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. For ten years, my very existence had been a burden he was desperate to shed. My stomach convulsed. I dry-heaved over the cracked linoleum, gagging on nothing, hot tears blinding me. “Did you hear that, Stella?” Blair whispered right against the crack of the door. The triumph in her voice was absolute. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. “The game isn’t over yet,” she laughed softly. “Let’s test his loyalty.” I heard the clicking of a keyboard. She was using my phone. As she typed, she narrated out loud: “Cole… please help me. Blair locked me in the old bathroom in the West Wing. They’re kicking the door. I’m so scared. Please come…” She was impersonating me. Then, she pulled out her own phone. “Now, for my turn.” She recorded a voice note, her tone oozing seduction. “Cole, I suddenly miss you so much. Meet me at our usual spot? I’ll be waiting~” She knocked on the heavy wood. “So, Stella. Place your bets. Is your knight coming to rescue the little mute, or is he coming to meet me?” “I can’t wait to find out.” The staccato click-clack of her heels faded down the hallway, leaving behind a silence so deep it felt like the bottom of the ocean. I beat my fists against the door until my knuckles bruised purple. I screamed until my ruined throat bled, making only the sound of rushing air. Hours bled into one another. The stench of stagnant water and rust filled my nose. The cold seeped into my bones. I curled into a tight ball in the darkest corner, shivering violently, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps that never came. No one came. Once again, Cole had chosen to leave me in the dark. 4 I was hovering on the edge of consciousness when the muffled shout of voices finally broke through the walls. A blinding flashlight beam cut across my face, making me flinch. And then, my mother was there. She dragged me into her chest, her whole body violently shaking, while my father stood behind her, his voice a low, terrifying rumble: “Who did this?!” I was limp, a broken ragdoll in my mother’s arms. I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I couldn’t make a sound. I just let the tears fall into her coat. The principal and the head of the junior class were crowded into the narrow antechamber of the bathroom. “Stella, what exactly happened here?” the principal asked, his face pale. Leaning against my mother, I slowly, painfully raised a heavy arm. I pointed directly at Blair, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, her hands over her mouth in a picture-perfect display of shock. Every eye in the room snapped to her. Blair recoiled, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “Stella, how can you point at me? I was at the public library with the girls until six, and then I went straight home! You can ask them!” She looked at the teachers, her lip trembling. “I know Stella is angry with me because of the necklace situation, but I would never do something like this. You have to believe me.” Her two friends immediately stepped up. “Seriously, Stella. Just because you got caught stealing doesn’t mean you can just accuse people of kidnapping you.” The principal frowned, looking around. “Are there security cameras in this wing?” Mr. Henderson, standing by the door, shook his head. “Renovations. Wires were cut weeks ago.” No cameras. No witnesses. To the adults in the room, my trembling finger just looked like the vindictive retaliation of a disgraced thief. My mother was sobbing openly now. “Stella, baby, look at me. Was it her? Did she do this to you?” I opened my mouth to force out a sound, to recreate the mocking cadence of Blair’s voice, when the crowd parted. Cole walked in. Blair immediately launched herself at him, gripping his jacket sleeve. “Cole! Tell them! We were together yesterday evening, right? We were at the café going over the AP Physics study guide.” Cole looked at Blair’s wide, pleading eyes. Then he looked at me. He reached out and gently pushed my pointing hand down. His voice was gravelly. “Yeah.” “We were together after school. Around eight, I walked Blair home.” He looked down at me, his eyes dark. “Stella, I know you’re upset, but trying to ruin someone else’s life over a grudge isn’t the answer.” It was eight o’clock yesterday when Blair had locked the door. The boy I had loved, the boy I had traded my voice for, was providing an alibi for my abuser. The last fragile, fighting ember inside my chest was crushed into dust. We stared at each other. His eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands and signed to me—using the private, shorthand signs we had invented as children, the ones no one else knew. Let it go. Blair didn’t lock you in. Her friends did. I know it’s bad, but they are her only friends. Just forgive them, okay? He paused. His fingers were stiff, moving deliberately. If you do… we can be together. We can date. Even now. Even after the basement, the locker rooms, the isolation, the dark bathroom. He still looked at me and saw a stray dog. A creature so desperate for his affection that I would trade my own dignity for a pat on the head. I didn’t look at him again. I just buried my face in my mother’s coat and let her lead me out of the building. That night, in the safety of my own room, I wrote down everything for my parents. Every word. And I asked them to pull me out of that school immediately. In the brief interim before my transfer was processed, Cole started acting strangely. He would leave my favorite fruits on my desk. He chased off anyone who even looked at me sideways. When Blair tried to approach me, he physically blocked her, telling her to back off with a coldness I’d never seen from him. He was trying to compensate. To offer me an umbrella long after I had already drowned. … For reasons he couldn’t explain, Cole felt a creeping, suffocating unease settling into his bones. Maybe it was because Stella had been too quiet lately. The wrong kind of quiet. A chilling stillness, like the ocean drawing back before a tsunami. He felt like something terrible was happening right in front of him, and he was completely powerless to stop it. He emptied his savings account and bought a necklace. A real one. Delicate white gold and a small, perfect diamond. He reasoned with himself: Stella was just hung up on the necklace thing, right? If he gave her something real, something ten times better than Blair’s cheap jewelry, she would let it go. They could hit reset. They could go back to the way they were. He showed up to school earlier than he had all year. He slipped the velvet box into the back of her desk and sat in his chair, his leg bouncing, waiting for the moment she walked in and found it. First period started. The seat remained empty. A gnawing anxiety chewed at his stomach all morning. He couldn’t focus on a single word his teachers said. Finally, during homeroom, the door opened. But it wasn’t Stella. It was Mr. Harrison, their advisor. “Just a quick announcement, everyone. Stella has transferred to a new district. She won’t be joining us for the rest of the year.”

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My boyfriend took me to a cruise party, but a big storm hit, and both he and his female colleague fell into the water. Without hesitation, he jumped into the river, but swam further and further away, leaving me to be swallowed by the current. I was rescued on the riverbank, and when I woke up in the hospital the next day, I saw his colleague’s post on social media: “My first kiss was CPR! I’m so grateful for his life-saving grace, I have no way to repay him, what should I do?” Our mutual friends were all watching my reaction. No one expected me to comment: “Then repay him with your body! May you stay together forever!” 1 Two days. Forty-eight hours since the dark, freezing water of the harbor had swallowed me whole, and Connor hadn’t spared a single thought for me—his actual girlfriend. I had just hit Send on my comment on his coworker’s Instagram post when he finally broke his silence. His name flashed on my screen, and the moment I answered, his furious voice filled the sterile hospital room. “Madeline, this was a matter of life and death! Why do you have to make everything so damn toxic? Aren’t you exhausted from acting so insanely jealous all the time?” Before I could speak, he plowed on. “You know how to swim! Faking a drowning just for attention? It’s sick. If Isabelle hadn’t tried to grab you, she wouldn’t have been dragged into the water. Do you realize she almost died? You have absolutely no conscience!” I closed my eyes. Connor grew up on the coast. He’d spent his teenage summers as a lifeguard. How could he possibly fail to tell the difference between someone faking it and someone actually drowning? Furthermore, Isabelle hadn’t been reaching for me. She had been frantically trying to catch her dropping phone when she lost her balance on the yacht’s deck. “Connor, I lost the baby…” “Enough!” he roared. “There is a limit to your lying, Maddie. I know you’ve had your period the last few days! You cause a massive scene, run off to play the victim, and now you’re spinning this sick web? How can you be so vicious?” With that, over the faint sound of Isabelle coughing delicately in the background, he hung up on me. I spent five days in the hospital. I thought I’d be cleared to go home, but the doctor insisted my body needed another forty-eight hours of rest. It was only after Isabelle was given a completely clean bill of health that Connor finally decided to unblock my number. Where are you? Need to talk. For a decade, every time we fought, regardless of who was right or wrong, I was always the one to shoulder the blame. We were childhood sweethearts. I cherished our history so much that no matter how far he ran, I always stayed right behind him. I did it because, years ago, he’d kissed my forehead and told me I was his forever, and that I needed to hold on tight. Emotional exhaustion is a quiet killer. I had a strict rule: never let an argument last overnight. No matter how earth-shattering the fight, I would swallow my pride, process my hurt, and make peace with him by midnight. This was the first time I hadn’t bowed my head. And his response was to block me for five days straight. I only discovered I was blocked when my breakup text failed to deliver. I had stared at the little red exclamation point in shock, followed swiftly by a cold, hollow clarity. Loving someone so subserviently was a miserable, degrading way to live. He must have grown impatient waiting for a reply, because my phone buzzed with his call. “Why aren’t you answering my texts? You always reply to me the second I message you.” His utter sense of entitlement didn’t make me angry; it made me laugh. A dry, rasping sound. “You blocked me for five days, Connor. Why on earth do I owe you a quick reply?” Not blocking him in return was my final act of mercy. It was the last shred of dignity I was leaving this relationship. A nurse walked in to check my vitals, and the rustle of the blood pressure cuff tipped him off. “Wait, are you in the hospital too?” he asked, his tone shifting. “Yeah. I’ve been here since I fell in the water.” My deadpan response was met with a stunned, heavy silence on the other end of the line. “What… what do you want for lunch?” he finally stammered. “I’ll go pick something up and come see you.” I told him not to bother, but he stubbornly insisted on ordering from my favorite bistro downtown. Figuring he would get here faster than DoorDash, I gave him my room number and canceled the hospital meal I’d requested. Hours passed. I almost fainted from a hypoglycemic drop while waiting for him to show up. The night nurse, taking pity on me, warmed up her own packed dinner and brought it to my bed. Once the dizzy spell passed, I texted Connor to tell him not to worry about food anymore. True to form, the message was read, but left unanswered. I waited until night fell. He never came. I knew for a fact he wasn’t coming, because I saw Isabelle’s latest Instagram update. “Tried to treat my hero to dinner, but he insisted on taking over my kitchen. What kind of fairy-tale gentleman is this?” The attached photo was meticulously curated. Connor, wearing a floral apron, was stirring a pot on the stove, while half of Isabelle’s face was visible in the foreground, bathed in the warm, dreamy glow of the kitchen lights. The angle was perfect. He looked incredibly masculine and domestic. The whole picture radiated the cozy intimacy of a young couple in love. In that moment, lying in the sterile dark of my hospital room, I didn’t feel rage. I didn’t feel betrayal. It just felt… right. Like this was exactly who they were meant to be. A memory floated to the surface: Connor pulling me into his chest years ago, swearing he would cook for me every night, swearing he would take a bullet for me. Today, he hadn’t taken a bullet for me. And he certainly wasn’t cooking for me. I had simply expected far too much from a love that had already expired. 2 I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. I didn’t call Connor to demand why he had stood me up. Instead, I dialed the director of my medical board. Dr. Harrison didn’t even let me say hello before he started his pitch. “Madeline, please tell me you’re reconsidering. The slots for the UN Peacekeeping Medical Task Force are incredibly rare, especially for your trauma specialty. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deployment. Are you really going to walk away from it? Even if you want to settle down and have kids, you’re young! Putting it off for two years won’t hurt.” He paused, his voice softening. “Of everyone in our network, you are the absolute top candidate for this. The peacekeepers hold the line, and you stand beside them to save lives. Did you forget all the grand promises you made when you first became a doctor?” Dr. Harrison’s words hit me like a physical blow. How could I forget the vows I made to myself? Shame washed over me in a suffocating wave. When I discovered I was pregnant, I had voluntarily withdrawn my application for the task force. No matter how much Dr. Harrison pleaded, I refused to budge. At the time, marrying Connor and building a family was the absolute center of my universe. It was only when I was thrashing in the freezing currents, watching Connor swim toward Isabelle without a second’s hesitation, that I finally understood: I was never in his long-term plans. My hand instinctively dropped to my flat stomach. I felt so foolish it physically ached. I had traded my grand ambitions—my stars and my sea—for a man who once whispered that I was his whole world. I gave up my future for a dead-end love, and he had turned my sacrifice into a pathetic joke. “Madeline, tomorrow is the absolute final deadline,” Dr. Harrison pressed, still holding out hope for me. “If you let this go, are you absolutely sure you won’t regret it?” “Dr. Harrison,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been in days. “Please submit my name.” This relationship ended the moment I wasn’t his immediate choice. It was time to redraw the blueprint of my life. The dreams I had shelved were ready to breathe again. Thank God, it wasn’t too late. Perhaps the baby had sensed the profound unhappiness awaiting it and had chosen to spare us both. When I was finally discharged, the doctor noted that I was healing remarkably well. Connor arrived predictably late. The attending physician was going over my post-discharge instructions when Connor strolled into the doorway, his brow furrowing in irritation. “Isn’t this a bit dramatic?” Connor interrupted. “She spent a week in the hospital over a little dip in the harbor, and now she can’t even touch cold water at home? She’s not made of glass. Do we really need to go overboard?” The doctor blinked, taken aback, and looked at me. “Is this man your husband?” “No,” I replied smoothly. “Just an acquaintance.” The paperwork was already processed; I only needed my prescriptions from the pharmacy downstairs. Connor, his face darkening with annoyance, volunteered to go get them. “I assumed he was your husband,” the doctor muttered, watching him leave. “I was about to give him a serious piece of my mind.” I just smiled and let the comment fade into the air. I found Connor waiting for me in the main lobby, peering into the pharmacy bag with a look of supreme exasperation. “I thought you had some massive health crisis,” he scoffed, tossing the bag toward me. “You’ve had bad cramps before and been totally fine. You’re a doctor, Maddie. How are you acting this fragile over falling in the water?” I took the bag from him. I didn’t owe him a single syllable of explanation. “What did you want to talk about?” I asked flatly. “Let’s talk in the car.” Figuring a public breakup in a crowded hospital lobby lacked grace, I followed him to the parking garage. I walked to the passenger side, opening the door out of sheer muscle memory. Sitting right there on the leather seat was a tube of lipstick. It wasn’t mine. I shut the door, opened the rear door, and slid into the back seat. Connor’s face immediately turned thunderous. “What are you doing now? Stop throwing a tantrum and sit up front.” I pointed through the window at the passenger seat. “It’s common decency not to sit in a seat kept warm by another woman.” Connor followed my gaze, and his temper flared hotter. “Are you psychotic? That’s your lipstick!” “It’s Isabelle’s.” Women have an innate radar for lipstick shades. It was the exact gloss Isabelle had been wearing the night of the yacht party. “Isabelle doesn’t even wear makeup,” Connor fired back, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who always drags a makeup bag everywhere. There’s no way it’s hers.” Isabelle. Since when did he drop her last name and speak about her with such fond familiarity? With me, it was always my full name whenever he was annoyed. I spent an hour getting ready for him twice a week because I wanted to look beautiful for the man I loved. Did he really think Isabelle’s perfectly flushed cheeks and dewy skin were entirely genetic? Was that why I lost? Because he bought into her manufactured “effortless beauty” act? 3 I remained stubbornly in the back seat until he finally surrendered with a heavy sigh. “Maddie, it was pitch black out there,” he began, gripping the steering wheel. “It was chaos. When I jumped in, I couldn’t see you. So I went for Isabelle because I knew she couldn’t swim. It was pure instinct.” Instinct. His instinct was to save Isabelle. The deck lights from the yacht had illuminated the black water like a stadium. He had been mere feet away from me. If he could spot Isabelle thrashing yards away, there was absolutely no way he couldn’t see me. “Okay. You don’t need to explain,” I said evenly. “She’s your coworker. It makes sense that you saved her.” My total lack of emotion infuriated him more than screaming would have. “You’re still holding this against me? You’re so mad that I saved her life that you won’t even admit I’m your boyfriend to a random doctor?” “You blocked me,” I said quietly. “I took that as a breakup.” “Madeline! What do you want from me?!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. “Will you only be happy if I confess I’m sleeping with her? Is that what you want to hear? Fine! I’m Isabelle’s boyfriend! Are you satisfied now?” “I’m not doing anything, Connor. Who you choose to date is your business. It has nothing to do with me.” Connor practically climbed over the center console, looking like he wanted to physically drag me into the front seat. But right then, his phone lit up the dashboard. The caller ID read Isabelle. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering it. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll bring it to you right now,” he said softly. I didn’t need to hear her side of the call. I knew she was calling about the lipstick. He hung up and looked at me sheepishly via the rearview mirror. “I… I guess you have a similar color. I got confused.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to drop this off to her, and then the three of us can grab a nice dinner together.” I figured it would serve perfectly well as a breakup dinner, so I agreed. When Isabelle spotted Connor’s car pulling up to the curb, her smile was blinding. Her “no-makeup makeup” was flawless, making her look effortlessly radiant. She wore a flowing sundress that caught the breeze, giving her the aura of a delicate, untouchable fairy. She opened the passenger door with practiced familiarity. As she leaned in, her dress dipped just enough to showcase her cleavage. Connor’s eyes dropped to her chest. He froze for a split second before awkwardly darting his gaze away. Isabelle grabbed her lipstick, only then pretending to notice my presence in the back. “Oh! Maddie, you’re here too!” Her voice was sweet as syrup. “Let’s all get dinner tonight. Last time I tried to treat you guys to thank Connor for saving my life, he said you were too busy with work. I felt so bad when he ended up cooking for me instead. But since you’re free today, dinner is on me! We really need to clear up this silly misunderstanding.” She placed a delicate hand against her chest, feigning a look of distress that was perfectly calibrated to make a man want to protect her. I didn’t miss the brief, triumphant flicker in her eyes as her gaze swept over my much less spectacular figure. I had absolutely no desire to let a third party crash my breakup. Without a word, I opened my door, stepped out onto the pavement, and hailed a cab home. During the ride, Connor called me a dozen times. I ignored every single one. Then the text barrage began. I only cooked for her because she had a panic-induced asthma attack! I couldn’t just leave her. I took her to the clinic, and she insisted on buying me food. I didn’t want her stressing herself out, so I cooked instead. Why are you making a crime out of this? She fell in the water because she was trying to grab YOU! I cooked for her to thank her on your behalf! Why are you always so paranoid? You can swim. If I had ignored the girl who was drowning to check on you, I would be a monster. Can’t you just learn from Isabelle and be a little more understanding and gentle? Reading his messages drained the absolute last drop of my will to argue. He was so blinded by her act that he genuinely believed she fell in trying to save me. Yet, he refused to believe that I had miscarried his child. When exactly had this love rotted into something so vile? 4 That very night, I threw myself into preparing for the medical task force deployment. I wasn’t worried about the physical or psychological evaluations. My main hurdle was mastering the niche protocols—international crisis law, cross-cultural medical ethics, and triage in hostile environments. I had studied this material months ago, but I was a perfectionist. I needed to be over-prepared. I was so deeply immersed in my textbooks that I didn’t even hear the front door unlock. Though Connor and I had technically moved in together, I still maintained the lease on my own small apartment and spent most of my time here. “Madeline! Why aren’t you coming home?” I looked up, startled, not quite processing his anger. “This is my home.” “You know I mean my place. Our place.” “Why would I go to your place?” I truly didn’t understand his confusion. In my mind, the relationship was dead and buried. His lingering presence was just exhausting. His face hardened. He marched over to my dining table, his eyes snagging on a stack of paperwork I had left out. “What is this?” he demanded, snatching it up. I realized too late what it was. After filing my hospital insurance claims, I had absentmindedly left the discharge summary and billing reports on the table. I lunged to grab the papers back, but Connor held them out of my reach, his eyes scanning the medical jargon. His face went entirely pale, and then, slowly, a dark, terrible red crept up his neck. “Madeline!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “How could you not tell me something this huge?!” I pressed my lips together and stared at him, letting the silence stretch. I had planned to tell him I was pregnant at the yacht party. It was supposed to be a surprise. But before the words could leave my mouth, Isabelle and I were in the water. We locked eyes. It was clear he hadn’t connected the dots. The storm was still brewing in his gaze. “Just because I chose to save Isabelle instead of you,” he spat, his chest heaving, “you went behind my back and aborted our baby?” “I’ve told you,” I said softly. “You and Isabelle are completely innocent. She is just a coworker.” Connor was bracing for me to explode, to scream at him over the lost child. My total, chilling apathy hit him like a physical blow. It took the wind completely out of his sails. “Then why did you get rid of our baby?” he whispered, his anger giving way to a frantic confusion. I couldn’t bear the thought of my child’s memory being tainted by the idea that its mother didn’t want it. I looked him dead in the eye and stated the clinical truth. “I told you on the phone. I miscarried when I fell into the water.” Connor froze. It was as if the gears in his brain violently seized. The memory of my phone call—the one he had dismissed as a dramatic lie—finally slammed into him. The color completely drained from his face. “You’re saying… you lost it because of the fall? But you’re so fit. You know how to swim. How could falling in the water make you miscarry?” “Even Isabelle didn’t get hurt,” he stammered, his eyes darting wildly. “How could you possibly…” He trailed off. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He turned his head away, physically unable to look at me. If you know how to swim, you can’t get hurt. Was that the twisted logic he used to justify leaving me behind in the dark? I turned my back to him. I didn’t want to look at his face anymore. But he was desperate. He needed absolution. “Was it really an accident? From the water?” I picked up the glass of ice water from my desk and threw the contents squarely into his face. The water dripped off his nose, his chin, soaking his collar. “Are you awake now?” I asked. Ever since Isabelle entered the picture, his faith in me had constantly wavered. He questioned everything I said. He knew, better than anyone on earth, that I was not a liar. I had never lied to him in our thirty years of knowing each other. Yet, for Isabelle, he painted me as a manipulative liar time and time again. When I told him Isabelle had ulterior motives, he called me paranoid. When I pointed out her calculated innocence, he called me toxic. Now, I understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe me. He simply chose to blind himself because he wanted to buy what she was selling. The boy who swore he loved me had failed the ultimate test. He didn’t take a bullet for me. During one of our many fights over his blurry boundaries with Isabelle, I had been crying hysterically. He had thrown a glass of cold water in my face to “calm me down.” Now, Connor let the water drip from his eyelashes, his jaw tightening as he stared at me. “What do you want from me?!” he yelled, his voice thick with defensive panic. “You only lost a pregnancy! If I hadn’t saved Isabelle, I would be responsible for a dead body!” 5 The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had crossed a horrific line. He recoiled from his own cruelty, quickly looking down at my medical charts to mask his panic. Scanning the page, he let out a loud, forced breath of relief. “Well, at least it was early. Barely over a month. It didn’t do permanent damage. You’re healthy, Maddie. You’ll bounce back quickly.” I stared at him. I literally rubbed my ears, wondering if my brain was misfiring. You only lost a pregnancy. Was the baby inside me not a living thing to him? Connor had always talked about wanting kids. He used to hold me in bed and whisper about the family we would build. I thought, at the very least, he would grieve. I thought he would feel an ounce of agony for the child we lost. I was incredibly naïve. He didn’t love me anymore. Why would he love a piece of me? “Don’t be too sad,” he rambled, stepping closer, his tone adopting a sickeningly patronizing comfort. “We’re young. Once your body heals up, we’ll start trying again. We’ll just… write this one off. It wasn’t meant to be.” His words weren’t comforting. They were cold, serrated blades dragging across my exhausted heart. “Connor,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “If you had pulled me out first, I might not have lost it.” When I fell, the impact threw me against the hull of the yacht. I started bleeding almost immediately, though the pain didn’t peak until later. Another memory fractured his composure. “God,” he whispered, his eyes widening in horror. “I heard someone on the deck screaming about blood in the water. I… I thought it was Isabelle.” I didn’t even have the energy to call him out on the absurdity of that. When the cramps hit me in the freezing water, my muscles locked. I couldn’t swim. I thrashed and swallowed water and screamed for help, just like anyone drowning. How did he not see I was going under? How did he not hear my voice? Or was Isabelle’s performance simply louder? More delicate? More worthy of saving? I remembered a wave crashing over my head, pushing me under. Through the stinging salt water, I saw Connor hauling Isabelle onto the illuminated swim platform of the yacht. Then the current took me, dragging me out into the dark. By the time I washed up on the rocky shoreline and a stranger found me, the baby was gone, and I was barely breathing. A phantom sensation of icy water filling my lungs gripped my chest. That night, a severe thunderstorm rolled over the city. Thunder rattled the windows, and Connor refused to leave. “You’re terrified of lightning,” he insisted, hovering near the door. “Let me stay with you.” “Go home, Connor. I’m not a toddler anymore. Being scared of the dark is pathetic.” He opened his mouth to argue, realized I was quoting him, and snapped his jaw shut. He turned and walked out into the rain. Months ago, during a massive storm, he had stayed at the office to keep Isabelle company because she was “scared.” When I begged him to come home to me, he told me to grow up and stop acting like a child. Over the next five days, we didn’t speak a single word to each other. I called a locksmith to change the code on my front door. I went through my apartment and packed everything he owned into two cardboard boxes. Sitting on my couch, I aimlessly scrolled through our text history. Years of me saying I love you, I miss you, sending him little updates about my day. My eyes burned, but not a single tear fell. He hadn’t kept much at my place anyway. Just a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. It wasn’t worth the gas money to drive it over to his place. I hit Select All on our chat thread. I deleted everything. I even went into my cloud storage and wiped the backups from when we were in college. Looking at the eighty gigabytes of freed-up storage space on my phone, I felt nothing but a strange, weightless relief. Right on cue, the deadbolt beeped. Incorrect Passcode. I checked the peephole. Connor was standing in the hall, looking confused. Remembering I had his boxes, I opened the door. “Maddie, why did you change the code?” “Because I wanted to. Do I need a permit?” Before Isabelle, his phone passcode had always been our anniversary. When he suddenly changed it and refused to tell me the new one, I had asked him why. I never snooped; I simply asked. He had completely blown up at me, accusing me of smothering him. I hadn’t understood his rage then. But a quote I read online recently cleared it up: A man’s sudden, unprovoked anger is always a shield for his guilt. Why was he guilty? It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Connor frowned at my cold tone. “What’s the new code? Text it to me.” I didn’t answer. I just bent down, picked up his two boxes, and shoved them into his chest. For a second, his face lit up. He actually smiled, thinking I had bought him a gift. Then he looked inside at his folded gym shirts and shaving kit. His expression turned to stone. “What the hell is this? Are you doing this because of the business trip? I went to Chicago with Isabelle because we are on the same project team! We were never alone! I didn’t text you because we were in back-to-back conferences!” “If you want to think I’m throwing a tantrum over Chicago, then fine. I’m throwing a tantrum.” I picked up my phone and sent him two screenshots. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened the message, and went perfectly still, as if struck by lightning.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394513”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Cole went bankrupt, society eagerly stomped him into the dirt. His golden girl—the one who got away—married someone else, but not before making him beg on his hands and knees for a thousand-dollar dare. The frat brothers he once called family told him they’d toss a few bucks toward his parents’ hospital bills, provided he crawled between their legs. When everyone else decided he was nothing but dust beneath their shoes, I was the one who dragged him out of hell. I drained my entire life savings to pay off his debts. I lived with him in a damp, roach-infested basement apartment, holding his hand as he slowly clawed his way back to the top. I spent my days working and my nights sleeping in uncomfortable vinyl hospital chairs to nurse his ailing parents. I pushed myself so hard that my body gave out, resulting in a silent, agonizing miscarriage from pure exhaustion. Yet, three years into his triumphant comeback, Cole paraded his first love right through the front doors of our estate for everyone to see. He stood there, casually adjusting his cuffs, and said: “Blair is pregnant, but her husband is abusive. She’s going to be staying here from now on.” “You’re good at taking care of people. I want you to be the one to look after her. I don’t trust anyone else with her.” Tears spilled over my lashes before I could stop them. Looking at me, his handsome face twisted into a mask of pure irritation. “It’s just waiting on her for a little while. You’re acting like you have the title of a princess, but really, you just have a princess complex.” “It’s not like I’m cheating on you. Stop being so petty.” I didn’t tell him that just a few days ago, passing by the guest room, I had overheard his mother enthusiastically instructing Blair to rest up and take good care of her “precious eldest grandson.” His entire family looked at me like I was an absolute fool. But I was done playing the fool. And the child currently growing inside my womb? I didn’t want it anymore, either. … When I started packing my suitcase, Cole exploded. He grabbed my arm and hurled me across the room. I hit the hardwood floor hard, a sharp, piercing pain shooting up through my knees. In that split second, my only thought was of the baby. Cole didn’t know I was pregnant. I lay there for a moment, feeling the steady, even rhythm of my own breath. When no cramping or pain radiated from my abdomen, a slow, shaky wave of relief washed over me. “Tessa, are you done being hysterical?” Cole snapped, looming over me. “If you managed to wait on my parents hand and foot, you can wait on Blair.” A maid lingered outside the open bedroom door, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. In her hands, she held a crystal bowl of organic blueberries—specifically requested by Cole and meticulously washed just for Blair. It wasn’t just the staff treating me like a joke. Looking at myself in the mirrored closet doors, I felt like one. “What exactly do you see me as, Cole?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Am I just the pathetic charity case who let you sleep with her for free and paid off your debts when you hit rock bottom? Am I just the unpaid hospice nurse who looked after your parents better than you ever did? Am I just the desperate, cheap woman who worked herself into a miscarriage to fund your startup? Cole frowned, genuinely failing to grasp the weight of my questions. He just looked burdened. “It’s only for three months, alright? The first trimester is always rocky, and she needs stability. It’s just three months.” I stared at the man I had loved so deeply, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping my lips. Just three months. Was it ever just anything with him? Last month at the corporate office, in front of the entire executive team, he made me get on my knees and wipe Blair’s designer shoes because I accidentally spilled a drop of coffee near her. He told me it was just an apology. But then there was a second apology. And a third. Countless compromises, chipping away at my dignity until there was nothing left. “The taste of compromise is vile, Cole,” I said softly. “This house is crawling with staff. When I’m gone, you can hire a hundred maids to wait on your golden girl.” I sat sprawled on the floor, utterly defeated, the fight draining out of my bones. All I wanted was to slip away quietly, keeping my baby safe. Right then, Blair appeared in the doorway, a delicate hand resting exaggeratedly on her flat stomach. The staff parted for her with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the lady of the house. “Cole, how could you let Tessa sit on the cold floor? What if she catches a chill?” Blair’s voice was dripping with fake, breathy concern. Cole immediately softened. He stepped over me, wrapping an arm around Blair’s waist, carefully guiding her to sit on the edge of the plush bed. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear with practiced tenderness. He didn’t look at me once. It was as if, during those three agonizing years in the dark, it had been Blair holding his hand, not me. His voice floated over to me, cool and indifferent. “Don’t worry about her. She’s resilient. She can handle the cold. You, on the other hand, just got pregnant. The window is open; we can’t have you catching a draft.” The words carved into my chest like a rusted blade. The tears I had been fighting finally broke free. Cole had forgotten. He had forgotten that to pay his debts, I used to load freight trucks at a freezing warehouse until 3 AM. He had forgotten that after the miscarriage, my body never fully recovered, leaving me perpetually shivering, terrified of the cold. Even in the dead of a humid summer, I wore long sleeves to keep the chill at bay. The maids in the hall murmured to each other. I didn’t need to hear the words; their mocking expressions said enough. Propping myself up on my elbows, I rose to my feet and wordlessly returned to my suitcase. Cole stepped forward, snatching my wrist. His voice carried a strange, underlying exhaustion. “Tessa, wake up. If you walk out that door right now, you leave with nothing.” I looked him dead in the eye and gave a calm, singular nod. “Okay.” That single word seemed to ignite something volatile inside him. He grew instantly enraged. “Would it kill you to just take care of her for a few weeks?! You were perfectly capable of fawning over my parents when we were broke! Why are you suddenly being so completely unreasonable?” “Three years ago, you promised you would help me with anything!” My fingernails bit so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. I suppressed the suffocating pressure in my chest for three agonizing seconds, then blindly grabbed the heavy glass tumbler from the nightstand and hurled it at the floor. “I take it back!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “I take it back, Cole! Do you understand me?!” Cole had a vicious temper. After his bankruptcy, the golden boy fell straight into the gutter, drowning himself in cheap bourbon every single day. To keep him going, I would rush home after my shifts, hold his trembling body, and whisper stories to him so he wouldn’t have nightmares. When the loan sharks came, I stood in front of him. Even when they vandalized our apartment, splashing me head-to-toe in red spray paint meant to symbolize blood, I stood my ground. I told them that as long as he was Cole Montgomery, I would back him for the rest of my life. Even when Cole looked at me, dripping in red paint, with utter disgust—I only smiled and told him I was just glad it hadn’t gotten on him. The tumbler shattered, glass exploding across the hardwood. A sharp, stinging burn flared across my calf as a shard grazed my skin. Simultaneously, Blair gasped, clutching her stomach, whimpering in sudden, delicate pain. Cole went pale. The anger vanished, replaced by sheer panic. “Get a doctor! Now!” he yelled into the hall. After a frantic, superficial check confirmed Blair was merely “startled,” the relief on Cole’s face hardened back into a glare directed solely at me. “I don’t care what kind of tantrum you throw, Tessa. But Blair is carrying a child. What if something happened to the baby because of your theatrics?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “You know exactly what you need to do, don’t you?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Of course I do.” It was just like last month. When my major project at the firm was inexplicably given to Blair, I went to confront her. She immediately started sobbing, claiming I terrified her. The result? Cole forced me to strip off my company blazer in front of the lobby, apologize to her, and get the hell out of the building. Get out of his sight. Just get out. That was all he ever wanted. I bent down, zipped my suitcase shut, and looked at him with an eerie, deadened calm. “I’ll get as far away from you as possible. You won’t ever have to look at me again.” Seeing my utter apathy, a dark, stormy shadow crossed Cole’s eyes. “You think it’s that easy?” he sneered. “Take Tessa down to the walk-in freezer. Let her cool off and think about her attitude.” I tried to run, but three maids immediately seized me, grabbing my arms and hair, wrestling me to my knees in front of Cole. The metallic taste of blood blossomed on my tongue. The sheer injustice of it all burned behind my eyes. “Cole, I’m not going in there! You have no right to do this to me!” Seeing me finally break, Cole hesitated. He reached out, his fingers instinctively brushing a tangled strand of hair from my forehead. Beside him, Blair’s face tightened. She quickly put on a sweet, forgiving smile. “Cole, please don’t be mad at Tessa. She just wants to leave. My stomach barely even hurts anymore. It’s nothing.” The moment she spoke, Cole’s hesitation vanished, replaced by an icy resolve. “Stop being so dramatic, Tessa.” At his silent nod, the maids began dragging me backward toward the door. Panic surged through me. My hands flew to my stomach to protect the tiny life inside. “I’m pregnant!” I shrieked, my heels scraping against the floorboards. “Cole, I’m pregnant!” But the man just stood there, looking at me with an exhausted, exasperated expression, as if to say, What kind of pathetic lie are you going to spin next? As I was dragged down the hallway, I watched in absolute despair as Cole gently rubbed Blair’s back. “Don’t worry, Blair,” his voice echoed down the hall. “She’s been with me for three years. I know her limits. Honestly, she needs this. It’ll teach her not to target you.” I squeezed my eyes shut. A single, freezing tear slipped down my cheek. Rotten. He was rotten to his very core. I was locked in that industrial walk-in freezer for three entire days and nights. When they finally unlocked the heavy metal door, there was literal frost clinging to my eyelashes. My fingers and toes were an angry, mottled purple, and my entire body had long since gone numb. Cole’s anger had subsided. Looking at me, a brief flicker of remorse passed over his features. When a maid threw a heavy wool blanket over my shoulders, she carelessly snagged my matted hair. I let out a weak, raspy hiss of pain. Instantly, Cole barked at the woman. “Watch your hands! Can’t you be gentle?” He looked around, agitated. “Where is the doctor? Why isn’t he here yet?” The maid stammered, avoiding his gaze. “The doctor is… he’s in Ms. Kensington’s room, sir. She caught a slight chill three days ago and has been coughing. Should I go get him?” The moment Blair’s name was spoken, silence fell over Cole. A long, agonizing minute passed before he finally spoke. “No. Leave it.” He looked at me. “Tessa, Blair is pregnant. Let her have the doctor. Don’t fight her over this.” My face remained entirely devoid of emotion. I simply nodded. “Okay. I won’t fight her for it.” I won’t fight her for you, either. Perhaps my unnatural calm unsettled him. He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Good to see you’re finally being obedient. Looks like a few days in the cold was exactly what you needed to learn your place.” He puffed out his chest just a fraction. “Blair can’t eat raw seafood for her first trimester, and she can’t take any strong medications. Keep a close eye on the kitchen staff. The same way you took care of my parents these past three years… that’s exactly how I expect you to take care of Blair. Got it?” The casual, bragging tone in his voice made my stomach heave with violent nausea. Cole wasn’t blind. He was just a heartless, ungrateful parasite. Was he referring to how I spent three years emptying bedpans for his half-paralyzed parents? How I sponge-bathed them every single day? Did he know that the moment he turned his back, his “sweet” parents would contort their faces into cruel sneers, calling me a cheap whore who was paying for the privilege of serving them? Did he know they made me kneel on the bathroom tiles just for their own amusement? Did he know they would purposely soil themselves just to watch me scrub their clothes? It didn’t matter anymore. Cole, I don’t love you anymore. I closed my eyes, the exhaustion dragging me under. The prolonged exposure to the freezing temperatures had left my brain foggy and disconnected. My hands unconsciously curled around my stomach. I just needed to rest. Once I rested… Cole, I am leaving you forever. Sometime later, drifting in and out of a feverish consciousness, I heard Blair’s voice. It was bright, coquettish, practically bursting with the joy of new motherhood. “Cole, I think the baby moved! Here, quick, put your hand right here!” “Cole, are you happy I’m pregnant?” A long silence stretched out before his slow, tender reply drifted through the walls. “If you’re happy, Blair… then I’m happy.” After that, the darkness took me completely. In my fever dreams, I saw my unborn child crying out to me. It’s so cold, Mom… so cold. Why doesn’t Dad like me? I stood in the dream, silent for a long time before answering. He doesn’t dislike you, sweetheart. He just hates me. He hates me so much that anything I give him—whether it’s money, my body, or my life—is nothing but cheap trash to him. Mom changed her mind. I’m not bringing you into this world. The freezer incident left me bedridden with a severe fever for half a month. Because Blair casually mentioned she was “terrified” of catching my illness, Cole had me moved out of the main house and into an abandoned, drafty storage room above the old carriage house. The staff, always eager to please the reigning favorite, took their cues from Blair. While I was burning with a 104-degree fever, they came in and stripped my bed of its heavy duvets, leaving me with a thin sheet. The storage room was dark and damp. The winter wind howled through the poorly sealed window frames, the cold sinking like knives into my aching joints. When Blair finally came to visit, she was draped in a massive, luxurious fur coat, her makeup done to perfection. I was curled in a fetal position, shivering violently. Without Cole around, she didn’t bother hiding her fangs. “Tessa, you’re about to be a mother. Why are you lying around looking like a corpse?” I forced my heavy eyelids open, staring at her in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?” “You used your three years of ‘loyalty’ to guilt-trip Cole into marrying you, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. You got what you wanted. Cole said that no matter what, he’ll let you keep the title of Mrs. Montgomery.” A flash of genuine jealousy twisted her beautiful features before her smug superiority returned. “But it’s such a pity. You can trap a man’s body, but you can’t trap his heart.” She trailed her manicured fingers along the dusty windowsill. “Cole already promised me. Once my baby is born, he’s legally adopting it into the Montgomery family. Considering how much he despises you, he’s never going to let you have a child with him. When the time comes, I’ll be the mother of the only Montgomery heir.” A dreamy, triumphant look glazed over her eyes. The heavy fur shifting around her shoulders looked impervious to the freezing drafts that were currently making my teeth chatter uncontrollably. I let out a soundless, breathless laugh. The realization was colder than the air in the room, yet somehow, entirely fitting. She was right. To Cole, and to everyone else in his circle, I was just a calculating opportunist who used his darkest hour to buy my way into a marriage. At the same time, I felt a profound wave of gratitude that Cole hadn’t believed I was pregnant. I swallowed hard, trying to moisten my cracked, bleeding throat. I hadn’t had water in two days. “Blair,” I rasped. “Come here for a second.” She rolled her eyes and stepped closer to the cot. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull now, Tessa?” When she was close enough, I summoned every last ounce of strength left in my shattered body, leaning in to whisper the venom I had been biting down on. “Take the bastard in your stomach and get the hell away from me.” You want me to raise your kid? In your dreams. Before I could even enjoy the shock splintering across Blair’s face, a voice practically vibrating with rage spoke from the open doorway. “Tessa, you really are… a dog that just can’t stop eating shit.” “I can’t show you a single ounce of mercy. The second I do, you go right back to attacking Blair.” Cole’s voice was terribly familiar. Perhaps it was the fever, or the total collapse of my immune system, but hearing those words broke something inside me. Hot tears spilled out, tracking rapidly down my freezing cheeks. Mercy? Where was the mercy? Was it the mercy of taking the project I worked on for six months and handing it to Blair? Was it the mercy of forcing me to give Blair the vintage watch my late father had left me? Or was it the mercy of locking me in a freezer for three days, then tossing me into a freezing garage to rot? I had lost count. By the end of it, all I felt was profound self-disgust. During his three years in the dirt, the woman who kicked him while he was down was elevated to a goddess. But the woman who shattered herself into pieces to build him back up was ground into the dirt beneath his heel. “I told you, son. I told you to throw her out. Look what happens when you don’t!” Mrs. Montgomery rolled into the room in her wheelchair, emerging from behind Cole. Her narrow, beady eyes locked onto my sickly, pale face, radiating pure revulsion. “She has the audacity to act this vicious toward Blair while you’re standing right here. Imagine what she does behind your back! She’s probably plotting against my precious grandson!” Blair immediately shrank back, clutching her fur coat like a frightened doe. “Mrs. Montgomery, please don’t upset yourself. I can handle a few insults. It’s really nothing.” Instantly, the haughty, arrogant matriarch who had spent years torturing me melted into a puddle of fawning adoration. She reached out, patting Blair’s hand, throwing a venomous glare in my direction. “Oh, you sweet girl. I won’t let anyone mistreat you! You aren’t just one person anymore; you’re two.” She turned her sneer back to me. “Unlike this useless woman who hasn’t managed to get knocked up in three years. Son, throw her out! Get her out of my house!” A triumphant gleam flashed in Blair’s eyes. She didn’t even bother hiding her victorious smirk from me. Useless woman. I had heard that phrase so many times my ears had grown calluses. “Mom, stop making this worse,” Cole sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I already told you.” It was a tic. He only pinched his nose when he was deeply exhausted and conflicted. In the past, whenever I saw him do that, my only instinct was to reach up and smooth out the worry lines on his forehead. Now, looking at him just made me feel utterly sick. Rebuked by her son, Mrs. Montgomery unleashed all her pent-up fury onto me. “What are you still breathing our air for, Tessa?!” She glared at me, not with the eyes of a woman looking at her caretaker of three years, but like she was looking at a sworn enemy. “Did you honestly think paying off a few debts made you our savior? Let me tell you something, sweetheart! Ten of you aren’t worth a single hair on my grandson’s head!” “Let me clue you in on a little secret, Tessa. When our company filed for bankruptcy, we still had millions tucked away in offshore accounts. We never needed your pathetic little savings!” “We were just testing the waters to see which rats would flee the sinking ship, and who would try to take advantage of our ‘fall’!”

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The day Sebastian Cross finally let me go, he promised to grant me one wish. I didn’t ask for the diamonds or the portfolio of stocks he expected. I asked for a slice of buttercream cake. The love my own family was too bankrupt to give me, my benefactor had provided in spades. After I finish this birthday cake, I’ll have no regrets left. He wants to build a home with the one that got away. And me? It’s time I walked my own path. 01 This was the first time Sebastian had ever spent New Year’s Eve with me. On the stove, a pot of lobster bisque bubbled, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory steam. The man placed the final dish—sautéed kale with garlic—on the marble island, untied his apron, and called me over to eat. His voice was like aged whiskey, smooth and low. Sebastian comes from old money—Boston Brahmins on his father’s side. Strictly speaking, he’s only a quarter Chinese, a heritage he rarely acknowledges. He prefers medium-rare steaks and vintage Pinot Noir. Today, perhaps as a parting kindness, the table was filled with the comfort foods I loved, including dumplings he’d folded himself, clumsy but earnest. When I was a child, my parents would take me to McDonald’s to keep me happy right before they tried to abandon me at a rest stop. So when Sebastian finally said the words—You should go—I wasn’t surprised. Happiness, after all, always comes with a price tag. “What do you want, Hazel?” Sebastian stirred his bisque, looking bored, as if discussing the chance of rain. “Gold? A property deed? Diamonds?” Elegant, aristocratic men like him always discard their canaries in the most dignified way possible. The bisque had a kick of ginger in it; it burned pleasantly going down. I lowered my eyes for a moment, then told him. “I want a cake.” He paused. “That’s it?” Yes. That’s it. A sponge cake with layers of fresh fruit and buttercream, topped with chocolate shavings. The kind my little brother got every single year, and I never tasted once. “Hazel, think this through before you answer. I don’t want us to have any messy entanglements later.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Madeleine is… insecure. I need a clean break.” How could there be entanglements? Sebastian had been good to me. He gave me money. He gave me a semblance of love. He filled the hollow spaces my parents had carved out of me. Once I eat this cake, we’re square. If he wants to give his lost love a home, I won’t stand in the doorway. 02 The day I met Sebastian, I was standing on the ledge of a rooftop parking garage. Passersby below were screaming, chirping like birds, telling me to “look on the bright side.” A firefighter had dialed my parents. I could hear them screaming through the receiver, loud enough for the wind to carry the words. If you want to die, hurry up and die! We can use the insurance money to build your brother a house! The wind was biting. The drop was high. Jumping meant freedom. But just as I leaned forward, a handsome man in gold-rimmed glasses sprinted toward me, grabbing my arm with a grip like iron. The emerald face of his Patek Philippe watch caught the sunlight, blinding me for a second. He didn’t offer platitudes. He offered me a giant, fluffy stick of cotton candy he’d seemingly conjured from nowhere. His voice was trembling. “The carnival closes at five,” he said. “We can still make it. Will you come with me?” I sat on a carousel horse, eating that cotton candy bite by bite, sugar melting on my tongue. I stayed with Sebastian for five years after that. In a way, he raised the child I never got to be. … Sebastian was an easy patron to please. Emotionally stable, incredibly wealthy, low maintenance. I didn’t have to worry about student loans or a 9-to-5. All I had to do was focus on him, and the Cartier bracelets and investment accounts piled up. His upbringing had instilled in him a deep, reflexive gentlemanliness. Even though I was just a plaything, he respected every word I said, every request I made. Except in bed. Sebastian’s friends whispered that he’d get bored of me in six months. But year after year, I remained by his side, a fixture in his sprawling estate. See? Fate hasn’t been entirely cruel to me. After twenty years of bitterness, it finally gave me a piece of candy. The staff at the Palisades Estate loved to gossip. She looks just like Miss Madeleine, they’d whisper. Madeleine Vance. The one who rejected Sebastian’s proposal to pursue her art career in Paris. The ghost of his past. I didn’t mind looking like Madeleine. I looked like my brother, too, and my parents didn’t give me a scrap of the love they gave him. But because I looked like Madeleine, Sebastian gave me so much. I’m easy to satisfy. I’ve seen the flowers bloom; I don’t need to own the garden. 03 Sebastian told me to pack slowly. A driver would take me from the estate the next morning. That night, I meticulously packed five years’ worth of jewelry, gold bars, and luxury watches into a small suitcase. The rest—clothes, shoes, memories—were worthless. I left them behind. Seattle’s weather is schizophrenic. Last night it was snowing; this morning, it was freezing rain. The sleet hit the windows like handfuls of gravel. The driver called, sounding apologetic. “Miss Hazel, Miss Madeleine is landing today. She’s frail and hates the cold, so we’ve taken all the cars to the airport to greet her. You’ll have to get down the mountain on your own.” I hung up and looked out the window. When I first started seeing Sebastian, I didn’t understand him. Once, after a gala, it was pouring rain. I thought he had left already, so I covered my head with my clutch and ran to the curb to hail a cab. But Sebastian came back. He stepped out of the shadows and pulled me under a massive black umbrella. His handmade Italian suit got soaked instantly, but not a drop touched my silk dress. He told me he hadn’t left; he’d just gone to get the umbrella. A gentleman never lets a lady get wet. Since then, no matter how busy he was, or what country he was in, there was always an umbrella waiting for me. He never missed a beat. The memory faded. I smiled a thin, dry smile and pulled my suitcase into the downpour. The rain was heavy. But it was time to go. I couldn’t spend my whole life waiting for someone else to hold the umbrella. 04 I used to be resilient. As a kid, I could shake off a fracture or a 102-degree fever without a flinch. But this time, the freezing rain turned into pneumonia. I ended up in the ER, hooked up to an IV. On the last day of my treatment, a woman rushing down the corridor snagged her purse on my IV line. The needle and tape were ripped violently from the back of my hand. The metal tore a long gash through my skin before flying out. Blood sprayed onto the tiles, and my vision went black from the pain. “Oh my god! What do I do?” “I just got back to the States, I don’t know how this works here! I’m calling my fiancé!” When Sebastian appeared, I froze. I looked up at the frantic, helpless woman clinging to him. Seeing her eyes—so similar to mine, yet so much softer—I knew instantly. The blood dripping onto the hospital floor made Sebastian frown. He stared at it, silent. Maybe the silence stretched too long. Madeleine wrapped her arm around his, asking in a voice that dripped with affected sweetness, “Sebastian, honey, what’s wrong? Do you know her?” For a split second, I saw a storm of emotions in Sebastian’s dark eyes. But he blinked, snapping back to reality, and draped his coat over Madeleine’s shoulders. “No. A stranger.” “The doctors will handle it. Let’s get you back to the car.” Madeleine nodded obediently. As she turned, she shot me a look. It was a mix of provocation and victory. 05 That night, a call from an unknown number came through to my new phone. It was a man’s voice, low and husky, with that post-coital rasp I knew too well. “Hazel. I’m sending a driver to take you to a private clinic tomorrow for the rest of your treatment. I didn’t want Madeleine to overthink things today.” “Make sure the doctor stitches that hand properly.” “And eat something. You’re too thin.” I agreed to everything, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the wall. Why, after I changed my number, could Sebastian still find me? Are we strangers or not? There was a long silence on the line. Just as I thought he was going to hang up, he spoke again, his voice tight. “I didn’t know New Year’s was your birthday. No wonder you asked for the cake… You could have stayed one more day, you know. I’m sorry.” “Happy Birthday.” Don’t be sorry. You’ve given me enough. “Thank you,” I said. “And congratulations on your engagement.” … I only needed five days of IVs. I had already booked a flight out of Seattle. So when Sebastian’s driver showed up at the hotel the next day, I turned him away. The driver, looking panicked, pulled a beautifully wrapped box from the trunk and practically begged me to take it. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t drive you the other day, Miss Hazel. I know I messed up. Please, take the birthday gift. If you don’t, Mr. Cross might fire me.” Inside the box was an evening gown encrusted with pink diamonds. It was breathtaking. The receipt was tucked inside. If Sebastian insisted on giving it, who was I to say no to money? My flight wasn’t for a few hours. I figured I could hit the luxury mall near the airport and return the dress for store credit or cash. There were several boutiques in Seattle. I picked the one closest to the terminal. Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. Madeleine was there. 06 “I’m terribly sorry, Miss, but this Spring Couture piece has already been sold. Each design is one-of-a-kind.” “We know you’ve been on the waitlist, but a gentleman purchased it this morning.” “Since the size wouldn’t fit you anyway, perhaps you’d like to see the new collection…” The sales associates were swarming around Madeleine, trying to do damage control. Madeleine wasn’t having it. She flipped her long, wavy hair, complaining loudly in a mix of English and French about incompetence. Suddenly, she raised an eyebrow and tapped a manicured red fingernail on the manager’s name tag. “I want that dress as my wedding morning robe. If I don’t get it, I will email your headquarters every single day until you are fired.” The manager was sweating. She whispered to a colleague, asking if they could contact the buyer, a Mr. S. Cross. Madeleine’s eyes lit up. “You mean my fiancé bought it? Oh! It’s a misunderstanding then…” Behind her, clutching the box with the dress inside, I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. I turned to leave. Too late. She saw me. She looked at me, realizing slowly what was happening. Then, a sneer curled her lip. She stepped forward and slapped me across the face. “Call the police! My husband bought that dress for me, and this… nobody has stolen it! Catch the thief!”

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