My name is Cassie, and I spend my days hustling on an e-bike, delivering packages across the city. The other day, I was mid-route when a sleek black sedan whipped past me, tires hissing against the pavement, and sent a tidal wave of muddy street water entirely over my legs. Furious, I glared at the receding taillights and muttered under my breath, “I hope your damn tire blows.” The words had barely left my lips when a massive BANG echoed down the avenue. The sedan swerved. The tire had actually blown. I thought it was just a freak accident, a stroke of karmic luck. But the very next day, the owner of the car tracked me down. He slid a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across a table—five grand, easy—and gave me a sharp, crooked smile. “How about we play a game, Cassie? You hurl whatever curse you want at me. Every time it lands, I pay you.” I stared at his face—a face that was almost unfairly, dangerously handsome—and only one thought crossed my mind: This guy is completely out of his mind, and he’s practically begging me to ruin his life. 1 My name is Cassie, and I deliver boxes for a living. The sun was brutal that afternoon. The asphalt was baking, turning soft and sticky beneath the soles of my worn-out Converse. I was straddling my e-bike, the front basket overflowing with cardboard packages of every shape and size. Sweat dripped steadily down my forehead, pooling in the corners of my eyes, stinging like crazy. I blinked hard, trying to squeeze the acidic burn away. That was when the black sedan rolled past me. It wasn’t even going that fast, but the splash it kicked up was spectacular. It had rained hard the night before, leaving deep, oily puddles along the curb. The water hit me dead on. It was freezing, and thick with city grime. I hit the brakes, looking down at my favorite pair of vintage denim. A second ago, they had been perfectly faded blue. Now, they looked like I’d just waded through a swamp. I jerked my head up. The black car had come to a smooth stop at the red light just a hundred yards ahead. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing the sharp profile of a man. High cheekbones, a strong, aristocratic nose. As if feeling the sheer weight of my glare, he turned his head and looked at me in the rearview mirror. Just one look. I kicked the kickstand down, planting my feet firmly on the pavement. I stared at the back of his car, speaking into the thick, humid air between us. “Your tire is going to blow.” My voice was barely a whisper. The traffic drowned it out instantly. Having said my piece, I ducked my head, dug a rag out of my basket, and started furiously scrubbing at my jeans. If the mud dried, it would stain forever. The light turned green. The black sedan accelerated, and the moment it did, I heard a heavy, sickening POP. It sounded like a gunshot, but muffled, heavier. My hand froze on my jeans. I looked up. The luxury car was limping to a halt in the dead center of the intersection, leaving a thick, black skid mark in its wake. The rear left tire was completely shredded, the wheel rim grinding agonizingly against the pavement. The entire chassis tilted drunkenly to one side. The driver stepped out. He was dressed in a tailored, charcoal-black suit, his leather oxfords gleaming in the sun. He walked slowly around to the back of the car, staring down at the ruined rubber. His brow furrowed into a tight, dark knot. He kicked the tire. I hopped back onto my e-bike, squeezed the throttle, and glided past him without a second glance. I finished my delivery route. Later that night, sitting in my cramped, overpriced studio apartment, I tossed my jeans into a plastic basin, dumped in a heavy scoop of cheap detergent, and scrubbed until my knuckles were raw. It didn’t work. The dark stains were baked into the fabric. I stared at the wet denim, my throat tight. I didn’t say a word. My mouth had always been like this. Ever since I was a little kid. Whatever I said came true. When I was seven, the neighbor’s aggressive German Shepherd used to lunge and snap at me through the fence. One day, terrified, I yelled, “If you don’t shut up, your throat is going to rot!” The next morning, the dog lost its bark. It just laid in the dirt, panting and drooling, its vocal cords mysteriously paralyzed. When I was nine, my mom took me to the county fair. I begged her for a spun-sugar apple, but money was tight, and she said no. Furious, I muttered, “I hope this whole place burns down so nobody gets anything.” The following afternoon, an electrical fire swept through the fairgrounds. It incinerated everything. After that, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I was terrified. Terrified that the things I said, the dark little flares of anger we all feel, would physically destroy the people around me. But today, on that sweltering street, I just couldn’t hold it in. Those were my favorite jeans. 2 My phone buzzed against the nightstand early the next morning, pulling me out of a restless sleep. It was an unknown number. I rubbed my eyes and answered, my voice rough. “Hello?” “Is this Cassie?” It was a man’s voice. Low, smooth, and chillingly calm. “Yeah. Who is this?” “My name is Gideon Maxwell.” Gideon Maxwell? I dug through my foggy brain for a second before coming up entirely empty. “Do I know you?” I asked. “Yesterday afternoon. The intersection on Monroe Street. Your e-bike. My car.” Oh. The guy in the black sedan. “Right, you,” I said, playing dumb. “Did you get your tire fixed?” A heavy silence stretched over the line. “Cassie, I think we need to meet,” he said finally. “I don’t think so. I’m just a delivery driver. I don’t exactly run in the same circles as guys who drive cars that cost more than my life.” “My tire blew out precisely three seconds after you told it to.” His voice was devoid of emotion, which somehow made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Coincidence,” I lied smoothly. “City streets are a mess. Nails, glass. It happens.” “Does it?” he murmured. “Then let’s meet and discuss this ‘coincidence.’ Unless, of course, you aren’t interested in learning how a simple coincidence might result in a rather large compensation check for you.” Compensation? I sat up straight in bed. “What kind of compensation?” “Come meet me, and you’ll find out,” he said. “Noon today. The coffee shop at the bottom of your dispatch building.” He hung up before I could say another word. I sat there staring at the blank screen for a long time. Compensation? What was this? Hush money? My chest felt tight. I didn’t want anything to do with this man. The cardinal rule of my life was simple: the more I cared about someone, the closer I got to them, the more likely my mouth was to ruin them. But I was broke. Rent was due in three days, and my bike desperately needed a new battery if I wanted to keep my job. At noon, I walked into the coffee shop. It was quiet, the air conditioning blasting like a meat locker. Gideon was already there, sitting in a leather booth in the back. He was still wearing black, a cup of black coffee steaming untouched in front of him. He saw me, caught my eye, and offered a microscopic nod toward the empty chair across from him. I pulled it out and sat down. “Alright, talk,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. “What’s this about money?” He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a thick, sealed envelope, and slid it across the table. “There’s five thousand dollars in there. To cover your dry cleaning, and the emotional distress of the incident,” he said smoothly. I stared at the envelope. I didn’t touch it. “Five grand? What kind of racket are you running?” I shot back, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. My jeans cost forty bucks at a thrift store. “How much do you want, Cassie?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine. “I don’t want your money.” I pushed the envelope back. “Yesterday was a freak accident. If you think I’m bad luck, then do yourself a favor and stay away from me.” I grabbed my bag and started to stand. “Cassie,” he said. I stopped, but didn’t turn around. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly. “I know it wasn’t a coincidence.” My stomach plummeted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You’re a fascinating creature,” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “I rarely encounter things that genuinely surprise me. So, I want to play a game with you.” “What kind of game?” I turned back to look at him. “A test… to prove if you really are as ‘gifted’ as I think you are.” A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you win, I’ll write you a check for fifty thousand dollars. If you lose…” “What happens if I lose?” “If you lose, I give you a hundred thousand,” he said evenly. I stared at him. This man was utterly, completely unhinged. And heaven help me, so was I. Because a twisted, buried part of me was actually tempted. Not by the money. But by the simple, staggering fact that he wasn’t looking at me like I was a monster. He wasn’t afraid. He looked at me like he understood. “Fine,” I breathed. “Let’s play.” 3 The rules of Gideon’s game were brutally simple. He would select a target, and I would “jinx” it. If my words materialized, I won. The first target… was him. “Whenever you’re ready, Cassie. The stage is yours.” He leaned back against the leather booth, crossing his arms over his chest, looking entirely too amused. A slow, sultry saxophone track was playing softly through the café speakers. I studied him. He was undeniably gorgeous. Deep-set eyes, a sharp jawline, lips that were a fraction too thin, giving him a naturally arrogant look. It was the kind of face that belonged on a billboard, the kind that screamed untouchable. I cleared my throat. “I hope…” I dragged the words out, watching his reaction. He raised a single, dark brow, waiting. “…that the second you walk out that door, a pigeon takes a massive shit directly on your head.” I almost laughed as I said it. It felt so juvenile. Gideon’s arrogant mask slipped for a fraction of a second. “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, clearly disappointed. “What did you want me to say?” I threw my hands up. “That I hope you walk out and get hit by a bus? I’m not putting a murder charge on my conscience for your little experiment.” He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Then, he stood up. “Alright. Let’s see which is stronger: your little parlor trick, or my luck.” He picked up his jacket and strode toward the exit. I didn’t move. I picked up his untouched coffee and took a sip. Bitter. Too strong. I watched through the massive front window as he pushed open the glass door. He took exactly one step onto the sunlit sidewalk. From the awning above, a thick, white splatter dropped straight down from the sky. It landed dead-center in his perfectly styled, dark hair. He froze. His entire body locked up like a statue. Somewhere in the café, a barista snorted, desperately trying to stifle a laugh. Moving with agonizing slowness, Gideon raised a hand, touched the top of his head, and looked at his fingers. His face went murderous. He pivoted on his heel and glared straight through the glass at me. If looks could kill, I would have been a pile of ash in the booth. I raised his coffee cup toward him, mouthing the word, Cheers. Then, I slammed the cup down, bolted from the booth, and slipped out the café’s back exit. I ran. I sprinted down the alleyway behind the building, the air thick with the smell of dumpsters and damp brick. I pressed my back against the wall of a dead-end alcove, gasping for air. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Half of it was the adrenaline of running. The other half was… the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it. For the first time in my miserable, guarded life, my cursed mouth had actually done something entirely hilarious. I was just starting to grin when a shadow fell over the mouth of the alley. It was Gideon. He was holding a wet wipe, methodically cleaning his hand as he stalked toward me. Instinctively, I scrambled backward, but my shoulder hit the rough brick. I was trapped. He stopped directly in front of me, planting a hand on the wall beside my head, caging me in. He was tall. Even standing straight up, the top of my head barely reached his collarbone. “Where are you running?” he asked. His voice was still cold, but there was a dark, gravelly edge to it now. “I… I have to get home to make dinner,” I stammered, my eyes darting everywhere but his face. “You’re very gifted, Cassie,” he murmured, tossing the soiled wet wipe into a nearby trash can without looking. “I do my best,” I whispered. He took a step closer. The remaining space between us vanished. I could smell him. Clean, sharp cedar, mixed with the faint, bitter tang of the coffee in his hair. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. “The fifty thousand is yours,” he said, looking down at me, a strange, feral heat flickering in his dark eyes. “But the game isn’t over.” “What… what else do you want?” My throat was so dry it ached. “I want to know where your limits are,” he said softly. “I want to see just how dark those words of yours can get.” He lowered his head. He was so close I could see the reflection of my own panicked face in his pupils. Small. Cornered. “Tell me, Cassie,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper, ghosting over my ear. “What would happen if I kissed you right now?” 4 The scent of cedar wrapped around me, pulling the oxygen right out of my lungs. My mind went completely blank. Static. He was too close. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint brush of his breath against the shell of my ear. It made me shiver. I swallowed hard. “What would happen?” I echoed, forcing my voice to drop to the same dangerous pitch as his. “Your front tooth would fall right out of your skull.”

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We were browsing the racks at a high-end department store when my mother fell in love with a camel cashmere coat. I had just pulled out my phone to double-tap Apple Pay when she suddenly stopped, staring at me with a narrowed gaze. “You’ve always been so calculated, ever since you were a little girl.” My hand froze in mid-air. The soft jazz playing over the store’s speakers seemed to evaporate. “Mom, what are you talking about?” She grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the shadowy corner by the fitting rooms. The unfamiliar, assessing look in her eyes made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Your sister is so genuine. But you? You were always walking around like a little adult, trying to make her look like an idiot, weren’t you?” It hit me like a physical blow. In her mind, every moment of my childhood where I had tried so desperately to be good, to be mature, to be enough—was nothing more than evidence of my manipulation. 1 I gripped my phone tightly, my mind blanking for several long seconds. “Mom, what are you even saying?” She met my gaze in the three-way mirror, her eyes ice-cold. “Am I wrong? Camille is only a year older than you. Have you ever seen her act the way you do? You smile at the right people, say the exact right things. Every aunt and uncle we have praises you for being so put-together.” She began unbuttoning the coat, the fabric slipping from her shoulders. Her voice dripped with a resentment I couldn’t comprehend. “But don’t forget, I’m your mother. I raised you for twenty-something years. You think I can’t see right through you? Camille is pure. She says whatever is on her mind. She never hides anything.” She shoved the coat toward me. “But you? I have never been able to guess what’s going on in that head of yours.” The sales associate stood awkwardly a few feet away, her hands hovering, unsure if she should take the wooden hanger back. Just minutes ago, the atmosphere had been entirely different. When my mother first tried on the coat, she had spun around in front of the mirror three or four times. The young salesgirl had been sweet, laying it on thick: “Ma’am, the cut looks absolutely elegant on you.” My mother had beamed, turning left and right, murmuring that it was too expensive, far too expensive, but her eyes had betrayed pure adoration for the garment. Then the associate had added: “You have such a wonderful daughter, buying a piece like this for you without a second thought.” The second those words left the girl’s mouth, my mother’s expression had frosted over. She had turned away from the mirror and started aggressively checking the price tag. At the time, I’d been naive. I thought she was just experiencing sticker shock. Now, I finally understood. She just couldn’t stomach hearing someone praise me. Even though I was just standing there, card ready, having said nothing, having done nothing—in her eyes, it was all a meticulously choreographed performance. I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Mom, do you want the coat or not? If not, let’s just go somewhere else.” “Want it? It’s over a thousand dollars. Do you think I don’t know what game you’re playing?” Her voice suddenly spiked in volume. “You picked something this expensive on purpose. You just want me to owe you! That way, you can go around telling everyone how you bought your mother a designer coat, showing off how devoted you are, and making Camille look like a failure.” Shoppers were already turning their heads in the aisles. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling as though I had just been hit square in the chest with a sledgehammer. The chill seeped into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. But the most tragic part? This baseless, paranoid accusation wasn’t the first time. 2 My sister, Camille, is a year older than me. She was always the “sweet, simple” child. She was quiet, introverted, and at every holiday gathering, she could be found curled up in a corner scrolling through her phone. I, on the other hand, learned to read the room before I learned to ride a bike. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. When we were little, Camille was constantly sick. My mother essentially moved into her bedroom to nurse her, packing me off to live with my grandmother. That temporary arrangement lasted seven years. “Camille has a weak constitution,” my mother had justified it. “I need to keep a close eye on her. You’re tough, Madeline. You’ll be fine at your grandma’s.” My grandmother loved me, but I still ached for my mother. Every weekend I was allowed to visit, I performed like a circus animal. I sang the songs I learned in kindergarten; I saved up all the gold star stickers my teachers gave me and presented them to her like treasure. Her reaction was always the same: “Look at your sister. She’s so calm. She never does all these flashy things for attention.” It took me years to understand that favoritism is a chronic illness; there is no cure. No matter what I did, it was aggressively misinterpreted. When I brought home a perfect report card in fifth grade, she glanced at it and sighed. “Your sister gets B’s, so you just had to get straight A’s, didn’t you? Always having to show off.” When I came home from boarding school in junior high, I spent my weekends scrubbing the floors, washing dishes, and wiping down the windows to ease her burden. She watched me from the sofa, entirely unbothered. “Look at you, always trying to win points. Camille doesn’t have all these hidden motives.” When it was time for college applications, I wanted to apply to out-of-state schools. She shut it down immediately. “Why run so far away? Camille is going to a local college, and you need to stay local too, so you can look out for each other.” Camille went to an expensive, mediocre private college that cost my parents forty grand a year. I got a full-ride scholarship to the state flagship university. My mother’s verdict? “Look at how calculating you are. Trying to save us money just so we’ll be indebted to you? It just makes your sister look bad for spending our money.” After graduation, Camille landed a basic admin job making forty thousand a year. Three years went by with no raise. I went into corporate tech. My starting salary was six figures, and it had doubled since then. “Your sister is too honest for the corporate world,” my mother lectured me. “She doesn’t know how to play the game. Since you’re so capable, you need to help her.” So, I helped. I pulled strings and got Camille a much better-paying role at a friend’s company. My mother scoffed. “Throwing her a little bone just so you can hold it over her head forever?” “Mom, no, I didn’t—” I had tried to defend myself. “Enough, I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped, waving me off. When Camille got married, I wrote her a check for two thousand dollars as a wedding gift. My mother pulled me aside. “You give her this much now, what happens when you get married and she can’t afford to match it? You’re just trying to humiliate her.” But I had only written that check because my mother had dropped endless hints that I needed to be “generous.” When Camille had her first baby, I learned my lesson. I bought a two-hundred-dollar stroller off her registry. My mother was furious. “She just bought a house, money is tight, and you only spend two hundred bucks? Are you trying to watch your sister drown?” I had stood there, speechless, my chest hollowed out by a profound, exhausting sorrow. Eventually, the reality settled in. No matter what I did, or how I did it, she only had eyes for one daughter. I was always scheming. I was always competing. I was always trying to prove my superiority. And Camille? She didn’t have to lift a finger to win all the love my mother had to give. 3 After the disastrous mall trip, I didn’t go back to their house. I didn’t buy the cashmere coat, and I didn’t bring it up again. I thought the incident would just fade away. After all, I had endured over twenty years of her twisted logic; I was used to it. But I underestimated her. That night, in our family group chat of four, my mother sent a TikTok link. The text on the video read: Modern kids are so selfish—how they scheme against their own parents. Ten minutes later, another one: Think your kids will take care of you? The richer they get, the cheaper they are. Camille replied with a laughing emoji: Mom, why are you sending this? My mother replied instantly: No reason. Just thinking out loud. Some people make a lot of money, but their hearts just turn to stone. They won’t even buy their own mother a piece of clothing. They put on a big show of taking you shopping, but you leave empty-handed. I don’t know who they’re trying to sicken with that kind of behavior. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass. So that was the narrative. I was the villain who dragged her to a luxury store, forced her to try on expensive things, and maliciously refused to buy them. I didn’t type a single word. I just left the group chat and put my phone face down. A few days later, it was my mother’s birthday. My father called me, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Maddie, it’s your mom’s birthday. Come home for dinner. She won’t admit it, but she misses you.” I thought of the videos in the group chat and wanted to say absolutely not. But my dad pressed on. “We’re family. What can’t we get past?” “You know how your mother is. Sharp tongue, soft heart. You know that.” Sharp tongue, soft heart. I had been fed that lie for over two decades. But I had yet to see a single glimpse of this supposed soft heart. In the end, I caved. But I didn’t agonize over the perfect gift like I usually did. I picked up a simple bakery cake and put five hundred dollars in a generic card. I hadn’t even opened the front door when I heard her voice drifting through the living room window, dripping with venom. “Oh, please. Madeline is all talk.” “The other day, she said she was taking me coat shopping. I actually thought she was going to spend a dime on me. We spent an hour picking one out, and then she stood at the register, pretending to mess with her phone, refusing to tap her card. Honestly, it was so pathetic I didn’t even want it anymore.” Someone mumbled a response, and she cut them off. “Right? A thousand dollars. Like I can’t afford it myself. It’s not about the money, it’s about the intention.” One of my aunts chimed in, “But doesn’t Maddie make a really good living now? Why would she be so…” “Good living? What does that matter when she’s got such a manipulative streak?” My mother lowered her voice, though it still carried perfectly. “Since she was a kid, she’s been working angles. She knows exactly what to say to play people.” “Not like my Camille. She’s sweet. She says what she means. No hidden agendas.” I stood on the porch, my fingers tightening around the cake box until the cardboard buckled. Then, my face completely blank, I opened the door. The living room was packed. My mother sat dead center on the sofa, wearing a brand-new, charcoal-gray puffer jacket, beaming. When she saw me walk in, her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, before she smoothly looked away. “Oh. Madeline is here.” My Aunt Joanne waved me over. “Come sit, come sit! We were just talking about you.” I stayed rooted in the entryway, the cake and envelope heavy in my hands. I suddenly wasn’t sure I should step any further into the house. “Talking about me?” “Just saying how good you are to your folks,” my cousin Lauren smiled brightly. “Saying how busy you are at work, but you still made the drive out for your mom’s birthday.” Before I could politely deflect, my mother spoke up. “Good to us?” She held her teacup, not even bothering to look in my direction. “I wouldn’t go that far. She’s a very important, busy person now. I certainly don’t expect anything from her.” The room went dead silent. Aunt Joanne tried to smooth it over. “Oh, Diane, come on. Maddie is right here. It’s the thought that counts.” “The thought?” My mother slammed her teacup down onto the saucer. “If she had any thoughts for me, she wouldn’t have thrown a tantrum in the middle of Nordstrom last week.” Camille, sitting beside her, murmured, “Mom, don’t do this right now.” “Am I lying?” My mother brushed Camille off, patting the sleeve of her gray puffer jacket. “Look at this. You bought this for me. It’s warm, it’s comfortable.” “And her? Makes all that money, and all she has to offer is hot air.” Camille looked down at her lap, silent. But the cheap gray puffer jacket she bought had just become the dazzling centerpiece of the room. Aunt Joanne reached over to feel the nylon. “Oh, this really is nice. Camille is always so thoughtful.” My cousin’s wife, Bethany, nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. Nowadays, it’s not about how much you spend. It’s about whether the love is genuine.” I stood by the door, feeling like a criminal awaiting sentencing. My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms. “Camille, how much did that jacket cost?” I heard my own voice slice through the room. It was terrifyingly calm. Camille blinked, startled. “Like, sixty dollars? Why?” “Oh.” I nodded slowly. I walked over to the entryway console table and set the cake down. I placed the envelope right next to it. “Mom, I’ll wire you a thousand dollars right now. Go back and buy that cashmere coat.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. My mother’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to throw money in my face?” “No,” I said, looking right into her eyes. “I just want everyone here to know that I didn’t refuse to buy you that coat. Yourefused to let me.” “I refused?” She practically leapt off the sofa, her voice hitting a shrill pitch. “You picked something outrageously expensive because you knew I’d say no! You got to play the perfect daughter without spending a dime!” My composure snapped. My voice rose to match hers. “Enough, Mom! No matter what I do, I’m the villain, right?” “You—” “It’s been like this my whole life.” The words I had choked down for twenty years finally tore their way out of my throat. “Everything I do is wrong. Everything I do is a scheme. And Camille doesn’t have to do a damn thing, and she’s just ‘simple’ and ‘sweet’ and ‘perfect.’” “Why?” 4 My mother was visibly stunned by my shouting, but then her eyes narrowed, filling with venomous tears. “Look at her! Look! I told you she was full of spite! She just can’t stand to see her sister praised!” “I don’t care about the praise.” I pointed a shaking finger at Camille, who shrank back into the cushions. “I just want to know why, when we are both your daughters, she gets all of your love for simply existing, while I rip my own heart out for you, and all you see is a manipulator?” “Rip your heart out?” My mother let out a harsh, mocking laugh, pointing at the console table. “Is that what you call ripping your heart out? A cheap grocery store cake and a little envelope of cash? Are you tossing scraps to a beggar?” “Then what do you want from me?” My voice broke. “Last year, I paid for a spa weekend for your birthday. You said I was showing off. The year before, I bought you a David Yurman bracelet. You said I was showing off. Clothes, appliances, vacations—when have you ever just said ‘thank you’?” She puffed up her chest. “You only buy those things to prove you’re better than your sister!” I stared at her. A hollow, hysterical feeling bubbled up in my chest. It was absurd. Why was I still standing here, pleading for fairness from a rigged jury? Aunt Joanne decided it was her time to shine. “Maddie, sweetie, your mom is just a little blunt. She means well. We’re family, there’s no need to be so dramatic.” “Blunt? Means well?” I slowly turned to look at my aunt. “Aunt Joanne, do you have any idea how my ‘blunt’ mother talks about you behind your back?” Aunt Joanne’s polite smile froze. “What?” “She says you’re—” “Madeline!” My mother shrieked, lunging forward. “Don’t you dare!” I sidestepped her easily and kept my eyes locked on Joanne. “She says you’re a shameless grifter. She says every time you come over, you treat her pantry like a free grocery store, and you have zero concept of boundaries.” All the color drained from Aunt Joanne’s face. “And Bethany.” I pivoted to my cousin’s wife before anyone could interrupt. “My mother says you trapped my cousin. She says your family is white-trash, you brought nothing to the marriage, and if you hadn’t gotten pregnant, he never would have settled for you.” Bethany’s mouth dropped open. She looked at my mother in absolute horror. “And Lauren—” “Stop it!” My mother lunged at me again, trying to physically cover my mouth with her hands. But Lauren stood up, her face tight. “Aunt Diane, let her speak! I’d love to hear exactly what I am to you.” I was breathing hard now, my adrenaline spiking. “Don’t worry, Lauren. She thinks you’re great.” Lauren blinked, slightly mollified. “She thinks you’re great because you’re an idiot,” I continued ruthlessly. “She says your mother-in-law walks all over you and you don’t have the spine to say a word. She says you’re just lucky you married a boring guy, because with your brain, anyone else would have ruined you by now.” Lauren’s face went white, then flushed a mottled, furious red. The living room was as silent as a graveyard. My mother was violently trembling, pointing a shaky finger at me. “You… you lying bitch! What are you talking about? I never said any of those things!” “Didn’t you?” I swept my gaze over the paralyzed room of relatives. “Does anyone else want to know what my mother really thinks of them? I can keep going. Direct quotes.” Nobody moved. Nobody looked at me. Every single pair of eyes was glued to my mother, who was hyperventilating, her face pale and panicked. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t force a single word out. “Madeline!” Camille finally jumped up, putting herself between me and our mother. Her eyes were red, her voice trembling. “That’s enough! How far are you going to push Mom?” “I’m pushing her?” I laughed, but hot tears were finally spilling down my cheeks, completely out of my control. “Camille, look me in the eye and tell me—who has been pushing who for the last twenty-five years?”

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The clock struck midnight, the chimes echoing through the hollow silence of the house. Finally, the sound of a key turning in the lock drifted from the foyer. I stayed curled on the velvet sofa, my eyes fixed on the black void of the television screen until his shadow—broad and smelling of the biting night air—filtered into the room. “Here.” He slid his phone onto the coffee table, face up. His thumb brushed the edge of the device in a restless, unconscious rhythm. “The passcode is the same as always.” Without another word, he headed for the master bath. The aggressive hiss of the shower soon filled the void left in the living room. I stared at the glowing lock screen, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. What was I even looking for? The chat logs would be scrubbed clean, as if by a surgical eraser. The bank statements would show nothing but the usual—coffee shops near his office, gas stations, dry cleaning. His call history was probably as precise and sterile as a punch-clock. He emerged through a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips. He draped himself over the back of the sofa, smelling of sandalwood and damp heat, and pulled me into a half-embrace. “See? I told you there was nothing,” he murmured, his chin tucking into the crook of my neck. His voice held that practiced, soothing lilt. “Stop living in your head, Natalie.” I pulled away, dodging his kiss, but my eyes caught our reflection in the darkened window. There, on the side of his neck, was a faint, jagged red mark—a blooming hickey that stood out like a fresh wound against his damp skin. My nails dug into the palms of my hands. I slowly reached up and unpeeled his arms from my waist. My voice felt eerily steady, as if I were merely commenting on the weather. “Colby, I want a divorce.” This one-sided war of shadows, this game of digital espionage—I was done playing. 1 The air in the room seemed to freeze. A moment later, a sharp, crystalline sound shattered the silence. Colby had knocked the vase off the side table. It was a simple ceramic piece we’d bought at IKEA during our first year of marriage when we were living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment. We’d carried it with us as we moved to the penthouse, and eventually, to this sprawling estate. We used to call it our lucky charm, a witness to every stumble and triumph we’d shared over the last seven years. Now, it lay in a hundred jagged white teeth across the hardwood. It was a perfect metaphor for us. Shattered. Beyond repair. No amount of glue could ever make it what it was before. I pulled my gaze away from the wreckage and looked directly at Colby. “I’ve already had a lawyer draft the papers. You just need to sign—” “I cut my hand, Natalie.” He cut me off, his voice tight. I blinked, looking down. A shard of the vase had sliced across his palm. Thick, crimson drops were already beginning to splatter onto the floor, staining the rug. “Nat, help me with this,” he rasped. He rarely showed weakness. But I knew this move. This was his favorite tactic for a ceasefire. If I followed the script, I would get the first-aid kit, clean the wound, and by the time the bandage was set, we would be “fine” again. We would be back to the status quo of his lies and my silence. This time, I didn’t move. I looked at the blood with total indifference. “It’s just a scratch,” I said. “There are Band-Aids in the kitchen. You can manage.” I paused, steering the conversation back to the cliff’s edge. “Once you’ve cleaned yourself up, sign the papers.” Colby’s expression darkened instantly. “Natalie, for God’s sake, I’m bleeding. How long are you going to keep up this tantrum?” He sounded genuinely baffled. In his world, his infidelity wasn’t a crime; my reaction to it was the inconvenience. He’d deleted the incriminating texts. He’d changed his passcodes to my birthday. In his mind, he had done the work. He had “fixed” it. He couldn’t understand why I was still holding the grudge. I instinctively rubbed the jagged scar on my own wrist, saying nothing. Right then, his phone chimed. That specific ringtone—the one that had haunted my nights for the past year. He used to tell me it was the emergency line for the firm. I’d believed him, right up until the day of his birthday. I had been at the grocery store, standing in front of the seafood counter, debating between the sea bass he loved or the ribeye he craved. I’d looked up and seen him in the next aisle, his arm draped possessively around another woman as they picked out snacks together. The realization had been a slow-motion car crash. The woman was Gillian. His “childhood best friend.” The girl he grew up with, the one he’d always mentioned in passing as being “like a sister.” Maybe because we’d already had the screaming matches and the tearful confessions, Colby didn’t even try to hide it this time. He answered the phone right in front of me. “I’m on my way. Wait for me.” He hung up, grabbed his keys, and didn’t even glance at his bleeding hand. As he reached the foyer, he turned back, his eyes swimming with a strange, heavy disappointment. “You used to be different, Natalie,” he said. Different? You mean I used to give you my heart on a silver platter just so you could carve it up? I had stayed for ten years because I couldn’t imagine a life without him. And more importantly, because at the time of the discovery, I was pregnant. I had choked down the pain and chosen to forgive him. He had promised me distance. He had promised me a fresh start. And the result? I touched the scar on my wrist again—the physical proof of my own stupidity. It felt like an open wound, oozing with a pain that made it hard to draw a full breath. The front door slammed shut. Bang. He was going to her. Again. I stared at the closed door and felt my lips curl into a ghost of a smile. “Goodbye, Colby.” 2 Thirty minutes later, Gillian posted to her private Instagram story—the one she knew I could see through a burner account. “He told me I’m the only one who actually cares about him. He told me never to leave.” The photo showed the back of Colby’s head as he rested it in her lap, their fingers tightly interlaced. Less than an hour ago, he had told me I could trust him. I suppose “trust” in his vocabulary meant believing that his late nights with Gillian were just “supporting a friend.” It meant believing that when they spent the night in a hotel together, they were just “reminiscing about the old days.” A few minutes later, the post vanished. She always did that—deleting the evidence to make me feel like a paranoid lunatic, like I was hallucinating my own betrayal. Then came the text message. “Nat, I’m so sorry. Colby is just in a really bad place tonight and needed a drink. Please don’t overthink this. It’s not worth ruining your marriage over someone like me.” Don’t overthink it. I looked at those words and felt a cold, hysterical laugh rise up. I remembered being eight months pregnant, showing Colby a screenshot of Gillian’s posts, and he had used the exact same line. “We grew up together, Nat! She moved back to the States after years abroad and she has no one. Am I supposed to just abandon my oldest friend? You’re just bored sitting at home with the pregnancy. You’re overthinking things.” When he saw how pale I’d turned, how I had to grip the table to keep from collapsing under the weight of my belly, his tone had softened. He’d pulled me into his arms, stroking my stomach. “Do it for the baby, okay? Trust me. Stop stressing yourself out.” He’d wiped my tears, acting the part of the long-suffering husband. To prove his “devotion,” he had deleted her number in front of me. He had changed all his passwords to my birthday. Ten years of history. Seven years of marriage. A child on the way. I had been desperate to save us. I had gritted my teeth and decided to believe his lies one more time. But then… Less than a month later, I went into premature labor. I was alone in the hospital, drowning in the news that our daughter hadn’t survived the birth. I needed him. I needed him to hold me while the world ended. But Gillian had called. She had a “stomach ache.” And Colby had left. I had snapped. I remember grabbing a paring knife from the fruit basket by my bed, my voice a ragged, broken whisper. “If you walk out that door, Colby, we are done. I mean it. If you choose her now, there is no coming back.” He had looked at me with pure disgust, as if I were a monster. “Stop being dramatic, Natalie. You’re in a hospital. The doctors said you’re stable. Gillian is alone and her health has always been fragile. I have to go. Don’t make this about you.” He hadn’t looked back. As the door clicked shut, the knife slipped. It sliced deep into my wrist, leaving a jagged, ugly reminder of the moment I realized I was truly alone. A vibration from my phone pulled me back to the present. A voice memo from Colby. He sounded drunk. “Nat… stop being mad. Let’s just… let’s try again. Let’s have another baby, okay?” A baby? I touched my stomach. The phantom pain of the loss was so sharp I nearly doubled over. Even after all the numbness, the mention of a child felt like a hand squeezing my heart until it stopped. I waited until the shaking stopped. I wiped the last tear from my cheek and blocked both of them—Colby and Gillian. Then, I dialed a long-distance number I hadn’t called in years. “Mom? I’m coming home. I’ll see you at the airport in three days.” 3 Colby didn’t come home for the next few days. I didn’t ask where he was. I just started packing. It was harder than I expected; seven years leaves deep roots. Every object seemed to hold a ghost of him. There was the white cashmere scarf he’d given me on our first date. I’d kept it for years, even after it started to fray, because he’d told me he worked overtime for a month just to afford it. There were the little handmade trinkets from our early years, the things he’d stayed up late to make because we couldn’t afford “real” gifts. I had kept them in the safe like they were diamonds. As his career took off, the gifts got more expensive. I’d cherished those too, seeing them as milestones of our shared success. But everything changed two years ago, when Gillian moved back. The vanity became crowded with designer jewelry I never asked for. The closet filled up with haute couture from every season. Million-dollar necklaces, custom gowns—they weren’t gifts of love anymore. They were “hush jewelry.” Bribes to compensate for the nights I spent dining alone. I walked past them all. I didn’t want the bribes. I only packed what was truly mine. The day I finished, Colby finally showed up. He saw the suitcase by the door and his brow furrowed. “Where are you going this time?” He still thought this was a game. He thought I was just “running away” to stay at a hotel for a night to make him grovel. “I just need some air,” I said, keeping my eyes down. He didn’t notice the finality in my voice. Instead, he stepped close and wrapped his arms around me. “Nat, I’ve been waiting to hear from you for days.” Waiting? I remembered the hundreds of texts I’d sent in the past, begging him to come home, only to be met with cold silence or a dismissive “I’m busy.” He took my face in his hands, looking at me with an intensity that felt like a lie. “If you had just asked me to come home, I would have. But you didn’t.” He sounded almost accusatory. As if I were the one who had spent the week in another woman’s bed. I didn’t argue. I just let a small, tight smile touch my lips. He took it as a sign of forgiveness and kissed my forehead. “I knew it. You’re not like your mother, Natalie.” The words hit me like a physical blow. He knew my history. He knew my father was a cheating, abusive shadow of a man who nearly destroyed us. He knew that if my mother hadn’t been incredibly brave and incredibly tough, she wouldn’t have survived. She had to flee the country just to build a life worth living. And here he was, using her struggle as a weapon to praise my “compliance.” He saw the flash of pain in my eyes and tried to backtrack. “Sorry, Nat. I just meant… you don’t have to make things hard on yourself like she did. You have me. You’re safe here.” “Am I?” I looked him dead in the eye. He seemed to flinch for a split second, but he brushed it off. “Of course. Just trust me like you used to.” I felt a cold sneer forming in my soul, but I kept my face neutral. My phone buzzed. “My car is here,” I said quietly. “Go do whatever it is you do, Colby.” “Fine.” He actually looked relieved. He walked me to the door like a doting husband. Before I stepped out, I turned back. “Colby?” “Yeah?” “Goodbye.” It was a finality he wasn’t equipped to understand. He just reached out and ruffled my hair, grinning. “Go get some sun. Relax. I’ll stay here, work hard, and keep making the money that keeps you in this beautiful life.” I didn’t say another word. I took one last look at the man I had loved for a decade and got into the car. I was halfway to the airport when my phone began to vibrate violently. It was an unknown number. I ignored it, assuming it was a telemarketer, but as I went to clear the notification, an anonymous text popped up. “Natalie, your baby didn’t die. Colby lied to you.”

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Today marks four years since I lost my son. When I woke up, my husband, Colton, whispered that he’d take me to the cemetery later. He’s been exhausted lately—back-to-back military drills, barely sleeping—so I told him to rest. I’d drive to the base and pick him up instead. I slid into the driver’s seat of my SUV, my fingers ghosting over the navigation screen out of habit. In the next heartbeat, the blood in my veins turned to ice. There, saved in the system, were two “Home” addresses pinned side-by-side. One was our house at the military compound. The other was a place I didn’t recognize, a name that felt like a physical sting: 8 Silver Lake Drive. But what made my breath hitch was the timestamp. Both addresses had been pinned four years ago—right around the time my world fell apart. Right when we buried our son. 1 My phone buzzed. A text from Colton: Emergency briefing. Maybe next year, okay? Outside the windshield, his military-grade Humvee roared past, heading in the opposite direction. By the time I came to my senses, I was parked at the gates of a private estate. Silver Lake. It was the kind of enclave reserved for the city’s shadow elite—old money and high-ranking officials. As far as I knew, Colton didn’t own property here. “You’re looking for Colonel Colton Derrick? You say you’re his wife?” The security guard looked at me with a mix of confusion and pity. “Stop joking, ma’am. Everyone knows the Colonel and his wife have lived here for five or six years. They’re the golden couple of the neighborhood. A young woman like you shouldn’t be playing these games.” It felt like a serrated blade had been driven into my chest. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold my phone. I fumbled through my gallery, pulling up a photo of our marriage certificate. The guard took one look, his expression shifting from skepticism to a hollow, haunting sympathy. He shook his head and stepped back into the booth. I didn’t want to make his job harder. I waited until he turned his back, then slipped through the pedestrian side-gate. There was a row of low shrubs lining the perimeter. Through the wrought-iron fence, the garden came into view. I ran along the wall for nearly five hundred yards. Then, I stopped. The Humvee was there. The plates were unmistakable—military issue. On the manicured lawn, a massive archway of camouflage-blue balloons swayed in the breeze. A banner stretched across the patio: “HAPPY 4TH BIRTHDAY, LUCA.” Four. Today. If my son were alive, he would be four today. In the ten-minute drive here, I had played out a thousand scenarios. I told myself he was dropping off a comrade. I told myself he was planning a surprise for me. I told myself it was a classified mission he had to keep secret to protect me. Colton wouldn’t lie to me. Not on the anniversary of our son’s death. After all, we were the Great Love Story. I didn’t want to misunderstand him. But in that moment, the truth was a bullet that shattered my delusion. The sound of a child’s laughter drifted over the fence. There was a long table set out on the grass, piled high with a tiered cake, wrapped gifts, and model fighter jets. Colton was kneeling on the lawn, a small boy gathered in his arms. The boy wore a tiny, tailored military-style suit, his cheeks puffed out as he leaned toward the candles on the cake. Standing beside them was a woman. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves; she wore a white silk sundress and was clapping, her face radiant. “One, two, three…” My nails bit into my palms, drawing blood. Today was the fourth anniversary of my son’s funeral. And here he was, celebrating the fourth birthday of another child. “Good job! Luca is the best!” The woman leaned down and kissed the boy’s cheek. Colton pulled them both close, his eyes crinkling with a warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Daddy, I made a wish!” the boy chirped, looking up with wide, trusting eyes. “What did you wish for, buddy?” “I want Daddy and Mommy to be with me every single day!” Colton kissed the boy’s forehead. “Daddy promises.” Daddy. I could hear my own breathing—heavy, ragged, like a drowning soldier gasping for air. Every instinct screamed at me to storm in there. To flip that table, to scream at him, to ask him what our son’s memory meant to him… But I stayed still. Because I knew Colton. If I went in now, I’d be met with a thousand perfectly crafted explanations. “You’ve got it all wrong.” “She’s the widow of a fallen brother.” “The boy is a ward of the state I’m looking after.” He would find a hundred ways to turn my grief into “hysteria.” I pulled out my phone. My hands were still trembling, but the lens stayed steady. I pointed it at the garden. I took six photos. Then, I hit record. I captured Colton smearing frosting on the boy’s nose. I captured the boy’s giggles. I captured the woman leaning in to wipe his face, her hand lingering on Colton’s shoulder. A family of three. I hit stop. My phone buzzed again. Another text from Colton. Maddie, don’t wait up. The drills are going through the night. Make sure you eat something. Get some rest, honey. Through the night. Of course. It was a beautiful evening for a family reunion. Why wouldn’t it go all night? I felt a wave of nausea so violent I had to drop to my knees by the roadside. I retched until my throat burned. When I finally turned to walk away, I didn’t cry. But my legs felt like lead. I called an Uber once I reached the main road. In the backseat, I buried my face in my hands, my eyes burning but dry. After a long, shaky breath, I dialed my best friend’s number. “Jordan.” “I just stepped out of court, Maddie. What’s up?” “Colton is cheating.” 2 The silence on the other end of the line lasted ten seconds. “Are you sure it’s Colton?” “The military plates. He called the boy Luca; the boy called him Daddy.” “Send me the photos.” I uploaded everything. Jordan’s voice turned professional, the sharp tone of a woman who dealt in cold facts. “I’ll run a background check on the woman. Sit tight.” When I pushed open the front door of our apartment, Colton was in the kitchen. “You’re back?” He emerged with a bowl of soup, a gentle smile on his face. “You look pale, Maddie. I made the roasted ribs you like. You barely ate this morning.” His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his apron tied perfectly. He was a completely different man from the one I’d seen four hours ago in that garden. “The drills finished early?” I took the bowl. “Yeah, a grueling morning, but we wrapped up.” He said it so naturally. “Drink your soup. You need the strength.” The pork ribs was tender, exactly how I liked it. It tasted like the soup from the little diner near the military academy where we met. Back then, his monthly stipend was barely eighty dollars. Treating me to a bowl of soup meant he had to skip meals for three days. When the check came, he’d always slide the last piece of ribs into my bowl. I’d tease him for being stingy, and he’d pinch my nose and say, “Once I’m an officer, I’ll make sure you have this every day.” He had kept that promise. On our wedding day, he stood at the podium and said, “Madeline, it took me eight years to get from the academy to the regional command. In the next eight years, I’m going to give you a kingdom.” The room had erupted in applause. I had cried until my makeup was a ruin. When I got pregnant, he was more nervous than I was. When he saw the two lines on the test, he froze for three seconds before spinning me around in the air. “I’m going to be a father!” He shouted it loud enough for the whole building to hear. Throughout the pregnancy, he woke up early to check my temperature and make breakfast. He never missed a single prenatal appointment. He even bought a parenting book and read it until the spine cracked. On the first page, he wrote: For our Little Stone… Mom and Dad are waiting for you to come home. Stone. That was our nickname for him. But Stone never came home. I spent three days in a coma due to a massive hemorrhage during labor. When I finally woke up, Colton was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. “Where’s the baby?” He didn’t speak. “Colton, where is he?!” He pulled me into his arms, his voice breaking. “Maddie, don’t… please don’t.” I tried to fight my way to the nursery like a madwoman. He held my shoulders, saying “I’m sorry” over and over. Later, the nurses came. The doctors came. Everyone told me the same thing: the baby didn’t make it. He was too small, too weak. I didn’t believe them. I begged to see him. No one would let me. Colton told me it had already been “taken care of.” “Don’t think about it anymore, Maddie. It’ll kill you.” I was trapped in postpartum depression for a year. He stayed by my side, never leaving. Everyone said he was the perfect husband. My phone vibrated. A text from Jordan. Her name is Serena Miller. Don’t do anything yet. Give me three days to dig into this. I deleted the message and looked up. Colton was watching me from across the table. “Something wrong? Is the soup cold?” “No,” I whispered. “It’s perfect.” That night, I received a friend request on Facebook. The name: Serena Miller. The message: Hello, Mrs. Derrick. I’m the Colonel’s confidential secretary. I think we need to coordinate some matters regarding his schedule. I stared at the name for a long time. 3 After I accepted the request, I scrolled through her profile. On the day of my last prenatal checkup—the one Colton said he had an “emergency tactical meeting” for and arrived two hours late—she had posted a photo of a latte. The caption: The Colonel is in a great mood today. He bought coffee for the whole office. On my birthday, when Colton said he had to entertain visiting dignitaries and I ended up throwing a three-course dinner into the trash, she had posted a photo of a bouquet of lilies. The caption: Someone said work is too hard and I should treat myself. Serena invited me to a tea house, claiming she wanted to “understand the Colonel’s domestic preferences” to better assist him. When I pushed open the door, a woman in a cream-colored knit sweater smiled at me. The smile was soft. Her eyes were sharp as glass. It was her. The dress was different, but I’d never forget that face. “Madeline, thank you for coming.” She gestured to the seat across from her. “I’m new to the command,” she said, stirring her tea. “There’s so much I don’t know. I wanted to ask about the Colonel’s diet—any allergies? Preferences?” “He doesn’t eat cilantro or onions,” I said, lifting my cup. “Right, right. I knew that.” She let out a small, melodic laugh. “He also can’t stand carrots. Apparently, he was forced to eat them as a kid. Now, he just scowls if he sees them on a plate.” She knew. She knew everything. I set my cup down. “Ms. Miller, you didn’t bring me here to talk about carrots.” Her smile faltered for a second, then widened into something predatory. “You’re as smart as he said you were.” She leaned back, crossing her legs, the mask of the polite secretary slipping away. “I’ll be blunt, Madeline. Don’t you think things between you and Colton have reached their expiration date?” “Meaning?” “Meaning exactly what I said.” She tilted her head. “There’s no love left. You’re dragging out a ghost. It’s better to let go with some dignity.” “Are you asking me for a divorce?” “I’m helping you find freedom,” she corrected me. “You’re just… sitting there. No career, no child, no way to help him climb the ranks. What’s the point?” I gripped the table. “And what are you? His mistress?” I stared into her eyes. “As long as I don’t sign those papers, you will always be a secret. You and that child will be nothing but a shadow.” Her smile twitched. Then she laughed, a cold, dry sound. “So confident? You were at the Silver Lake house the other day, weren’t you?” My heart skipped a beat. She traced the rim of her teacup with a manicured finger. “It’s a shame, really. Colton told me your baby and Luca were born only six hours apart.” She curled her lips into a smile, her voice light, as if she were commenting on the weather. “When Luca gets into trouble, I can never bring myself to be firm with him. I guess I’m just lucky. Heaven clearly favors me.” She stood up, grabbed her designer bag, and leaned over the table until her breath was on my ear. “Madeline, you’re just one of those women who wasn’t meant to have a happy ending.” The click of her heels faded away. I sat there, frozen. Six hours. The same day. The same… military hospital? 4 On the fourth night, Jordan called. Her voice was shaking with rage. “Maddie… your marriage certificate. It’s fake.” I thought I had misheard. “What… what do you mean?” “There is no record of your marriage in the civil system. But there is a divorce record. Two years ago, Colton forged your signature on a set of mutual consent papers. Madeline… you aren’t legally married to him anymore.” The phone slipped from my hand, clattering against the hardwood floor. The screen spiderwebbed into a dozen cracks. The next morning, Colton woke up at 6:00 AM as usual. He put on his uniform and sat down to the breakfast I had prepared. “I have a dinner with the brass tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” He walked to the door, pulled me into a brief embrace, and kissed my forehead. “Maddie, you’ve been through so much lately. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.” I smiled, but said nothing. After he left, I found a receipt in the pocket of his spare coat. Imported toys. Children’s vitamins. Dinosaur crackers. My phone rang. Jordan again. “I tracked the money. The Silver Lake house is in Serena’s name, but the down payment came from a hidden offshore account tied to Colton.” “There’s something else.” Her tone shifted. “I pulled the hospital archives from four years ago. Serena Miller was admitted to the same maternity ward at the same time you were.” “You were discharged within a day of each other. Maddie… the child she has? His birth weight and stats match a healthy newborn. The records say your child died of respiratory failure, but there’s no autopsy report. No signature from the attending physician.” I looked up at the wall, at our wedding photo. Colton looked so kind in his dress blues. Six hours. The same hospital. My child was declared dead. Hers was turning four. “Jordan.” “Yeah?” “I need a DNA test. For that boy.” Jordan paused. “Are you sure?” “I need to see it with my own eyes. I need the evidence.” I closed my eyes. Four years. What if my son didn’t die? Jordan used her connections to pull the boy’s medical file from the base clinic. They had a buccal swab on file for his school registration. I went to a private lab, gave my own blood, and submitted the samples. They told me it would take five to seven business days. For those seven days, I played the part. I cooked, I cleaned, and I waited for Colton to come home. He was in high spirits. On Wednesday, he came home early for once. He was carrying a dozen roses. “Next Saturday is your birthday. I want to throw a big party. Family, friends, everyone.” He handed me the flowers, his eyes shining. “We’ll do it at the Officers’ Club. I’ve invited the whole command. I want to give you a surprise, Maddie. You’ve suffered enough in silence.” He held me. His chin rested on the top of my head. My face was pressed against his chest. “I want the whole world to know,” he whispered, “that you are the most important person in my life.” Friday morning, 10:00 AM. My phone rang. An unknown number. “Hello, is this Madeline Derrick?” “Yes.” “This is the Forensic Institute. The DNA results you requested are ready. The report indicates that the probability of a maternal match between the samples is…” My heart stopped. The voice on the other end continued, “99.99%. A positive biological match.”

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On my wedding day, my mother died under the screeching tires of a Maybach. The woman behind the wheel was Talia, the adopted sister Elvis Beaumont cherished above all else. The security footage was a nightmare looped in my mind: her dragging my mother’s body for miles until there was nothing left but a sickening trail of red and white on the asphalt. After eight years of loving him, Elvis finally promised to stand by me. But the moment I filed charges for first-degree murder, he handed me a blank check. “Talia is young,” he said, his voice as cold as the basement he’d locked me in. “Prison would destroy her.” To stop me from appearing in court, he kept me—his pregnant wife—shackled in the dark for three days. It was only then that I realized that in his world, I was always the one meant to be sacrificed. 1 After seventy-two hours of silence, the heavy steel door groaned open. Elvis stepped into the dim light of the basement. “Madeline,” he started, his voice devoid of the warmth that used to define us. “Have you reconsidered the withdrawal?” He didn’t ask if I was hungry. He didn’t ask about the baby. His first words were a plea for his spoiled little princess. I forced my head up, my jaw aching from tension. “I will never withdraw those charges, Elvis. Never.” “I will make sure Talia pays for what she did. Every cent, every second of her life.” Elvis crossed his long legs, his face obscured by the shadows, but I could feel the glacial chill emanating from his eyes. “Talia was reckless. She’d had a few drinks and she hit your mother by accident. I’ll provide whatever compensation you want. Write any number on the check. Isn’t that enough?” He paused, a cruel edge sharpening his tone. “Your mother was sixty. In a wrongful death suit, her life is worth maybe a million, tops. Look at the math, Maddy. You’re coming out ahead.” Ahead? The air left my lungs as if he’d punched me. A sharp, twisting pain flared in my abdomen, and a cold sweat broke across my brow. “Elvis, that was my mother! The woman who raised me! You think you can put a price tag on her soul?” My voice cracked, rising to a scream. “Talia knew she hit someone! She kept driving! She dragged her until her heart stopped beating! That isn’t an accident—it’s a slaughter! Does she not have to answer for that?” Elvis’s brow furrowed, his patience clearly reaching its limit. “Madeline, I’m giving you one last chance to be reasonable.” His assistant stepped forward, holding a tablet. A video played. It was a live feed of my father’s hospital room. He had been in a vegetative state for years, a silent ghost of the man he once was. In the video, a man stood over him, a pair of surgical scissors hovering inches from his oxygen line. “Withdraw the case,” Elvis whispered, “or watch your father die. Choose.” The blood drained from my face, rushing to my head in a deafening throb. I lunged forward, a primal scream tearing from my throat, but Elvis caught me, pinning my arms to my sides. “Think carefully, Madeline. Are you really going to throw away your future for a dead woman?” His words were like a devil’s bargain, piercing through whatever was left of my heart. Years ago, when Elvis first took over the Beaumont empire, his ruthless tactics earned him many enemies. He was kidnapped during a high-stakes deal gone wrong. My father was the lead detective on the case. In the final standoff, my father took a bullet meant for Elvis, a bullet that shattered his spine and left him in a coma. Out of guilt—or perhaps a twisted sense of debt—Elvis took my mother and me in. He paid for every medical bill. For five years, he was my rock. He never missed a milestone. We grew together, our bond shifting from gratitude to a deep, consuming love. On the day I graduated, he proposed in front of the entire university, promising me a life of unparalleled happiness. But he broke that promise the moment Talia returned from her “studies” abroad. I looked into his pitch-black eyes. “Elvis, have you forgotten? My father is in that bed because he saved your life. And now you’re willing to kill him to protect a girl who spends her days breaking every law she can find?” I was shaking so violently my teeth rattled. Even with the evidence of his cruelty right in front of me, I couldn’t believe he would go this far for her. Elvis sighed, a long, weary sound as if he were the victim. “I’ve already punished her, Madeline. She knows she made a mistake.” “We’re family. There’s no need to turn this into a public circus.” 2 I knew exactly what Elvis’s “punishment” looked like. A week-long grounding. A suspended credit card. Meaningless gestures that he’d recycled for eight years. I was sick of it. Ever since Talia came back, she was the third person in our marriage. If Elvis spent more than ten minutes with me, her phone call would tear him away. She was always threatening suicide or getting into some high-speed chase that required his legal team to scrub the records. Elvis would tell me not to worry about her, but he was always the first to run to her side. And I was always the one left behind. Every time, he’d soothe me with the same tired lines. “Maddy, she lost her parents young. I’m all she has. I have to be responsible for her.” “Maddy, she’s just spirited. She’s not a bad person. We’re her elders; we have to be patient.” But this time, her “spirit” had murdered my mother to stop our wedding. I thought Elvis would finally see reason. But his heart was a compass that only pointed toward Talia. Watching the video of my father, the tears I’d held back for weeks finally spilled over. “Fine, Elvis,” I whispered. “I’ll do it. I’ll withdraw the charges.” A spark of triumph lit his eyes, and he offered a smile that made my skin crawl. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d understand.” “In seven days, we’ll have the wedding again. A real one this time. Okay?” I didn’t nod. I didn’t shake my head. I just took the pen and signed my name on the legal waiver, every stroke feeling like a jagged blade carving into my chest. That night, I saw Talia’s Instagram post. She was celebrating her “freedom” at a rooftop bar. Behind her was a mountain of luxury shopping bags, the centerpiece being a vintage Patek Philippe watch. It was worth three hundred thousand dollars—the same watch Elvis had outbid everyone for at a charity gala last month. Thanks to the best ‘Uncle’ for giving me my life back—again. I saw Elvis’s profile in the likes. In eight years, he had never liked a single photo of mine. But he never missed one of hers. “She’s just a kid, she cares about that social media stuff,” he used to tell me. “If I don’t like it, she throws a tantrum.” I never made a scene about Talia because I wanted to be the “mature” one. But now, while my mother’s body was being prepared for a casket, he was celebrating Talia’s rebirth. I stood by the window of our cold mansion, my heart turning to stone. I picked up the phone and dialed the clinic. “Hello. I’d like to schedule a termination.” I looked down at my flat stomach. This baby was supposed to be my wedding gift to Elvis. But some gifts shouldn’t be given. Just like our wedding, this story was never going to have a happy ending. I organized my mother’s funeral alone. The chapel was filled with gardenias, her favorite. On the day of the service, Elvis showed up holding Talia’s hand. As I watched, Talia stepped toward the altar to light a candle. “Who gave you permission to be here?” My voice was a whip, cracking through the silence of the chapel. I slapped the candle out of her hand. The hot wax splashed onto her skin, and she let out a piercing shriek, recoiling into Elvis’s arms. “Elvis… it hurts!” Elvis looked at her reddened hand, his eyes burning with sudden fury. “She’s just trying to pay her respects, Madeline. Was it really necessary to attack her?” Talia’s eyes welled with practiced tears. She reached out to grab my hand, her voice a trembling whisper. “Maddy, I’m so sorry. I was coming to the wedding to bring you a gift… I didn’t know it would happen like that!” “Elvis already punished me so much. I really, truly know I was wrong.” She was a master of the “innocent girl” act, and Elvis was her most devoted audience. I used to tolerate it for him. Not anymore. “Elvis, I am saying this for the last time. Get her out of here.” The guests were whispering, pointing. Everyone knew Talia had been the driver. The facade on Talia’s face began to slip. “She was just an old woman!” Talia snapped, her voice losing its sweetness. “She was going to die sooner or later anyway!” “If Elvis hadn’t dragged me here, do you think I’d want to come to this dump?” She marched to the front of the room before anyone could react and grabbed the porcelain urn containing my mother’s ashes. “You don’t want me to light a candle?” she hissed. “Fine. Then nobody gets to say goodbye!” My heart stopped. “No!” With a sickening crash, the urn shattered against the floor. Gray dust exploded into the air, coating the carpet. 3 The room went deathly silent. A sharp, acidic burn rose in my throat, but I forced myself not to cry. I dropped to my knees, desperately trying to scoop the ash and bone fragments back together with my bare hands. Talia, meanwhile, looked like a woman possessed. She began tearing down the floral arrangements, smashing the framed photos of my mother. She turned the funeral into a riot. I walked out of the hall clutching the small amount of ash I could save. Elvis chased after me, catching me by the arm. “Maddy, she’s just got a temper. She can’t handle people criticizing her. She went too far this time, I know.” “Don’t worry, I’ll arrange a new service… I’ll handle everything.” The same words. The same poison. I felt a wave of nausea so strong I almost gagged. I pulled my arm back. “Don’t touch me.” I pushed his hand away with a strength I didn’t know I had. Elvis’s hand hung in the empty air, and for a second, he looked shaken. I hadn’t walked ten steps when my phone buzzed. It was the private nurse I’d hired for my father. “Ms. Rossi… your father’s oxygen. Someone pulled the plug…” The world tilted on its axis. I rushed to the hospital, the urn fragment still clutched to my chest. By the time I arrived, my father’s body was already covered in a white sheet. “Who did this? Tell me who!” I screamed at the head nurse. “I paid for extra security! How did someone get in?” Ever since Elvis threatened him, I’d changed the staff. I thought I’d made him safe. “It… it was Ms. Beaumont,” the nurse stammered, trembling. “She said your father was a drain on hospital resources. She said the hospital had stopped his care…” “She owns a stake in this facility, Ms. Rossi. No one dared to stop her.” The nurse dropped to her knees, terrified of the legal fallout. “Please, don’t fight her. You can’t win.” The image of Talia smashing the urn flashed in my mind, fueled by a rage that burned hotter than any fire. I took a cab back to the mansion. As I stepped out, I heard music blasting from inside. Laughter. “If her dad hadn’t saved Elvis, do you think he’d ever look at a girl like her?” “I’m never letting him marry anyone but me.” “First wedding, the mom dies. Second attempt, the dad dies. Let’s see if she’s brave enough for a third!” Talia’s voice, shrill and arrogant, echoed through the halls. I kicked the front door open and slammed the power switch on the stereo. I walked straight up to Talia and delivered a slap that echoed like a gunshot. Talia stumbled back, clutching her cheek. Her face contorted into something demonic. “You hit me? No one hits me!” She screamed for the security she’d hired. Within seconds, two men pinned me to the floor. “So what if your parents are dead? I lost mine too. You think you’re special, Madeline?” She ground her stiletto heel into the back of my hand until I cried out in pain. “I killed your father. I killed your mother. And I can kill you, too.” “People like you… you’re just trash. Cheap, replaceable trash.” Someone restarted the music. Talia and her friends took turns kicking me while I was down. A small pocketknife appeared, and Talia dragged the blade across my forearm, her eyes dancing with excitement at the sight of my blood. “You’ll pay for this, Talia. I swear to God, you’ll pay.” “Pay?” She laughed, leaning down to whisper in my ear. She had them drag me into a small storage closet under the stairs and zip-tie my hands. “Watch closely, Maddy. Let’s see who pays.” They taped my mouth shut. I struggled against the ties, my heart hammering, and then I heard the front door open again. Elvis walked in. He looked at Talia and frowned. “What happened to your face?” 4 Talia glanced back at the closet door, her smile widening. “Oh, you know me. I got into a little scuffle.” “Tell everyone to leave, Elvis. If Maddy comes back and sees this mess, she’ll be upset again.” Elvis sighed, his expression softening into that familiar, indulgent look. He tapped her nose playfully. “You’re always causing trouble.” He dismissed the crowd. Talia wrapped her arms around his waist, purring as the guests filtered out. But she didn’t let go. Her hands moved over him with a hunger that was distinctly un-sisterly. “Elvis…” she breathed. “Let me show you something.” Through the crack in the closet door, I saw Elvis’s eyes—usually so cold and professional—cloud with a dark, familiar heat. He backed her against the wall near the stairs. His voice dropped to a low, gravelly register I’d only heard in our most private moments. “Talia, you shouldn’t tempt me like this.” “You know the world won’t let us be together. There’s no future for us.” My eyes nearly bulged out of my head. My nails dug into my palms. In eight years of dating, Elvis and I had only been intimate a handful of times, usually after he’d been drinking. I’d always assumed he just wasn’t a physical person. I was wrong. He just wasn’t physical with me. “I don’t care about the world,” Talia whispered, pulling his head down. “I’m happy being your little secret.” They collided in a feverish, desperate kiss. I watched them against the wall, my own body aching from the kicks and the cuts, but the pain in my chest was worse. Eight years of my life had been nothing but a smoke screen for their filth. “Elvis,” Talia gasped between breaths. “I pulled the plug on Maddy’s dad.” I waited for the explosion. For him to throw her off. For him to remember the man who took a bullet for him. Instead, he just chuckled, his breath hot against her neck. “You really can’t go a day without a crisis, can you?” “Fine. I’ll handle Maddy. I’ll tell her it was a hospital error.” No blame. No horror. Just the exhausted fondness of a man cleaning up a toddler’s spilled milk. I felt the tears dry on my face. I reached for the phone in my pocket—the one they’d forgotten to take. I hit ‘record.’ Talia laughed, promising to be “good,” and they disappeared into the master bedroom. I sat in the dark until the house went quiet. Eventually, Talia came back. She was wearing nothing but a silk robe, her neck covered in bruises. She opened the closet door. “Hear all that?” she sneered. “To him, your parents’ lives are just ‘little accidents.’ You really think you can beat me?” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at her. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, she kicked me one last time and left. As soon as the house was empty, I used a sharp edge of a shelf to saw through the zip ties. I left the mansion and sent the audio file to my lawyer. This time, I’m taking her down. All the way. My lawyer replied instantly. I told you to wait for this. This is the leverage we need to break the Beaumonts. It’s over for them. Send the divorce papers to his office tomorrow, I typed. I went to the hospital to finalize my father’s arrangements, then I sat in the waiting room for my own surgery. My phone rang. It was Elvis. “Maddy? Where are you? The hospital called about your dad—it was a terrible oversight on their part. I’ve already filed a complaint.” “We’ll hold a joint funeral for your parents. I’ll come pick you up when I’m done with a meeting.” I stared at the white walls of the clinic. “Okay,” I said quietly. Elvis hesitated, perhaps sensing the hollowness in my voice. “Where are you exactly?” I let out a soft, jagged laugh. “I’m at the Women’s Health Center, Elvis.” “I’m waiting for the doctor to take our baby out of me.” I heard the sound of a phone hitting the floor on the other end. I turned my phone off and walked into the operating room. Wait for me, Elvis. We’re going to settle the bill. Every last cent. Elvis stared at the dead screen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He redialed frantically, but it went straight to voicemail. He bolted from his chair, grabbing his coat. His assistant met him at the door with a stack of papers. “Sir, I have the afternoon briefings—” “Cancel everything! I have an emergency!” The assistant looked uncomfortable, holding out a specific envelope. “But sir… this just arrived by courier. It’s from Mrs. Beaumont’s lawyer. It’s… divorce papers.” Elvis froze. He stared at the bold letters. His eyes turned bloodshot, a sharp, stinging pain blooming behind his lids.

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The first thing I did after coming back from the dead was slam the divorce papers onto the table. It was my daughter’s fifth birthday. Everyone in that room thought I’d lost my mind. After all, it was common knowledge that my wife, Claire, was a rising star at the base, a woman destined for the kind of power that could move mountains. Her hand trembled as she gripped the document. “You’re doing this now? Just because I asked you to quit that dead-end union job at the mill to help Simon with the kids? He’s a single father, Jack. He’s struggling. We don’t even need your paycheck!” I didn’t answer. My gaze was locked on the sofa, where my daughter, Daisy, was pinned to the cushions. Simon’s two sons were sitting on her back, treating her like a literal horse. I lunged forward, ripped those two little monsters off her, and shoved them toward the floor. “You’re overreacting!” Claire snapped, her voice sharp with embarrassment. “They’re just playing. They’re family, for God’s sake. Is this really necessary?” Necessary? In my last life, I believed that lie. I believed it until the day a paternity report shattered my world, until the day I watched Daisy’s tiny casket being lowered into the ground without even a proper goodbye. This time, I didn’t care if Claire was on track to become a General. I was taking my daughter and getting out. This marriage was over. 1. “Waaaah—!” The twins hit the hardwood floor and erupted into a synchronized, ear-splitting wail. The easy laughter that had filled the living room died instantly. Simon, my brother-in-law, was at Claire’s side in a heartbeat, his eyes already welling with practiced tears. “Jack, please, don’t do this. If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me. I know you’re frustrated, but I never asked you to give up your career for us. Please, don’t blow up your marriage with Claire because of me and the boys.” He turned and gave the twins two quick swats on their rear ends. It looked forceful, but the impact was as light as a feather. “You boys were being too rough! Apologize now!” Hunter and Cooper only cried harder. Simon pulled them into his arms, his voice cracking with a staged vulnerability. “Their mother passed so young… it’s been so hard raising them alone. Jack, you’ve always been the kind one. Do it for the memory of Claire’s sister. Don’t take it out on the kids…” My mother-in-law, Martha, charged out of the kitchen like a heat-seeking missile. She scooped up the twins, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “You heartless prick! Do you have any idea how hard Simon works? Claire is just trying to look out for her sister’s family. What’s wrong with that? You’re making a scene on your own daughter’s birthday? Have you no shame?” The relatives began to whisper, their voices a low hum of judgment. “He’s crazy. Claire just got promoted to Major. Her future is golden…” “You don’t just walk away from a military marriage like this. It’s a scandal.” “Poor Simon. A widower with two boys, and he has to deal with this…” I held Daisy tight. My fingers brushed against her narrow back, feeling the way she was shaking. She was like a hunted animal in my arms. In my previous life, it was always like this. Simon would play the victim, the “sensitive man” in over his head, and I became the “unreasonable” one. The “bitter” one. “Jack! I’m talking to you!” Claire’s voice snapped me back to the present. She was helping Simon stand up, her eyes boring into mine with a mixture of disappointment and pure, unfiltered irritation. “Look at him. Look at what you’re doing to this family. Can’t you just be the bigger person for once?” “Be the bigger person?” I looked her dead in the eye. “Claire, do you even know what today is?” She blinked, momentarily stunned. “It’s March 17th. It’s Daisy’s fifth birthday.” I walked into the center of the room, Daisy’s arms wrapped like iron bands around my neck. I pointed at the twins, who were still sobbing into Martha’s expensive cardigan. “Look at them. Hunter and Cooper are wearing brand-new North Face jackets. Those shoes cost half my monthly salary.” My voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. “Did any of you bring a gift for my daughter? Did any of you even say ‘Happy Birthday’ to her today?” The room went silent. “Or,” I turned my gaze back to Claire, my lips curling into a jagged, mocking smile, “was her only gift supposed to be acting as a literal farm animal for her ‘cousins’?” Claire’s face shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing her features before she hardened again. “Don’t be dramatic. They were just playing…” “Playing?” I cut her off, my eyes dropping to her hand, which was still gripping Simon’s arm with a bit too much familiarity. “You care more about those boys than their own father does, Claire. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were yours.” The words hit the room like a concussive blast. Claire’s face went ghost-white. Simon’s sobbing stopped instantly; he looked down, his fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. Martha opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The air in the room changed—it became heavy, suspicious. Claire finally found her voice, though it was trembling with rage. “Jack, you are being absolutely psychotic!” Martha recovered next, her voice a shrill shriek. “How dare you! Just because you couldn’t give her a son, you’re going to spit on this family? I’m telling you now, you aren’t getting a divorce! Military marriages are protected! You’re stuck, you loser!” I looked down at Daisy. Her tiny hands were clutching my collar so hard her knuckles were white. There was dirt under her fingernails from where the boys had pushed her down. A phantom pain bloomed in my chest—a memory of another night, another life. The fire. The smell of smoke. Daisy lying in the rubble, her small body charred and still. “Daddy…” Daisy whispered, her voice a tiny thread. I snapped back. I squeezed her tight, feeling her heartbeat against mine. I looked at Claire one last time. “Tomorrow morning. 9:00 AM. The lawyer’s office.” I turned toward the door, my steps heavy and final. “If you aren’t there, Claire, I’m going straight to your Commanding Officer. And I promise you, you’ll never see another promotion as long as you live.” 2. I walked down the quiet, suburban streets with Daisy in my arms. The streetlights cast long, lonely shadows on the pavement. “Daddy? Where are we going?” she asked softly. “To a place where nobody can hurt you,” I said, kissing the top of her head. She was silent for a long moment. “Daddy, it’s okay. I wasn’t that sad.” I stopped walking and looked at her. Her clear, innocent eyes reflected the glow of the lamp above us. “Mommy said that the boys are bigger and I have to be nice to them. I wasn’t sad. Really.” Each word felt like a needle driven into my heart. In my last life, she was always this “good.” When the twins stole her candy, she let them. When Martha took her new clothes and gave them to the boys, she didn’t cry. When Claire came home and only had hugs for her nephews, Daisy just watched from the hallway. She used to look at me with those eyes—eyes exactly like Claire’s—and whisper, “Daddy, it’s okay.” But I knew it wasn’t. And this time, it wouldn’t be. “Daisy, why didn’t you tell me they were being mean to you?” She looked down, fidgeting with my shirt. Her voice was barely a murmur. “Because… because I knew it would make you sad. I didn’t want you to be sad, Daddy.” I almost lost my footing. I knelt on the sidewalk and pulled her into a crushing hug, the tears finally breaking through. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, baby… I was so blind. I didn’t protect you…” Daisy panicked, her little hands patting my back awkwardly. “Don’t cry, Daddy. It doesn’t hurt, I promise…” After a long while, I wiped my eyes and stood up. We weren’t going back. I took her to a small motel near the edge of town. After I tucked her in, I sat by the window, watching the neon sign flicker. I pulled a few forms out of my bag—blank applications for legal aid and a notepad. I couldn’t just walk away. Claire was an officer. In the military, “conduct unbecoming” and adultery weren’t just social stigmas; they were career-killers. If there’s a major violation… like abuse or infidelity… I remembered the words of a friend who had served. I wasn’t just going to leave. I was going to burn her world down. I left Daisy with a trusted neighbor from the mill—a woman Claire had always looked down on but who had a heart of gold—and drove to the one place I knew I could find help. The mill manager’s house. “Sir,” I said when he opened the door, my voice shaking but firm. “I need a favor.” By the time I left, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. I drove back to the motel, but as I pulled into the parking lot, I saw two familiar figures standing by the entrance. Claire and Simon. 3. The moment Simon saw me, he flinched, stepping back to hide behind Claire like a scolded dog. “Jack, thank God you’re back,” Simon started, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Please, don’t be mad at Claire. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed at the house so much. I’ll leave. I’ll take the boys and move back to my parents’ place in the valley. I won’t get in your way anymore.” He grabbed the twins’ hands, making a big show of turning to leave. “We’re going. Right now. Just please, forgive Claire. Don’t throw away your family over us.” Claire grabbed his arm, pulling him back. She turned to me, her face a mask of cold fury. “Are you happy now, Jack? You’ve made your point. You’ve humiliated us, and now Simon thinks he has to go into exile. Stop being so pathetic. They’ve apologized. I’ve apologized. Take the olive branch and let’s go home before this gets even more embarrassing.” The same old script. I looked at the two of them, standing there in the morning light. It was almost funny now. My gaze shifted to the twins. Looking at them now, without the veil of “trusting husband” over my eyes, the resemblance was staggering. They had Claire’s high cheekbones. They had her slightly arched brows. In my last life, I had been so blind. I told myself it was just family resemblance. I told myself “nephews often look like their aunts.” It wasn’t until after Daisy died, while I was packing her things, that I found the two envelopes tucked into the back of Claire’s desk. Two DNA reports. Two names: Hunter and Cooper. One result: 99.9% probability of maternity. I spoke, my voice low and dangerous. “Claire, has anyone ever told you how much those boys look like you?” The color drained from her face so fast it was like she’d been struck. She took an instinctive step back. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. They’re my sister’s kids. Of course there’s a resemblance!” Simon’s whole body gave a violent shudder. “A resemblance? No. It’s more than that. The eyes, the temper, the way they hold their heads.” I took a step forward, looming over her. “I’m getting the divorce, Claire. But before I’m done, you and Simon are going to pay back every ounce of pain you’ve caused Daisy. I’m taking everything.” The look I gave them was cold, devoid of the love that had once blinded me. Claire looked at me like she was seeing a stranger. She tried to say something, but the words died in her throat. “You’ll regret this, Jack!” she hissed, finally finding her venom. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” I watched them slink away to her car. I went back into the room and found Daisy sitting on the bed, eating a muffin I’d bought her. I sat down to help her clean up. Her sleeve slid up, revealing a small patch of skin on her inner wrist. I froze. There was a circular scar, the size of a dime. It looked like a burn. “Daisy,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What is this?” She jerked her arm back, trying to pull her sleeve down. “Nothing… it’s nothing, Daddy.” I gently took her hand. I didn’t squeeze, but I didn’t let go. “Tell me. How did this happen?” Daisy bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. “It was… it was Uncle Simon.” She started to sob quietly. “Hunter took my doll and I didn’t want to give it back. Uncle Simon got mad. He used his cigarette… he said if I told anyone, he’d leave me in the woods.” The world exploded into white-hot rage. 4. That night, I held Daisy and stared at the ceiling until dawn. Memories from the “first time” played on a loop in my head. I remembered the day Simon said he wanted wild blackberries from the ravine. He said Claire’s sister used to love them when she was pregnant with the boys, and eating them made him feel closer to her. Martha had insisted. “Jack, go get some. Simon has been through so much. The least you can do is help him feel better.” Even Claire had nudged me. “Just go. Be back before dinner.” I went. The trail was slick from the rain. I fell twice, scraping my knees and elbows, just to fill a small basket with tart, underripe berries. When I got back, the sun had set and the rain was pouring. But as I rounded the corner to our house, all I saw was orange light. The neighbors were huddled on the sidewalk, pointing at the smoke. I tried to run inside, but people held me back. I watched the shed—the place where Daisy played—collapse in a roar of flames. I watched the firemen carry out a small, blackened shape. “The boys wanted to see the fireworks…” Simon had been kneeling in the mud, wailing. “I told them no, but they didn’t listen… Daisy, she ran in to save her doll… I couldn’t catch her… It’s my fault, it’s all my fault!” I had knelt in the rain, staring at that body, and my entire world went black. Later, Claire was given a “hardship” accommodation by the base because of the “tragic loss of her child.” She was held up as a model of resilience, a woman who continued to care for her widowed brother-in-law and nephews despite her own grief. Her medals were polished with my daughter’s blood. The next morning, I took Daisy to the clinic. The manager at the mill had called ahead. There was a doctor there who specialized in forensic exams for Child Protective Services. While the doctor was examining Daisy, I pulled out two small envelopes. One contained a strand of Claire’s hair I’d pulled from her brush a few days ago. The other contained a hair I’d swiped from Hunter’s hoodie. “I need a maternity test,” I told the technician. “And I need it fast.” I paid the rush fee with the last of my savings. Then, I went to the JAG office on base. I knew Claire wouldn’t show up for the lawyer meeting, but that didn’t matter. For three days, Claire didn’t call. Martha, however, came by twice. The first time, she came to scream at me through the motel door. She called me an ungrateful loser, said Claire was too good for me, and that I’d die alone. The second time, she came to cry. She said the house was a mess, Simon was “sick with stress,” the boys were acting out, and Claire was too busy at work. She told me to “stop pouting” and come home to take care of my family. I sat on the other side of that thin motel door, listening to her wail, and felt nothing but ice. In my last life, I had served them for six years. They thought I was a dog they could whistle back into the yard. On the third afternoon, I went back to the clinic. The nurse handed me a brown envelope. “The results are in.” I took it. My fingers shook as I tore it open. I skipped the jargon and went straight to the bottom. Maternity Opinion: Based on DNA analysis, the tested individual (Claire) is confirmed to be the biological mother of the child (Hunter). Maternity Opinion: Based on DNA analysis, the tested individual (Claire) is confirmed to be the biological mother of the child (Cooper). There it was. Black and white. I sat in my car for a long time, staring at those words. The sun began to set, casting long shadows over the steering pool. I gathered the DNA reports, the photos of Daisy’s cigarette burns, and the notes I’d taken. I didn’t go back to the motel. I drove straight to the base, to the office of the Provost Marshal. I walked up to the duty officer and placed the file on his desk. “I’m here to report Major Claire Hamiltion for a violation of the UCMJ,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet office. “Adultery, fraud, and the ongoing abuse of a minor.”

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Ten years. That’s how long they kept me in that sterile hell, poking and prodding at the architecture of my soul. I didn’t just escape; I tore the cage open with a kinetic blast that leveled half the facility. But the “freedom” waiting for me was a nightmare. The sky was the color of a bruised plum, and the streets were crawling with things that used to be human. I rounded a corner, my lungs still stinging from the lab’s recycled air, and stopped dead. There, pressed against a crumbling brick wall, was my childhood best friend. A man I didn’t recognize—her husband, apparently—had her pinned. He was snarling, ripping a small fabric bag from her desperate grip. “The colony has rules, Maddie! Resource management. You think you’re special enough to hoard chocolate while the rest of us starve?” Maddie’s eyes were rimmed with red, her knuckles white as she clawed at the bag. “It’s for Toby… please, he’s just a kid…” Beside them, a girl with perfectly curled hair and a pout that screamed ‘protected’ let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. Using the kid as an excuse again? Just admit you’re a greedy glutton, Maddie.” As the surrounding survivors began to hurl insults like stones, I felt a familiar, cold hum beneath my skin. I stepped forward, tore open a heavy industrial-sized bag of premium chocolate I’d scavenged, and slammed it directly into the girl’s smirking face. “Is that enough for the group, or do you need a second helping?” I stared them down, the air around my fingertips beginning to distort with a faint, lethal shimmer. “Say one more word, and I’ll make sure none of you live long enough to taste it.” 1 The zipper on my backpack was broken. A waterfall of brightly colored wrappers spilled out, clattering onto the asphalt. “Ow! Hey! Who do you think you are?!” The girl shrieked, clutching her forehead where the bag had made contact. Nobody answered her. Every eye in that alley was glued to the pavement. The sound of dozens of people swallowing hard was the only thing audible in the heavy, post-apocalyptic silence. “Chocolate… holy shit, it’s a whole stash…” “My pulse-scan says it’s real. It’s not an illusion. It’s real!” The crowd broke. They descended like a pack of starving wolves, scrambling, shoving, and clawing for a single bar. The girl’s screams were drowned out in an instant. She stomped her foot, grabbing the man’s arm and shaking it violently. “Brooks! Do something! Stop them!” Brooks—the husband—darkened. His jaw set. “Enough!” he roared. The authority in his voice was practiced, sharp. “Have you all forgotten the protocol? Scavenged goods are centralized. Everything goes to Sierra for storage and fair distribution!” The mention of ‘Sierra’ seemed to snap them back to reality. The girl—Sierra—smirked and stepped forward, her palms glowing with a faint, cerulean light. Spatial Manipulation. The ultimate locker. But Maddie didn’t care about the chocolate. She didn’t even look at the frantic crowd. She was staring at me, her face ghostly pale, her breath coming in ragged hitches. “Wren…?” her voice was a fragile thing, barely a whisper. “Is that really you? Are you actually alive?” 2 She lunged at me, her arms wrapping around me so tightly it hurt. My brain felt like it was full of static, slow and unresponsive, but my body remembered her. My hand rose instinctively, patting her back with a clumsy, hesitant rhythm. “Is that… is that my name? Wren?” “You forgot your own name?” She pulled back, her hands fluttering over my shoulders and face as if checking for cracks in a porcelain doll. She was laughing and crying at the same time, a beautiful, messy display of humanity I hadn’t seen in a decade. “The director at the group home said some ‘benefactor’ adopted you. I begged him to tell me who, but he wouldn’t budge. I spent years looking for you, Wren. Everywhere.” I stayed silent. Of course she couldn’t find me. For ten years, I wasn’t a person. I was Subject 09, living in a sub-basement three hundred feet below the earth. I was a lab rat in a program designed to push human evolution to the breaking point. My skull had been opened more times than I could count. Chips implanted, serums injected, memories erased and rewritten until my past was nothing but a blurred watercolor. But through the haze of the drugs and the trauma, one thing had remained. A single, stubborn anchor. Maddie. The girl who had shared her stale bread with me when we were five. The girl who mattered. 3 “Who are you? And where did you get high-tier supplies like that?” Maddie was still checking me for injuries, but Brooks had stepped closer. His eyes moved over me like a radar, cold and calculating. I thought about it for a second. “Passed a convenience store downtown. Picked them up.” Brooks narrowed his eyes. “Downtown? You expect me to believe you walked through the Red Zone and just ‘picked up’ a bag of treats?” Maddie stepped between us before he could finish, her wings spread like a mother hen. “Brooks, this is her. This is Wren. I’ve told you about her a thousand times. She’s my family.” She turned back to me, her expression softening. “Wren, this is my husband, Brooks. We got married five years ago.” She said it with a forced brightness, then looked back at Brooks with a pleading intensity. “Please, let her stay with our unit. I’m begging you.” Brooks didn’t answer. He looked at me with a heavy, unreadable frown. Behind him, Sierra, the girl with the spatial ability, let out a sharp scoff. “Maddie, be realistic. This is an elite strike team. It’s bad enough we have to carry a ‘Natural’ like you, but now you want to bring in some random stray from the streets? We’re trying to make it to The Meridian, not run a halfway house.” Maddie’s face went cold. “Sierra, if she’s a ‘burden,’ then give her back her chocolate and we’ll both leave. Right now.” “You—!” Sierra’s face flushed. She turned to Brooks, her voice turning into a sugary whine. “Brooks, listen to her! She’s choosing a stranger over the team again!” “Enough. Both of you.” Brooks finally spoke, his voice final. “She contributed high-value assets to the common pool. We have an obligation to provide protection in exchange. Maddie, your friend can stay.” He turned on his heel. “Move out. No more talk.” Maddie beamed at me, grabbing my hand. Sierra just rolled her eyes and gave me a look of pure venom. I quietly extended a thread of my consciousness, scanning Sierra as she walked away. She was pathetic. Her ‘space’ was barely the size of a closet—the lowest tier of her ability. I could crush her with a flick of my wrist. But then I looked at Maddie, who was grinning at me for the first time in years. Fine. I’d let the little brat live. For now. 4 The convoy rattled down the abandoned highway for two days before we hit the outskirts of a ghost town. Maddie hadn’t changed. She was still a talker. Over the hum of the engine, she filled in the ten-year gap. She’d gone to college, met Brooks her sophomore year, and married him right after graduation. Then, two months ago, the Pulse hit. The virus followed. Brooks had been one of the lucky ones—he’d awakened as a high-tier Ferrokine, able to bend metal to his will. As for Sierra? She was Brooks’ stepsister. No blood relation, but they’d grown up together. “They’re close,” Maddie whispered, her smile fading slightly. “Sometimes I feel like the odd one out. Especially after you disappeared. I felt so alone, Wren.” She sighed, her eyes drifting to the window. “I have a son. Toby. He’s four. He was at a summer camp in the city when the outbreak started. Brooks went to get him, but the camp had already been evacuated.” “The camp director sent a message saying they’d been moved to The Meridian—the big military safe zone. That’s why we’re heading there. To find my boy.” Maddie looked at me, her eyes shining with a sudden, fierce hope. “He knows all about you, Wren! I tell him stories every night. About my best friend, the bravest girl in the world.” “I told him you loved paper cranes. He’s folded hundreds of them. He said he’s going to give them all to ‘Auntie Wren’ the second he sees you.” I looked at her bright, aching smile. Deep inside my mind, in the places where the doctors had tried to burn everything away, I felt something stir. A ripple in a stagnant pond. “Okay,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped square of chocolate I’d hidden. I pressed it into her hand. Maddie’s eyes went wide. “For Toby,” I said, my voice sounding a little less like a machine. 5 That night, we camped in a gutted-out processing plant. Maddie crept over to my corner like a thief, sliding two pieces of hard tack toward me. “Eat this, Wren. Before Sierra counts the rations again.” My metabolism was no longer human. I could go weeks without food or water, fueled by the kinetic energy I absorbed from the air. But I looked at her concerned face and took the bread. Maddie sat beside me, shoulders touching mine. “Where were you, really? You don’t just ‘escape’ a place for ten years and show up in the middle of a zombie swarm.” I stared at the bread. My mind flashed back to the bunker. The white lights. The smell of ozone and burning flesh. The frantic voices of the ‘doctors.’ “Subject 09 is reacting to the K-serum!” “Increase the neural dampeners to max!” “Warning! Psychic surge detected! Immediate containment breach—” And then, the boom. The sound of reinforced glass turning to dust. When I’d come to, the lab was silent. Just bodies in white coats and a red emergency light spinning. I’d taken a coat from a corpse and walked toward the surface. Maddie, I had whispered to the empty air. I have to find Maddie. “I was in a facility,” I said quietly. “It was… specialized. I couldn’t leave. But I’m out now. I came looking for you.” “Oh, Wren.” Maddie threw her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten me. Brooks used to say you probably got adopted by some rich family and didn’t want a ‘poor’ friend like me anymore. I never believed him.” She pulled back, her eyes fierce. “He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand us.” No. He didn’t. He didn’t know that I had survived a hundred lethal injections because of a promise we made when we were kids. “Wren, we’re going to live to be a hundred. We’re going to be best friends forever.” I had to live. I couldn’t break a promise to Maddie. 6 In the middle of the night, Maddie fell asleep against my shoulder. I adjusted her gently, making sure she was comfortable, then stood up. In the shadows, Brooks was watching me. His gaze was sharp, suspicious. He walked over, his boots echoing on the concrete. He was doubting me. I stood my ground, my mental energy beginning to coil in my palms, ready to lash out. And then, the sirens screamed. “Breach! We have a swarm!” The heavy trucks blocking the entrance were tossed aside like toys. A sea of grey, rotting flesh began to pour into the plant. The unit scrambled. Six ‘Awakened’ against hundreds of monsters. They weren’t “elite.” Brooks was decent, but the others were amateurs. Within minutes, they were being pushed back. Their energy was flagging. Three monsters broke the line, lunging toward Sierra and Maddie. “Brooks! Help!” Sierra shrieked. “Brooks!” Maddie cried out. Without a second of hesitation, Brooks swung his arm, metal shards flying from his belt to impale the creature threatening Sierra. He saved her, then turned, his face contorting in horror as he realized Maddie was still in danger. Squelch. I didn’t use my powers. I just grabbed a rusted piece of rebar from the floor and drove it through the skulls of two zombies in one fluid motion. They dropped like stones. Maddie was clutching my sleeve, her face white. “Wren, are you hurt? Did they scratch you?” “I’m fine,” I said, shaking the black sludge off my hand. More were coming. The smell of blood was calling them. “Get to the cars!” Brooks yelled, his voice cracking. “I’ll cover the rear! Go! Now!” 7 Maddie was silent for the rest of the night. We didn’t stop until dawn, pulling into a secluded farmhouse. I could feel her grief, her realization. I reached out and took her cold hand. “I’ve got you,” I said. “I’ll protect you.” Maddie looked up. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what had happened at the plant. Given the choice between his wife and his stepsister, Brooks hadn’t even blinked. He’d chosen Sierra. “I know Sierra has the supplies,” Maddie whispered, her voice trembling. “I know she’s ‘essential’ because of her ability. I tell myself it makes sense to protect her first. But… it hurts, Wren. It hurts so much.” She looked at me, tears brimming. “Am I being selfish? Am I being crazy?” I shook my head. “No. You’re not.” In my world, Maddie was the only thing that made sense. I remembered being four years old, abandoned at the group home because I wouldn’t speak. The doctors called it ‘selective mutism.’ The older kids called it ‘being a target.’ It was Maddie, three years older and half a head taller, who had picked up a brick and chased a group of bullies across the yard. “Touch her again and I’ll crack your skulls! You hear me?” I remembered being nine. The director had called me into his office at midnight. There were two men there, men with hungry eyes. The director told me to be a good girl and do what they said. The door had flown open. Maddie was there with a rusted shovel, screaming like a banshee, swinging at anything that moved. She’d nearly killed one of them. That night, she’d held my hand and brushed my hair. “Don’t be scared, Wren. If you’re ever in trouble, just call my name. I’ll always come.” I looked at her now, mimicking the tone she’d used all those years ago. “Maddie, don’t be scared. If you’re in trouble… just call my name.” She froze. Her lip began to tremble. “Wren…” Before she could say anything else, the light was blocked out. Brooks was standing there with the rest of the unit. They looked grim. They looked like a jury. Maddie stepped in front of me again. “What is this? What do you want?” Sierra stepped forward, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Maddie, sweetie, we know you love her. But don’t you think something is… off?” Maddie’s jaw set. “Off how?” Sierra looked at Brooks. He didn’t say a word, but his hand was already hovering over his belt, metal beginning to hum. A scrawny man from the unit stepped up. “Think about it, Maddie. We’re a team of Awakened and we barely survive out there. Your friend has been wandering the Red Zone for two months with a bag of chocolate and she doesn’t have a scratch on her?” “She claims she’s a ‘Natural.’ No powers. Does that sound like the truth to you?” Maddie squeezed my hand. “What are you implying?” Brooks stepped forward, his eyes cold. “We have to prioritize the safety of the collective, Maddie. For a month, we’ve taken the back roads. It’s been quiet. Then she joins us, and suddenly we’re hit by a coordinated swarm?” “The radio says the virus is evolving. There are ‘Evolved’ now. Creatures that look like us, talk like us, but lead the hives.” He raised a sharpened metal spike, pointing it directly at the space between my eyes. “I think your ‘friend’ is an Evolved. A Trojan horse sent to wipe us out.” 8 “That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard!” Maddie didn’t flinch. She shoved Sierra’s hand away, her voice rising to a scream. “The world is ending and you’re making up ghost stories? You saw her save me last night! If she were one of them, I’d be dead!” “Maddie, you’re blinded by sentiment,” Sierra sighed. Brooks’ voice was like iron. “Move, Maddie.” The spike was inches from my face. Maddie stood her ground, her body shaking with fury. “You want to get to her? You go through me. I mean it, Brooks. Try me.” I watched her back, felt the heat of her anger. And for the first time, I felt a spark of something that wasn’t programming. It was a raw, burning protective instinct. I tapped Maddie’s shoulder. “Maddie. Step back.” “No, Wren! They’ll kill you!” “They won’t,” I said. I gripped her wrist, sending a tiny, soothing pulse of energy into her system to calm her heart. “I promised I’d protect you.” I walked past her. Brooks kept the spike leveled at my head. Sierra was smirking, waiting for the show. Creeeeeak. I pushed open the farmhouse gate. A hundred yards away, a group of straggling zombies caught the scent of living blood. They began to hiss, their broken limbs twitching as they turned toward us. “If she’s not one of them,” Sierra challenged, “then she won’t mind walking out there. If they attack her, she’s human. If they don’t…” “Do you really want to find out?”

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I woke up early, driving across town to that artisanal bakery she loves just to get those specific Gruyère croissants. It was a peace offering, a pathetic attempt to smooth things over because I’d accidentally snagged her expensive silk stockings the night before. But as I set the bag on the counter, Callie didn’t even look up. She was packing a suitcase with practiced efficiency. “Hunter’s birthday is this weekend,” she said, her voice flat, clinical. “We’re going to Thailand. It’s a bit unstable there right now, so I told him I have to go along. You know, to keep him safe.” I opened my mouth to protest—to ask why my wife was spending a weekend in the tropics with her ‘college mentor’—when the world suddenly glitched. Shimmering, translucent lines of text began to crawl across my vision like a digital fever dream. [Shut up, Bennett! Just let the traitor go!] [Don’t be a fool. That ‘H’ tattooed over her heart? It’s for Hunter, not you. It was never you.] [Think about this day in your last life. You knelt. You begged. You stayed on the floor crying while she walked out. Later, at the Disaster Mitigation Center, you predicted the massive avalanche that hit her hometown at 11:00 PM. You sprinted to the airport, tore up her ticket like a madman, and forced her back to save her parents. She saved them, but she hated you for it.] [And Hunter? He went missing on a cruise ship later that year. When they found the body, he was a hollowed-out shell. Organs gone.] [On the seventh day of Hunter’s mourning, she lied. She told you she was pregnant to get you onto a ship. Then, she sold you to a human trafficking ring for a hundred bucks. You died in a concrete cell, treated like livestock, harvested for ‘premium genetics’ until your heart finally gave out…] I stared at her. My chest felt tight, the phantom pain of a life I hadn’t lived—or perhaps a life I had—pulsing in my muscles. I remembered that tattoo. She’d told me it was a symbol of her ‘heart,’ placed right over her ribs. I had spent years worshipping at that altar. … I froze. 1 The subtitles continued to scroll, a frantic digital rain. My body felt heavy, weighed down by the muscle memory of an agonizing death. It felt too real to be a hallucination. Callie’s face twisted with impatience. “Bennett? Did you hear me? I’m going. I won’t let Hunter be in danger alone.” I looked at her perfectly painted red lips. I didn’t want to believe it. Could she really blame me for Hunter’s fate? Could she really sell me into a living hell out of spite? We both worked at the National Disaster Mitigation Center. It was supposed to be a romance born of shared purpose. On our wedding day, she’d confessed she still had feelings for her “mentor,” Hunter. She told me she couldn’t give me a hundred percent of her heart and asked for my “understanding.” All our friends and family were already in the pews. I didn’t want the scandal. I swallowed the bile and married her anyway. After the honeymoon, she got that tattoo. I thought it was a sign she’d finally chosen me. I doubled my efforts. I became the perfect, doting husband. Then Hunter came back into the picture. She eventually moved him into our guest room, then kicked me out of our own master suite so he could stay there. I loved her so much I forced myself to believe the lie of “platonic friendship.” But the memories from that ‘other life’ were screaming at me now. It was time to let go. It was time to let her walk into the destiny she so desperately wanted. “Are you deaf? Answer me!” Callie snapped. I looked at her—really looked at her—and then turned to my laptop. I pulled up the seismic thermal maps I’d been studying. I printed a thick stack of data and shoved them into her hand. “There’s going to be a Category 5 avalanche at Oak Ridge tonight at 11:00 PM,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Your parents’ house is right in the path of the debris flow.” Callie glanced at the charts for a second before ripping them down the middle. She threw the confetti in my face and laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Bennett, you’ve lost your mind. Are you actually faking a natural disaster now?” “I’m not joking. There are eighty-mile-per-hour winds hitting the ridge today. That’s the trigger—” Slap. The force of her hand sent my head snapping to the side. Her expression was distorted with pure hatred. “Shut up! Oak hasn’t seen a slide in a hundred years. We’ve had storms twice this big and the mountain held fine. You’re a pathetic liar, Bennett. I’m going on this trip. If you keep this up, don’t bother being here when I get back. We’re done.” She didn’t look back. She grabbed her designer luggage and slammed the door. 2 The silence she left behind was heavy. I didn’t waste time. I had submitted the official Oak prediction report to the agency thirty minutes ago. Now, I needed to get her parents. Whatever Callie was, they were still my in-laws. I couldn’t watch them die. I was barely out of the driveway when my phone buzzed. It was Chief Henderson. “Bennett? I see you uploaded a localized emergency report?” “Yes, Chief. The thermal instability on the ridge is off the charts. We need to trigger the sirens.” Henderson’s voice turned cold. “What is wrong with you, kid? You’ve been with us for five years. I thought you had a future here.” “Sir, the data—” “Forget the data! I just got off the phone with Callie. She told me everything. Using federal emergency protocols to manipulate your wife into staying home? That’s not just unprofessional, Bennett. It’s a felony.” Callie. Of course. She was Henderson’s star protégé. They were already closing ranks. “Chief, listen to me. At 11:00 PM tonight, that mountain is coming down. You have to—” “I’ve already retracted your report. Don’t come in tomorrow. Take a few days to think about your ‘attitude.’ Honestly, if I hadn’t been the one to introduce you two, I’d fire you on the spot.” I tried the Deputy Director. He didn’t even let me finish. “Bennett? Henderson already filled me in. I thought you were a stable guy. Clearly, I was wrong. You’re done at the Center. Send your badge in by courier.” The line went dead. I sat in my car, the reality of my ruined career sinking in. But there was no time to mourn. It was 6:00 PM. Five hours until the snow buried Oak. I called Callie’s father, George. “An avalanche? Bennett, son, you’ve been working too hard. This ridge is solid rock. Where’s Callie? Put her on.” “She’s heading to the airport, George. Please, I’m serious. The town needs to evacuate. Call the Sheriff. Tell everyone to get out!” George chuckled. “Sure, sure. Safety first. I’ll look into it.” Two hours later, I pulled into Oak. The town was peaceful. People were walking their dogs; the streetlights were flickering on. There was zero sense of urgency. I drove straight to the Mayor’s house. To my surprise, George was there, sitting on the porch with Mayor Whittaker, a glass of bourbon in his hand. “George! What are you doing? Why isn’t the siren going off?” I shouted as I ran up the steps. Whittaker looked at me with pity. “So this is the son-in-law? A bit high-strung, isn’t he?” George stood up and kicked my shin, hard. “Bennett! You’re a grown man. How dare you spread these lies? If I hadn’t called Callie, I might have actually believed you and made a fool of myself in front of the whole town!” 3 They didn’t believe me. None of them. My phone rang. Callie. I answered it on speaker, desperate. “Callie! Tell your father. Tell him about the ridge. Please, just help me save them!” Her voice came through the speakers, cold as the coming snow. “Bennett, get help. Seriously. You’re making a scene because I’m on a trip with Hunter? It’s pathetic.” Hunter’s voice drifted in from the background, smug and mocking. “Give it up, man. You’re just making her hate you more.” “Stop this,” Callie warned. “Go home, or I’m filing for divorce the second I land. You’ll leave with nothing.” Click. George glared at me. “Divorce? What the hell is going on with you two?” “George, please. I’m a senior engineer. I’ve tracked the wind shear. The mountain is going to slide at 11:00 PM. It’s a Category 5. The town will be buried. You have to believe me!” Whittaker hesitated, looking at the sheer desperation in my eyes. But George let out a harsh snort. “He’s not an engineer anymore, Whittaker! My daughter just told me the Center fired him today for filing false reports. He’s a fraud, Bill. Don’t listen to a word he says.” Whittaker’s face hardened. He pointed toward the street. “Son, get off my property. Now.” I knew if I left, they were dead. I did the only thing I could. I dropped to my knees on the porch. “If the mountain doesn’t move at 11:00 PM, call the police. I’ll go to prison for filing a false report. I’ll sign over every asset I own to this town. Just move the people. Please. There isn’t much time!” “You just won’t stop embarrassing us, will you?” George roared. He swung his foot and caught me right in the ribs. I collapsed, gasping for air, the pain radiating through my chest. I stared up at the Mayor. “Thousands of lives, Whittaker. Can you live with that?” Whittaker looked at the mountain, then back at me. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll call for a ‘precautionary drill.’ One time.” George was stunned. “Bill, you’re actually listening to this maniac? He’s just doing this to spite my daughter—” “If he’s wrong, he goes to jail,” Whittaker snapped, walking inside to grab his radio. I followed him out, clutching my side. “The debris field will span two miles. To be safe, everyone needs to be at least three miles past the valley floor.” The evacuation started. It was messy and slow, but people began to move. I went back to George’s house. “George, Martha, my car is right here. Get in. Please.” He slapped me across the face. “I’m not going anywhere! I’m calling my daughter and telling her to leave you the moment she gets back. You’ve humiliated me for the last time!” For the next two hours, I watched the town empty out. But Callie’s parents remained locked inside their house. No matter how much I pounded on the door, they wouldn’t budge. I called Callie again. Ten times. Twenty times. Finally, a man answered. Hunter. “Where’s Callie?” I barked. “The mountain is about to go. Get her on the phone so she can tell her parents to leave!” I heard Hunter’s soft, mocking laugh. “She’s in the shower, Bennett. She told me she’s done talking to you.” “Hunter, listen to me! This isn’t about us. Her parents are going to die in twenty minutes! Tell her to pick up!” “You’re sick, man,” Hunter said. “Still using the avalanche bit? You have no idea what Callie is going to do for me tonight. She’s so soft, so eager… you couldn’t even imagine—” I hung up. I didn’t care about his bragging. I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes left. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be buried too. I pulled out my phone and started a voice recording. I stood by the door and yelled one last time. “George! Martha! The slide is coming in ten minutes! It’s a Category 5! If you don’t leave now, you will die!” An ash-tray shattered through the window screen, striking me square in the forehead. I stumbled back, my vision swimming, blood dripping into my eye. “You animal!” Martha’s voice shrieked from inside. “You’re cursing us? My daughter was right—you’re a liar and a leach! You just want us dead so you can inherit the house! Get lost!” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I turned off the recording, wiped the blood from my eyes, and crawled into my car. I drove like a madman, my head spinning, fighting the urge to black out. At exactly 11:00 PM, a roar like a thousand freight trains erupted from the dark. In my rearview mirror, the night sky was blotted out by a wall of white. Oak was gone.

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Carrying this new life inside me made me feel like my mind was an unfinished puzzle, with a jagged piece missing right in the center. Every time I pressed my husband for answers, he’d just laugh and ruffle my hair with that practiced, effortless affection. “Sweetheart, you haven’t lost any memories. You’re just being sensitive. It’s the hormones.” I’d shake my head and try to believe him. Maybe I was just overthinking it. Maybe the fog in my brain was just a side effect of the pregnancy. But when the cold bite of a gun barrel pressed against my spine, I realized the nightmare had never actually ended. It had just been sleeping. The kidnapper’s boot ground into my stomach, and I gasped as filthy, brackish water forced its way down my throat. “The great Mr. Wolfe is too busy saving his precious little assistant to care about you,” the man spat, his voice a jagged rasp. “What does a trophy wife matter when he’s got her?” Through a haze of agony, I looked down. A terrifying, vivid crimson was beginning to bloom across the fabric of my white maternity dress. And then, in the moment my consciousness began to shatter, the floodgates broke. The locked doors in my mind swung wide, and the memories exploded behind my eyes like a detonated bomb. Five years ago. Another kidnapping. Another choice. He had chosen his assistant back then, too. And the child I had been carrying then—a life that should have been five years old by now—had slipped away into the dark while I lay unconscious and broken. The realization hit me harder than the physical pain: This time, he still didn’t intend for me, or our baby, to survive. … The kidnapper yanked me up by my hair, dragging my face out of the muck and forcing me to look at a screen. “Take a look. It’s a hell of a show.” On the phone screen, the video was crystal clear. My husband, Franklin Wolfe, was pulling his secretary, Bridget, into a crushing embrace. His voice was a frantic, tender whisper I knew all too well. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m taking you home.” He swept her up in his arms, her clothes clean and pristine, a sharp, cruel contrast to the broken woman bleeding out in a warehouse. “That’s what a real wife looks like,” the kidnapper mocked. “You? You’re just the placeholder.” The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. The world tilted, and I spiraled into the black. The memories kept surging, relentless and cruel. Three years ago, Franklin’s business rivals had snatched me to settle a score. By some freak coincidence, Bridget had been with me. The kidnappers wanted one hostage for leverage and one for a quick ransom. It was obvious they intended to trade me for the money. Everyone had been screaming at Franklin to pay the debt. “You can make more money, Franklin! But you only have one wife!” his friends had urged. Franklin had hesitated. It wasn’t the money that gave him pause. It was the choice. My in-laws had been frantic. “Elena is pregnant, Franklin! Nothing matters more than her and that baby. Do the right thing!” Finally, Franklin looked like he’d made a decision. He grabbed the satchel of cash and headed for the door. “I have a plan,” he had said, his voice cold and calculated. “Elena is my wife. They want her for the money, so they won’t hurt her. The priority is getting Bridget out of there first. She’s vulnerable.” The room had gone silent. Even the lead detective looked at him with sheer disbelief. “Sir, we can’t guarantee the kidnappers won’t hurt the remaining hostage once they have the cash,” the detective warned. “We strongly advise you to secure the pregnant woman first. She’s the one in the most danger.” But Franklin wouldn’t budge. He doubled down on Bridget. That day, I waited for a rescue that never came. When the kidnappers got their money, they laughed. With the ransom secured, I was no longer an asset—just a witness. They dragged me through the dirt, treating me like a piece of discarded trash. “We’ll drop you off once we hit the state line,” one of them sneered. “Since your man didn’t want you, we might as well show some mercy.” When I finally woke up, the police had found me in a ditch on the outskirts of town. I was covered in blood, and the baby was gone. That trauma became a canyon in my soul. I nearly lost my mind. I hated Franklin with a feral, consuming intensity. I fought for a divorce for months. Franklin had dropped to his knees, begging for a second chance. “I made a mistake, Elena! Please, hit me, scream at me, but don’t leave me!” Broken physically and mentally, I couldn’t bear the weight of the grief. It was a five-month-old fetus. He had let our child die. Eventually, he took me to a private clinic. He forced me—under the guise of “healing”—to undergo an experimental neurological procedure to suppress the trauma. He wanted me to forget. He wanted his “perfect” wife back. And so, we returned to our “happy” life. Bridget disappeared from my world, and we became the picture-perfect couple again. Until now. A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest. I had already given him a second chance. And he had wasted it on the same girl. Franklin. You truly make me sick. The kidnapper tucked his phone away and swung a heavy club into my side. He tossed me away like a rag doll, his nightmare laughter fading as he retreated into the shadows. I drifted back into consciousness, clutching my stomach, and began to crawl. I crawled until I saw the faint glow of streetlights, until my knees finally gave out in front of a gas station. My dress was soaked through with red. A passerby screamed and dialed 911. By the time I reached the ER, the surgeons were already prepping the room. “The fetus is non-viable,” I heard a voice say through the fog. “We need to perform the D&C immediately or she’ll go septic.” The darkness took me again. When I woke up, there was a new scar on my abdomen, and the life that had been a part of me was gone. The tears leaked out, hot and silent. I felt so fragile, so hollowed out. I had wanted so badly to save this one. I bit my lip until it bled, forcing myself to stay grounded in the cold reality of the hospital room. I sat there, alone, while the hospital handled the remains. I received a small, hauntingly light urn. There was no sign of Franklin. The police and nurses had surely been trying to reach him for days. Maybe he just thought he could show up late. After all, I was never the priority. As I checked out, I overheard a group of nurses whispering at the station. “Can you believe the guy in 402? His girlfriend just has a few scratches, and he hasn’t left her side for a second. Talk about devoted.” Another nurse sighed. “Different fates for different folks. The girl in 305 is the one I feel for. Kidnapped, nearly killed, lost the baby… and we haven’t been able to get a hold of her husband in three days.” “Heartless,” the first one whispered. Every word felt like a scalpel across my skin. I looked down the hall and saw a familiar silhouette through the glass of a private suite. It was Franklin. My mind flashed back to when we were twenty. He used to be the same way with me. If I so much as nicked my finger in the kitchen, he’d look like he was about to cry. I had fought my parents, burned every bridge, and moved across the country just to marry him. Because of that move, I hadn’t even been there to say goodbye to them before they passed. Back then, Franklin had sworn to me, “I will never fail you, Elena.” But in the end, everyone who ever loved me had left. And the man I thought was my anchor had simply changed his mind. I forced my breathing to steady and walked toward my room. As I passed Bridget’s suite, I couldn’t help but stop. I watched through the cracked door as Franklin—the powerful CEO, the man who commanded boardrooms—clumsily peeled an apple for her. I must have stared too long. Franklin looked up. Our eyes locked, and the color drained from his face instantly. It seemed he had finally remembered he had a wife. A wife he hadn’t spoken to in days. He stood up, stammering, his voice thin. “Elena… Bridget was targeted because of me. The kidnappers wanted her to get to me. I couldn’t just let her die.” I looked at him, my voice a hollow rasp. “I was kidnapped too, Franklin. Did you know that?” His eyes darted away. He didn’t answer. I had my answer. Why keep humiliating myself? He hadn’t answered the phone because he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t checked the hospitals because he was hiding. He didn’t want to face another “choice,” so he decided there was only one person worth choosing. Even if he suspected I was suffering, he chose ignorance. Last time, he said the target was safe because they were “valuable.” This time, he said the target was in more danger. I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into tears. It was pathetic. He always had a reason. A logic to justify his betrayal. My heart felt like it had been shredded. He didn’t love me anymore. He’d moved on, yet he’d had my brain rewired just to keep me in his house. To make me endure the same agony twice. “Franklin,” I whispered. “I hope you burn.” Maybe he felt a flicker of guilt. He tried to take charge of the “arrangements” for the baby. He threw money at it. The best casket, a lavish memorial service, playing the part of the grieving father for the cameras. He looked at my pale, ghost-like face and tried to offer comfort. “We’re young, Elena. We can try again. We’ll have another one.” I looked at him and felt a cold, dead sense of amusement. There won’t be another one. There is no “after” for us. You don’t deserve it. But I didn’t say it out loud. During the final moments of the service, Franklin’s phone buzzed. He hesitated for exactly one second before answering. Bridget’s sobbing voice echoed through the line. “I was in a car accident… Franklin, I’m so scared…” Franklin’s face twisted with panic. He dropped the white carnation he was holding—the flower meant for our child—and turned to leave. I stepped in front of him, my gaze freezing him in place. If he hadn’t come, that would have been one thing. But to leave now, in the middle of saying goodbye? It was the ultimate sacrilege. “Don’t you dare,” I said. He looked frantic. “Elena, don’t do this. Don’t be difficult. I’ll explain everything later, but Bridget’s been in a wreck. If something happens to her because I wasn’t there…” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. “I was kidnapped and you weren’t there, and I’m still standing. She’s on the phone, Franklin. That means she can call an ambulance. Are you a doctor? A cop? What exactly can you do for her other than hold her hand and pay the bill?” The logic hit him like a physical blow, but he didn’t like being cornered. He looked at me with a flash of resentment, as if I were the one being unreasonable. He shoved past me, hard. “Elena, I have to go. When I get back, you can scream all you want. I’ll take it. But I’m going.” I hit the ground. My palms scraped against the gravel, and the unhealed incision on my abdomen felt like it was tearing open. Warm blood began to seep through my clothes again. Tears fell, despite my best efforts to stay numb. Why did I still expect anything else from him? I finished the service alone. I buried my child alone. Then, I drove myself back to the hospital to have my stitches redone. The nurse looked at the angry red wound and sighed. “You really can’t keep doing this, honey. You’re going to have permanent scarring. How did this happen?” I apologized quietly and thanked her. While I waited for the paperwork, I opened my phone. Bridget had posted an update. I recognized the tone immediately—the same performative fragility she’d used five years ago. She didn’t show her face. Just a photo of her hand in his. The caption read: So thankful you’re here. Just a few scratches from the crash, but my hero wouldn’t leave my side. In the background, I could see Franklin prepping bandages and ointment. To any stranger, they looked like the world’s most devoted couple. What a wonderful boss, taking such good care of his staff. I felt a wave of nausea, then a sharp, clarifying coldness. I hit ‘Save’ on the photo. The hospital corridor was silent. As the anesthesia wore off, the memories Franklin had tried to erase became even more vivid. Five years ago, when I demanded a divorce, he had wept at my feet. “She’s just an employee, Elena! A sister, at most. You know about my sister who died when we were kids. She’s the only thing I have left of that memory.” To prove his “devotion,” he had “fired” her. “I’m doing this for us,” he’d said, eyes red and swollen. “I won’t let anyone come between us again.” I hadn’t believed him. But he had knelt there until his knees were bruised, begging for just a few days to prove himself. But I couldn’t get over the fact that he had left me to die. I had been exhausted, drained of everything. I had insisted on the divorce. That was when he had taken me to that clinic. He had erased the “inconvenience” of my grief. And for a few years, it worked. He hadn’t fired her, of course. He’d just moved her to a subsidiary, kept her in his orbit, nursing his obsession with his “surrogate sister.” I pulled myself back to the present. I called my lawyer. I sent over every screenshot, every hospital record, every piece of evidence of his negligence. “Draft the papers,” I said. “I want everything.” This marriage should have ended a long time ago. I went home. To my surprise, Bridget and Franklin were already there. The sight of her in my living room was a physical insult. Franklin saw my expression and rushed to explain. “Elena, Bridget felt terrible. She didn’t realize today was the memorial. She felt so guilty for pulling me away that she insisted on coming here to apologize in person.” I looked at him, marveling at his stupidity. The memorial had been on the calendar for weeks. She knew. “I’m tired, Franklin,” I said, my voice flat. “Get her out of my house.” Franklin, sensing the danger, tried to usher her toward the door. But Bridget wasn’t done. She asked for a moment alone with me. She leaned in close, her voice a poisonous whisper that only I could hear. “The first kidnapping was a fluke. But this one? This one was mine. I paid them to make sure you lost that baby. I couldn’t have you securing your spot with a kid, could I?” My heart stopped. The world went silent, save for the echo of her words. I can handle pain. I can handle betrayal. But my child… I didn’t love Franklin anymore, but I loved that baby. The doctor had told me my uterus had been scarred from the first loss. This had been my last chance to be a mother. Bridget looked at me, her eyes dancing with a sick, triumphant light. Slap! Before she could blink, I put every ounce of my grief and rage into my hand. Then I hit her again. And again. She screamed, shocked that the “docile” Elena was actually fighting back. I didn’t stop. I wanted to feel her skin break. I wanted her to feel a fraction of the ruin she had caused. She deserved to die for what she did. Franklin finally snapped out of his shock and tackled me, pulling me away from her. The guilt he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by righteous indignation. “Are you insane? I know I messed up, Elena, and I’ll make it up to you! But why are you taking it out on her?” The physical pain of him pinning my arms was nothing compared to the hole in my chest. “She did it,” I choked out. “She hired them. She killed our baby, Franklin. She just told me.” I didn’t expect him to believe me fully. But after ten years, I thought there might be a seed of doubt. I was wrong. Franklin’s face twisted into a sneer of pity. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re literally hallucinating.” His trust in her was absolute. I went still. A cold, dark laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Right. That was your excuse last time, wasn’t it? That I was ‘unstable.’ That’s why you had my brain scrubbed. Five years later, Franklin, and you’re still the same pathetic coward.” Franklin turned white. Panic flared in his eyes. Even so, he instinctively pulled Bridget behind him, shielding her. He was a lost cause. Bridget smirked over his shoulder, her eyes gleaming. But her victory was going to be short-lived. I am a paranoid woman. Living with Franklin had taught me never to feel safe. I had been carrying a voice recorder in my pocket since the day I got out of the hospital. I reached in and pressed ‘Play.’ Her confession filled the room. It wasn’t just about the divorce anymore. This was a criminal matter. She wasn’t just losing her “hero”—she was going to prison. I wiped my eyes, my hand steady. I picked up the house phone and dialed 911. “Yes, I’d like to report a conspiracy to commit kidnapping and fetal homicide. I have a recorded confession.”

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The screen of the burner phone ignited in the dark, and the notification headline hit me like a poisoned ice pick to the gut. “MASSACRE AT WESTBRIDGE ACADEMY: 5,000 STUDENTS AND FACULTY DEAD.” Right below it, in chillingly clinical font: “Only two students unaccounted for.” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the device. I looked up at the boy standing by the window of our grimy roadside motel. Luke. My first love. Six months ago, we were worried about prom; now, he stood with his back to me, his varsity jacket damp with night dew, his shoulders shaking like a leaf caught in an autumn gale. My mind raced back three hours to the study hall. The final bell had just rung when Luke, the undisputed valedictorian of our class, burst through the doors like a madman. He’d grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the parking lot, ignoring the gasps of our classmates. I had fought him, screaming, “We’re six months from graduation, Luke! You’re throwing it all away for a stunt?” His voice back then had been even more unstable than it was now. He just kept repeating, “Don’t ask, just run,” until he shoved me into a waiting car and we sped out of the city limits under the cover of a moonless sky. “You knew,” I whispered, my voice finally returning, my face pale in the reflected glow of the screen. “You knew something was going to happen, didn’t you?” He turned slowly. Beads of cold sweat glistened on his forehead under the sickly yellow light of the motel lamp. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I thought about the biting words I’d hurled at him when we first checked in—”All this drama just to hide out in a cheap hourly rate dump?” Now, the air in my lungs tasted like rusted iron. Fear was a physical weight in my throat. We weren’t just two rebellious teenagers running away to be together. We were the ones who had slipped through the cracks of a death warrant. 1 The nightmare started at the end of evening library hours. I was just stepping out of the mahogany-paneled building, heading toward the dorms, when Luke appeared. Before I could say a word, he grabbed my hand in front of everyone. The look on his face wasn’t the calm, composed expression of the boy I’d grown up with. It was something jagged. Manic. A few students nearby let out low whistles and catcalls. “Damn, Miller’s finally lost it!” someone yelled. At Westbridge, “inappropriate displays of affection” were a fast track to a disciplinary hearing. For a scholarship kid like me, it was a death sentence for my future. For a golden boy like Luke, it was social suicide. But he didn’t care. When our history teacher tried to step in and block our path, Luke didn’t negotiate. He shoved him aside with a ferocity that sent the man sprawling. Screams erupted behind us. Luke didn’t look back. He just kept running, his grip on my wrist so tight it bruised. “Luke, where are we going?” I gasped, struggling to keep pace as my lungs burned. He didn’t slow down. His face was a mask of sheer terror. “There’s no time to explain. We just have to get off campus. Now!” “Off campus?” I stopped dead, trying to anchor myself. “Are you insane? We have finals in two weeks. You’re talking about throwing away our entire lives!” Since the start of senior year, we’d been drifted into different honors tracks. We barely saw each other, holding onto the promise of a road trip after graduation. He was headed for the Ivy League; I was fighting for a spot at a top-tier state school. There was no reason—none—for this. But as I struggled to pull away, he spun me around. His eyes were wide, reflecting a kind of primal, terminal dread. “Casey, please,” he choked out. “Trust me. Just once. If we don’t leave now, we’re never leaving. We’ll be dead by midnight.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He dragged me toward the far corner of the athletic fields, where the perimeter fence met the woods. Someone had already stacked a pile of discarded crates there. “Get over,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected a monster to roar out of the darkness. “Go! Now!” Confused and trembling, I let him hoist me up over the chain-link fence. He vaulted over a second later, his movements fluid and frantic. A black sedan was idling on the dirt road outside. Luke shoved me into the back. “Go! Drive!” he barked at the driver, tossing a thick envelope of cash onto the front seat. The driver’s eyes widened, but he didn’t ask questions. He slammed the car into gear. As we accelerated, I looked back through the rear window. The sight chilled me to the bone. Every single light in the massive Westbridge Academy complex went out at once. Total darkness. And then, carried on the wind, came the faint, muffled sound of a thousand screams. I sank into the seat, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Luke collapsed beside me, his hands shaking violently. He kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror until the school was nothing but a memory in the distance. Only then did he let out a long, ragged breath. “What was that?” I demanded, my voice trembling. “Luke, what did you do? What is happening back there?” He pulled me into his chest, his arms like iron bands. “Casey, don’t ask,” he whispered into my hair. “If I say it out loud… if I name it… we might not make it out.” 2 His words sent a fresh wave of ice through my veins. What could be so horrific that even speaking its name was a threat? I breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and laundry detergent—and forced myself to nod. “Okay,” I whispered. “I trust you. It’s not like you’re kidnapping me to sell me off.” He let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Casey, I’d sell my own soul before I let a hair on your head be touched.” The car tore through the night. The driver kept glancing at us through the mirror, probably thinking we were just two rich kids playing at being outlaws. We switched cars twice, traveling through the early hours of the morning until we crossed the state line. We finally stopped at a nondescript motel in a town so small it didn’t even have a Starbucks. The moment we entered the room, Luke didn’t collapse onto the bed. Instead, he pulled a roll of black electrical tape from his bag. He covered the peephole. Then, he got on his hands and knees and taped the gap at the bottom of the door until it was airtight. He looked like a man who had just finished defusing a bomb. “What are you doing?” I asked, watching the black tape with growing unease. “Blocking the line of sight,” he muttered. “They like to watch. They find you through the cracks.” They. I didn’t press him. I just watched him stumble toward the bathroom to splash water on his face. While the faucet ran, I reached for the smartphone he’d handed me earlier. That’s when I saw it. The headline that shattered the world. My fingers went numb. My vision narrowed until all I could see were those words. “WESTBRIDGE ACADEMY MASS FATALITY. ENTIRE STUDENT BODY DEAD OVERNIGHT.” I clicked the link, my brain refusing to process the information. “Five thousand students and faculty were found dead at Westbridge Academy late last night. Preliminary reports indicate massive internal hemorrhaging. There were no signs of a struggle. Forensic experts are baffled.” “Only two students remain unaccounted for.” 3 I sat on the edge of the bed, a violent shudder wracking my frame. “How?” I whispered. “How is this possible?” In one night, everyone I knew—my roommate, my teachers, the girl who sat next to me in AP Bio—they were all gone. I clicked a video link. The footage showed the iron gates of the school, now swarmed by state police and a fleet of ambulances. Long rows of body bags lined the manicured lawn where we’d had our fall festival just weeks ago. The reporter’s voice was thin with shock. “Authorities have cordoned off the area. While they have ruled out food poisoning, the strangest detail remains: security footage shows two students fleeing the grounds just minutes before the event began. A nationwide search is underway for these survivors…” I looked at Luke as he walked out of the bathroom. “You knew this was coming.” He took my frozen hands in his. “Don’t think about the ‘why’ right now, Casey. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.” “But we could have told them!” I cried, tears finally breaking through. “We could have saved them! Why didn’t you say anything?” “Casey, look at me.” His grip tightened, his eyes flashing with a desperate sort of pain. “I couldn’t save them. If I had tried to warn anyone, if I had even whispered the truth to a teacher, we would have died with them. Probably worse. I had to stay quiet to keep our chance alive. I could only save you. You’re the only thing in this world I care about.” He looked so young, yet his face was lined with a weariness that belonged to someone decades older. But the questions were screaming in my head. Why a mass death? How did he have a premonition? What were we running from? Luke reached out, brushing a tear from my cheek. “Try to sleep. We have to keep moving tomorrow.” He checked the tape on the door one last time before lying down on the other side of the bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that no longer made sense. 4 The world had turned into a horror movie overnight. In this tiny, cramped room, he was the only thing I had left. I fell into a heavy, feverish sleep filled with distorted shadows. We were jolted awake the next morning by the phone buzzing incessantly. Dozens of missed calls. When I saw the caller ID on Luke’s phone, the hair on my arms stood up. Dad. I frowned, whispering, “Luke… didn’t your parents die in that car wreck three years ago?” He lived with his grandparents. So who was calling? The phone vibrated against the nightstand like a dying insect. Luke’s face went ghost-white. He answered, but he didn’t speak. He pressed his finger to his lips, signaling me to stay absolutely silent. I held my breath, covering my mouth with both hands. The line was open, but there was no voice. Instead, there was a sound that made my teeth ache—a rhythmic, screeching friction. Like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard, or bone grinding against concrete. It wasn’t human. Luke’s pupils dilated. “Rot in hell,” he snarled into the phone. He slammed the phone down, ripped out the SIM card, and crushed the device under the heel of his boot in the bathroom. “We have to go. They found us.” He grabbed the bags and pulled me toward the door. We didn’t even check out; we just sprinted for the parking lot. The morning sun was blinding, but it offered no warmth. “Where are we going?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Farther west,” Luke said, his voice grim. “Into the mountains. We need to go somewhere they can’t reach.” We donned hats and masks, boarding a long-distance bus heading toward the Smokies. Before we left, Luke handed me a physical map with a single red circle drawn deep in the wilderness. “It’s going to get more dangerous,” he warned. “If we get separated, go to this spot. If something happens to me… you keep going. Don’t look back. That place is the only way out.” When I saw the location he’d circled, my heart stopped. I knew that place. The pieces started clicking together, a terrifying mosaic forming in my mind. Why he’d saved me. Why our school was a graveyard. What was following us. I finally understood the truth.

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