That goddamn video was the last thread I had to pull. In the grainy footage, at three in the morning, my parents were standing perfectly still by my bedside. They stared at me for what felt like an eternity before finally turning toward the door. “Don’t wake him,” my mother’s voice whispered through the crack in the door, fragile and haunting. “Just let him stay here. Alone.” By the time I clawed my way out of sleep, the world had fundamentally shifted. The entire city looked like someone had hit the pause button. The streets were hollowed out, filled with a silence so thick it was suffocating. Three hundred million people—gone. Vaporized. My hands shook as I dialed every number in my contacts. All I got was the rhythmic, mocking pulse of a busy signal. … 1 My name is Ben Beckett. I’m twenty-six. Last night was Christmas Eve. We’d finished the big family dinner, and I was so wiped out I crashed early. The last thing I remembered was my mom in the kitchen, nagging my sister to help with the dishes. Everything was normal. Routine. But when I opened my eyes, the sun was already high. I checked my phone: 9:47 AM. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the time, though. It was the quiet. On Christmas morning, there should have been the muffled sound of neighbors’ kids screaming over toys, the hum of traffic, the distant chime of church bells. Instead, the house felt like a tomb. I got up and pushed open my bedroom door. “Mom? Dad?” Nothing. The living room was empty. The remains of last night’s dinner were still on the table, the gravy congealed, the wine glasses stained red. My dad’s ashtray had a few fresh butts in it. His coffee mug was sitting on the coaster, stone cold. Where the hell were they? I shouted my sister’s name. “Zoe!” Still nothing. I went to her room and nudged the door open. Her bed was made, the duvet pulled tight and neat. But she wasn’t in it. A cold prickle of unease started at the base of my spine. I pulled out my phone and called my mom. Ring… ring… ring… No answer. I tried my dad. No answer. I tried Zoe. Straight to voicemail. I stood in the middle of the living room, my brain struggling to process the data. It was Christmas morning. Had the whole family just… gone somewhere without me? That made zero sense. I threw on a jacket and stepped out into the hallway. The silence out there was even worse. I knocked on the door of our neighbor, Mr. Henderson. “Mr. Henderson? You home?” No sound. I tried the door across the hall. Nothing. I started to run. I hit the stairs, flying down flight after flight, pounding on every door I passed. No one. Not a single soul. I burst through the main entrance and stood in the courtyard of our apartment complex. Usually, at this hour, you’d see people walking dogs or loading gifts into their cars. Today? It was a ghost town. The playground was empty. The benches were empty. Even the stray cats that usually hung around the dumpsters had vanished. My heart started hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I ran to the gate. The security booth was abandoned. The barrier was up. Out on the main road, there wasn’t a single car moving. There were vehicles parked along the curb, but they were empty shells. The Starbucks was closed. The grocery store was shuttered. The pharmacy, the salon, the deli—everything was locked tight. I stood in the middle of the wide, vacant boulevard, surrounded by skyscrapers and glass, yet I was the only thing breathing. The city hadn’t just paused. It had been drained. I started to sprint. I ran through block after block. I passed the mall, the high school, the hospital entrance. Empty. Empty. Empty. I stopped, gasping for air, my lungs burning. This was impossible. This was some kind of sick, large-scale prank. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. It picked up. But no one spoke. Just that steady, mechanical beep… beep… beep… I tried the fire department. The hospital. Same result. I dialed my fiancée, Bella. “The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.” I dialed my best friend, Wes. “The power to this device is off.” I went through my entire contact list. Fifty people. Not one voice. I collapsed onto the curb, my mind a white-hot blank. Everyone was gone. The whole country, maybe the whole world, had vanished overnight. And I was the only one left. Why? 2 I don’t know how long I sat there. The sun climbed higher, beating down on me, but I felt like I was made of ice. I had to get it together. I had to find a logic to the madness. I stood up and started walking back home. Halfway there, a thought hit me like a physical blow. The cameras. The building had security cameras, and my dad had recently installed a smart-cam in the living room. If something happened last night, the lens saw it. I moved faster. Back in the apartment, I went straight for the living room. My dad had set up the camera to “prevent break-ins,” he’d said. It was linked to a cloud-storage app on his tablet, which he’d left on the side table. I opened the app and scrolled back to last night’s footage. The picture was crisp. 10:00 PM: The four of us were on the couch, watching a holiday movie. 10:30 PM: I said I was tired and headed to bed. My mom told me to make sure I used the heavy blanket. I nodded. 11:00 PM: My dad went to the kitchen for a beer. 11:30 PM: Zoe was curled up on the armchair, scrolling through her phone. Everything was painfully normal. I hit the fast-forward button, skipping into the early morning hours. 1:00 AM: The living room lights were still on. My mom was knitting; my dad was reading on his phone. 2:00 AM: Zoe went to her room. 2:30 AM: My dad stood up and walked to the balcony. He pushed the door open and looked out. Suddenly, his expression shifted. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, but his face went pale, his jaw tightening. He hurried back inside and whispered something to my mother. Her face transformed instantly—fear, sharp and jagged. She dropped her knitting and stood up. Together, they walked toward my bedroom door. 3:03 AM. They pushed my door open. The camera couldn’t see inside my room, only the threshold. They stood there, looking in at me. For a long time. At least five minutes. Then, my mother’s lips moved. There was no audio, but I watched her mouth. I played it back. Again. And again. I’m not a lip-reader, but some things are unmistakable. She said: “Don’t wake him. Just let him stay here.” Then they closed my door. They turned away. 3:15 AM: They woke Zoe. The three of them threw on their coats and grabbed a few essentials. 3:40 AM: They opened the front door and walked out. The footage continued to run. From 3:40 AM until 9:00 AM. No one ever came back. I stared at the screen, my entire body beginning to tremor. “Just let him stay here.” That’s what she said. She chose to take Zoe, and she chose to leave me. Why? Why didn’t they wake me up? Why leave me to wake up to a dead world? What could have possibly happened that required them to flee at 3:00 AM, yet decide—deliberately—not to bring me along? I hurled the tablet against the wall. It shattered, the glass biting into my palm. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt the sickening, hollow joke of it all. This was what it felt like to be discarded by the people who were supposed to love you most. 3 I tore the house apart. I was looking for anything—a note, a pamphlet, a sign of what had happened. But there was nothing. My dad had taken his phone. My mom had taken hers. Zoe’s room was empty except for a few stray clothes and books. I cracked open my laptop and scoured the internet. The connection was still live, surprisingly. But the web was a frozen time capsule. Twitter was still showing trending hashtags from Christmas Eve. Instagram was full of pictures of turkeys and decorated trees. There was nothing about a “disappearance.” It was as if this had only happened to me. Wait. If three hundred million people really vanished, there wouldn’t be anyone left to post the news. I went to Bella’s Facebook profile. Her last post was from 11:00 PM last night—a photo of her with her parents. The caption read: “Merry Christmas! Can’t wait for the wedding next year.” I stared at her smile, the way her eyes crinkled. We’d been engaged for two months. We were supposed to get married in May. And now, she was gone too. Did she know? Did she know what was coming last night? And if she did, why didn’t she tell me? I remembered something. Her house wasn’t far—a twenty-minute drive. I had to go there. I ran outside and found a car idling on the street, unlocked. The keys were still in the ignition. I jumped in and sped toward her neighborhood. The drive was haunting. I didn’t pass a single moving vehicle. The traffic lights cycled from green to yellow to red for an audience of zero. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at her place. It was just as empty. I ran upstairs and pounded on her door. No answer. I kicked the door in, the wood splintering under my boot. The apartment was vacant. But unlike my house, this place was pristine. The table was cleared. The pillows on the sofa were fluffed. It looked like they hadn’t fled in a panic—they had left with intention. I walked into Bella’s bedroom. Her makeup was organized; her bed was made. I opened her closet. A few outfits were missing. She had packed. She had known. She was prepared to leave. I began frantically tossing her room, looking for clues. In a nightstand drawer, I found her journal. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped it. I flipped to the final pages. December 22nd: “Got the notification today. It’s happening in three days. They told us we can’t tell anyone, especially not Ben. I’m so scared, but there’s no choice. I’m so sorry.” December 23rd: “Today is the last day of normal life. Had dinner with my parents and took a photo. I keep thinking about telling him. Just a whisper. But… I can’t.” December 24th: “Tonight is the night. 3:00 AM departure. I’m afraid to look at my phone; I’m afraid I’ll break down and call him. Ben, I’m so sorry. I’ll marry you in the next life.” The entry ended there. I clutched the journal to my chest, my breath coming in jagged stabs. “Can’t tell anyone. Especially not Ben.” She knew. She’d known for days. This wasn’t a “disappearance.” This was a coordinated evacuation. And I had been blacklisted. My parents didn’t take me. My fiancée didn’t warn me. Why? What did I do? I threw the journal onto the floor and ran back to the car. I needed more answers. I needed to know why the entire world had decided I wasn’t worth saving.

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To celebrate my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, I’d gone all out. I picked Lumière, a high-end bistro known more for its hushed atmosphere and hand-painted silk wallpaper than its portions. It was supposed to be a night of soft jazz and expensive Cabernet. Then the check arrived. I stared at the leather folder, my heart skipping a beat before settling into a panicked thud. The total was sixty-two thousand dollars. Our dinner—the three of us—shouldn’t have topped four hundred, even with the wine. This wasn’t a typo; it was a fantasy. I immediately flagged down the server. Her explanation was delivered with a practiced, robotic tilt of the head. Apparently, a gentleman hosted a “Graduation Gala” for his son in the private ballroom and instructed the staff to “put it on his niece’s tab.” She claimed he told them I had authorized it. Then, she handed me a scrap of paper—a cocktail napkin with a scribbled, illegible note that looked like it had been written by someone mid-seizure. I didn’t believe a word of it. Without a second of hesitation, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a grand larceny and fraud in progress at Lumière on 5th Avenue,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “The amount is sixty-two thousand dollars.” 01 My voice wasn’t loud, but in a room designed for “discreet elegance,” it landed like a grenade. At the mention of “sixty thousand,” the clinking of silverware at the neighboring tables stopped. The young server’s professional mask didn’t just slip; it shattered. Her face went from ivory to a sickly, translucent gray. She looked at me, then at the phone pressed to my ear, as if I were holding a live wire. “Ma’am… you… you can’t…” My father, Robert, and my mother, Ellen, were frozen in a state of pure, bewildered shock. They looked at each other, their eyes wide with the “how did we get here?” look of people who had spent their entire lives following the rules. My father, a man who believed “making a scene” was a cardinal sin, was already breaking out in a cold sweat. “Natalie, honey,” he whispered, reaching for my arm. “Maybe there’s a mistake. Just hang up. Let’s talk to them first.” My mother nodded frantically, her face flushed with the embarrassment of being watched. “Yes, the police… that’s so extreme. What if it’s just a distant cousin playing a prank? Someone had too much to drink?” I understood them. They were retired teachers who had lived a quiet, suburban life. To them, the “police” were people who appeared in news segments about tragedies or criminals. They didn’t see themselves as the protagonists of a crime. But I didn’t hang up. I calmly gave the dispatcher the exact address and added, “Yes, I’m here now. I will be waiting for the officers to arrive.” I ended the call. A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the lobby. The server, seemingly drained of all strength, turned and bolted toward the manager’s office. Less than a minute later, a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit emerged. He had a prominent stomach, a slicked-back pompadour that shone under the chandeliers, and a nameplate that read: Mr. Prescott. Mr. Prescott arrived with a flourish of false concern. “Ms. Hastings, please! Let’s be reasonable. There’s no need to involve the authorities in a simple misunderstanding. This is a small matter, really.” He stood by our table, his eyes flicking over me—assessing my shoes, my watch, the leather of my handbag. He was calculating my net worth in real-time. Finding it sufficient, his smile widened. He picked up the sixty-two-thousand-dollar bill and the scribbled napkin, squinting at them as if they were ancient scrolls. “Ah, I see… the handwriting… yes…” He dragged out the words. “It looks like it was your uncle. Perhaps he wanted to surprise you? Why don’t you give him a call? Among family, these things are better handled privately, don’t you think?” He said “family matter” with a pointed emphasis, trying to twist a commercial fraud into a domestic squabble. My parents were wavering. I could see my father’s posture wilting under the manager’s “authority.” He forced a nervous smile. “See? Mr. Prescott is right. Natalie, maybe it’s just… you know, that cousin Jerry? He was always a bit of a loose cannon…” My mother was already fumbling with her phone. “Do we even have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ in the city?” In that moment, a cold, sharp anger flared in my chest. My parents were good, honest people, but that very goodness made them vulnerable. They were being gaslit into self-doubt by a man in a fancy suit. This was exactly what scammers and predatory businesses counted on. I took a slow breath, pushing the fire down into a cold, hard diamond of resolve. “Mr. Prescott.” My voice was quiet, but it cut through his prattle like a blade. He stopped, his smile faltering. I met his gaze and spoke with clinical precision. “First, let me be clear: neither I, nor my family, have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ or any relative currently hosting a gala in this building.” “Second,” I continued, “you allowed a sixty-thousand-dollar charge to be transferred to my bill without a signature, without a phone call, and without a pre-authorization on my credit card, based solely on a napkin from a stranger. Tell me—is that the ‘Lumière Standard’ of service?” I didn’t raise my voice, but every word was a nail being driven home. Prescott’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, offended sneer. “We saw the gentleman speaking with your party earlier. He seemed very familiar with you, and he was quite adamant that you were covering the event. We were simply trying to be accommodating…” I cut him off. “‘He seemed familiar’? ‘He was adamant’? Is that your risk management protocol for a high-end establishment?” I gestured to the sprawling crystal chandelier and the velvet-lined walls. “You spent millions on the decor, yet your billing system is less secure than a lemonade stand? Even a street vendor asks for the money before they hand over the hot dog.” The irony wasn’t lost on the room. Several diners at the next table let out a muffled snicker. Whispers started rippling through the dining room. “She’s right. Sixty grand on a napkin? That’s insane.” “I’m checking my bill twice before I leave this place.” “God, imagine if they did that to us.” The murmurs were like needles pricking Prescott’s ego. His face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He lost his corporate polish and bared his teeth. “Miss! Do not make a scene! You are disrupting our business! The bill has been verified. If you do not settle this amount, we have every right to detain you until the matter is resolved!” A threat. A naked, ugly threat. I didn’t flinch. I smiled. I pulled out my phone, angled the camera toward his contorted face, and hit ‘record.’ The red ‘REC’ light blinked steadily between us. “Please,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Say that again. Look right into the lens and tell the world—and the police who are currently three minutes away—that Lumière intends to hold us under illegal private imprisonment before the authorities arrive.” Prescott’s bravado popped like a pricked balloon. He stared at the lens as if it were the barrel of a gun. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. His face turned from beet-red to a sickly purple. Behind me, I felt my parents shift. They were looking at me with a complex mix of shock and a sudden, burgeoning pride. They were seeing, perhaps for the first time, that their daughter wasn’t someone who needed protecting anymore. She was the one holding the line. The lobby remained in a tense standoff. And I was just waiting for my backup. 02 About ten minutes later, the revolving glass doors reflected the rhythmic strobes of red and blue. Two uniformed officers entered. One was older, with the weary, cynical eyes of a man who had seen every scam in the city. The younger one held a body cam, his expression neutral. Their presence acted like a gust of fresh air, clearing the stagnant, toxic tension in the lobby. Every head turned. Prescott, who had been a snarling dog seconds ago, underwent a miraculous transformation. His face melted into a submissive, oily grin. He practically scurried toward the officers, bowing so low he was nearly doubled over. “Officers! Thank you for coming. So sorry for the trouble on such a busy night. It’s nothing, really—just a little family misunderstanding. A private matter!” He tried to use his bulk to steer them toward a corner for a “private chat.” Officer Henderson, the senior lead, didn’t even look at him. He sidestepped Prescott and walked straight to me. “You the one who called?” “I am,” I said, standing up. In front of the law, I delivered the facts. No fluff, no emotional outbursts—just a crisp executive summary, the same way I delivered risk reports at the firm. “…and that brings us to this. A sixty-two-thousand-dollar bill, and this napkin from a supposed ‘uncle.’” I handed over the leather folder and the scrap of paper. Henderson took them. The younger officer focused his body cam on the evidence. I pointed to the napkin. “Officer, notice a few things. One: there is no full name, only ‘Jerry,’ and no contact information. Would a relative truly intending to host a party act this clandestinely?” “Two: the note claims I ‘authorized’ this, yet there is no proof. No recorded call, no text thread, no signature. The restaurant transferred a five-figure debt based on a verbal claim from a stranger. Logically, it’s a farce.” Henderson nodded slowly. He turned to Prescott, his gaze sharpening. “How do you explain this? You didn’t verify a sixty-thousand-dollar transfer with the party being billed?” The sweat on Prescott’s forehead was now a river, carving paths through his bronzer. He dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief, stammering. “Officer, we… the gentleman, Mr. Garrick was so certain, and they… they looked so close…” His voice trailed off into a pathetic squeak. Then, the silence was broken by a frantic sound. The young server from earlier came running back, clutching a cordless phone as if it were a ticking bomb. “Mr. Prescott! The phone! It’s for Ms. Hastings. It’s… it’s her uncle!” The word ‘uncle’ hit the room like a physical weight. Every eye, including the officers’, snapped to the phone. I felt a cold smirk touch my lips. Unbelievable. This man was either the bravest idiot in the city or so arrogant he thought he could talk his way out of a police report. Officer Henderson’s eyes glinted. He gave me a subtle nod and whispered to his partner, “Make sure the audio is recording.” He gestured to me. “Take it.” I took the phone from the server’s trembling hand. Under the collective gaze of the entire restaurant, I pressed the speakerphone button. A man’s voice, oily and forcedly cheerful, filled the air. “Hey, Natalie? It’s your Uncle Jerry!” 03 “It’s your Uncle Jerry, sweetheart!” The voice was dripping with a synthetic, “long-lost relative” warmth. Behind me, my mother shook her head, mouthing the words, I don’t know him. My father’s brow was furrowed so deeply it looked painful. I gripped the phone, my voice a flat line of professional indifference. “I don’t know who you are.” A booming, fake laugh erupted from the speaker. “Oh, come on! You always were a kidder. How could you forget your favorite uncle? I used to bounce you on my knee back at the old park near your house! Don’t tell me your memory is that short.” It was clever. He didn’t name the park or the city. He used the “old park” trope, a vague hook that fits almost anyone’s childhood. But I wasn’t “anyone.” I stayed silent, letting the dead air pressure him. He took my silence for hesitation. His tone shifted to something more “fatherly” and manipulative. “Look, Natalie, I heard you were taking your folks out for their anniversary. Such a wonderful thing! I figured, hey, my boy is celebrating his graduation tonight too—why not make it a double celebration? We’re family. We shouldn’t be counting pennies.” Here it was. The first layer of the emotional shakedown. “You’ve done so well for yourself, big job, big money. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge your own blood a dinner? Your parents are right there, aren’t they? You really want to make a scene in front of them? Call the cops? Think of how embarrassed they’ll be. You’re making them look bad in front of everyone.” He was throwing everything at the wall—guilt, shame, the “model daughter” trope. He was trying to tie me in knots with the very values my parents raised me with. It worked on my father. He let out a huff of indignation and snatched the phone from my hand. “Who the hell is this?” he barked. “I’m warning you, stop lying! We don’t have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ and you’re slandering my daughter!” My dad’s outburst was impulsive, but it warmed my heart. In the end, he was a protector. I took the phone back, stepping back into the lead. My voice was like a scalpel. “Mr. Garrick, or whoever you are. If you’re family, this is very easy to prove.” I paused, ensuring the officers were listening. “Right now, in front of these two police officers, I want you to tell me my grandmother’s maiden name. Or my mother’s middle name. Get one right, and I’ll pay the sixty thousand right now.” The torrent of words on the other end stopped instantly. A heavy, static-filled silence echoed through the speaker. Every person in the lobby held their breath. Prescott looked like he’d just swallowed a live wasp. A few seconds later, the mask slipped. “Jerry” turned into a cornered rat. His voice became shrill, jagged, and foul. “You little bitch! Who do you think you are? You talk to your elders like that? You get a little education and suddenly you’re too good for us? I’m telling you, you’re paying that bill. One way or another, you’re paying. Don’t make me come over there and teach you some manners!” A threat of physical violence. The “kind uncle” was gone, replaced by a street-level thug. I smiled—a cold, terrifyingly sharp smile. “Respect is earned, not gifted. What room are you in, ‘Uncle’? Don’t hide behind a phone. The officers would love to discuss ‘family manners’ with you in person.” “Screw you!” he screamed, followed by a string of profanities that made the diners nearby gasp. Then, click. He hung up. The lobby was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning. Any doubt that this was a “misunderstanding” had evaporated. I set the phone down and looked at Prescott. He was the color of damp parchment. Officer Henderson looked at him too, his voice hard as iron. “Still think this is a ‘family matter,’ Mr. Prescott?” Prescott swayed on his feet. He knew the situation had spiraled completely out of his control. 04 Henderson’s eyes were like ice. “I want the security footage from the lobby, the host stand, and the hallways. Now.” Prescott didn’t argue. He practically tripped over his own feet rushing toward the back office. All his arrogance had leaked out of him, leaving nothing but a desperate, sweaty middle manager. Henderson turned to me, his tone softening a fraction. “Ms. Hastings, think back. From the moment you walked in until you sat down, did you notice anyone following you? Anyone lingering?” I closed my eyes, tapping into the observational skills I used to analyze market volatility. “We were led straight to our booth by the window. There was a man at the table next to us. Mid-fifties, dark navy jacket that didn’t quite fit his shoulders. He looked… restless. I noticed him glancing our way several times. When my father was talking about his retirement, the man leaned back, almost like he was trying to catch the frequency.” “I thought he was just a curious diner,” I added. “But now… he was hunting.” “Do you remember his face?” “Square jaw, tanned, thinning hair on top. When he looked at us, he had these deep crinkles around his eyes—the kind that make people look ‘trustworthy’ or ‘harmless.’ It’s a mask.” Just then, Prescott returned with a technician lugging a laptop. He was a broken man, nodding frantically. “We have it, Officer. Everything.” Henderson had another question ready. “The ‘Graduation Gala’—who booked it? What name and number are on the file?”

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The countdown is at seventy-two hours. In my eyes, these people have been dead to me for a long time—rotting from the inside out, stained beyond redemption. It happened on April Fool’s Day. To coax a smile out of their precious “golden boy,” my fiancé and my sister decided to turn me into a literal plaything. Toby, the boy they brought home to replace me, laughed as he shredded my clothes. He took a tube of lipstick and scrawled the word “BITCH” across my forehead in jagged, crimson strokes. When I didn’t react—when I just stood there, hollow and still—he lost interest in the art and delivered a brutal kick to my chest, sending me spiraling backward into the septic tank. When they finally fished me out, the air was thick with the sound of shutters clicking. A crowd of onlookers held up their phones, their mocking laughter sharp as needles. My sister, Madeline, stood a hundred yards away, pressing a silk handkerchief to her nose with a look of pure loathing. She wouldn’t even come near me. Toby looked at me with that practiced, wide-eyed innocence. “Happy April Fool’s, Gavin!” My fiancé, Sasha, stepped in front of him, shielding him as if he were the victim. Her voice was breezy, dismissive. “It was just a joke, Gavin. Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t take it to heart.” She signaled a nearby gardener to turn the high-pressure power washer on me. The jet of icy water slammed into my ribs, knocking me into the dirt. I curled into a ball, my skin turning a bruised, sickly purple from the cold, but I didn’t make a sound. By morning, the video of me—naked, shivering, and covered in filth—had gone viral within our social circles. Madeline blamed me for “tarnishing the family brand” and dragging Toby’s name through the mud. She threw my meager belongings onto the driveway and told me to get out. Sasha followed suit, publicly breaking our engagement. “A woman of my standing can’t be tied to a man with such a… public stain on his character,” she said coldly. I just nodded. I didn’t argue. They all thought I was playing a part—the stoic martyr, faking composure to make them feel guilty. They had no idea I was just counting the seconds. … In the courtyard, my father’s belt whistled through the air before snapping against my back. “Shameless! Disgusting! You are a cancer on this family!” I didn’t explain. I just gritted my teeth and took it. Experience had taught me that defending myself only made the beatings last longer. I had only been back in this house for a few weeks when it started. Toby had accused me of stealing his Patek Philippe. My parents tore my room apart; Madeline stripped me in front of the household staff to search my person. They found nothing. I thought I might get an apology. Instead, Madeline backhanded me so hard a tooth rattled loose in my mouth. “You must have sold it already! Where’s the money, you little thief?” My room was the size of a closet. I didn’t even have a bank account. When I tried to speak, she kicked me until I coughed up blood. Then, Toby let out a choreographed gasp. “Oh! Here it is. It was under the rug.” The diamond-encrusted watch caught the sunlight, blindingly bright. I looked at Madeline, waiting for a flicker of regret. There was none. She just smoothed her skirt and said, “A minor misunderstanding. Get over it. I’m Toby’s sister; I trust him implicitly.” She knew she was Toby’s sister. She just seemed to have forgotten she was mine, too. Now, in the courtyard, the belt continued to fall. My skin was a roadmap of angry red welts. Madeline stood by, watching with bored eyes. She was the one who had encouraged Toby to humiliate me, yet she hated me for the “scandal” it caused. She told me to rot in the street. “You’re leaving?” my father roared, his face puce with rage. “You want to go out there and embarrass us more? No. You’ll stay here and learn your place.” After two hours of the “family discipline,” my mother finally looked up from her tea, frowning. “Enough, Adam. It’s unsightly. Let him crawl to the shrine, do ninety-nine prostrations, and write a ten-thousand-word confession in his own blood. Then we’ll consider the matter closed.” My father tossed the belt aside, huffing. “You’re too soft on him.” Soft. I almost wanted to laugh. The prostrations had to be audible—forehead hitting the stone floor hard enough to echo, or they didn’t count. The confession had to be written with a needle and a steady supply of my own veins. If it wasn’t sincere enough, they’d make me start over. I didn’t argue. I banged my head against the stone until I blacked out, woke up when they splashed ice water on me, and kept going. I wrote twenty thousand words, each letter a drop of my life, a testament to a humility I didn’t truly feel. I thought it would be enough. Toby walked in, covering his nose and taking a theatrical step back. “Ugh, Madeline. It’s not that I don’t want him in the house, but… he smells like a sewer.” Madeline ruffled his hair affectionately, then spared me a sideways glance. “You’re right. He’s not fit for the servant’s quarters. Put him in the pit with Apollo.” Apollo was Toby’s pet Burmese python. And I have a paralyzing, primal fear of snakes. I remembered the day the police brought me home. Toby had looked at me with that same disgust back then. Madeline hadn’t put me in the snake pit then—she’d just forced me to sleep in the dog crate. The Golden Retriever’s crate was actually larger than the room I eventually got, and as long as Toby didn’t give the command, the dog didn’t bite. I could almost sleep there. But the snake pit? I couldn’t do it. I collapsed at my parents’ feet, sobbing, my forehead bleeding onto the carpet. “Please, Mom, Dad… I’ll leave. I’ll go back to the dog crate. Just please, don’t put me in there.” For a second, I saw a flicker of hesitation in my father’s eyes. He started to open his mouth, but Madeline lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar. “Stop faking it, Gavin! If it weren’t for you, this family wouldn’t be a laughingstock! You should be grateful we’re giving you a roof at all.” She dragged me toward the glass-enclosed habitat in the back of the house. I looked back at my father one last time. He looked away. The stench of musk and rot inside the pit made me gag. I felt the dry, rhythmic flick of a tongue against my cheek. As I closed my eyes, waiting for the end, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind: “Countdown to completion: Forty-eight hours.” Suddenly, the panic subsided. I forced my breathing to slow. Two days. I just had to survive two more days. Three years ago, Toby had developed a stomach ache after dinner. He’d pointed a trembling finger at me, accusing me of lacing his food with laxatives. Before I could even process the lie, Madeline had pinned me down and forced a whole bottle of castor oil down my throat. I spent that night huddled on the bathroom floor, cramping so hard I wished for death. The family didn’t check on me; they were all at the hospital, holding Toby’s hand. In that moment of near-death, the voice first appeared. “Host vitals dropping. Emergency binding: Retribution System initiated. Task: Survive for three years. Success: Total karmic backlash for tormentors, $100 million cash reward. Failure: Soul erasure.” I thought it was a hallucination. But when I woke up the next morning, the pain was gone, and the timer was running. I became a ghost in that house—silent, compliant, waiting. I focused on memories of nature documentaries, trying to stay perfectly still. The python slithered over my legs, its scales cold and heavy. Outside the glass, Toby was holding Sasha’s hand, a cruel smirk on his face. “Look at him, Sasha. Your ‘fiancé’ is so pathetic he’s shacking up with a snake. Do you feel bad for him?” Sasha didn’t even look at me. She was scrolling through her phone. “Don’t be silly. I don’t have a fiancé. That contract was trash the moment he fell into the pit.” Even now, that hurt. Sasha was different—or she used to be. We grew up together in the state orphanage. When she arrived, she had a broken leg and a spirit so crushed she wouldn’t eat. I protected her. I stole food for her. I took the beatings from the older boys so they wouldn’t mess with her. One winter, a group of bullies took her crutches to use as firewood. I tackled them, and they tied me to a tree in the middle of a blizzard, using me as a target for ice-packed snowballs. My nose was broken, blood staining the white snow. Sasha held me all night after I was cut down, her tears warm against my frozen skin. “Gavin,” she had whispered. “When I grow up, I’m going to protect you. I promise.” I believed her. When the police found my real family—the wealthy, prestigious family I’d been snatched from—the first thing I did was use my leverage to find her biological family. It turned out she was an illegitimate daughter, dumped by a family that didn’t want the scandal. I begged my parents to arrange an engagement, to give her a path back into high society. Madeline called me pathetic for wanting a girl so soon after coming home. I knelt in the rain for seven days, fasting, until my knees were raw, just to get that signature on a marriage contract. The day I picked her up from the orphanage, she cried and held me. “Gavin, as soon as I’m settled, I’m yours.” But she never became mine. She tore up the contract in front of everyone. She handed me over to Toby to be mocked. When did it change? Maybe it was the first time Toby called her “Big Sister Sasha.” He was polished, clean, and knew exactly how to play the “wounded bird” better than I ever could. He’d lean into her and whisper, “You only agreed to marry Gavin because you felt obligated, right? It must be such a burden.” And she never disagreed. Once, at a gala, I drank until my stomach bled to protect her from a group of aggressive investors. I collapsed in the hallway, and she just stepped over me. “You’re embarrassing me, Gavin,” she’d said. I tried to talk about our wedding, about rings. She’d just pluck a blade of grass from the lawn, wrap it around my finger, and laugh. “There’s your ring.” Then, an hour later, she’d spend six figures at an auction to buy a watch for Toby. I asked her once, “Sasha, do you remember the orphanage? Do you remember the tree?” She laughed—a sound so full of mockery I didn’t recognize her. “Gavin, are you seriously bringing that up again? Yes, you helped me. And you’ve used that debt to anchor me to you for years. Isn’t that enough?” Anchor her? I had sacrificed everything for her future. “Let’s be real,” she continued. “You only wanted this marriage because you’re the unloved son. You knew no one else would have you, so you clung to me. You’re just desperate for someone to belong to.” Something inside me finally shattered. Toby’s laughter snapped me back to the present. “Sasha, don’t be so mean. He was your boyfriend for a decade.” Sasha sneered. “A boyfriend? He was a charity project that went on too long.” I took a deep breath and whispered to the system, “Does betrayal count toward the backlash?” “Affirmative. Every ounce of pain the Host feels will be reflected. But only if you survive the final countdown.” Toby tapped on the glass, looking annoyed. “This is boring. He’s not moving. He looks like a corpse, and Apollo doesn’t like dead things.” He tugged on Sasha’s arm. “Sasha, get him out of there. I want to see him cry.” Sasha hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. She hauled me out of the pit. The sudden sunlight was blinding. “Toby wants to see tears,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of heat. I didn’t move. Toby picked up a piece of coarse sandpaper from a nearby workbench. He started rubbing it against my cheek with a terrifyingly sweet smile. “Does it hurt now, Gavin? Can you cry now?” My face was raw, bleeding, but my eyes were bone dry. Sasha lost her patience and kicked me in the shoulder. I fell back, my head cracking against the concrete. “Cry!” she demanded, looming over me. When I stayed silent, she kicked me again—hard, in the ribs. I dry-heaved, the air knocked out of me. I wanted to live, but I couldn’t force a sob. I slowly pushed myself up into a kneeling position. I bowed my head until it touched the ground. “I’m sorry.” Toby blinked, then chuckled. “What is he doing? Why is he apologizing?” “That’s just Gavin,” a voice said from the doorway. Madeline. She walked over, her face twisted in its habitual mask of disgust. “This is how he lives. You hit him, he kneels. You scream at him, he bows. He’s a dog.” Toby’s eyes lit up. “Really? Then make him bark.” Madeline looked at me, her expression dead. “Did you hear him? Bark for Toby.” I was on my knees in the dirt. These three stood over me, framed by the golden afternoon sun like icons of grace, while I sat in the shadows, smelling of the pit. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Madeline’s face darkened. She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. “Bark!” The pain was searing. I had to stand on my tiptoes just to keep my scalp from tearing. I looked into her eyes. She was my sister. When we were children, a kidnapper had tried to grab her. I was the one who threw myself at his legs, screaming for her to run. He had picked me up and slammed me into the ground, leaving me for dead in a ditch. I spent two months in a makeshift hospital, barely holding on. “Woof. Woof.” My voice was barely a whisper. Toby pouted. “That’s not convincing at all. He needs a tail.” He told Sasha to get a length of heavy nylon rope. Madeline tied one end around my waist and handed the other to Toby. “Crawl,” she commanded. “Wherever Toby leads, you follow.” I didn’t move. She kicked the back of my knee, and I collapsed. I began to crawl. The gravel dug into my palms. “Slow down,” Sasha said from behind. “Don’t let Toby trip.” Toby led me through the mud, up the stone steps, laughing like a child. When we were far enough away from the others, he leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I hate you, Gavin. I want you dead. Do you know why? Years ago, when you escaped that basement, you went to the police. You gave them the evidence that sent my father to prison for life.” My heart hammered against my ribs. The kidnapper. The man who had kept twenty children in a cellar. I had watched him kill a six-year-old girl because she wouldn’t stop crying. He told us, “Anyone else wants to go play with her?” I had jumped into a river to escape him while he pelted me with rocks. I nearly drowned. And my parents had adopted his son. My sister adored him. My fiancé chose him. “I’m not afraid of you telling,” Toby hissed. “No one believes a dog. I just wanted you to know how much I enjoy watching you rot.” He laughed, and something inside me snapped. I lunged upward, grabbing the rope and looping it around his throat. “Your father was a murderer!” I screamed, my eyes burning. “That girl was six years old!” Toby hadn’t expected me to fight back. He flailed, his face turning a panicked shade of red. “GAVIN!” A roar came from behind me. Before I could turn, I was ripped away and slammed into the ground. Sasha put her boot on my chest, pressing down until I felt my ribs groan. “You’re insane!” she hissed. “His father was a monster—” I choked out. SLAP. Madeline’s hand caught me across the face. I tasted copper. “We checked Toby’s records before we adopted him,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “He’s clean. If you’re going to lie, at least try to be believable.” “It’s not a lie!” I shrieked. “Check the records from six years ago! The man named Miller—” “Gavin,” Sasha said, her foot pressing harder. “I used to think you were just pathetic. Now I see you’re malicious.” Toby rubbed his neck, squeezing out a few crocodile tears. “If you hadn’t come… he would have killed me.” Madeline’s eyes turned murderous. She dragged me toward the back corner of the estate, where an old piece of construction equipment sat—a heavy wooden pallet riddled with rusted, six-inch nails, once used to deter trespassers. “Throw him on it.” Before I could process what was happening, Madeline and Sasha hoisted me up and slammed me down onto the bed of nails. The screams that tore from my throat didn’t sound human. The rusted iron pierced my back, my shoulders, my thighs. Blood surged from a hundred punctures, soaking the wood instantly. I tried to thrash, but the barbs held me fast, grinding into my muscle with every movement. “Think about what you’ve done,” Madeline said. Then they walked away. I lay there as the sun dipped below the horizon. Every breath was a fresh agony. My vision began to fray at the edges. The system’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Host vitals critical… final countdown initiated…” I bit through my lip, using the pain to stay conscious for the last few seconds. Finally, the voice chimed, clear and sweet: “Congratulations, Host. Three-year term complete. Calculating retribution rewards…”

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Five years into our marriage, Evelyn did something unprecedented: she willingly sat across from me at the kitchen island for breakfast. Trailing right behind her was a little girl, maybe three years old. When the child looked up, her brow bone, the slope of her nose, the shape of her eyes—they were an exact replica of Evelyn’s. “A girl from my old startup incubator passed away. She has no family left,” Evelyn said, not quite meeting my eyes. “We’re going to legally adopt her. Add her to our household.” My hand didn’t falter as I poured my coffee. I simply took a sip and asked, perfectly evenly, “A girl from your incubator? Was this the friend you stayed with during your ‘business trips’ to Austin three years ago, or did you rent that villa in West Lake Hills just for her?” The color drained from Evelyn’s face instantly. “He… he didn’t want to make a fuss. He’s just going to live here and help raise the kid—” she started to stammer, the slick CEO facade cracking for a fraction of a second. “Help raise the kid?” I cut her off. “Is he going to be living in the guest suite right next to our master bedroom?” “You’re getting a child out of this without having to do any of the work! Isn’t that a good thing?!” she snapped, her voice pitching up in defensive agitation. I set my mug down slowly on the marble counter. I looked at this woman—the woman who had used the four million dollars from my trust fund to launch her three subsidiaries. The woman whose family’s hollowed-out corporate empire was currently surviving on an eighty-million-dollar lifeline from my mother’s venture capital firm. “Evelyn,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I already had the divorce papers drawn up.” “Every single asset to your name is about to be wiped clean.” 01 “Wiped clean?” Evelyn repeated the words, letting out a sharp, breathless laugh like she had just heard the punchline to a terrible joke. She lifted the little girl into one of the high chairs, turned to face me, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her tailored slacks. “Charles, you’ve played the quiet, supportive husband for five years. Who is the legal CEO of all three of my subsidiaries?” “You are.” “Whose name is on the deed to this estate?” “Yours.” “Exactly.” She pulled out a stool and sat down, languidly picking up a piece of artisanal toast. “That eighty-million-dollar bridge loan from your mother? That’s B2B corporate credit. It’s an ironclad, company-to-company agreement. It doesn’t have a single syllable to do with you, Charles, as an individual.” She took a delicate bite of the toast. “What exactly are you going to divorce me with?” The three-year-old girl sat in her high chair, stabbing at a cup of yogurt with a plastic spoon, glancing up at me between every strike. Her brow bone. The bridge of her nose. Even the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. She was a carbon copy of Evelyn. “You think I haven’t prepared for this?” I asked. “Prepared what? Found a lawyer?” She smirked. “Ms. Campbell, right? I had lunch with her yesterday. Her entire firm is now on retainer as my corporate legal team.” I just looked at her. She set the toast down, dusted the crumbs from her manicured fingers, and stood up. “Charles, stop throwing a tantrum. Toby is coming over this afternoon. Be useful and help get the guest suite ready for him.” She walked to the foyer to slip on her heels. As she bent down to adjust the strap, she glanced back at the little girl. “Be good, Mia. Mommy will be back tonight.” Mommy. Not Auntie. She wasn’t even bothering to hide it anymore. Twelve minutes after the heavy oak door clicked shut, my phone vibrated on the counter. Unknown number. “Hey, Charles? It’s Toby.” The voice was soft, excessively sweet, dripping with a manufactured innocence. “Nessa said I should come over around three. Is the room all set up for me?” He called her Nessa. “What else did she tell you?” I asked. “She said… you were totally okay with this.” “Which exact words of mine gave you the impression I was okay with this?” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. “Look, Charles, I really don’t take up much space,” he said, his voice dropping into a practiced, pleading register. “I’ll just help look after Mia, cook the meals. You can just look at me as a free live-in nanny…” “The person pinned at the top of your iMessage,” I said. “What’s the contact name?” His breath hitched. “I saw her phone this morning. Between eight and nine a.m., you sent her eight texts. The last one read: ‘Wifey, did he say yes? I’m so nervous.’” “Charles, I—” “You also have a TikTok account. Toby’s Code to Happiness. 1.1 million followers. Three months ago, you posted a video. The background was a living room—warm ambient lighting, a marble coffee table, custom Italian drapes. You looked right into the camera and said, ‘Hey guys, welcome to the home my wife and I built.’” Dead silence on the other end. “That living room is my house. I ordered those drapes from Milan. I picked out that marble table.” Nothing but the faint sound of static. “Are you still coming at three?” I asked. His voice was tiny now, but entirely unyielding. “Charles… Nessa told me to come.” At exactly 3:02 PM, the doorbell rang. He stood on the porch, flashing a smile that revealed two deep, charming dimples. “Hi, Charles.” He bent down, gripping the handles of two large suitcases. The little girl, Mia, scrambled off the living room sofa and launched herself into his arms. “Daddy!” He scooped her up, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then looked right at me. There wasn’t a single trace of guilt in his eyes. He wandered around the living room, taking in the space like he was returning to his own kingdom. In his mind, I suppose, it already was. “Which way is the guest suite, Charles? I can find my own way.” “The ring on your left hand,” I said. His smile froze. On his left ring finger sat a custom-cut sapphire ring. My engagement ring. Two years ago, Evelyn told me she had sent it to a jeweler for deep cleaning. It never came back. He quickly tucked his hand behind his back. “Nessa gave it to me…” “I know exactly who gave it to you.” I turned and walked up the sweeping staircase. His voice chased after me, small and laced with a pathetic, manufactured grievance. “I’m really just here to help, Charles.” 02 “Charles, stop being so petty.” My father-in-law, Richard, called me much earlier than I anticipated. “Evelyn explained everything to me. That child is an orphan from her old accelerator program. You’re a grown man, why are you being so narrow-minded?” “Richard, the child calls Toby ‘Daddy.’” “Kids don’t know any better! They call whoever feeds them ‘Daddy’.” He spoke rapidly, aggressively, like he was reciting a script he’d rehearsed all night. “Evelyn already gave me the bottom line. That boy is just hired help. He’ll stay a few days and leave. The fact that you’re hyper-fixating on this—is it because you’re feeling insecure that we’ve been married five years and you still haven’t given her a child?” The words drove into me like a physical blade. My fingernails bit hard into my palms. “Do you know why we haven’t had a child in five years, Richard?” “If your biology is flawed, go see a specialist. I’ve told you a hundred times—” “In our second year of marriage, Evelyn had me taking those expensive ‘holistic fertility teas’ from her private specialist for six months. I took the formula to an independent lab. Three of the primary botanical extracts in that tea cause long-term male sterility.” The line went dead quiet for two full seconds. “You’re speaking absolute nonsense.” “You can have the lab report verified yourself.” “Why would I look at that garbage? Has my daughter not given you a spectacular life? Are you really going to tear this family apart over your own insecurities?” He hung up. At noon, Toby came down from the guest suite and prepared an elaborate spread in the kitchen. Braised short ribs, organic roasted vegetables, a delicate consommé. Mia sat at the dining table, clutching a small bowl, rice grains stuck to her chubby cheeks. He sat beside her, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, playing the picture-perfect father. When he saw me come down the stairs, he stood up. “Charles, I poured you a bowl of soup, too.” The bowl was placed at the absolute furthest end of the long dining table. He was sitting in my usual chair. I didn’t touch the soup. That afternoon, I went to the pharmacy. When I swiped the platinum card Evelyn had given me, the machine beeped red. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been deactivated.” I pulled out my personal debit card and punched in the PIN. Insufficient funds. I opened my mobile banking app in the parking lot. Three days ago, a massive wire transfer had drained my personal account. Two hundred thousand dollars. Every last cent, swept directly into the corporate holding account of Evelyn’s company. Authorized by: Evelyn. She had utilized a buried clause in the original pre-nuptial investment agreement I signed five years ago: “Party B’s capital shall be subject to the unified allocation and management of Party A.” As the sun began to set, Richard arrived at the house. The moment he laid eyes on Toby, his face lit up into a warm, crinkling smile. “Oh, look at you, what a handsome young man. Come here, let Grandpa see little Mia.” He scooped the child up, pinching her cheeks, kissing her forehead, his eyes crinkling into half-moons of pure joy. “This nose. It’s exactly like Evelyn’s when she was little.” He knew. He knew absolutely everything. Richard pulled a velvet box from his tailored coat pocket. He flipped it open. Inside rested a vintage Patek Philippe watch. I recognized it instantly. It was item number eleven on the list of family heirlooms my mother had gifted me upon my marriage. Valued at roughly a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. In our second year of marriage, Richard claimed he needed to borrow it to impress some investors at a gala. He never returned it. He reached out and slid the gold band onto Toby’s wrist. “Here, son. Take this. Raising a kid is hard work.” Toby put up a weak, performative protest twice. On the third push, he accepted it. “Thank you so much, sir.” He said it while looking directly at me, a sly smile playing on his lips. Richard settled onto my leather sofa, took a sip of the pour-over coffee Toby handed him, and finally turned his gaze to me. “Charles, you’re thirty now. You know it gets harder for a man to start over and have kids after thirty. Look how sweet Mia is. Just help raise her. We can figure the rest out later.” “Richard, that watch belongs to my family.” “What’s yours, what’s ours? You married into this family, Charles. It all belongs to the house.” He set his coffee cup down, the porcelain clinking sharply against the saucer. “If you really can’t get your head around this, then let me spell it out for you. Evelyn told me you want a divorce.” He stared at me, the grandfatherly warmth evaporating, replaced by the cold, calculating eyes of a shark. “You walked into this family’s house, Charles. You don’t get to just walk out.” “That money your mother injected into the firm? That’s business capital. Investments carry risk. Didn’t they teach you that in private school?” “You’re one man. No kids. No assets. What exactly are you going to do out there in the real world?” Toby stood in the threshold of the kitchen, holding Mia against his hip. He didn’t say a word. But he was smiling. The dimples were very deep. Richard stood up, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from his wool trousers. “Think very carefully before you speak to me again.” “A woman like my daughter? There’s a line of men out the door begging to be in your position. You should be counting your blessings in secret.” 03 “Having dinner at the house tonight. My dad invited some extended family.” Evelyn’s text arrived at 4:00 PM. By the time I walked into the dining room, seven or eight people were already seated. All of Evelyn’s aunts, uncles, and cousins—people who usually couldn’t be bothered to visit—were gathered in full force. At the long oak table, my usual seat was gone. Toby sat directly to Evelyn’s right. Mia was perched happily on his lap. The chair I had sat in every night for five years had been physically moved to a dark corner of the room. “Oh, Charles’s here. Grab a stool,” Richard said, not even bothering to look up from his wine glass. Evelyn’s eldest aunt leaned forward, eyes gleaming with gossip. “Evelyn, sweetheart, is this the young man you were telling us about? Very handsome. And the little one looks just like you.” Evelyn offered a tight, composed smile. She didn’t deny it. The aunt turned her predatory gaze to Toby. “How old are you, young man?” “Twenty-four,” Toby replied, projecting bashful politeness. “Raising a child at twenty-four. Very capable. Much better than some people.” The aunt shot a pointed, withering look in my direction. Richard seamlessly picked up the thread. “Isn’t that the truth? Five years under our roof and not a damn thing to show for it.” A table full of people. Not a single one spoke up for me. I stood there in the doorway, a glass of ice water in my hand, feeling the chill seep into my fingers. “Charles, don’t just stand there. Sit.” Evelyn finally spoke. She pointed with her fork to a flimsy, folding chair they had crammed at the very foot of the table. I didn’t move. “Evelyn, my lawyer can’t get ahold of you.” “We’re eating. Why are we talking about this now?” she deflected smoothly. “Ms. Campbell’s firm suddenly signed an annual retainer with you. I tried to hire another firm, and they told me you had already made a phone call. I’ve reached out to six top-tier family law practices in this city today. Three of them are your corporate clients, two of them received personal calls from you this morning, and the last one suddenly decided they ‘have a conflict of interest’.” The dining room fell dead silent. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator. “Charles—” Richard slammed his heavy silver fork onto the table. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum in front of the whole family?” “You call this a tantrum?” “You are being completely unreasonable.” The eldest aunt slapped her palm against the marble. “Has Evelyn not given you the world? Look around this city. How many men get to live in a mansion like this? How many men get to spend the kind of money you do?” I locked eyes with the aunt. “Spend money? My credit cards were frozen yesterday. Two hundred thousand dollars was illegally swept from my personal checking account. I currently have three hundred dollars to my name, and that’s only because I took out cash two days ago.” The aunt blinked, taken aback. She turned to Evelyn. “Evelyn, is that…” “Auntie, it’s a private marital issue. Don’t listen to his paranoia.” Evelyn’s voice was a masterclass in soothing, patronizing calm. She didn’t even stop cutting her steak. “Charles’s mental health has been very fragile lately. I’ve already made an appointment for him to see a psychiatrist.” A psychiatrist. She was calling me clinically insane. In front of her entire bloodline. Toby sat there, eyes downcast, meticulously cutting carrots into tiny pieces for Mia. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at me. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw his phone screen light up. I watched his thumbs move rapidly. Two words. Sent. Handled it. I couldn’t see who he was texting. But I saw the contact name at the top of the chat perfectly clearly. Wifey. At eleven o’clock that night, I sat alone in the darkness of the master bedroom. Bank accounts frozen. Legal avenues completely barricaded. A family entirely complicit in my psychological destruction. Through the thin drywall, I could hear Toby’s sickeningly sweet voice cooing a lullaby to the little girl. I pulled out my phone. I scrolled down to a number I hadn’t dialed in five years. Mom. I didn’t press call. Just as the screen went black, Richard’s voice drifted up from the sweeping staircase below. He was talking to Toby. “Don’t you worry, Toby. You settle in. This house will belong to you sooner or later.” “If he actually packs up and leaves, all the better. Gets him out of our hair. It’s not like he can take a single dime of value out of this house anyway.” 04 “Sign it.” Early the next morning, Evelyn slapped a thick, bound document onto the marble island in front of me. Supplemental Marital Agreement. Twelve neatly printed pages. I flipped open the cover. Clause 3: Party B (Charles) voluntarily waives all retroactive claims to equity or dividends in Party A’s affiliated enterprises. Clause 7: Party B assumes full individual responsibility for any personal debt incurred during the marriage. Clause 9: Party B acknowledges that the initial four-million-dollar capital injection was entirely absorbed into corporate equity upon marriage and is non-refundable. Clause 11: Upon signing, Party B consents to an uncontested dissolution of marriage and forfeits all claims to post-marital shared assets. I turned to the final page. Evelyn had already signed her name in sharp, aggressive strokes. Next to it was the official corporate seal of her holding company. “Sign this, and we can part ways amicably. I won’t make things ugly for you,” she said, pouring herself a shot of espresso and sitting across from me. “I’ll let you stay in the house until December. I’ll open a new debit card for you, transfer three thousand a month for living expenses. That should be enough to keep you afloat while you look for an entry-level job.” Three thousand a month. I brought four million dollars in liquid capital into this marriage. My mother floated an eighty-million-dollar bridge loan to save her father from federal bankruptcy. And she was offering me a three-thousand-dollar allowance. “And if I don’t sign?” She took a slow sip of her espresso. “If you don’t sign, you can still walk out the door. But you walk out with the clothes on your back. Nothing else. Oh, and those family heirlooms you’ve been whining about? My father has legal possession of them now. He says they were gifts. You want to sue him for them? Be my guest. Get in line at the courthouse.” She set the demitasse cup down, her eyes locking onto mine with a chilling predatory confidence. “Charles, you have grossly overestimated your own leverage.” “What exactly do you think you have? Your mother’s reputation? Victoria’s name holds weight in the Valley, sure. But in family court? It’s utterly useless.” Toby drifted out of the kitchen, balancing a tray of breakfast. Sunny-side-up eggs, artisanal sourdough, fresh-pressed orange juice. He slid a plate in front of Evelyn, then placed a smaller one in front of Mia. Nothing for me. “Breakfast is ready, Nessa.” He slid into the seat right beside her. At my island. In my spot. Richard wandered down the stairs in his silk robe, glancing at the thick legal document on the counter. “Just sign it, Charles. The sooner you sign, the sooner you’re free. Look at yourself. No money, no kids, no lawyer. What are you even fighting for?” “If you drag this out, don’t blame me for being blunt—strip away your mommy’s money, and what the hell are you even worth?” Evelyn leaned back in the plush barstool, crossing one elegantly tailored leg over the other, watching me. I knew that exact expression intimately. It was a deep, bone-level arrogance. She was absolutely certain I would sign. She was certain I had zero chips left to play. She was certain she had already won the war. “You don’t have to sign it, Charles. But the second you step out of this family’s shadow, you are a nobody.” She was smiling when she delivered the final blow. And then, my phone rang. The screen lit up. One word. Mom. I didn’t even have time to swipe answer. Because in that exact same millisecond, Evelyn’s iPhone started vibrating violently against the marble counter. Then the landline on the wall began to shriek. Then Richard’s phone buzzed aggressively from his robe pocket. Three separate ringtones, exploding into the quiet morning all at once. Evelyn frowned, picking up her phone. I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but I heard the tone. Frantic. I watched her face. The color didn’t just drain; it was violently sucked out of her. First her lips went white. Then her cheeks. Then the flush completely vanished from her neck. It was as if someone had opened a valve and drained the blood directly from her veins. She slowly lowered the phone, staring blankly into space. Her lips parted, trembling, but no sound came out. Richard had answered his phone, too. The voice on the other end was screaming so loud I could hear the tinny static. Richard’s face contorted into a mask of pure terror. “What do you mean ‘frozen’? What do you mean all of it?!” he roared into the receiver. Toby stood frozen by the stove, Mia balanced on his hip, the smug little smile still plastered to his face, entirely oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. I picked up my phone and swiped the green button. “Mom.” My mother’s voice flowed through the speaker, as calm and cold as deep ocean water. “It’s done, Charles.”

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The “Golden Boy”—the one my wife always considered the great, lost love of her life—finally came back from abroad. Zavier was a classic predator, the kind of man who thrived on blurred lines and unspoken provocations. He had this infuriating habit of testing boundaries with my wife, Monica, and her tight-knit circle of friends. For a long time, I kept my temper on a short leash, swallowed my pride, and looked the other way. Until the day he pulled Monica flush against his chest. Reeking of expensive bourbon and unearned confidence, he claimed he was just “testing” the strength of their lifelong bond. “Come on, Monica,” he whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “We literally bathed together as toddlers. It’s been years. You’re telling me I can’t even get a hug?” I watched as Monica’s face flushed a deep, betraying crimson. She looked at him with a mixture of shyness and adoration that made my blood run cold. I started to lift my hand, ready to trigger the “Heartthrob System”—a supernatural edge I’d kept buried and dormant for seven long years. But the reboot sequence was agonizingly slow. As Zavier’s hands began to wander lower, venturing past the point of no return, my five-year-old son, Jamie, walked out from the hallway. He looked at me with an intensity no child his age should possess. “Dad,” he said, his voice steady. “Let me handle this.” He paused, his eyes flicking to Zavier with pure disdain. “I’ve read this story before.” 01. Zavier still had his arms wrapped around Monica. Sensing my simmering rage, he began to toy with a strand of Monica’s hair, twirling it around his finger like he owned her. “Don’t get all worked up, Ben,” he said, flashing a shark-like grin. “Monica and I are family. We grew up together. Honestly, I’ve seen her in her birthday suit more times than I can count.” Monica reacted faster than I could. “Zavier, stop! Ben, honey, don’t listen to him. That was when we were kids. He hasn’t seen me like that in forever.” She said the words, but she didn’t pull away. Seeing her hesitation, Zavier pushed harder. “Oh, you forgot? That night in college when you got trashed and I had to carry you home? I was the one who got you out of those clothes and into bed.” He tapped his lips, feigning a clumsy apology. “Oops. My bad, Ben. Don’t take it personally. It was an emergency. Besides, I’ve been seeing her change since middle school. Looking at her is like looking at one of the guys. Totally platonic.” Monica reached up to playfully cover his mouth, their bodies tangling even closer. In that moment, in my own home, I felt like a ghost. An outsider. I reached my breaking point. I closed my eyes and whispered in the silence of my mind. System? Are you there? A mechanical ping echoed in my skull. [Status: Online.] Reboot, I commanded. Now. Seven years. I never thought I’d need it again. I suppose the “seven-year itch” is real, and even a man with my natural charms couldn’t compete with the ghost of a first love. I waited, my jaw tight. The progress bar crawled: [1%]. It wouldn’t be ready in time to stop this. I’d have to use my own hands to teach this man a lesson in respect. Zavier, sensing the shift in the air, shifted his weight, pulling Monica into an even more suggestive angle. Suddenly, Jamie stepped in front of me. He pressed a small hand against my knee. “Dad,” he whispered, so low only I could hear. “Let me.” He looked back at me, his little mouth forming the words silently: I’ve read the original manuscript. Before I could process what he meant, he let out a piercing shriek. “AHHH! COCKROACH! BIG COCKROACH!” He hurled a small, brown, sticky-looking object directly at Zavier. Zavier might have acted like a tough guy, but he was a coward at heart. He shrieked, dodging frantically. He tripped over his own feet and slammed into the floor, the “cockroach” pinned squarely beneath his designer jeans. He felt something squelchy and let out a sound of pure disgust. “Monica! Control your kid!” he barked, scrambling up. “What kind of brat plays with bugs? I think I’ve actually scraped my skin!” He grabbed Monica’s arm, pulling her toward him. “You need to help me up. Take me to the ER. And you’re paying for the medical bill!” Monica’s maternal instinct misfired. She turned to scold Jamie, her face tight with embarrassment. I stepped forward, shielding my son. “The only person allowed to discipline my son is me.” Monica balked, but Zavier wouldn’t let it go. “Ben, I get that you love the kid, but this is ridiculous. I’m bleeding. He needs to be taught a lesson. Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Monica nodded, her voice sharp. “He’s right, Ben. Jamie is getting out of hand.” I sneered, ready to let him have it, but Jamie was faster. He darted toward Zavier and, before anyone could react, yanked Zavier’s waistband down, exposing his thighs. Jamie pointed a finger. “Liar! There’s no blood!” Then he looked up at Monica, his eyes wide and innocent. “Mommy, Daddy hates it when you touch dirty men.” 02. The innocence of a child’s words can be the sharpest blade. Monica’s face went pale, then mottled with a dark, ugly rage. Under the watchful, judging eye of her “Golden Boy,” she made a choice. She swung her hand. Slap. “Enough!” she screamed. I wasn’t fast enough. Jamie tumbled to the ground. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” I pushed Monica back, kneeling to scoop Jamie into my arms. Monica turned her face away, refusing to look at us. Zavier, ever the opportunist, chimed in. “Ben, don’t blame her. The kid needs boundaries. If you won’t set them, someone has to.” Monica echoed him, her voice cold. “Jamie needs to learn what he can and cannot say. Forget it. I’m taking Zavier to the hospital. You stay here and deal with your son.” She didn’t want a confrontation. She practically ran out the door, hovering over Zavier like a devoted nurse. Within seconds, the courtyard was silent, leaving just me and my boy. I checked his face. His cheek was already beginning to swell. “I’m so sorry, Jamie,” I whispered, the guilt gnawing at my gut. I hated myself for not activating the System the moment Zavier showed his face. “This is on me.” Jamie shook his head. He leaned into my ear. “Dad, remember what I told you? I know how this ends. I know the ‘original plot’.” He looked at me with a chillingly calm expression. “I did that on purpose. If I hadn’t, she would have hit you.” On the way to the pediatric clinic, Jamie laid it all out. In the “original story,” Zavier comes back after blowing his fortune abroad. His goal is to seduce four of his former female classmates, drain their assets, and leave their families in ruins. Jamie was determined to save me because, out of all the women, Zavier “loved” Monica the most—which meant he was the most ruthless toward me. In the original ending, Zavier drives me to jump off a bridge. “I love you, Dad. And I love Mom. I don’t want either of you to get hurt.” He hugged me tight, promising he would drive Zavier away and protect our family. I patted his head in silence. I decided I would talk to Monica one last time tonight. I waited until midnight. She didn’t come home. Instead, I saw Zavier’s latest post on Instagram. Zavier_Official: Real friendship is having someone hand-feed you your favorite skewers when you’re ‘injured.’ The photo showed Monica leaning over him, a sweet, complicit smile on her face. I hit “Like.” Seconds later, another post popped up. Zavier_Official: As a reward, I have to make sure my ‘best friend’ is full, too. The photo was a blurry, intimate shot of him looming over Monica. Her face was flushed with a post-coital glow. He sent it specifically for me to see. My wife was already gone. Jamie leaned over to look, but I covered his eyes with one hand. “Time for bed, kiddo.” [System Reboot Progress: 35%] Monica didn’t slink through the door until the next morning. She had a fresh, vivid hickey on her neck. I was sitting on the sofa, waiting. I didn’t waste time. “What’s that on your neck?” Without Zavier there to perform for, Monica reverted to her “loving wife” persona. She covered the mark with her hand. “A mosquito bite.” “That’s a hell of a mosquito.” She gave a forced, sheepish laugh and knelt at my feet. “Ben, don’t be like that. Look, I went all the way to that bakery downtown to get your favorite cake. Let’s just be happy. Yesterday… Jamie really crossed a line.” “My son did nothing wrong.” Monica’s expression hardened, but before she could start an argument, I spoke calmly. “Go take a shower.” I told her to scrub herself ten times. I made it sound like a request, but it was an order. While she was in the bathroom, I followed Jamie’s advice and checked her phone. Sure enough, I found a group chat titled: “Zavier’s Harem.” It was brand new. The first message was from Zavier. Zavier: @Everyone, since I’m an ‘invalid,’ I’m going to the mountain spa tomorrow! You’re all coming with me. No excuses for a sick man. Monica’s best friends were already tripping over themselves to reply. Only Monica hadn’t answered yet. I opened her camera, took a photo of my own physique—the six-pack I’d worked years to maintain—and posted it to the group from her account while sitting on the edge of our bed. Monica: Sorry guys, I’m staying in to take care of my husband. Have fun. The chat exploded. Monica’s friends didn’t hold back. “Monica, you lucky girl.” “Ben is still the hottest man I’ve ever seen.” “Must be nice to have a real man at home.” It was a direct hit. I didn’t expect Zavier to be so brazen, though. Zavier: Monica, you’re choosing your husband over your ‘brother’? Anything he can give you, I can give you better. Or has it been seven years too long? Have you forgotten what I taste like? Then, Zavier posted a photo of himself in nothing but underwear. Zavier: Since you ladies are acting like you’ve never seen a man before… Monica, did you forget? Have the rest of you? I think we really need to get together and ‘reminisce.’ The women in the chat practically swooned through their keyboards. It was sickening. Then, Zavier sent a private DM to Monica’s phone. “Ben, even if you’re not willing, you should ask Monica what she wants.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I blocked him. [System Reboot Progress: 65%] 03. I expected Zavier to be the one to lash out. I didn’t expect it to be Monica. She threw her phone against the wall with such force it shattered. A piece of glass sliced my cheek, drawing blood, but she didn’t even blink. “Ben! Who gave you the right to touch my phone?!” She raised her hand as if to strike me, but Jamie scrambled out of his room and threw himself in front of me. “Mom, don’t! Don’t hurt Daddy!” I pulled Jamie back and looked at her with pure coldness. “You’re not even hiding it anymore, are you, Monica?” Seven years of marriage, a son, a life—all tossed aside for a washed-up “Golden Boy.” Monica sneered. “I’ll ask one more time. Who told you that you could touch my things?” “I’ll touch whatever I want.” For seven years, we had no secrets. I let her check my location, my messages, everything. Now, she had a “private life.” I told her to get out. She didn’t hesitate; she turned on her heel and walked. But the front door opened before she could reach it. Zavier was standing there, flanked by Monica’s three best friends. They were supposed to be at the spa. Zavier was wearing swim trunks and an open shirt. He took in the shattered glass and the tension in the room, then walked over to Monica and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Trouble in paradise?” He knew exactly what was happening. He took Monica’s hand and guided it toward his lap, right in front of me. I felt a wave of nausea. I covered Jamie’s eyes, ready to roar. Zavier spoke first. “Ben, I told you to ask her what she wanted. This is a friends’ getaway. Spouses shouldn’t interfere. Look how upset you’ve made her.” Every word was a needle pressed into Monica’s ego. She melted into him, cooing, “What are you doing here?” The tone she used was unrecognizable—sweet, submissive, nothing like the woman who just screamed at me. Zavier grinned, squeezing her. “I was afraid Ben’s ‘no’ wasn’t really what you wanted. So, I brought the spa to you. We’re going to use your big pool for some… private swimming lessons.” “Isn’t he the best?” one of the friends piped up. “Zavier, you have to help me with my stroke next.” Monica pulled him closer, her possessiveness flaring. “I’m teaching him first,” she snapped. They walked toward the backyard pool, the “squad” trailing behind them like disciples. I was left in the living room with the ruins of my marriage and my son. Jamie started to cry. He climbed onto the sofa and tried to wipe the blood from my face with his small sleeve. “Dad… this isn’t how the book went.” I held him tight. [System Reboot Progress: 85%] 04. Jamie was starting to doubt the “original plot.” He still held onto a tiny sliver of hope that his mother could be saved. For his sake, I went out to the pool for one last attempt at reason. What I saw made me want to burn the house down. The pool, which I had meticulously maintained with imported saltwater, was now a mess of spilled drinks and suggestive chaos. Monica was draped over the edge, completely exposed, while Zavier moved behind her. She didn’t even look ashamed when she saw me. “I’m just… helping him with his form.” Her friends stood guard, giggling, their eyes glued to the spectacle. I felt a phantom bile rise in my throat. I was done. “Monica, we’re going to the lawyer tomorrow. I want a divorce.” I turned to leave. Jamie, who had followed me, suddenly snapped. He was too young to fully grasp the filth of what they were doing, but he knew his mother was being taken. He knew his home was breaking. He sprinted toward Zavier. Before anyone could stop him, his tiny hand connected with Zavier’s face in a sharp slap. “Liar! You know how to swim! Why are you making my Mommy do this?!” Zavier let out a low, theatrical groan. “Monica, look at your son. He’s calling me a liar.” He shifted in the water, making a mocking gesture. Jamie grabbed Zavier’s arm, screaming, “Get away from her! Get out of our house!” I ran to grab Jamie, wanting to pull him away from the rot. But the three “friends” stepped in, clawing at Jamie to help Zavier. In the chaos, Zavier looked at me, a look of pure, mocking triumph in his eyes. Then, he let himself fall backward into the deep end. “Help! I can’t swim! He’s trying to kill me!” he screamed. Monica panicked. Without a second thought, she shoved Jamie and me. We weren’t prepared. We tumbled into the water, and she immediately turned her back on us to “save” Zavier. “If anything happens to him, Ben, I’ll make sure you rot in a cell!” The women hauled Zavier onto the deck. Monica looked back at me with eyes as cold as a grave. The friends crowded around Zavier, who was faking a coughing fit. When I finally surfaced, clutching Jamie, they reached down—not to help us, but to push us back under. “Ben, this is too much,” one of them said, her hand on my shoulder, shoving me down. “Zavier is a saint. You need to learn your place.” Under the water, I struggled. Jamie had swallowed a mouthful; I could see the bubbles escaping his lips. He was terrified. But the hands on our heads wouldn’t let up. Then I heard Monica’s voice from above the surface, muffled but clear: “Hold them down a little longer. They need to learn.” I pulled Jamie into my chest, shielding him with my body, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, Zavier’s voice: “Okay, Monica, I’m feeling better. Let’s play something else.” The pressure vanished. I broke the surface, gasping, and scrambled to the tiles. I immediately started chest compressions on Jamie. He coughed up a lungful of water and started wailing. My vision went red. I looked at Monica, my voice a guttural snarl. “Monica… you’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.” She didn’t even acknowledge the threat. She just took Zavier’s hand and walked away. “What should we play next, Zavier?” I gripped the concrete until my fingernails bled. [Heartthrob System: Reboot 100%] [Would you like to activate, Host?] Activate, I screamed in my mind. Burn it all down.

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The year the Montgomery family finally found me and brought me back from the mountains, I already knew the fundamental truth of the universe: the only way to stay alive was through absolute, unquestioning submission. Cathy, the girl who had taken my place as their daughter, pointed at the industrial ozone sterilization cabinet in the mudroom. She sneered, telling me to get inside and “disinfect” the stench of dirt off my skin. I didn’t argue. I crawled into the machine in silence and pressed the button. Scalding air instantly swallowed my body whole. By the time my biological parents smashed the glass door and dragged me out, my skin was blistering, red as raw meat. My older brother, Barry, just kicked the wall in disgust. “Always putting on a show. If you wanted to die, couldn’t you just swallow sleeping pills?” So, late that night, I swallowed an entire bottle of pills. Before my consciousness faded into the black, the last thing I remembered was his voice. On the cold hardwood floor, I heard his frantic, ragged breathing as he kicked my door in, and I felt the violent trembling of his fingers as he checked my pulse. Later, Cathy tripped and scraped her knee, crying hysterically. Barry grabbed me by the hair, his face twisted in rage. “If she scars, you’ll carve the flesh from your own body to pay for it!” The moment the shattered glass tore through my thigh, my mind drifted to the Appalachian woods. To the days when disobedience meant shattered bones. When my parents’ piercing screams finally broke through the haze, Barry frantically ripped the bloody shard of glass from my hand, his eyes wild. “I was just talking! I didn’t tell you to actually do it!” his voice shook violently. But they would never understand. Seven years in that hell had taught me one singular, inescapable lesson—children who do not listen do not survive. … 1 Blood welled up thickly, trailing down my thigh and soaking into the Persian rug, turning the intricate fibers a deep, sticky crimson. Blinding pain radiated from my leg, but I was intimately acquainted with pain. For seven years in the deep woods, pain had been my daily bread. I had endured agonies a thousand times worse than this. The hand Barry used to snatch the jagged shard of glass away from me was trembling uncontrollably. My mother threw herself onto the floor with a shriek, pressing her hands desperately against my wound. The blood surged, slipping easily between her manicured fingers. My father fumbled for his phone to dial 911, his hands shaking so badly the device clattered onto the hardwood. Barry turned on me, a feral roar ripping from his chest. “Are you insane?! I tell you to cut yourself, and you just do it?!” I looked up at him. My heartbeat was steady. My voice was calm. “Didn’t you tell me to do it, Brother?” As long as you listen, you won’t be beaten. That was the only law of survival I knew. I couldn’t be disobedient. Disobedience meant being tied to a tree and starved for three days. I pressed my palms against the blood-slicked floor, trying to reach for another piece of shattered glass. “That piece was too small,” I murmured matter-of-factly. “It might not be enough flesh to pay her back.” Barry kicked the coffee table over. Crystal glasses shattered into a million sparkling knives across the floor. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying panic. “Get away! Don’t touch that!” I immediately snapped my hands back to my sides. I dropped to my knees, lowering my upper body until my forehead rested firmly in the bloody glass shards scattered on the rug. “I will listen. Please don’t be angry, Brother.” A broken sob tore from my mother’s throat. She wrapped her arms around my stiff body, holding me tight. I didn’t dare move. I just let her hold me. The paramedics arrived in a flurry of noise and motion, hoisting me onto a stretcher. At the emergency room, the doctor prepared to stitch my leg. No anesthesia. Because right as the nurse went to fetch the lidocaine, Cathy came bursting into the trauma room, sobbing uncontrollably. She had a colorful Band-Aid on her knee where she had tripped and grazed her skin earlier. She threw herself into my mother’s arms, her voice trembling like a frightened bird. “Mom… does my sister hate me? She hurt herself on purpose in front of Barry just to make him mad at me.” Barry’s jaw clenched. He turned his harsh gaze toward me. “Maeve, do you really have to tear this family apart to get what you want?” I instantly held up a hand, stopping the nurse from prepping the syringe of numbing medication. “No anesthesia,” I said flatly. “I accept my punishment.” The doctor stood frozen, needle in hand. “Stitch it,” I ordered quietly. The sound of the curved needle puncturing my skin and dragging the heavy thread through my flesh was loud in the sterile room. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. Cathy hid behind my mother, covering her mouth in performative horror. My mother turned her face to the wall, unable to watch. Barry ran a hand aggressively through his hair. “What kind of tough-girl act is this? Nobody wants to punish you!” Once the wound was closed, the doctor recommended keeping me overnight for observation. My father left to fill out the admission paperwork. The hospital room emptied until it was just Barry and me. He sat heavily on the vinyl visitor’s sofa, lighting a cigarette despite the rules. “This whole martyrdom act isn’t going to work on me, Maeve,” he muttered through a cloud of smoke. “Cathy grew up sheltered. Can’t you just let her have her way for once?” I nodded slowly. “Okay. I will listen to whatever you say, Brother.” Barry crushed the cigarette into a paper cup, his eyes narrowing at me. “If you’re really going to listen, go apologize to Cathy.” I threw off the thin hospital blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden movement pulled at my fresh stitches. Blood immediately bloomed through the stark white gauze. I didn’t pause. Barefoot, I walked down the cold linoleum hallway to Cathy’s private room. 2 Cathy was lounging against her pillows, eating a beautifully peeled apple my mother had prepared. The moment she saw me standing in the doorway, she shrieked and shrank back against the headboard. My mother instantly threw herself between us like a human shield. “Maeve, what are you doing here?” I walked straight toward the bed. Without a word, I dropped rigidly to my knees. The impact of my kneecaps against the hard ceramic tile echoed off the walls with a sickening thud. “I am sorry.” I leaned forward and slammed my forehead into the floor. Then again. And again. The heavy, rhythmic sound of bone striking tile filled the room. “I shouldn’t have made my sister afraid. I shouldn’t have made my brother angry. I was wrong.” My mother grabbed my shoulders, her eyes wide with mounting horror. “Maeve, stop! What are you doing?!” I shoved her hands away and continued to strike my head against the floor. Back in the mountains, an apology wasn’t accepted unless you bled for it. If you weren’t sincere enough, you didn’t get to eat. Barry stormed into the room. He grabbed me by the collar of my hospital gown and hauled me to my feet. “Are you done?!” he roared. Blood was pouring down my forehead, stinging my eyes and turning the room into a hazy, crimson blur. I stretched my lips into a wide, hollow smile. “Is Brother satisfied?” Barry recoiled, dropping his grip on me as if I had burned him. He stumbled back two steps. Cathy’s wails intensified. “She’s just trying to guilt me to death! Fine, I’ll leave! Is that what you want?!” She dramatically ripped the IV out of the back of her hand and bolted for the door. My mother rushed out frantically after her. Once again, Barry and I were left alone. A nurse hurried in, taking one look at the scene before silently re-bandaging my bleeding forehead. She let out a heavy sigh and quickly slipped out. Terrified I would cause another scene, Barry discharged me early. When we returned to the sprawling Montgomery estate, my leg was still wrapped in thick, blood-spotted gauze. The house was a labyrinth of vaulted ceilings and marble floors—so vast that I constantly got lost in it. At dinner, the massive mahogany table was covered in a feast. I was seated at the very end, farthest from the family. In front of me sat a single, small bowl of plain smashed potatoes. This was my mother’s instruction. “You just got back from the hospital. Your stomach is weak. Eat something plain.” I picked up the bowl and ate quietly. At the other end of the table, Cathy picked up a piece of red lobster with her gold-tipped fork, placing it elegantly into her mouth. She looked at me, a faint, mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sister, why are you eating with your hands? Is that how you did it in the mountains? Like a little dog?” I paused. I looked down at my hand, curled awkwardly around the porcelain bowl. Then, I set the bowl down. I leaned my upper body over the table, lowered my face, and used my tongue to lap the smashed potatoes straight out of the dish. Smack. My father, Richard, slammed his palm against the table. The crystal glasses rattled violently. “This is unacceptable! You are completely humiliating the Montgomery family!” My mother went pale, a trembling finger pointing at me. “What… what are you doing… sit up!” Barry’s face was thunderous. He stood up and violently kicked the chair out from under me. “Get out! Get out of my sight!” I obediently stood up from the floor and silently backed out of the dining room. Just as I reached the archway, Barry’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Don’t go to your room. Go stay in the dog kennel out back and reflect on what you’ve done.” I gave a single, curt nod to show I understood. It rained that night. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a tight ball inside the freezing stone dog kennel. Cold water dripped through the cracks in the roof, matting my hair to my face. I didn’t dare close my eyes. They hadn’t told me I was allowed to sleep yet. 3 The estate manager found me the next morning. I was burning with a dangerously high fever, my skin radiating heat. The concierge doctor was called in to administer a fever-reducing injection. I lay in the massive canopy bed, drifting in and out of a heavy, suffocating haze. Through the fog, I heard Cathy’s sickeningly sweet voice. “Dad, Mom, my sister didn’t do it on purpose. She’s just used to living like an animal in the woods. Please don’t be mad at her.” My mother sighed heavily. “It’s a tragedy. If I had known she would come back like this, I’d rather…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I understood the implication perfectly. My father scoffed coldly. “She’s playing dumb to get sympathy. She brings nothing but bad luck into this house.” Barry’s voice dripped with irritation. “She’s crawling with germs. Don’t let her touch anything in the house, especially not Cathy’s things.” “Take all the clothes she was wearing and burn them. God knows what diseases she’s carrying.” I opened my eyes. Barry was standing beside my bed. When he saw I was awake, the disgust in his eyes deepened. “If you’re awake, get up. Stop playing dead.” I immediately sat up. “Take off those clothes. We’re burning them.” I reached for the buttons of my pajama top and methodically began undoing them. Barry’s brow furrowed. “What are you doing? Taking them off right here?” I froze, looking up at him in confusion. “Get in the bathroom!” I nodded, walked into the en-suite bathroom, stripped naked, and walked back out, clutching the pajamas to my chest. “Brother, should I go burn them now?” Barry stared at my naked, bruised body, his face flushing crimson before draining of color entirely. He grabbed the heavy down comforter off the bed and hurled it over me, burying me in its weight. “Put it on!” I stood there, clutching the duvet, genuinely at a loss. He had just told me to burn my clothes. Now he was telling me to put the blanket on. Which order was I supposed to follow? Seeing my hesitation, Barry exploded. “I told you to put it on! Can’t you understand basic English?!” He lunged forward, roughly wrapping the comforter around my shoulders, shoving me backward until I fell onto the mattress. “Do you just love getting naked for people to see? Did you learn that from the savages in the mountains?” His words were vicious. But I was used to it. Where I came from, I heard things a hundred times worse, every single day. I just watched him quietly, waiting for his next command. My passivity seemed to fuel his rage. He pointed sharply at the glass doors leading to the balcony. “If you love taking orders so much, why don’t you go jump out that window?” My bedroom was on the third floor. I looked at the balcony, then back at him. I nodded. “Okay.” I let the comforter drop. I stood up and walked steadily toward the glass doors. It wasn’t until I actually hoisted myself over the railing that Barry realized what was happening. He sprinted forward, lunging over the threshold and yanking me back violently by my arm. The force was so brutal that I flew backward, the back of my skull cracking sickeningly against the hardwood floor. My vision whited out. “You’re insane! You’re a literal psychopath!” he screamed, his chest heaving as he stood over me. I brought a hand up to cradle the back of my head. A large, throbbing lump was already swelling beneath my hair. It hurt. A lot. But I didn’t cry. They didn’t like it when I cried. In the mountains, they said my crying sounded ugly and brought bad luck. Barry’s screaming drew my parents and Cathy down the hall. They rushed in, stopping dead in their tracks at the chaos. Cathy was the first to react. She threw herself at Barry, her face a mask of perfectly curated concern. “Barry, what happened? Did she make you mad again?” My mother looked down at me, her eyes heavy with an exhaustion that bordered on grief. “Maeve, when is this going to end? What did this family do in a past life to deserve this…?” My name is Maeve. A name I hadn’t heard in seven years. Barry pointed a shaking finger at me. “She just tried to jump off the balcony! I made a sarcastic comment, and she actually tried to do it!” My father’s face turned ashen with fury. “This is utter madness! Lock her in this room. No one lets her out without my explicit permission!” And so, I was locked away. Three times a day, a maid slid a tray of food through the small gap at the bottom of the heavy double doors. I didn’t mind. I had food. I had water. I wasn’t being beaten. To me, this room was paradise. 4 Two days later, the lock clicked. The door swung open. It was Cathy. She wore a pristine, designer silk dress, delicately carrying a steaming bowl of soup on a tray. “Sister, I had the kitchen make you some chicken soup to help you recover.” She set the bowl on the nightstand, her lips curved into a sweet, poisonous smile. “Drink it. While it’s hot.” I walked over, picked up the bowl, and drank it all in one long, unbroken gulp. It was boiling. I felt the skin of my tongue and esophagus blistering instantly, but I didn’t stop. Because she had told me to drink it while it was hot. When I finished, I held the empty bowl out to her. Cathy’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Wow, Sister. You’re so brave.” She took the bowl, running her fingers lightly over the rim. “You know, this is Mom’s favorite bowl. Custom Limoges porcelain imported from France. It costs thousands of dollars.” She twirled the bowl in her hands. Then, suddenly, her fingers slipped. Crash. The delicate porcelain shattered into dozens of jagged pieces across the floor. Cathy let out a short, dramatic gasp. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. Right on cue, the door opened, and Barry walked in. Cathy immediately threw herself at him, sobbing. “Barry, I didn’t mean to… the bowl slipped…” She crouched down to pick up the pieces, deliberately letting a sharp edge graze her finger. A single drop of bright red blood welled up. “It hurts…” she whimpered, holding her finger up pitifully for him to see. Barry roughly shoved me out of the way, dropping to his knees to inspect her hand. “You again! Can’t you let Cathy have one single day of peace?!” he snarled over his shoulder at me. I understood what he meant. I had broken the bowl. I had hurt her. I needed to apologize. I dropped to my knees, picked up the largest, sharpest piece of porcelain, and placed it in my mouth. Crunch. The sickening sound of grinding ceramic echoed in the dead-silent room. The metallic, rusted taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. The color drained entirely from Cathy’s face. Barry froze. He stared at me, the anger in his expression melting into a look of profound, visceral horror. “What the hell are you doing?! Who are you performing for?! You make me sick!” I ignored him. I just kept chewing mechanically. This was how I was taught to say sorry. To use the most direct, undeniable agony to prove that I knew my place. Footsteps rushed down the hall. Cathy, sensing her audience, burst into hysterical tears. “Dad! Mom! My sister… she’s eating the glass…” My parents burst through the door, stopping dead at the sight of my blood-stained teeth and chin. My mother let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed into a dead faint. My father caught her, pointing at me with a hand that shook violently, unable to form a single word. Barry was the only one who moved. He lunged at me, grabbing my jaw with both hands, trying to pry my mouth open to fish the shards out. “Spit it out! Spit it out right now!” His grip was agonizing, bruising my jawbone. But I didn’t spit it out. Because an apology had to be sincere. Eventually, I was forcibly dragged into the back of an ambulance and rushed to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. The surgeon extracted over a dozen pieces of sharp porcelain from my stomach. Several had severely lacerated my esophagus and stomach lining. I found myself back in a hospital bed, tubes snaking out of my arms and nose. The Montgomery family remained in the hallway. I was alone in the quiet, sterile room. Through the crack in the door, I could hear them arguing. “She’s a monster! A literal psychopath!” That was Barry. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought that bowl in there…” Cathy wept. “Oh, sweetie, it’s not your fault. There is something fundamentally wrong with her,” my mother consoled. “We need to find a psychiatric facility. Lock her up. If we don’t, she’s going to drag this entire family down with her!” my father finalized. Late that night, Barry crept into my room alone. He sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, staring at me in silence. He looked at me for a very long time. So long, I thought he might just sit there until dawn. Finally, he spoke. His voice was incredibly raw. “Why?” I looked at him, not understanding. “Why are you doing this? Is torturing us fun for you?” I shook my head slightly. “Then why?!” he suddenly exploded, his voice cracking with unchecked emotion. “Do you have any idea that Mom almost had a heart attack because of you?! Cathy hasn’t eaten all day because she’s so worried about you!” I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry.” “Always ‘I’m sorry’!” he yelled, pacing like a caged animal. “Is that the only damn thing you know how to say?!” He grabbed the plastic water pitcher off my tray table and hurled it violently against the wall. “Maeve, do you think we owe you something? You didn’t come back to this family to heal. You came back to destroy us, didn’t you?” I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know what to say. My silence was the final match to his powder keg. “Fine. You want to play games? Let’s play.” “You love following orders so much, right?” He pointed to the window. This hospital suite was on the fourth floor. “If you’ve got the guts, jump out that window.” “If you actually jump, I’ll believe you aren’t faking this.” “I’ll believe that this family actually owes you something.” He turned on his heel and slammed the heavy door behind him. I stared at the window. I looked at it for a long, quiet moment. Then, I slowly pushed myself upright. I slipped my feet into the hospital grips, walked over to the pane, and unlatched it. The night wind was fierce. I climbed onto the ledge, spread my arms wide, closed my eyes, and fell backward into the dark. Brother, I listened to you. I hope this time, you believe me.

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I stood in the echoing marble rotunda of City Hall, my fingers tightly crushing the little paper queue ticket, and suddenly, I laughed. Thirty-five dollars. That was the cost of the marriage license fee. Thirty-five dollars to find out the man I’d spent three years with was a complete fraud. As far as investments went, it was a bargain. Just minutes ago, Chester—the man I was supposed to be marrying today—had taken a phone call, stepped out of line, and vanished into thin air. I had paced the cold floors of the municipal building, calling him dozens of times. Every single attempt went straight to a sterile, unforgiving voicemail. It wasn’t until I aimlessly refreshed my Instagram feed that the blinding truth hit me. It was a post from Kelsey, his self-proclaimed “best girl friend” and “one of the guys.” The caption was so painfully bright it made my eyes water. [Truth or Dare got a little out of hand! Lost the bet, so I guess we’re hitched!] Below the text was a photo of the two of them standing in front of a judge’s desk, proudly holding up a crisp, gold-sealed marriage certificate. Chester’s arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, his other hand affectionately pinching her cheek. They were both wearing matching white button-down shirts, smiling so wide they looked like a bridal magazine ad. My mind flashed back to last month. I had practically begged him to go shopping for those exact white shirts. I had spent hours doing my hair and makeup, asking him to take a decent engagement photo with me. He had sighed, rolling his eyes with that signature, dismissive annoyance. “It’s just a piece of paper, Maddie. Why do you always have to make everything into this massive, exhausting production? Women are so much drama.” The irony tasted like ash in my mouth. My face completely numb, I double-tapped the photo to leave a like, and typed out a single comment: Congratulations. Less than a second later, an audio message from Chester popped up on my screen. “Maddie, what the hell are you doing? Delete that comment right now! Kelsey is just messing around, don’t make it weird. If she thinks you’re actually mad, it’s going to ruin her mood.” A pause, then his voice dropped into that condescending, placating tone he used when he thought I was being hysterical. “Look, she was playing a drinking game with the guys and lost. She didn’t want to back down. We’ve been bros forever, I was just doing her a solid so she wouldn’t look stupid. It’s just an annulment waiting to happen. Give it a few weeks, the paperwork clears, and I’ll come right back and marry you. Just go home, Maddie. Stop making a scene.” Listening to him twist reality so effortlessly, the heavy, suffocating weight that had been sitting on my chest for three years simply… evaporated. I let him go. 1 I threw the carefully ironed white silk shirt I had brought for him into the trash can outside City Hall, hailed a cab, and went home. When I pushed open the door to our apartment, the blast of noise almost knocked me backward. The living room was packed. It was all of Chester’s frat-boy friends, the ones who never seemed to outgrow their college days. Empty beer bottles and pizza boxes littered my expensive coffee table. Right in the center of the sofa sat Chester, with Kelsey tucked neatly under his arm. She was laughing loudly, her head thrown back, one leg casually draped over Chester’s thigh. “Oh, hey! Maddie’s home!” someone shouted, spotting me in the entryway. The raucous laughter died instantly. The room fell into an awkward, suffocating silence. Kelsey looked up at me. She didn’t move her leg. She didn’t untangle herself from my fiancé. Instead, she leaned a little closer to him. “Where have you been?” Chester asked, his tone perfectly even, as if he hadn’t just abandoned me at the altar to marry the woman currently sitting on his lap. “I thought you were coming straight back to cook. The guys are starving.” Kelsey leaned forward, lazily waving the official county marriage folder in the air. She wore a pout that was entirely performative. “Maddie, don’t be mad, okay? It was literally just a stupid game. Chester is just the most loyal guy ever. He took a bullet for me so I wouldn’t have to eat a spoonful of hot sauce.” She deliberately emphasized the word bullet. The room erupted into supportive murmurs from his friends. “Yeah, Maddie, Chester was just taking one for the team.” “It’s just a piece of paper. He’ll get it annulled next month. You’re not losing him.” “Come on, Maddie, don’t be a buzzkill.” I stared at the sea of faces, feeling a sharp, cold clarity settle over my ribs. Chester frowned at my silence. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Kelsey’s craving those braised short ribs you make. Go to the store and get a big batch.” Kelsey offered a sickeningly sweet smile. “Maddie makes the best ribs. Chester is always bragging about how domesticated and maternal you are. I’m so jealous. I literally only know how to eat.” I didn’t go to the kitchen. I walked slowly to the coffee table, looking down at the mess of sticky beer rings and crumbled chips. And there it was. The marriage certificate folder. I picked it up and opened it. It really was a great picture. Their heads leaned together, eyes sparkling, looking infinitely happier than Chester had ever looked in any photo with me. Too much trouble to take a picture with me, he had said. He certainly looked like he was having a great time now. “Great lighting,” I commented quietly. Chester blew out a frustrated breath. “Alright, enough with the passive-aggressive act. I told you it was a joke. I’ll get it annulled and we’ll do our thing next month. What more do you want from me?” “Nothing,” I said, tossing the folder back onto the table. It landed with a soft, final smack. “Since you signed the papers, you are legally husband and wife. Congratulations, Chester.” His face darkened. “Maddie, are you psycho? I’ve explained this to you a hundred times today. Can you stop being so completely irrational?” Looking at his righteous, defensive posture, I actually found it funny. “Let me explain something to you, then.” I looked around the room, letting my gaze sweep over every single one of his friends, before locking eyes with Kelsey’s smug face. “My name is on the lease for this apartment. The rent comes out of my bank account. So right now, I’m asking the newlywed couple, and all of your little friends, to get the hell out of my home.” 2 Dead silence. Kelsey’s smile froze. Chester jumped up, closing the distance between us, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Are you out of your mind? In front of all my friends? Could you give me just a shred of dignity here?” “Dignity?” I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Did you give me any dignity when you abandoned me to marry another woman?” “It was a game!” he roared. “The law doesn’t play games.” I pulled out my phone, opening the corporate housing app where I managed properties for my firm, and then pulled up my banking app, holding the screen up to his face. “You haven’t paid your half of last month’s rent. Since you’re a married man now, I assume your wife handles the finances?” I shifted my gaze to Kelsey. “Hey, Mrs. Pierce. That’s two thousand, five hundred dollars. Do you prefer Venmo or Zelle?” Kelsey turned pale, shrinking back into the couch cushions, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “Chester, look at her…” Chester was livid, pointing a shaking finger an inch from my nose. “Maddie, you are crossing a line! It’s one month of rent! Are you really that desperate for cash that you have to be this petty?” “I am.” I put my phone back in my pocket, staring at him with a dead, uncompromising gaze. “You have exactly thirty minutes to pack your shit and leave. After that, I’m calling the police and having you all trespassed.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “Watch me.” I turned on my heel, walked into the master bedroom, and locked the door behind me. Outside, I could hear Chester kicking the door, shouting obscenities, interspersed with Kelsey’s high-pitched, fake-soothing voice telling him to calm down. I pulled my suitcase from the closet. I loved this apartment, but knowing that pair of parasites had lounged on my furniture made my skin crawl. As a project director at a Fortune 500 company, efficiency was my religion. I opened my corporate sublet portal. The building was in a prime downtown location; it wouldn’t take long. Within five minutes, I had a message from a traveling executive looking for a furnished six-month lease. I approved the transfer immediately. I packed only what was mine—my clothes, my jewelry, my laptops. Thirty minutes later, I unlocked the door and rolled my suitcase out. The living room hadn’t cleared out completely. A few of the guys were still hovering, offering Chester terrible advice. Seeing my suitcase, Chester’s shoulders relaxed into a smug posture. He thought I was throwing a tantrum. He thought I would bend. “Realized you’re overreacting? Apologize to Kelsey, and we can pretend tonight didn’t happen.” Kelsey tilted her chin up, looking victorious. “Honestly, Maddie, I don’t even need an apology. Just admit you’re a little insecure and—” I ignored them entirely. I gripped the handle of my suitcase, walked straight past the crowd, and stopped at the front door. I looked back at the room, breathing in the stale air one last time. “Chester, remember everything you said today. When the paperwork clears next month, don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” I booked an extended-stay suite at a luxury hotel near my office. I made mid-six figures; I didn’t need him to split the rent. I had only let him pay to make him feel like a man. Thinking back on it now, I had been an absolute idiot. The next morning, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, I walked into the office. The moment I sat down, my assistant, Jordan, slid up to my desk, eyes gleaming with gossip. “Maddie! I heard you took PTO yesterday for City Hall! Let me see the ring! Where’s the champagne?” I opened my laptop, not breaking eye contact with the screen. “Didn’t happen. We broke up.” Jordan’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what? Why? You guys have been together for three years!” “Because he married someone else.” I dropped the bomb with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. Jordan gasped, clutching her chest. “Shut up! Are you serious? Who is the psychotic bitch?” “His ‘one of the guys’ best friend.” Jordan inhaled sharply. “You mean the pick-me girl? The one who calls him at 2 AM because she’s sad and needs a drinking buddy?” I nodded. “That is vile! Maddie, how are you so calm right now?” “What are my options? Screaming and crying in the lobby?” I grabbed a stack of quarterly reports and handed them to her. “Here. Consolidate these metrics for the Q3 project. I need them for the 2 PM strategy meeting.” Work was the ultimate anesthetic. I stayed buried in data all morning. During my lunch break, my phone buzzed. It was Diane, Chester’s mother. “Maddie? Where are you? Chester said you threw a fit and ran away from home?” Her voice was laced with her usual grating, accusatory tone. I took a slow sip of my black coffee. “Hello, Diane. Can I help you?” 3 She huffed impatiently. “Chester told me everything. Yesterday was a misunderstanding. Young people like to play games, Maddie. As his fiancée, you need to be more secure in yourself.” “Kelsey is practically Cam’s sister. They grew up together. There’s nothing going on.” “They literally got a marriage license, Diane. Does that sound like ‘nothing’ to you?” I laughed, a cold, dry sound. “Since they signed the papers, she is his legal wife. I don’t make it a habit to be the other woman.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not real! It’ll be annulled next month!” The old woman spoke with staggering entitlement. “Chester only loves you. Now hurry up and come home. Stop throwing this little tantrum. We’re having a family dinner tonight, all the aunts and uncles are coming. Don’t you dare embarrass Chester by not showing up.” “Oh, and to celebrate… well, just because we’re all getting together. Pick up some fresh crab on your way back. Kelsey loves crab.” My grip on my phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. A family dinner to celebrate Chester and Kelsey getting married? And I was supposed to play the dutiful maid, buying seafood to serve his little sidepiece? The absolute audacity of this family. “Diane, are you listening to yourself right now?” “Maddie Frost! Watch your tone with me! You are lucky a boy like Chester even looks at you! If you don’t show up tonight, don’t ever expect to be welcomed into this family again!” “That sounds like a dream come true.” I hung up the phone and blocked her number. Let Kelsey have that “luck.” I was done with it. After my afternoon meetings wrapped up, an unknown number flashed on my screen. I picked it up. Kelsey’s sickly-sweet voice echoed through the speaker. “Hey, Maddie. It’s me.” I frowned. “What do you want?” “Chester wants you to come to dinner tonight. His mom is super pissed, she says you’re being immature.” She couldn’t hide the gloating in her voice. “Honestly, I told Chester not to force you. But he insists you’re part of the family, and we can’t have a family dinner without you.” “Maddie, if you don’t show up, it’s going to make Chester look really bad. All his relatives are watching. Everyone thought you guys were getting married, and now…” She paused, letting out a soft, provocative giggle. “Address,” I said, my voice completely flat. Kelsey paused, clearly thrown by my lack of emotion, before rattling off the name of a high-end steakhouse downtown. “Don’t forget to dress up, Maddie. It’s a big night.” I ended the call. Looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office at the crawling city traffic below, a slow, sharp smile curved my lips. A big night, huh? They wanted to humiliate me in public. They wanted to put me in my place. Fine. If they wanted to play with fire, I was more than happy to hand them the gasoline. After work, I didn’t go straight to the restaurant. I took a detour back to the apartment. The place was empty, but it was already trashed. Trash bags sat by the door, and Kelsey’s lingerie was casually draped over the arm of the sofa. All of my remaining decorative touches were gone, replaced by cheap plushies and discarded high heels. Even the bedding in the master bedroom had been swapped out for aggressive, tacky red sheets. I ignored the mess, walking straight to the bottom drawer of the built-in closet. I pulled out a thick, locked fireproof envelope. Chester thought I was so blindly in love with him that I never protected myself. He forgot what I did for a living. I was a project director. Risk mitigation was my second nature. With the envelope securely in my designer tote, I left the apartment and headed straight for the city’s luxury shopping district. 4 When I pushed open the heavy oak doors to the restaurant’s private dining room, the party was in full swing. Chester’s entire extended family was there, filling two massive round tables. Kelsey was wearing a plunging red cocktail dress. She had a wine glass in hand, holding court with Chester’s aunts and uncles, laughing radiantly. “Oh, Kelsey is just so sweet. Much better conversationalist than… well, you know.” “Exactly. Chester finally opened his eyes. They look so good together.” “Come on, let your uncle buy you a drink! To the happy couple—may you give us babies soon!” Kelsey’s makeup was flawless. She leaned heavily against Chester’s shoulder, soaking up the praise like a sponge. At the sound of the door opening, every head snapped toward me. I stood in the doorway, wearing a stunning, brand-new black Saint Laurent dress that clung to my curves, projecting the kind of untouchable power you couldn’t buy at a mall. “Wow. Looks like a party,” I said, my voice smooth as silk as I strode in on six-inch stilettos, a polite, chilling smile on my face. Diane was the first to react. She leaped from her chair, pointing a shaking finger at me. “It’s a day of celebration, and you show up wearing funeral black?! Are you trying to curse us?” “Celebration?” I arched a perfect eyebrow. “Diane, on the phone you said this was just a casual family dinner. You said the marriage was just a game. Have we changed the narrative again?” Chester’s face drained of color. He stood up, trying to grab my arm. “Maddie, stop it. Just sit down and eat. Don’t make a scene in front of my family.” “Don’t touch me.” I sidestepped him effortlessly, walking straight toward the head of the table. Kelsey crossed her legs, looking at me with undisguised venom. “Maddie, sorry, it’s super crowded tonight. But we saved a spot just for you. Right over there.” She pointed to a cramped, wobbly chair shoved in the corner near the swinging kitchen doors. It was wedged between two of Chester’s most feral young nephews. The tablecloth there was stained with spilled juice, half torn from the table. When I didn’t move to take the seat, Kelsey let out an exaggerated sigh and looked up at Chester. “Chester, look at her, she’s…” “Maddie! Sit down before you ruin the night!” Chester snapped. I laughed. It was a genuine, bright sound that echoed off the mahogany walls. “You’re terrified I’m going to ruin the night, yet you begged me to come. Are you all completely delusional?” The relatives began to whisper loudly. “God, she is so difficult. No class at all.” “Right? Chester told her it was a prank, and she just won’t let it go.” “Imagine being married to a woman like that. It’s a blessing Chester didn’t sign papers with her.” Listening to them, the last lingering thread of attachment I had to this family snapped. Top to bottom, they were rotten to the core. I casually pulled out the chair next to the head of the table—displacing an uncle who scrambled away—and sat down. I opened my designer tote, pulled out the thick envelope, and tossed it onto the spinning lazy Susan in the center of the table. “Since we’re all gathered here today, I brought a little wedding gift for the happy couple.” Chester stared at the envelope, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What is that?” “Why don’t you open it and find out?” I poured myself a glass of sparkling water, taking a slow, elegant sip. Hesitantly, Chester reached across the table and grabbed the envelope. He unclasped it. Kelsey leaned over his shoulder to peek. A second later, Chester’s face turned the color of wet chalk. Kelsey slammed her hands on the table, leaping to her feet. “That is impossible!”

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I am a woman who treats separating ridiculously wealthy men from their money not as a hustle, but as a calling. Through a bizarre twist of fate, I found myself trapped in a world that operated exactly like a trashy romance novel, cast in the role of the tragic, disposable understudy for a ruthless billionaire’s untouchable first love. But I didn’t weep over my lot in life. In barely a year, I had managed to siphon fifty million dollars from his accounts. I was literally grinning at the staggering balance on my banking app when the hallucination started. Strings of bizarre, glowing text suddenly materialized in the air, scrolling furiously across my field of vision like a live chat feed on a screen only I could see: [The Golden Girl is flying back to the States! The understudy’s days are numbered!] [In a billionaire redemption arc, the body double never survives past chapter three.] [Girl, you better fake your own death and run, or he’s going to break your legs and lock you in a basement!] [It’s the plot! You can’t outrun the plot!] Staring at those floating neon words, the fifty million in my bank account suddenly lost its luster. Before I could even draft a blueprint for my grand disappearing act, I was dragged to the welcome-home gala for the mythic first love herself, Cathy Astor. At the center of the ballroom, Cathy flashed a saccharine, camera-ready smile. She picked up a heavy, diamond-encrusted choker from a velvet cushion and unceremoniously clasped it around my neck. “I hear you have quite the appetite for expensive things, Brooke,” she purred, her voice dripping with venom masked as grace. “My dog just got a new collar, so I thought I’d pass his old one down to you.” The cold metal had barely settled against my collarbone when the floating text exploded in front of my eyes again: [TAKE IT OFF! That thing is laced with radioactive isotopes! You wear that, you die!] [Don’t touch it! The author literally kills her off with radiation poisoning next chapter!] Oh? A slow, genuine smile spread across my face. Now I knew exactly how I was going to pull off my vanishing act. 1. A smattering of cruel laughter rippled through the crowd. I kept my chin level, letting the smile linger on the corners of my mouth. “If you feel the need to humiliate me this desperately, Cathy—” I paused, letting my gaze cut straight through her flawless veneer, right into the insecure marrow of her bones. “Is it because you still can’t let go of Tristan?” [LMAO! She went straight for the jugular!] [This girl knows exactly how to play the game!] Cathy’s manufactured smile froze. The air in the ballroom snapped tight. The mocking, dismissive silence of the crowd instantly morphed into the hungry, breathless silence of high-society vultures waiting for blood. I watched the color drain from Cathy’s face, leaving it chalky white, before it flushed a furious, mottled red. “What the hell are you talking about?” she hissed. I didn’t answer. I merely let out a soft, dismissive breath of a laugh and shifted my gaze over her shoulder. Tristan Crawford was leaning against a velvet banquette, the lazy swirling of his scotch suddenly stilled. There was a flicker of something in his icy eyes—almost like anticipation. The whispers began to swell around us like a rising tide. “Is Cathy really still hung up on Tristan?” “If she wasn’t, why would she target Brooke? Brooke is literally just her carbon copy.” “She probably wants her old life back but is too proud to admit it.” The murmured gossip hit Cathy like physical blows. Her eyes began to glisten with strategic, brimming tears. Right on cue, Tristan’s protective instincts flared. His voice sliced through the room, cold and authoritative: “Brooke. Remember your place.” I lowered my eyes in a portrait of utter obedience. “Of course, Mr. Crawford.” Without missing a beat, I reached up, unclasped the diamond choker, and held it up to the chandelier light, smiling directly at Cathy. “Thank you for the gift, Cathy. The motive might be trash, but the diamonds are flawless. I’ll gladly keep it.” Cathy was shaking now, her carefully curated composure entirely shattered. She spun toward Tristan, her voice turning shrill. “Keep your pet on a leash, Tristan. She’s dragging down the entire room.” Tristan’s jaw tightened. I looked at him, timing my next move perfectly, letting my eyes go wide and innocent. “Should I leave?” The room fell dead silent again. Every eye was pinned on Tristan. He let the silence stretch for two agonizing seconds before he suddenly reached out and wrapped his hand around my wrist. “Since we clearly aren’t welcome here, we’ll be taking our leave,” he said smoothly. [HOLY SHIT? The billionaire is defending the understudy?] [Wait, this is off-script! Isn’t he supposed to be obsessed with the Golden Girl?] I was stunned. Cathy looked like she’d been struck by lightning. She opened her mouth, but before a sound could escape, Tristan was already pulling me toward the grand double doors. We were inches from the exit when Cathy’s voice finally cracked like a whip behind us: “Tristan! Are you really going to ruin my night over her?” Tristan didn’t even bother to turn around. His tone was absolute frost. “She came with me. When you humiliate her, you humiliate me.” Cathy choked on a sob. Her face went from flushed to ashen, her chest heaving. The sycophants immediately swarmed, trying to patch the sinking ship. “Come on, Tristan, don’t be rash. Cathy was just joking around.” “Yeah, it’s her welcome-home party! Don’t ruin the vibe.” “Say something, Cathy. Apologize.” Cathy just bit her lip, stubbornly silent. I stared at the hard, unforgiving line of Tristan’s jaw. There was a tempest of emotion in his eyes, none of it decipherable. But beneath the surface, the truth was startlingly clear. He wasn’t protecting me. He had never been protecting me. This was a game of chicken. He was using me as a pawn to see if Cathy would beg him to stay. I was utterly exhausted by their toxic little pantomime. Gently, I tugged my wrist against his iron grip. “Tristan, please don’t fight with Cathy because of me. I can take a cab back to the estate.” He didn’t let go. But the whispers around him grew louder, more insistent. “Tristan, she just got back to the States. Don’t do this to her.” “Brooke is giving you an out, man. Take it. Don’t make it awkward.” Tristan stood frozen in the doorway. He was quiet for a long, heavy moment. So long, I actually thought he might defy them all and drag me into the night. And then, his fingers uncurled. He let me go. [And there it is. He folded.] [Once a lapdog for the first love, always a lapdog.] A quiet, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I knew my cue. I turned my back on the glittering room and started walking. “Stop right there.” Cathy’s voice echoed through the marble foyer. I paused and glanced back over my shoulder. She was staring at me, the arrogant smirk finally returning to her glossy lips. “You ruined my welcome-home gala, Brooke. If I just let you walk out that door—” She paused, relishing the power. “It would make me look terribly weak, wouldn’t it?” I furrowed my brow. “What exactly do you want?” She swirled her champagne, taking her time. “I want you to—” She raised her eyes, pinning me to the floor. “Crawl out.” 2. I looked at Tristan. His brow was furrowed, his eyes darting between us as if calculating the optics of the situation. “One million dollars,” he said, his voice flat. “Do as she says.” The tiny, pathetic flame of hope that had somehow survived in the darkest corner of my chest extinguished with a quiet hiss. I pulled my gaze away from him, a bitter, mocking smile curving my lips. “Sorry,” I said, my voice echoing clearly off the high ceilings. “I have zero interest in participating in your sick little foreplay.” I walked out, not looking back. I was almost to the street when a violent, shattering crash erupted from inside the ballroom—the sound of crystal glasses being swept off a table. Then came Cathy’s piercing scream, laced with a trembling, hysterical sob: “Tristan! You’re just going to let her walk away?!” I didn’t turn around. But my footsteps, against my own will, faltered for just a fraction of a second in the cool night air. Back at the sprawling glass-and-steel mansion, I stood in the foyer, staring at the space I had occupied for over a year. I had lived here like a well-kept canary in a gilded cage. Tristan worked constantly, leaving early and coming home late. Most of the time, it was just me, the echoing silence, and closets full of haute couture I never asked for. I walked upstairs and shoved only the absolute necessities into a single duffel bag. Before I left, I hesitated by his mahogany desk. I grabbed a pen, tore off a sticky note, and scrawled a single line: Tristan: I’m leaving. A body double should know when her scene is over. Me staying will only cause more friction between you and Cathy. Take care of yourself. —Brooke I slapped the note onto the cover of the Forbes magazine he had been reading that morning, turned my back on the opulent prison, and walked out the door. To say I didn’t feel a pang of nostalgia would be a lie. But the overwhelming emotion that washed over me was relief. A profound, bone-deep relief that I had always known exactly what I was. I was a placeholder. I had never, not even for a second, allowed myself to actually fall in love with him. [Oh, honey, you are way too naive…] [If you could dodge a plot-mandated death this easily, it wouldn’t be a thriller.] [My heart breaks for her. She has no idea what’s coming.] I knew I wouldn’t get off that easy. I just needed a few days—a brief window while Tristan was too distracted by his reunited first love to care about me—to set my disappearance in motion. I rented a grim, cramped studio in a gritty neighborhood deep in Queens. It was chaotic, loud, and entirely devoid of security cameras. If Tristan wanted to find me here, he’d have to get his handmade Italian shoes very dirty. Once the deadbolts were thrown, I cracked open my laptop and started searching. High-end replica jewelry artisans NYC Early stage radiation poisoning symptoms List of corrupt radiologists/oncologists tri-state area [??? Wait, what is she doing?] [Is she getting a replica made? To fake the illness?] [Genius! Turn the white moonlight’s “gift” into a murder weapon! Let’s see Cathy play the victim now!] [But a real doctor won’t fake a medical report. She needs someone dirty.] I scrolled through page after page, my fingers flying across the keyboard into the early hours of the morning. By sunrise, wearing oversized sunglasses and a medical mask, I walked into a dingy jewelry repair shop wedged between a failing auto mechanic and a dive bar on the outskirts of the borough. The owner was a grizzled man in his fifties, chewing on an unlit cigar, looking at me with absolute apathy. I slapped a printed photograph of the choker onto the scratched glass counter. “I need an exact replica. Real diamonds, identical craftsmanship.” He picked up the photo, squinted at it, and then looked me up and down. “Lady, this ain’t a mall kiosk job. Real stones, this kind of setting? You’re looking at a couple hundred grand, minimum.” I unzipped my bag, pulled out two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the glass. “This is the deposit. Name your final price. I don’t care what it costs.” He flicked the cigar to the side of his mouth and grinned. “You got it. Give me three days.” For the next forty-eight hours, I did a deep dive on every chief radiologist and oncologist in the city’s private and public hospitals. The doctor I needed had to meet three exact criteria: One: Extensive experience with radiation patients, to forge an airtight medical file. Two: Desperate for cash, or harboring a massive, career-ending secret. Three: Good at keeping their mouth shut. I narrowed it down to three targets. Dr. Harris: 45, deputy head of radiology at a public hospital. Wife in hospice, drowning in medical debt. Dr. Evans: 38, oncologist at an elite private clinic. Rumored to take massive kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps to push experimental drugs. Dr. Miller: 52, came out of retirement to pay off his son’s staggering gambling debts to a local syndicate. I planned to make contact in the morning. I was just closing my laptop, eyes burning with exhaustion, when the space in front of me erupted in frantic, flashing red text. [ALARM! ALARM! ALARM!] [WAKE UP! YOU NEED TO RUN!] [Spoiler alert: Cathy just stabbed herself! Half an hour ago!] [She’s in the ER right now telling everyone YOU did it!] [Tristan is already on his way to your apartment! He bought it!] [HE BELIEVES HER!!!] [RUN, BROOKE, RUN!!!] The blood in my veins turned to ice. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Because I knew, with sickening clarity, that I couldn’t outrun the author’s pen. 3. I chose to surrender in the cramped, airless studio. Even if I was trapped in the narrative of a twisted novel, it was still a society with laws. Let Cathy play the victim. Let them investigate. I hadn’t stabbed anyone. The flimsy door was finally kicked off its hinges. Tristan stood in the threshold, his face as dark and volatile as a hurricane over the Atlantic. Between his fingers, he was tightly crushing the sticky note I had left him. “Brooke.” His voice was a terrifyingly soft whisper that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Cathy is lying in a hospital bed right now. She says you stabbed her.” I met his dead gaze. “I didn’t do it.” “She has a defensive knife wound. Her blood soaked through the mattress.” He took a slow, deliberate step into the room. “And you… you miraculously vanish from my house, leaving a note about bowing out.” His eyes were a storm of agony, rage, and profound disappointment. But there was one thing entirely missing from his gaze: doubt. He believed her completely. A sharp, hollow laugh tore from my throat. “Why are you even here, Tristan? Did you come to hear my side of the story, or did you just come to read me my sentence?” He fell silent for one single second. And in that quiet space, I got my answer. “Take her,” he commanded. I fully expected to be dragged into the back of a squad car. I was wrong. The black SUV drove for two hours into the desolate, wooded upstate mountains, finally stopping in front of a towering, rusted iron gate. Pinecrest Behavioral Health. A private, isolated psychiatric facility. “Tristan…” My voice finally broke, trembling violently. “What are you doing?” He looked down at me, his eyes as murky and stagnant as dead water. “Cathy told me you’ve been unraveling. She said you’re suffering from violent delusions. She doesn’t want to press charges and ruin your life. She just wants you to get the help you need.” “I didn’t touch her!” I screamed, lunging forward to grab the sleeve of his bespoke suit. “Tristan, please, for God’s sake, just believe me this once—” He physically recoiled, yanking his arm away from my grasp. “Get well soon, Brooke.” The heavy car door slammed shut in my face. [HOLY SHIT! An asylum?!] [This is worse than prison! A sane person will literally go crazy in there!] [Cathy is a sociopath! She eliminated the rival AND gets to play the merciful saint!] [TRISTAN YOU ABSOLUTE BLIND IDIOT!!!] Two massive orderlies grabbed me by the arms, dragging me through those rusted iron gates. Behind me, the red taillights of Tristan’s SUV bled into the thick, consuming darkness of the forest. The corridors of Pinecrest were impossibly long, stretching out like a fluorescent-lit purgatory. The blinding white lights, the sharp, metallic stench of bleach, and the distant, echoing sounds of people—sounds that hovered terrifyingly between weeping and maniacal laughter. I was shoved into an isolation room. An iron bed bolted to the floor. A barred window. A solid steel door. When the deadbolt slid into place with a deafening clack, I closed my eyes. Was I really going to be tortured to death by the plot? I wasn’t left alone for long. I was marched down the hall into a claustrophobic, windowless treatment room. Sitting behind a metal desk, casually flipping through a blank medical file, was Dr. Evans. The corrupt oncologist I had researched. Apparently, his side hustle involved private psychiatric “care.” “Brooke,” Dr. Evans said smoothly, not making eye contact. “According to the party who committed you, you are exhibiting severe violent tendencies and paranoid delusions.” “I am perfectly sane.” He smiled, a thin, patronizing stretch of lips, and gave a slight nod to the orderlies. They slammed me down into a heavy chair, immediately buckling thick leather straps over my wrists and ankles. Cold, sticky electrode pads were pressed against my temples. The second the electrical current surged into my skull, my entire universe went blinding, screaming white. It felt like a thousand needles driving straight into my brain. My body seized, violently convulsing against the restraints, entirely out of my control. I don’t know how long it lasted. Time ceased to exist. When the current finally snapped off, I collapsed back into the chair, my clothes soaked through with cold sweat, gasping for air as if I were drowning. “That was session one,” Dr. Evans’s voice drifted down to me, sounding like it was coming from underwater. “You have nine more scheduled.” I forced my eyes open, staring at him through a blur of involuntary tears. “How much… how much did Cathy Astor pay you?” He paused, clearly surprised I had named his benefactor. Then he chuckled, leaning in close so I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Miss Astor was generous enough to ensure you have a permanent residence here.” [ANIMAL!!!] [This is psychological murder!] [Someone spoil the ending for me! Does she escape?! Tell me she doesn’t die in this hellhole!] I was dragged back to my cell and tossed onto the thin mattress like a sack of garbage. My body wouldn’t stop violently trembling. The skin at my temples felt like it was on fire. I curled myself into a tight ball, staring blankly at the peeling paint on the concrete wall, tears spilling silently onto the rough pillowcase. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, unadulterated hatred. Cathy. The name etched itself into the inside of my skull like a brand. A few days later, Cathy appeared at the narrow window of my door. She was dressed in a pristine white designer dress, looking like an angel completely untouched by the filth of the world. Dr. Evans shadowed her, nodding obsequiously at her every word. She stepped into the cell, towering over my crumpled form. “How’s the electroconvulsive therapy treating you, Brooke?” I stared at her, my jaw locked. She smiled, crouching down so her face was inches from mine. “Tristan asked me to pass along a message. He said to focus on your treatment. Once you’re ‘cured,’ he’ll come pick you up.” Her eyes went dead, the smile turning razor-sharp. “But I am never going to let you leave this place.” She stood up, dusting off her immaculate dress, and turned to leave. At the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Oh, by the way, I’ll be back tomorrow. I heard one round of therapy isn’t quite doing the trick? I’ve personally instructed Dr. Evans to add two more courses to your chart.” The steel door slammed shut. I stared at the heavy metal, the tears I had fought so hard to hold back finally breaking free. Tristan. He really trusted her that much. He wouldn’t even come to look me in the eye himself. I learned the hardest truth in the world in that room: the only person coming to save you, is you. The relentless electroshock sessions were beginning to fracture my mind. I couldn’t remember what day it was. Every hour stretched into a lifetime of agony. But I fought, with every ounce of my fading willpower, to stay lucid. Through the fog of pain, I noticed something crucial. They were so confident in my absolute helplessness that they only focused on breaking me; they didn’t bother heightening security. They viewed me as a bug pinned to a board. A plan began to form in the shattered pieces of my mind. The next day, I was strapped into the chair again. When the torturous current finally ended, I slumped forward, drenched in sweat, completely spent. Dr. Evans stepped close to check my vitals, leaning over me. He was close. Close enough that I could see the glow of the smartphone slipping out of his breast pocket. My fingers twitched against the leather restraints. I couldn’t reach it. But as he turned to adjust a dial on the machine, the phone slid up just an inch more. The screen was awake. I saw it. A text notification banner. Sender: Cathy Astor. The preview text read: “Kill her. I’ll double the payout.” 4. Cathy wanted me dead. And Dr. Evans was the gun she had hired. But a gun held by a man is only as loyal as the man’s greed. And every man has a price. “I saw the text,” I rasped, my throat raw and bleeding. He froze. “‘Kill her. I’ll double the payout.’” I locked my eyes onto his, refusing to blink. “That’s Cathy, isn’t it?” The color drained from Dr. Evans’s face. He straightened up immediately, taking a panicked half-step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—” “I don’t have the energy to play games with you,” I interrupted, my voice weak but laced with steel. “Just listen.” I took a rattling breath, forcing every word out through sheer force of will: “You kill me, you get your money. But do you really understand who Tristan Crawford is? He might not love me, but if I end up in a body bag, do you really think a billionaire isn’t going to order an autopsy?” Dr. Evans’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “Cathy is the golden girl. When the feds come knocking, Tristan will protect her with his army of lawyers. But what about you?” I let the reality sink into him. “Who are you to them? A dirty doctor who took a bribe. When the murder charge comes down, you’re the one taking the fall. Think you can outrun Crawford’s security apparatus?” He remained silent. But his breathing had grown shallow and erratic. I struck the final blow. “I’ll give you ten million dollars.” His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Where the hell would a stand-in get ten million—” I let out a weak, bloody laugh. “Why do you think I tolerated being his stand-in for a year?” Dr. Evans stood rooted to the floor. I watched the frantic calculations flashing across his face. Greed. Terror. Hesitation. The agonizing pull of self-preservation. I knew he was doing the math. Ten million was enough to buy a new identity in a country with no extradition treaty. It was ‘fuck you’ money. And the price of killing me… He looked at me, his gaze sharpening into something dangerous. “Why should I believe you?” A knot of tension in my chest loosened. It didn’t matter if he fully believed me yet. What mattered was that he was negotiating. “You’re going to fake my death,” I said, holding his stare. “You declare me dead from cardiac arrest, induced by the therapy. You give Cathy the death certificate. She pays you. Then, you let me walk out the back door, and I wire the ten million to whatever offshore account you want.” “And if she demands to see the body?” “That’s your problem to solve.” You think ten million dollars comes without a little heavy lifting? Dr. Evans stared at the concrete floor for an eternity. Just as I thought he was going to walk away and turn the machine back on, he spoke. “Deal.” Three days later. 2:00 AM. The rusted service entrance at the back of Pinecrest Asylum. Dr. Evans handed me a black duffel bag. Inside was a stack of untraceable cash and a burner phone. “Tomorrow morning at 6 AM, I’m logging a fatal cardiac event. Resuscitation failed.” I took the bag, the weight of it grounding me. “The wire transfer will be processed by dawn. If it’s short a single cent, you can call the cops and have them drag me back.” He nodded stiffly and turned to walk back inside. After two steps, he paused. He didn’t look back. “Brooke. Don’t ever come back here. You don’t belong in a place like this.” I offered a dark, silent smile to his back. I pushed the heavy iron door open, the biting wind of the early morning rushing over my face. It was pitch black outside. No streetlights. I couldn’t even see the road ahead. But I took my first step into the dark anyway. [OH MY GOD SHE ACTUALLY ESCAPED!!!] [BROOKE IS A SURVIVOR!!! Phase one of the revenge arc is a GO!] [Cathy better sleep with one eye open. The reaper is coming to collect!] [Wait, wait, wait—what if Dr. Evans double-crosses her?!] [Shut up! Don’t jinx it!] I walked down the desolate mountain highway, pulling the burner phone from the bag. I booted it up, bypassed the standard towers, and logged into an encrypted dark-web server. I pulled up the contact for a data broker I had vetted months ago. [Look into Cathy Astor.] [I want the skeletons. Every dirty, buried, illegal thing she’s ever done.] [Name your price. Money is not an object.] Send. I slid the phone into my pocket and looked up at the starless sky. Plot-mandated death. Who said the plot was only allowed to kill me?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “419157”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Zavier is a famous director who made me work as a stunt double on his film set. He forced me to jump from a thirty-foot platform for his mistress. While I was trapped underwater in the freezing reservoir by the wire rigging, with my lungs running out of oxygen, all I could hear through the earpiece was him flirting and laughing with his mistress. “If Chrissy dies, she dies. You’re the one I love.” My heart turned to ash. Ten years of love had burned to nothing. That same day, I left for Alaska to volunteer at a wildlife sanctuary in the mountains. A year later, he was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer and got on his knees to beg for my forgiveness. I stood there with my arm around my new lover, looking down at him coldly. “Zavier, you killed my child with your own hands and destroyed half my life. Playing the devoted lover now with what’s left of yours only makes me sick.” I turned and walked away without looking back. “In this life and every life to come, I pray I never meet you again.”

Chrissy’s POV “Cut! Perfect! That’s a wrap!” With the assistant director’s shout, the tension on set instantly dissipated. I was lowered from the thirty-foot wire rigging. The moment my feet touched the ground, a stabbing pain shot through my left knee. I couldn’t keep my balance and dropped to one knee on the mud-soaked mat. The rough blast suit choked me, making it hard to breathe. My shoulder, where I’d just crashed into the prop wall, was already bleeding through the fabric, burning hot with pain. Gritting my teeth, I was about to push myself up with one hand when rapid footsteps rushed past me, creating a gust of wind. “Lexi! Are you okay? That explosion was so loud. Did it scare you?” It was Zavier’s voice. The man I’d been with for seven years, who was now a hot new director rising in the entertainment industry. I looked up through the crowd to see him rushing anxiously toward the rest area. Sitting there was the female lead of this production, Lexi Summers. She was completely clean, not even a hair out of place, just clutching her chest with slightly reddened eyes, putting on a frightened act. “I’m fine. The blast was just so loud, my heart’s still racing.” Lexi leaned toward Zavier, her voice sweet and delicate, like a startled rabbit. Zavier didn’t hesitate to pat her back gently, his tone softer than I’d heard in ages. “Don’t be scared. I’m here. Your scenes are done for today. Go rest in your trailer.” I froze in place, watching their shameless display. The blood from my shoulder seemed to flow faster, dripping down my arm into the muddy water and spreading into dark red blooms. The crew around me was busy wrapping up. No one noticed me, the stunt double who’d just completed a dangerous high fall for Lexi Summers. I took a deep breath, fighting through the pain in my knee, and limped toward the monitor tent. I wanted to review the footage from that take to make sure there were no flaws in my performance. The tent was empty. The sound engineer had probably gone to the restroom, leaving the headset carelessly tossed on the mixer. I’d just put on the headset and hadn’t even pulled up the playback when a clear conversation suddenly came through. It was Lexi’s wireless mic. She hadn’t turned it off. “Chrissy fell so hard just now. Is she going to be okay? It looked scary.” Lexi’s voice carried a hint of testing the waters. Then came the sound of Zavier lighting a cigarette. The click of the lighter was especially sharp in the quiet headset. “What could possibly happen to her? She’s tough as nails. She survived rolling down a mudslide before. This height is nothing for her. Just routine.” Zavier’s tone was casual, even dismissive. “But… she’s still a woman. Aren’t you being too cold to Chrissy? Won’t she get upset? I heard you two used to…” “Used to is used to.” Zavier cut her off, his voice edged with irritation. “She’s hard as a rock. Doesn’t need anyone worrying about her. You think she’s delicate like you? I keep her on the crew because she’s useful. She knows what shots I need without me having to explain. As for feelings… they’ve just worn down into habit. What I feel for her is more like gratitude and obligation.” “Then… what about me?” Lexi’s voice dropped, tinged with grievance. “You?” Zavier let out a soft laugh, his voice suddenly lower, carrying an intimacy that made hearts race. “You’re nothing like her. She belongs in the mud. You belong in the spotlight.” I yanked off the headset. My stomach churned violently. Gratitude? Obligation? Useful? Tough as nails? This was the evaluation I’d earned after breaking three ribs for his independent film. I didn’t cry. I just felt cold. A chill seeping out from my bones, instantly freezing all my emotions. I pulled out my phone and opened a conversation I’d left untouched for a long time. It was with the captain of the Denali Mountain Wildlife Conservation Station. “Do you still need people for next month’s assignment?” The reply came quickly. “Need them! Desperately! But this time we’re going deep into the wilderness. You’ll be out of contact for at least three years. Conditions are extremely harsh. Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” I looked at the monitor showing Zavier helping Lexi into her trailer, my fingers typing steadily. “I’ve thought it through. I’m signing up. I’ll report to the base in five days.”

Chrissy’s POV “What are you spacing out about? Today’s sequence was beautiful. You’re my ace, as always.” A heavy slap landed on my shoulder. I gasped in pain and turned to face Zavier’s triumphant expression. He held two cans of ice-cold beer, casually tossing one to me like he was calling over a buddy. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.” He finally noticed something was off. His brow furrowed, but there wasn’t much concern in his eyes. More like he was calculating work schedules. “Did that take not go well? Want to do a safety?” I looked at the cold beer in my hand, then at those eyes that used to see only me. I suddenly found it absurd. His so-called love was treating me like a handy weapon. No maintenance needed, no care required. Just as long as I could clear obstacles for him. “No need. It was fine.” I set the beer on the table. “My shoulder’s a bit strained. I’m heading back.” Zavier paused, apparently not expecting me to refuse his “reward.” A flash of displeasure crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it. “Alright then. Ice it when you get back. Tomorrow we’ve got an underwater escape scene. You need to be in top form. Whether this film wins awards depends on these major sequences.” He didn’t even ask if I was badly hurt. Didn’t even glance at my still-bleeding shoulder. It was so obvious. I nodded and turned toward the exit. Just as I reached the set entrance, I ran into Lexi, now changed into casual clothes. She wore an oversized black windbreaker that engulfed her frame, making her look even more delicate and adorable. I recognized that windbreaker. It was a limited edition Zavier had brought back last month when he’d gone location scouting in Scandinavia. At the time, I thought he’d bought it for me, since I often shivered through night shoots. But when I asked, he said it was a gift for an investor. Now that “gift” was wrapped around Lexi Summers. “Chrissy, are you leaving?” Lexi blocked my path, her smile picture-perfect innocence. She deliberately pulled the windbreaker tighter, the collar releasing a faint trace of the fir-scented cologne Zavier always wore. “Zavier said it would be windy tonight and was worried I’d catch cold, so he insisted I wear his jacket. Chrissy, you don’t mind, do you? Zavier said you’re tough and never get cold.” Her words were like soft needles, precisely targeting my vulnerable spots. I looked at that face, written all over with provocation disguised as innocence, and suddenly felt it was all so pointless. “I don’t mind.” I pulled at the corner of my mouth. “It’s just a jacket. If you like it, wear it. After all, I don’t need someone else’s hand-me-downs.” Lexi’s expression froze instantly, a flash of venom in her eyes. I didn’t bother with her anymore and walked straight off the set. I didn’t go back to the apartment I shared with Zavier. Instead, I took a cab to the hospital’s orthopedic department. The doctor looked at my MRI films, his brow knotted tight. “Miss Christie, your left meniscus is severely worn, and your shoulder ligaments show signs of old tears. If you continue doing these high-intensity stunt performances, you’ll likely spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair within six months.” The doctor’s voice echoed in the empty examination room like a death sentence. “I strongly recommend you stop all strenuous activity immediately and prepare for surgery.” I sat in the chair, staring at the blurry shadows on the films, silent for a long time. “Doctor, if I don’t have surgery and only do conservative treatment, will I still be able to walk normally?” “Walking normally, yes. But absolutely no running or jumping, and no heavy lifting.” The doctor sighed. “You’re still so young. Don’t gamble with your body.” I walked out of the hospital holding the medical records. Outside, the sky had gone completely dark. The city’s neon lights flickered, but they couldn’t warm my frozen hands and feet. I tore the medical records into pieces and threw them in a nearby trash can. No need for surgery. Once I got to Denali Mountain, I wouldn’t need to risk my life for anyone else. I’d only need to survive for myself. Four more days.

Chrissy’s POV Today is October twelfth. Seven years ago on this day, Zavier took me deep into an undeveloped mountain range to film a documentary. We were caught in a sudden mudslide. In that cramped cave, we held each other tight, thinking we would die there. That night, he wrapped the only dry piece of clothing he had around me and swore to me with tears in his eyes. “Chrissy, if we make it out alive, my life belongs to you. From now on, every October twelfth will be just for us. Just the two of us.” We survived. For the first five years, he kept his promise. No matter how busy he was, he’d cancel everything on this day to stay home with me, cook a meal together, and watch an old movie. But starting last year, he changed. Last year he said an investor had called an impromptu meeting he couldn’t miss. I waited for him all night, only to see him and Lexi photographed at a bar on the trending topics. He explained it was a crew dinner. I believed him. And this year? I sat in the dark living room, looking at the completely cold dishes on the table. The clock on the wall pointed to eleven at night. Heavy rain fell outside, raindrops hammering the windows with dull thuds. I picked up my phone and called Zavier. “Sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I called three times in a row. All went unanswered. I put down my phone and opened Instagram. The algorithm knew me well. The first post on my feed was one Lexi had posted ten minutes ago. The photo showed an elaborately romantic candlelit dinner table with a bouquet of bright red roses. Across from her sat half of a man’s shoulder. Though his face wasn’t visible, those shirt cuffs were the ones I’d personally gone to the boutique to pick out for him last month. The caption read. “He said some days shouldn’t be for dwelling on past suffering, but for celebrating new beginnings. Thank you for the surprise.” Location tagged: the city’s most exclusive revolving restaurant. Reading those words, my eyes suddenly stung. Past suffering? So our life-and-death memories had become “suffering” that needed to be abandoned in his eyes. And Lexi Summers was his “new beginning.” I didn’t smash things hysterically like some bitter woman in a TV drama. I didn’t screenshot it to confront him. I simply stood up calmly, walked to the kitchen, and dumped all the dishes I’d spent the entire afternoon preparing into the trash bin, plates and all. Then I walked into the bedroom and dragged out that black suitcase. I started packing. I didn’t actually own much. Over the years, I’d poured all my money and energy into Zavier’s films. My closet held nothing but a few dirt-resistant athletic outfits and virtually nothing of value. I took those mementos I’d once treasured. The replica of his first award trophy. The cross necklace we’d brought back from the church where we’d prayed together. Those slips of paper with his promises written on them. I threw them one by one into a black trash bag. Finally, I opened a drawer and pulled out that plain ring. He’d bought it for me with his first paycheck during our first year together. Not expensive, but I’d worn it for seven years. It had left a deep groove on my finger. I slipped the ring off and placed it on the nightstand. No nostalgia. No reluctance. When disappointment accumulates enough, leaving becomes instinct. By the time I finished packing, it was two in the morning. The living room was piled with black trash bags, while my suitcase held only a few changes of clothes and some essential medications. I sat on the sofa, quietly listening to the rain outside the window. Three more days. Zavier, you’re free now. And so am I.

Chrissy’s POV At three-thirty in the morning, the electronic lock at the entrance beeped. Zavier walked in, bringing cold air and the scent of alcohol. The living room’s main lights were off, with only a dim floor lamp glowing. His movement paused as he changed shoes, clearly noticing the several large black trash bags in the middle of the living room and me sitting silently on the sofa. “What are you doing up in the middle of the night making a mess?” He loosened his tie, his tone edged with impatience, and walked straight to the bar to pour himself water. As he approached, a heavy scent of rose perfume mixed with red wine wafted over. That was Lexi’s favorite fragrance. I lifted my eyelids and looked at him quietly. “Cleaning out some useless things.” My voice was hoarse, completely flat. Zavier stopped mid-drink. He turned to examine me in the dim light. Perhaps my excessively calm demeanor unsettled him. He put down his glass, walked over to sit beside me, and reached out to put his arm around my shoulders. “The crew had an important investor meeting today. My phone was on silent. I didn’t hear your calls.” He lied smoothly, not even blinking. “Once we get through this busy period and the film wraps, I’ll spend some quality time with you, okay?” I shifted slightly, avoiding his hand. His hand froze in midair. His expression darkened instantly. “Chrissy, what are you throwing a fit about now?” Zavier’s patience seemed exhausted, his voice rising several octaves. “I already told you it was work! Can’t you be reasonable? You weren’t like this before. The film is at the most critical stage. Do you really have to cause trouble for me right now?” I looked at his face, slightly twisted with anger, and suddenly found it laughable. “Work?” I let out a light laugh, looking straight into his eyes. “Going to a revolving restaurant for candlelit dinner, sending red roses. That’s part of work too?” Zavier’s pupils shrank sharply, panic flashing in his eyes before being replaced by anger. “You’re spying on me? You went through Lexi’s Instagram?” He shot to his feet, pointing down at me accusingly. “Chrissy, when did you become so unreasonable? Lexi was upset today. As her director, what’s wrong with comforting my actress? Why do you have to think the worst of everything?” “Think the worst?” I rolled the phrase around in my mouth, my heart desolate. He’d trampled our seven years underfoot, yet turned around to accuse me of being cynical. “Zavier, do you remember what today is?” I didn’t argue with him. I just asked that question calmly. Zavier froze. The anger on his face solidified instantly, replaced by the awkwardness and guilt of being caught. He opened his mouth as if to explain, but ultimately just grabbed at his hair in frustration. “Chrissy, I’m sorry. I genuinely forgot with how busy I’ve been.” He sat back down, trying to take my hand, his tone softening. “You know how important this film is to me. Once the movie wins awards, we’ll get married. Just bear with me a little longer, okay? We went through life and death together. Surely that means more than some meaningless anniversary?” Marriage. For the past seven years, that word had been my greatest hope. But now, coming from his mouth, it sounded like a cheap bargaining chip to cover his betrayal and neglect. He thought that mentioning our “life-and-death bond” would make me forgive him unconditionally, just like I always had. He thought Chrissy could never leave him. I looked at him and suddenly smiled. “Alright.” I pulled my hand back, stood up, and looked down at him. “I understand. I won’t make a scene. Get some rest. You have a big night shoot tomorrow.” Zavier clearly hadn’t expected me to give in so easily. He stared blankly as I walked back to the bedroom and closed the door. The moment the door shut, I heard him let out a long sigh of relief in the living room. He thought he’d placated me. But he didn’t know that when a woman stops arguing with you, stops demanding explanations, that’s when she’s completely given up on you. Two more days.

Chrissy’s POV The last day. The crew was filming the final major scene at an abandoned reservoir in the suburbs. An underwater escape sequence. In the late autumn reservoir, the water temperature was barely above forty degrees Fahrenheit. White vapor drifted across the surface. Just looking at it sent chills through your bones. Lexi stood on the shore wrapped in a thick down jacket, clutching a thermos, still complaining sweetly about the wind. And I stood in the freezing water wearing only a thin white dress, weighted down with lead blocks and wire rigging, my lips purple with cold. “All departments ready! Chrissy, after you go under, hold your breath for thirty seconds. Once we cut to Lexi’s body double, struggle to the surface. Remember, the movements need to look desperate, realistic!” Zavier sat behind the monitors, directing loudly through his walkie-talkie. His eyes stayed glued to the screens. He didn’t even glance at me once. I took a deep breath, nodded, put in my waterproof earpiece, and plunged into the bone-chilling water. The underwater world was silent and oppressive. The icy current instantly stripped away what little warmth I had. My left knee and shoulder, with their old injuries, exploded with tearing pain under the cold stimulus. I clenched my jaw, fighting through the pain, struggling underwater as directed. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds… Time was up. I kicked hard, trying to swim upward. But suddenly the wire rigging around my waist jammed! Abandoned fishing nets underwater had tangled in the wire’s clasps. A massive force yanked me violently back down. I panicked, frantically pulling at the wires, shouting into the earpiece. “Pull me up! The rigging’s stuck! Pull me up!” But what came through the earpiece was Zavier and Lexi’s laughter. “Zavier, look at that cloud. Doesn’t it look like a puppy?” Lexi’s voice was bright and cheerful. “Mm, as cute as you.” Zavier’s voice was full of indulgence. They weren’t even watching the monitors! They’d even cut my main microphone, leaving only the one-way command channel! The oxygen in my lungs depleted rapidly. Freezing water poured into my nose and mouth. The terror of suffocation engulfed me instantly. I looked up at the faint light filtering down from the surface, and what flashed through my mind was every injury I’d suffered, every drop of blood I’d shed over these seven years for Zavier. What a fool I was. I’d nearly thrown away my life for a man like this. Survival instinct triggered my last reserve of strength. I pulled out the tactical knife strapped to my inner thigh. A self-defense tool a friend had just sent me yesterday. With every ounce of strength left, I cut through the fishing net and wire rope tangled around my waist, stroke by stroke. I broke through the surface, gulping the freezing air, coughing violently and spitting up river water streaked with blood. Only then did the people on shore realize something was wrong. “Chrissy! Why did you surface on your own? Where’s the rigging? Do you realize you just ruined that perfect shot!” Zavier grabbed his walkie-talkie and rushed to the shore, shouting at me furiously. He didn’t see my face. Didn’t see the blood at the corner of my mouth. He only cared about his shot. I dragged my heavy body step by step up the shore. Icy water dripped from my hair onto the muddy ground. I walked up to Zavier, looked at his angry face, and suddenly felt incredibly light. I reached up, pulled the waterproof earpiece from my ear, and smashed it on the ground right in front of him. The earpiece shattered with a sharp crack. “Zavier, I quit.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it reached everyone’s ears clearly. Zavier froze, seemingly unable to process what I’d said. “What are you losing it about? We’re almost done. You’re quitting now?” “Yes. I quit.” I looked at him. “Your movie, your leading lady. You can handle them yourself.” With that, I ignored his stunned expression and the shocked stares around us, turned, and walked straight toward a black SUV parked outside the set. The window rolled down, revealing Captain Jack Morrison’s weathered face. “All settled?” Jack asked. “All settled.” I opened the door and got in. I handed Jack my phone. “Standard protocol. Surrendering communication devices.” Jack took the phone, powered it off, and tossed it in the glove compartment. “Heading out. Next stop: Denali Mountain wilderness sector.” The SUV let out a low rumble, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaving behind the man I’d loved for seven years and that unbearable past, completely behind me.

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I was the one who saved Lucas Thornfield, but he believed it was Serena who was his savior. He called me vicious and forced me to donate blood to the pretending-to-be-sick Serena again and again. “Having your blood flow into her body is the greatest honor of your pathetic life.” After three years of torment from constant blood draws, I finally signed the “Deep Sea” memory erasure agreement, willing to risk a 50 percent mortality rate just to completely forget him. But when I was reborn with a completely new identity and stood on the international stage, he knelt before me, begging through tears for my forgiveness. I sneered and pushed him away. “Mr. Thornfield, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Stella POV “Miss Winters, this is the ‘Deep Sea’ memory erasure and identity reconstruction agreement you applied for. The procedure is irreversible, with a mortality rate as high as thirty percent. Once you sign, in seven days, Stella Winters will cease to exist. Please confirm one final time.” In the sterile white therapy room, the doctor pushed a document toward me. I lowered my eyes and gripped the pen without a moment’s hesitation, signing my name at the bottom. The scratching sound of the pen tearing across paper severed the absurd and pitiful obsession that had consumed the last ten years of my life. Ten years. I’d finally decided to let myself go, and to let Lucas go. The entire city knew I was the woman Lucas couldn’t shake off. To marry him, I’d stopped at nothing, even driving away the woman Lucas loved most, Serena Marlowe, forcing her to leave town. But no one knew that when I was fifteen, it was Lucas who slipped a hand-carved wooden ring onto my finger under a sky full of stars, his face flushed as he said, “Stella, when I grow up, I’ll marry you and make you my one and only Mrs. Thornfield.” At eighteen, during that terrible fire, Lucas shielded me from harm. A burning beam struck his head, leaving him blind and robbing him of all his memories. To save him, I was left with horrifying burn scars covering my back. But when Lucas woke up in the hospital and regained his sight, the first person he saw was Serena in her white dress, looking delicate and pitiful. Serena took credit for saving him. From that moment on, Lucas’s memory held no trace of me. Only the image of Serena, the one who “risked her life to save him.” For the past seven years, I’d exhausted every method trying to awaken his memories, only to be met with escalating disgust and torment. Especially three years ago, when Serena was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder requiring long-term transfusions. And I happened to have the same rare blood type that matched hers perfectly. Lucas married me not out of compromise, but to turn me into Serena’s personal walking blood bank. “Stella, as long as Serena needs it, draining you dry is what you owe her!” Lucas had been saying this for three years. I gathered my thoughts and handed the agreement to the doctor, then stood and left. Walking out of the discreet private clinic, the autumn wind whipped fallen leaves against my face. The cold cut through to my bones. I’d barely gotten into my car when my phone screen lit up. The name “Lucas” flashed on the display. I pressed accept. A voice as cold as ice came through the speaker. “Get to Grace Memorial Hospital within half an hour. Serena fainted from anemia.” No greeting. No pleasantries. Just a cold command. In the past, I would have felt heartbroken, made excuses about not feeling well myself, tried to beg for even the smallest scrap of his pity. But today, I simply replied with one word. “Okay.” Lucas seemed to pause on the other end. After all, every previous time I’d been summoned for a blood draw, I’d cried and made a scene, forcing him to come back to the villa and have dinner with me before I’d agree. “Don’t try any tricks.” Lucas snorted coldly and hung up. Half an hour later, I arrived at the VIP ward on schedule. The hospital room door was half-open. Lucas sat by the bed, carefully peeling an apple for Serena. His usually hard jawline softened impossibly when facing her. “Lucas, I’m fine. Don’t keep making things difficult for Stella. She’s your wife, after all. Constantly drawing her blood makes me feel terrible…” Serena leaned against the pillow, her voice so weak it seemed a breeze could blow it away. “Wife? What kind of wife is she?” Lucas’s voice turned cold instantly, dripping with undisguised sarcasm. “She’s just a woman who’ll do anything to climb the social ladder. Having her blood flow into your body is her honor.” I stood outside the door listening to these words. My heart felt like an invisible hand was squeezing it tight, but in the next second, it went completely numb. I pushed open the door and walked in. “Go ahead and draw it.” I proactively rolled up my sleeve, exposing an arm covered in needle marks, and spoke to the nurse beside me. Lucas looked up, his sharp gaze fixed on me. Today I hadn’t become hysterical, hadn’t questioned him with red-rimmed eyes, hadn’t even glanced at him once. “400cc.” Lucas spoke coldly. The nurse gasped. “Mr. Thornfield, Miss Winters just donated 300cc last week. If we draw another 400cc today, her body won’t be able to handle it. She might go into shock…” “I said 400cc.” Lucas’s tone was freezing, brooking no argument. I didn’t object. I simply watched quietly as the thick needle pierced my vein. Dark red blood flowed through the tube. I felt the warmth draining from my body bit by bit, my vision beginning to darken. But I didn’t cry out in pain. I didn’t even furrow my brow. Seven days. Just seven more days, and I could be completely free. What was this little bit of pain?

Stella POV Blood drained from my body drop by drop. My heartbeat grew slower and slower, my breathing increasingly difficult. When the 400cc blood bag was finally full, I couldn’t hold on any longer. My body went limp and I slid from the chair. Instead of hitting the cold, hard floor I expected, a strong arm suddenly grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. Lucas looked down at me from above, his brows knitted together. “Done with your performance?” He roughly released my hand. “Drawing a little blood and you play dead. Stella, your acting is getting more and more pathetic.” I collapsed back into the chair, gasping for air in great gulps. Cold sweat soaked through my clothes, stinging the hideous burn scars on my back. I had no strength to argue. I just pressed a cotton swab against the needle mark, braced myself against the wall, and shakily stood up. “Since the draw is finished, may I leave?” Lucas grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at him directly. “Leave? Did I say you could leave?” Lucas sneered. “Next month’s ‘StarGlow’ International Jewelry Design Competition. Serena is entering. Hand over that ‘Tears of the Deep’ design draft of yours.” I stared at him in disbelief. “Tears of the Deep” was a work I’d poured an entire year of my heart and soul into, created to commemorate my late mother. It was my masterpiece, the work I’d prepared for my comeback on the international stage as a genius jewelry designer. “That’s my work.” I bit my lip, my voice trembling. “Yours?” Lucas acted as if he’d heard the biggest joke in the world. “Stella, have you forgotten? Everything you have now, the Lu family gave you! Serena’s hands were injured saving me. She can’t hold a brush steadily anymore. As the culprit, what’s wrong with drawing a few designs for her?” “I didn’t set that fire! I was the one who saved you!” I’d been repeating this explanation for seven years, but every single time, he crushed it beneath his feet. “Shut up!” Lucas suddenly tightened his grip, his eyes terrifyingly dark. “You still dare bring up what happened back then? If you hadn’t been jealous of Serena and deliberately locked her in the equipment room, how would the fire have started? Serena dragged me out of the flames and suffered severe burns on both hands. She can never complete the designs she loved again. And you? You hid outside without a scratch!” Without a scratch? I closed my eyes in despair. My back still bore the permanent brand that fire had given me. Every time it rained, the pain was unbearable. But he didn’t believe me. He only believed in the insignificant burn on the back of Serena’s hand. “Lucas, don’t push Stella anymore…” Serena in the hospital bed started crying right on cue, tears falling in big drops. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t dream of standing on the design competition stage anymore. I’ll go tell the organizers I’m withdrawing right now…” “Serena, don’t cry.” Lucas immediately released me, turned, and walked to the bedside, gently wiping away Serena’s tears. “I told you, the glory that belongs to you. I’ll definitely help you get it back.” He turned his head to look at me again, his eyes restored to absolute coldness. “Tomorrow morning, I want to see the final draft of ‘Tears of the Deep’ in Serena’s email. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee that cemetery plot your mother has in the south district won’t become a commercial zone tomorrow.” My entire body trembled. I looked at this man I’d loved for ten years in disbelief. He was actually threatening me with my mother’s resting place! My heart felt like it was being sliced back and forth with a dull knife. The pain reached such extremes that it became numb. I looked at Lucas and smiled faintly. “Fine. I’ll give it to you.” Lucas froze, about to say something more when my figure had already disappeared from the doorway. I didn’t look back. Even when I heard him mutter under his breath, “Just a vicious woman. How could I possibly care?” I ignored it. After all, this would all be over soon.

Stella POV Three days later, at the “StarGlow” International Jewelry Design Competition awards gala. As Lucas’s wife in name, I was forced to attend. I wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black evening gown that covered me completely. I wore this dress solely to hide the scars on my back and the dense needle marks covering my arms. I sat quietly in a corner, watching Serena shine brilliantly at center stage. Serena wore a haute couture white dress with my heart and soul around her neck. “Tears of the Deep.” It was a necklace with a rare blue diamond as the centerpiece, surrounded by smaller diamonds, like the desperate tears of a mermaid in the deep sea. Breathtakingly beautiful. “The winner of this year’s ‘StarGlow’ Competition Gold Award is… Miss Serena! Her piece ‘Tears of the Deep,’ with its unique emotional expression and stunning cutting technique, has conquered all the judges!” The spotlight fell on Serena. She covered her mouth excitedly, her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at Lucas in the audience. Lucas sat in the front row VIP section, gazing tenderly at the woman on stage, leading the applause. Thunderous applause filled the room. I lifted the wine glass in front of me and drained it in one gulp. The bitter liquid slid down my throat into my stomach, but it couldn’t match even one ten-thousandth of the bitterness in my heart. After the awards ceremony came the media interview segment. Serena held Lucas’s arm, radiant and dazzling, accepting the media’s flashbulb baptism. “Miss Marlowe, we heard that due to your hand injury, you haven’t produced any new work in recent years. This ‘Tears of the Deep’ marks your return to the peak. What was your inspiration?” Serena glanced shyly at Lucas beside her and said softly, “This piece was designed to thank someone who has silently protected me and given me light in my darkest moments. It represents undying love.” The crowd erupted in envious exclamations. Just then, a sharp voice suddenly cut in. “Mrs. Thornfield, we heard you were also a somewhat famous talented designer in the industry. Why haven’t you published a single piece in the three years since you married Mr. Thornfield? Has your talent run out, so you can only coast on the Thornfield family’s influence?” All the cameras instantly turned toward me in the corner. Malicious, mocking, and gleeful gazes pierced me like blades, pinning me in place. I lifted my head and looked at Lucas. I wanted to see what my husband would do at this moment. Lucas’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, then he spoke coldly. “Stella indeed has no design talent. The only thing she can do well is hold the empty title of Mrs. Thornfield. Everyone, there’s no need to waste time on a worthless person. Tonight’s star is Serena.” Something in my head seemed to explode completely. A worthless person. My ten years of youth, the talent I took such pride in, the half-life I’d destroyed to save him. In his eyes, it was all dismissed as “worthless.” Suppressed laughter rippled through the crowd. “So she’s just useless. I thought she was something special.” “And she dares occupy the position of Mrs. Thornfield. How shameless. Mr. Thornfield clearly loves Miss Marlowe.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel angry. I simply stood up slowly and, under everyone’s contemptuous gazes, lifted my dress and walked step by step toward the banquet hall exit. My spine remained perfectly straight. Lucas caught my wrist at a hallway corner and slammed me hard against the wall. “Why are you running? Embarrassed?” Lucas ground his teeth as he stared at my face. “Wasn’t I telling the truth? Besides scheming to force me to marry you, what else can you do?” I didn’t struggle. I just quietly looked at this face so close to mine. The face I’d once loved to the bone. “Lucas.” “You’re right. I really am a worthless piece of trash.” Lucas suddenly leaned down, rough and venting his anger through force. “Stella, what kind of playing-hard-to-get game are you trying now?!” The taste of blood spread between our lips and teeth. I didn’t respond. I didn’t resist. Just then, a shocked cry came from the end of the hallway. “Lucas…” Serena stood in the distance, her eyes red, looking at us tangled together as if she might collapse at any moment.

Stella POV Lucas snapped out of it as if waking from a dream and shoved me away violently. The force was so great that my back slammed hard against the solid wall. A dull pain radiated from the old wounds on my spine. I groaned. “Serena, let me explain…” Lucas strode toward Serena, his tone full of panic. Completely different from the roughness he’d just shown me. Serena covered her face, tears falling like broken pearls. “Lucas, I know Stella is your wife and I’m just an outsider… I shouldn’t be disturbing you two. I’ll leave, I’ll leave right now…” She turned to run but “accidentally” crashed into a giant decorative champagne tower nearby. The towering champagne tower collapsed with a crash, countless glass shards flying everywhere. “Ah!” Serena screamed and fell among the broken glass covering the floor. A gash immediately opened on her fair calf. “Serena!” Lucas’s eyes nearly split with rage as he rushed over and carefully gathered Serena into his arms. Serena leaned against him, trembling, but her gaze traveled over Lucas’s shoulder to me. “Stella, I know you hate me for taking your design draft, but why did you push me? My hands are already ruined. Do you want to destroy my legs too?” I stood three meters away from the champagne tower. I watched Serena’s performance without even the energy to sneer. “I didn’t push her.” I stated the fact flatly. “You still dare lie!” Lucas whipped his head around, his eyes blood-red. “Stella, you’re absolutely vicious! If anything happens to Serena, you’ll pay with your life!” He stood up holding Serena. As he passed me, his eyes were as cold as if looking at a corpse. “Get out of my way!” He shoved me aside roughly. I was already weak from the blood draw. His anger-filled shove made me lose my balance completely. I fell straight toward the pile of sharp glass shards on the floor. The sound of a blade cutting through flesh was especially clear in the silent hallway. My right hand pressed down hard on a large, razor-sharp piece of glass. Blood gushed out instantly, staining the floor red. Piercing pain shot from my palm, but I didn’t make a sound. I just bit my lip hard and watched Lucas carry Serena away, disappearing around the corner without looking back once. He didn’t even glance back at me. Didn’t see my right hand covered in blood. I sat collapsed in a pool of blood, looking at my right hand pierced through by glass, and suddenly started laughing softly. I laughed and laughed, and then tears fell. This hand had once drawn countless designs that amazed the world. This hand had once gripped Lucas tightly in the flames, refusing to let go. This hand had once prepared countless meals for him with such hope. Now it was ruined. Good. I didn’t need it anymore anyway. Hospital emergency room. The doctor looked at my mangled right hand, his brow furrowed deeply. “Miss Winters, the glass shard severed the main nerves and tendons in your right hand. Although surgery can stitch it up, your right hand will no longer be able to perform fine motor movements. Which means… you may never be able to hold a brush again.” I leaned against the hospital bed and nodded. “It’s fine. Just stitch it up.” I didn’t need a brush anymore. Four days until the “Deep Sea” agreement took effect. The suturing surgery was done without anesthesia because I’m allergic to standard anesthetics. I just watched as needle and thread passed through my flesh, enduring all the agony. Did it hurt? Compared to the pain in my heart, this was nothing. After bandaging the wound, I refused hospitalization and walked out of the hospital alone. The late-night streets were bitterly cold. I dragged my exhausted, broken body back to that villa called “home.” I pushed open the door. The living room was pitch black. Lucas hadn’t come home. I didn’t turn on the lights. Using the moonlight, I went upstairs to the bedroom. I pulled out a black suitcase and started packing. Actually, I didn’t have much to take. Everything in this villa was stained with Lucas’s presence, suffocating me. I opened a drawer. At the very back sat an old wooden box. I opened it. Inside lay a crudely carved wooden ring. That was from when I was fifteen, when Lucas carved it bit by bit with a pocketknife and placed it on my finger. “Stella, when I grow up, I’ll marry you and make you my one and only Mrs. Thornfield.” The young man’s vow still echoed in my ears, but now it had become the most vicious curse. I picked up the wooden ring with my undamaged left hand, walked to the balcony, and threw it into the trash bin below without hesitation. Along with my ten years of love, humble as dust, I threw it all away.

Stella POV The next morning, Lucas pushed open the villa door carrying a bone-chilling coldness. Serena had only suffered a minor superficial injury, but he’d still watched over her at the hospital all night. As he walked into the living room, he saw a maid carrying a black trash bag toward the exit. “Stop. What are you holding?” Lucas asked coldly. The maid jumped in fright and quickly answered. “Sir, these are things the madam asked me to throw away this morning. They’re all old things…” Lucas’s gaze sharpened, falling on the half-open trash bag. Inside was a pile of cut-up clothes. All the cheap items he’d casually bought me over the years, which I’d treasured and worn for three years. And in the middle of those fabric scraps, a familiar wooden ring appeared in Lucas’s line of sight. Lucas snatched the trash bag, pulling out the wooden ring. The ring had some age to it now. The edges had been worn smooth, and the inside still faintly bore the initials of our surnames. “Where is Stella?!” Lucas looked up sharply, his eyes bloodshot as he roared at the maid. “M-Madam is in the glass greenhouse in the back garden…” The maid trembled all over in fear. Lucas clenched the wooden ring and strode toward the back garden with long, determined steps. On this early autumn morning, a cold drizzle began to fall. The glass greenhouse had no heating. It was as cold as an icebox. I wore thin pajamas, using my left hand to awkwardly pull up withered rose bushes by their roots one by one, throwing them into a nearby trash can. These roses. I’d planted them by hand when I first married Lucas. I’d naively believed that if I tended them with care, they’d bloom brilliantly someday, just as I’d believed that if I loved him enough, he’d look at me eventually. Now the flowers were dead. So was my heart. “What are you doing?!” An angry roar suddenly came from behind me. My movements paused. I didn’t turn around, just said flatly, “Clearing out trash.” “Clearing out trash?” Lucas rushed forward in a few strides, grabbed my shoulder, and forcibly turned me around. “Stella, what kind of madness are you having? What’s the deal with this ring? Where did you steal it from?!” He shoved the wooden ring right in my face, his expression fierce as if he wanted to devour me. I looked at the wooden ring, then at Lucas’s enraged face, and suddenly felt it was unbearably ironic. He’d forgotten me, forgotten everything, yet only this ring triggered a reaction in him. Too bad. Too late. “Stole it?” I laughed softly. “If Mr. Thornfield says I stole it, then I stole it. It’s just a worthless piece of junk anyway. Throwing it away is no big deal.” “You!” Lucas grabbed my throat and pinned me against the cold glass wall. “Stella, do you think playing these tricks will get my attention? I haven’t settled the score with you for pushing Serena last night! Now, go to the hospital immediately and get on your knees to apologize to Serena! Otherwise, I’ll make you wish you were dead!” I was forced to tilt my head back, breathing becoming difficult. My right hand hung limply at my side, the thick bandage already soiled with rainwater and mud, faintly seeping bright red blood. But Lucas didn’t notice at all. “I… won’t… go…” I forced these words through gritted teeth. “Good! Very good!” Lucas was so angry he laughed, suddenly releasing his grip. I lost support and fell sitting in the cold mud, coughing violently. “Since you love staying here so much, then stay here! Without my permission, no one is allowed to let her out! And no one is allowed to bring her food!” Lucas turned and strode away. With a loud “bang,” the greenhouse door was locked tight from the outside. The cold autumn rain pounded against the glass, making suffocating sounds. I curled up in a corner, hugging my shivering body tight. Three days until the “Deep Sea” agreement took effect. Night fell. The autumn rain turned to freezing sleet mixed with ice. The temperature in the glass greenhouse dropped to freezing. I curled up on the muddy ground in the corner, my whole body burning, my consciousness beginning to blur. Excruciating pain came from my right hand wound, accompanied by the bone-deep aching brought on by high fever, as if countless ants were gnawing at my flesh and blood. “Lucas…” I mumbled that name carved into my bones in my feverish delirium. In my haze, I seemed to return to the fire scene when I was eighteen. Scorching flames devoured everything. The moment the beam fell, the young man held me tightly beneath him. “Stella, don’t be afraid… I’ll protect you…” The young man’s voice was gentle and firm, but in the next second, it transformed into Lucas’s ice-cold mockery. “What do you think you are? How dare you compare yourself to Serena?” “Draining you of your blood is what you owe her!” In the interweaving of ice and fire, I fell completely into darkness.

Lucas POV The next morning, I sat in the dining room, looking at the lavish breakfast spread before me without any appetite. I irritably tugged at my tie, unable to stop myself from glancing toward the back garden. A full day and night, and that woman hadn’t uttered a single word begging for mercy. “Sir, she’s been in the greenhouse all night. This morning the temperature dropped below freezing. She might…” The maid approached with coffee, speaking fearfully. “She won’t die!” I cut her off coldly and stood up. “A woman like her who’ll do anything to achieve her goals. Her life force is tough as nails!” Despite my words, my feet moved uncontrollably toward the back garden. The moment the greenhouse door opened, a bone-chilling cold hit me in the face. I immediately saw Stella collapsed on the muddy ground. She wore thin pajamas, covered in mud, lifeless as a discarded rag doll. Most striking was her right hand hanging at her side. The thick bandage had been completely soaked through with blood, turning a shocking dark red. “Stella!” My heart seized violently. An unprecedented panic grabbed hold of me instantly. I rushed over and gathered her into my arms. Where I touched, everything was scalding hot. “Stella! Wake up! Stop playing dead!” My voice trembled. I scooped her up horizontally and ran toward the garage like a madman. Grace Memorial Hospital, outside the emergency room. I slumped against the wall, my hands covered in Stella’s blood. The doctor came out, his expression grave. “Mr. Thornfield, Miss Winters’s high fever has triggered severe pulmonary infection. Additionally, her severed hand nerves weren’t treated promptly. The wound is seriously inflamed. Worse still, she’s chronically depleted from extensive blood loss. Her body is extremely weak. Her life is in danger at any moment.” “What did you say? Severed hand nerves?” I grabbed the doctor’s collar violently. “How could her hand be severed?!” “Miss Winters was brought to emergency the night before last with her right hand severely cut by glass. All the nerves and tendons were completely severed. In the future, she… she’ll never be able to hold a brush again.” I stood thunderstruck, frozen in place. The night before last… glass injury… When the champagne tower collapsed! I’d only cared about picking up the lightly injured Serena, but I’d shoved Stella hard toward that pile of broken glass! She’s a genius designer! Her hands are her life! Yet she hadn’t made a sound, letting me lock her in that freezing greenhouse to die! I released the doctor and staggered back two steps. My heart felt like an invisible hand was violently tearing it apart. The pain made it impossible to breathe. Just then, my phone rang urgently. It was Serena’s attending physician. “Mr. Thornfield, this is bad! Miss Marlowe’s condition has suddenly deteriorated, triggering acute bone marrow failure! We must perform a bone marrow transplant immediately, or she won’t make it through tonight!” My grip on the phone tightened suddenly. “Are there matches in the bone marrow bank?” “No! Currently, the only person who’s a complete match for Miss Marlowe is… is your wife, Stella.” Silence filled the corridor. I turned my head and looked at the tightly shut emergency room doors. Inside lay the wife whose right hand I’d just learned I’d personally destroyed, hovering between life and death. On the other end of the phone was the “lifesaver” I’d sworn to protect with my entire life. What should I do? What on earth should I do?

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