The fifth year I was the underworld kingpin’s secret lover, he lost everything and decided to eat a bullet. My immediate, gut reaction was to run. I was halfway through packing a bug-out bag when a line of text materialized in my vision, hovering like a translucent banner ad. 【Don’t worry, the male lead doesn’t die. He’ll make a comeback in six months, crush all his enemies, and the female lead is the little angel who redeems him.】 【As for the side piece who runs away? She dies. Horribly.】 In a heartbeat, I switched allegiances. Dropping the bag, I flew to the rooftop and threw myself at his legs, wrapping my arms around them and bursting into manufactured tears. “Cole, don’t! That ridiculous diamond you gave me? The one the size of a robin’s egg? I haven’t even had a chance to wear it yet.” The moment the words left my mouth, the comment feed exploded. 【Wow. She might as well pull the trigger for him.】 1 When Cole turned to look at me, his eyes were wide with shock. “Why are you still here?” I clutched the cuff of his pants, giving it a playful, desperate shake. “You promised you’d protect me for life. You wouldn’t let me leave when bullets were flying, so you can’t go back on your word now, can you?” The comment stream was still scrolling frantically across my vision, a semi-opaque curtain over the world. 【No wonder he’s so ruthless with her later. She deserves it.】 【He’s literally on a rooftop about to kill himself, and she’s still treating him like her personal ATM.】 【He’s only got one bullet left for himself. This is brutal.】 【Well, if the side piece wasn’t selfish and vapid, how would the main female character’s kindness shine through?】 【Just wait. He’ll pull the trigger, the gun will misfire, a passerby will take him to the hospital, and the female lead will show up with all her resources to save the day. Can’t wait for her entrance!】 My mouth twitched as I read the comments, but my arms only tightened around Cole’s waist. He used to be the kind of man who commanded respect and fear in every corner of the city, the kind of man whose word was law. I could still feel the hard ridge of the scar on his abdomen where he’d taken a bullet for me years ago, but now he was so thin I could feel the sharp edges of his hip bones. He stared out at the river of headlights flowing on the streets below, his forehead pressed against the cold steel of the gun. His voice was hollow. “I’m a ghost, Annie. The guns are gone, my network is dismantled, and I’m drowning in debt. I can’t protect you anymore.” He nodded toward the apartment. “There’s a card in the nightstand. It’s the last of my cash, five hundred thousand. The pin is your birthday. Take it and go.” I couldn’t see his expression, but it was the first time I’d ever heard that voice—a voice that had orchestrated a hundred high-stakes deals—sound so broken. Even at his absolute lowest, his first thought was creating an escape route for me. I tugged on his shirt, my tone suddenly shifting, becoming serious and unyielding. “No. If it comes to it… I’ll protect you.” At that, Cole’s head snapped around. His dark eyes were a vortex of complex emotions: surprise, disbelief, and a flicker of something deeper, a hidden panic. Before he could speak, I quickly added, “Today is our fifth anniversary. I got you a present!” The wind whipped harder across the rooftop, making his thin dress shirt snap and billow. Beneath the flimsy fabric, I could see the faint outline of bruises that hadn’t yet healed on his back, stretched over the solid muscle beneath… He stared at me for a long moment before his voice, now raspy, finally came out. “You got me a present?” In five years, Cole had given me a handgun encrusted with diamonds, a one-of-a-kind emerald necklace worth millions, and even a vintage muscle car I’d mentioned offhandedly, which he’d had sourced from a private auction overnight. But he had never received a single real gift from me. Back in the apartment, Cole stared blankly at the “gift” I presented. I held up a slinky, black slip dress from La Perla, pressing it against his broad chest and studying the fit with a critical eye. “Hmm, I think it’s a little small,” I said, my expression a perfect mask of sincerity. Then, with a sigh of feigned frustration, “And they have a strict no-return policy. What a shame. I guess I’ll have to wear it.” A dry, choked laugh escaped his lips. It was the first time he’d almost smiled all night. He turned and, without a word, started walking back toward the rooftop. He was gone around the stairwell corner before I could even react. I stomped my foot in frustration. “Cole! You petty bastard!” His deep voice echoed back from the hallway. “Forgot my phone out there. I’m just grabbing it.” That night, the black slip dress I’d “accidentally” bought in the wrong size ended up on me after all. It had also added another two thousand dollars to the mountain of debt now attached to his name. He never said a word of blame. He just quietly folded it and placed it in the closet. After his fall, the word went out from his enemies: no legitimate company was to hire him. To cover rent and our expenses, he started fighting in an underground fight club they called “The Cage.” But no matter how late he got home, or how battered he was, he always came back and cooked for me. A protein, a starch, a vegetable. Different every day. Curled up on the sofa of our cramped studio apartment, I watched him walk through the door. His hands were wrapped in bloody gauze, and a fresh cut split the skin over his left eyebrow, beading with blood. The first thing he did was tie on an apron and start methodically chopping vegetables in the kitchenette. Who would believe that just a few weeks ago, this was “King Cole,” the man who could crush a rival’s wrist with one hand and made every syndicate boss in the state nervous? The entire apartment was barely two hundred square feet. His old gun safe was bigger than this. I sat on the sofa, eating the slices of mango he’d prepared for me earlier, and discreetly pulled out my phone. The screen displayed my own bank balance: eight million dollars. All “pocket money” from Cole over the years. Under the bed, in a shoebox, was the emerald bracelet and the limited-edition watch he’d given me. Any one of those items could cover the rent on this place for a decade. A pang of guilt hit me, and I glanced over at him. He’d taken his shirt off at some point. All he was wearing was a cheap, pink floral apron tied over his bare torso as he cleaned. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a sheen of sweat highlighting the hard lines of his muscles. He looked like some kind of dangerous, domestic demon. My heart gave a stupid little lurch, and I kicked my foot out, stubbing my toe hard on the coffee table. I cried out in pain. Cole was there in a second, kneeling in front of me, his large hands carefully cradling my foot. “You don’t have to go through this with me,” he said, his eyes downcast, his voice muffled. “Take the money I told you about. Find somewhere safe, start over. Don’t let my mess drag you down.” I pouted, letting my lower lip tremble. “I haven’t complained that you can’t even afford to buy bullets anymore, and now you’re trying to kick me out?” His mouth opened, likely to explain that wasn’t what he meant, but I cut him off. “I get it! You’re mad that I use too much hot sauce on my food every night. It’s too expensive, isn’t it?” I leaned in, my voice rising with indignation. “What did you say when you saved me from those kidnappers down in Mexico?” I poked his chest. “You said you’d protect me for life. And now you want to dump me for some girl who can help you fight your battles, is that it? You’re a liar, Cole!” He looked completely out of his depth. He reached out and covered my mouth with his hand. The palm was warm and smelled of antiseptic. His Adam’s apple bobbed. It took him a long moment to form the words. “I just don’t want you to suffer because of me,” he finally rasped. “This apartment leaks when it rains, and you wake up cold. The strawberries I bought yesterday were on sale, and you took one bite and didn’t touch the rest. I can’t even buy you that perfume you like anymore.” He finally met my eyes, his own filled with a deep, aching pain. “Annie, you deserve a hundred times better than this.” Logically, when an underworld kingpin falls, the woman he’s been keeping is supposed to grab the cash and vanish. But after five years together, how could I actually leave him? He might have been a monster to the rest of the world, but he never let even the shadow of danger touch me. No matter how busy he was, he always remembered I hated onions. Even when his rivals cornered us at our front door, his first move was always to push me behind him and murmur, “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” I grabbed the collar of his apron, yanked him down onto the sofa with me, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, right next to the cut. Beneath the sting of the antiseptic, I could taste the familiar, cool scent that was uniquely him. “You promised me a lifetime of protection,” I whispered against his skin. “Not a day less, not an hour, not a minute. You’re stuck with me, Cole.” The comment feed flickered back to life. 【HOLY SHIT! Did she just pin him to the couch? This is the guy who used to be a crime lord!】 【OMG! His ears are turning red! He’s blushing? Where’s the ruthless bastard who broke a guy’s legs?】 【Don’t ship it! Don’t ship it! The female lead is about to make her entrance! The next plot point is him getting humiliated at the fight club, and she swoops in with her connections to save him. That’s the one true pairing!】 【The side piece is just cannon fodder. The plot is going to write her out sooner or later. If you ship this now, you’re just setting yourself up for heartbreak.】 I ignored them. My hands slid from his apron to tangle in his hair, and I deepened the kiss. Cole’s eyes fluttered shut, and the blush that started at his ears spread down his neck. As I pulled back for a breath, he seized the opportunity, pushing me away gently. He scrambled to his feet, his voice stumbling over the words. “I—I have to… the rice will burn. I have to cook.” Watching him practically flee into the kitchen, I couldn’t help but smile. So, even the most feared man in the city had a shy side. The comment feed went wild again. 【Ahhhh he’s so adorkable! Who can resist that contrast!】 【I’m a terrible person, I’m starting to think the side piece and the male lead are kind of cute together…】 【Hey now, let’s not let our morals get swayed by a pretty face (and abs)!】 【Don’t do it, girl. She’s destined to be killed off by the plot. You’re just drinking poison thinking it’s wine.】 I had started noticing these strange floating lines of text a long time ago. At first, I dismissed them as visual floaters, stress-induced hallucinations. But then, the things they predicted started coming true, one after another. I had no choice but to accept it. From their chatter, I learned that my world was a novel. And I was the disposable side character. My purpose was to serve as a catalyst in the main characters’ love story. Early on, I was the selfish foil to the heroine’s selfless virtue. Later, I was meant to be a cheap obstacle to thicken their romantic plot. After I understood, I tried to fight it, to change the script. But most of the time, I felt like a mindless NPC, my actions controlled by an invisible hand. Like the day Cole decided to end his life. The “plot” had taken over, and my only impulse was to pack my bags and run. He was already raising the gun. But at the last second, a comment appeared, jolting me back to myself. Seeing the feed mention the exact timing of the heroine’s appearance, a new plan began to form in my mind… In the following days, Cole continued to fight, coming home bruised but always with enough money for rent and food. I lay on the couch, happily eating a cupcake he’d just brought home for me. Then, a new comment appeared: 【Tonight’s the night. The villain is going to show up at the underground casino. The casino is owned by the female lead’s family, and she happens to be there tonight. She’ll save him, and it’s love at first sight.】 【My girl is finally making her entrance! I’m so excited to see the sparks fly!】 【Here comes the female lead. Time for Annie, the side piece, to make her exit.】 【I suddenly feel a little bad for her. The first thing he does with his winnings is buy her a cupcake. She probably thinks he’s madly in love with her, not realizing personal feelings get erased by the power of the plot.】 So, the day had come. After Cole left, I picked out my heaviest, stud-covered clutch. Inside, I tucked a bottle of military-grade pepper spray he’d given me years ago. I found the entrance to the underground casino easily enough. As I approached the door, I could already hear the sounds of jeering laughter and angry shouts from within. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw him immediately. Cole, surrounded in the center of the fighting pit. His shirt was torn, revealing a patchwork of old and new bruises on his shoulder. Standing opposite him was Griffin, his foot planted arrogantly on Cole’s discarded boxing glove. Griffin was the “villain” the comments were talking about. He and Cole had a history, and now that Cole was down on his luck, Griffin was here to twist the knife. “Well, well, Cole,” Griffin sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You used to be such a big shot. Backed me into a corner so tight I almost threw myself off a bridge. Look at you now. Getting your face beat in for rent money?” He kicked the glove away. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you fifty grand. You get on your knees and let me beat on you for half an hour. After that, I’ll consider telling the house to pay you what you’re owed.” The crowd hooted with laughter. One of Griffin’s lackeys, a guy named Leo, sidled up to him and raised his voice. “Hey, Griff, you hear? Even in this state, his little girlfriend is still sticking around!” Another crony chimed in. “Yeah, can you believe it? Used to be dripping in diamonds, now she’s eating instant noodles with him. Girl must be brain-damaged!” Seeing Cole remain silent, Leo stepped closer, his face a mask of provocation. “How about this, Cole? You get on your knees and bow to Griffin three times. Then you call over your little piece of ass to have a few drinks with us. We’ll let you walk out of here. Deal?” Cole’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. He swung at Leo, but he’d taken a beating the night before, and his movements were a fraction too slow. Leo’s men grabbed him, forcing him to the ground. Griffin strode forward and landed a vicious kick to Cole’s stomach. “You think you’re still King Cole? You can’t even protect your own woman now!” Cole gritted his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple, but he still forced the words out. “Whatever you want, you do it to me. Don’t touch her.” The comments were on fire. 【What a scumbag! Using a woman to threaten someone!】 【This is it! He has to be thoroughly humiliated so that when the female lead saves him, he’ll fall for her instantly. She’ll become his guiding light.】 【Poor male lead. Why do they always have to torture the guy before giving him a crumb of happiness? Can’t people just fall in love normally?】 【Right?】 【That’s just how these stories work. Without the drama, what’s the point?】 The comment feed was arguing with itself. I let out a small breath of relief. If there was dissent, it meant there was a chance for change. Just as they were forcing Cole to his knees, and just before the destined heroine, Clara, could step out of the shadows and deliver her grand rescue, I tightened my grip on my purse and charged forward. The stud-covered clutch connected with the back of Leo’s head with a sickening thwack. “Try touching him,” I snarled. I stepped in front of Cole, hefted the clutch again, and swung it squarely into Griffin’s shoulder. “Kneel for your daddy, maybe,” I spat. “Griffin, when you used to see Cole, you barely had the nerve to breathe in his direction. Don’t get fucking cocky now that you’re playing king of the ashes.” Griffin winced in pain and lunged for me, but Cole surged up from the ground and shoved him back. He moved to stand in front of me, the cold fury in his eyes a terrifying echo of the man he used to be. The man who ruled this city. “Don’t. Touch. Her.” Leo, stunned for a second, broke into a cold laugh. “Cole, you can’t even save yourself. What makes you think you can save her?” I wasn’t worried. Leo and his goons didn’t have the plot armor of a main character; they couldn’t do anything to me. And as for the main characters, they weren’t allowed to break the law. Griffin couldn’t touch me either. I glanced down at the dent my clutch had made on his thick skull and then at the new scuff mark on my bag. A wave of regret washed over me. I should have put a brick in it. Leo was still rubbing his head, pointing a finger at me. “You bitch, you hit me—” Cole didn’t hesitate. He put his foot right in Leo’s chest. But there were too many of them. If a real fight broke out, Cole would lose. Badly. As I was trying to figure out a way out of this, the sound of a powerful engine and a sharp screech of tires cut through the noise. A black Maybach had pulled right up to the entrance. The tinted window lowered just an inch, revealing half a man’s face, wreathed in the smoke of an expensive cigarette. The man had a high brow bone and sharp lines etched at the corners of his eyes. He tapped a finger against the window frame, his gaze landing on me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher. Griffin’s furious eyes happened to catch sight of the car. He froze. A moment later, he was striding purposefully toward the Maybach. The comment feed went into a frenzy. 【He’s here, he’s here! That man is finally here!】 【The heir to the country’s biggest corporate empire! He’s so hot!】 【The big shot from NYC came all the way here to personally deliver an investment to Griffin. Griffin’s about to hit the big time! This is why he’s acting so arrogant.】 【Is it just me, or has the NYC big shot been staring at our little drama queen?】 【Yeah, that’s weird. Don’t tell me she’s his runaway heiress or something?】 My head slowly turned, and my eyes met the man’s dark, intense gaze. Oh, crap. It was Marcus. My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed Cole’s hand and started pulling him away. “Let’s go.”

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My wife, Claire, is the picture of emotional stability. She never checks my phone, never questions where I’ve been. She trusts me completely. All my friends tell me how lucky I am, what a great wife I have—so easygoing, so in love with me. Until, by chance, I stumbled upon her secret blog: “Since it can’t be you, it doesn’t matter who I marry.” “I see it now. Calmness and passionate love can’t exist in the same heart. With you, I was never this calm.” “Thank God our daughter looks like me. That way, when the three of us travel, there’s no shadow of anyone else.” Then I saw the post from our wedding anniversary. The day she took our daughter on an overseas trip with her first love. The day she let our daughter call him “Daddy.” In the blog, she wrote that it was the only way she could pretend he was her husband. Someone in the comments called her story tragic. I thought so, too. So I handed her divorce papers. I told her she could have our daughter. For the first time in our marriage, she became hysterical, screaming at me, demanding to know what more I could possibly want. “Who has it better than you? No man has it this easy! Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim here!” I just looked at her left hand, at the stark, empty space on her ring finger, and my voice was quiet when I replied. “Someone else can have this bargain. I’m done.” “I don’t want a woman whose heart belongs to another man.” 1 My wife, Claire, has her emotions on lockdown. She never checks my phone, never asks where I’ve been. She trusts me completely. My friends all say I hit the jackpot. “An easy-going wife who loves you? You’re living the dream, man.” And I’d smile, a smile that never quite reached my eyes. Tonight was a prime example. One by one, my friends’ phones buzzed with texts from their wives, summoning them home. Mine remained dark and silent. Mark, the last one left, nudged me with his elbow. “Seriously, Ethan. You have no idea how lucky you are. A wife like Claire… most of us would kill for that kind of peace.” I just nodded and finished my beer. After they’d all cleared out, I sat there for a while, draining one last bottle, building up the courage to go home. The house is always dark when I get back, so quiet I can hear the soft, even rhythm of Claire’s breathing from the bedroom. My foot bumped against the recycling bin, sending a clatter of glass through the silence. I froze, holding my breath, hoping I hadn’t woken her. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Claire emerged, shuffling in her slippers, her eyes clouded with sleep. “You’re home,” she said, her voice flat. “Get some sleep. You’ve been drinking, so I’ll go sleep in Maya’s room.” No annoyance. No anger. Not a ripple of emotion. Any other woman would have been furious—me coming home late, stinking of bourbon. Claire didn’t even raise her voice. It wasn’t the first time. I’ve dated other women, I know the little dramas, the playful arguments. Claire had none of that. Her emotional stability was so absolute, it was almost inhuman. But there wasn’t a word of concern, either. I stood there, rooted to the spot, as she walked toward our daughter’s room. The question I wanted to ask, the one I was too afraid to voice, swirled in my throat. It came out as a pathetic, desperate plea. “Claire? I feel a little sick. Could you… maybe make me some tea?” Her hand paused on the doorknob. She looked back over her shoulder, her expression as gentle, and as distant, as ever. “Just go to sleep, Ethan. You’ll feel better in the morning.” The door clicked shut, sealing off whatever else I might have said. The distance between us was more than just a single door. It was an ocean. 2 Claire and I met on what was supposed to be a blind date. Sort of. My actual date was running late. I was sitting at a small table in a crowded Chicago coffee shop when Claire walked up and sat down opposite me. We’d mistaken each other for our respective dates, but when I saw her, I felt a jolt. She was beautiful in a clean, understated way—a simple floral dress, a touch of makeup, nothing more. After a few minutes of confused pleasantries, she looked me straight in the eye and asked a question that short-circuited my brain. “What’s the absolute soonest you could get married?” Somehow, the words, “Whenever you want,” fell out of my mouth. I didn’t even think to ask her why she was in such a hurry. We met that morning and were at the courthouse by the afternoon. Before my brain had fully processed it, I was a married man. It wasn’t entirely crazy; my family had been pressuring me to settle down for years. Our marriage was… polite. We were like courteous roommates. I told myself it was fine, that we just needed time. In an age of swipe-right dating, horror stories of couples who dated for years only to break up were everywhere. I figured we were just doing it in reverse. But I waited. And waited. I waited until our daughter, Maya, was born. I waited for five years. Nothing changed. One night, a junior colleague from work—one who had a very obvious crush on me—texted me after midnight, asking for a ride home from a bar. Claire was lying right beside me in bed. She didn’t so much as stir. I hesitated, then nudged her, asking if she minded. Her answer was chillingly reasonable. “She’s a young woman out on her own. It can be tough. She wouldn’t ask you, a married man, unless she was really in a bind.” She was giving me permission. More than that, she was encouraging me to go. She knew about this colleague’s inappropriate texts. She’d seen them. But she didn’t care enough to even want an explanation. It was then that the cold truth finally settled in my bones. Claire didn’t love me. We could be married for a hundred years, and she would never love me. 3 I woke the next morning to an empty house. Claire and Maya were gone. I stood barefoot in the living room, looking around at the minimalist, grayscale decor. It felt less like a home and more like a showroom, devoid of warmth or life. Claire never cooked. We either ordered takeout or I ate at the office. For the first time, I asked myself if this was the life I really wanted. All I’d ever wanted was simple: a marriage that didn’t feel like a business arrangement, a partner I could argue with and laugh with. Claire wasn’t that person. Just then, my phone rang. It was work. I had to fly to Paris for an urgent meeting. It was a normal part of the job; our company did a lot of international trade. I sent Claire a text to let her know. Hours passed before a single word appeared in response: Ok. I scrolled up through our chat history. It was a long, one-sided monologue. Me sharing funny stories from my day, asking her questions. Her replies, when they came at all, were usually a single word answering only my last question. Once, when the silence had become too much to bear, I’d confronted her. “Why do you never text me back?” I can still picture her, holding a glass of water, her eyes as calm and still as a frozen lake. “We live together, Ethan. We see each other every day. What is there to talk about?” I was speechless. The truth was, she barely spoke to me at home, either. She only ever responded when my “nagging,” as she called it, became too much to ignore. I put my phone down and laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. As I was about to leave, I realized I’d forgotten my passport. I went to the study to look for it, opening the drawer of the old desk. Tucked away in the back, I found an old iPhone, a model from five or six years ago, preserved with meticulous care. Claire wasn’t a sentimental person; she didn’t keep old things. This was out of character. A flicker of curiosity turned into something heavier as I powered it on. The battery was full. She used this. She used it often. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I opened the phone. The contacts list had only one entry: The One I Can’t Forget. My hand trembled as I opened the messaging app. There were thousands of texts, all sent from Claire to this number. The earliest was from before we’d even met. Leo, are you okay? I know you’ll never get this, but I have to send it somewhere. I got married today. He’s… a lot. He always wants things from me. Leo, I’m pregnant. It’s funny, isn’t it? We always talked about having a baby together. Another broken promise. There were more. So many more. The words blurred as the blood froze in my veins. I backed out of the messages, my thumb shaking. I didn’t want to see any more of how Claire had spent our marriage confiding in the ghost of her first love. To her, I was just an annoyance. My thumb accidentally tapped on a blog app. The account was anonymous, but the profile picture was a photo of two hands, fingers intertwined. I knew, with a certainty that hollowed me out, that the other hand wasn’t mine. Claire never took photos with me. Not even a simple snapshot of us holding hands. The blog posts were written in plain English, but they were a language I couldn’t comprehend. It was never going to be you. So it didn’t matter who it was. I’ve learned that true peace and true love can’t live in the same heart. With you, my heart was never peaceful. I thank God every day that Maya looks like me. That way, when the three of us are together, there’s no shadow of anyone else.

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The day Cole Donovan brought his ghost home, I was standing in the marble entryway, spatula in hand, about to ask if he wanted me to add another course to dinner. Then I saw her. The ghost. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her eyes welling with cinematic tears. “I knew it!” she cried, her voice cracking with practiced despair. “It’s always true, what they write in the novels! The second I go abroad, you find a replacement and install her in your house!” A replacement? 1 I glanced down at my stark white chef’s coat, the grease-resistant clogs on my feet, and the silicone spatula I was still holding. If this was a casting call for a stand-in, nobody had bothered to give me the script. Before I could process the sheer absurdity of it, the woman—Claire Sterling, I’d soon learn—doubled down. “No wonder you’ve been so distant these past few years, barely a word while I was away. You had a new toy to play with. You threw me away, your first love, like I was nothing.” Her voice rose to a dramatic crescendo. “And now that I’m back, you can’t even bear to send her away. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll leave. I’ll leave you two to your happiness!” Watching her, a fragile porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, I was utterly dumbfounded. What in the Lifetime movie was happening? Wasn’t I Charlotte Hale, the chef Cole Donovan had personally headhunted and offered a one-million-dollar annual salary to manage his gastritis with my culinary skills? How did I get promoted from private chef to home-wrecking doppelgänger? Cole himself looked pained, a deep furrow forming between his brows. “Claire, what on earth are you talking about? You were gone for three months, and I flew to Paris to see you every other week. How is that ‘barely a word’?” He gestured toward me, his hand slicing through the thick tension in the air. “And this is Charlotte Hale, my chef. She’s not… whatever it is you’re imagining.” “A chef?” A single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. “Since when are chefs young and… and look like that?” “I like to wear white,” she choked out, pointing at my uniform coat. “And she’s wearing white. If that’s not a sign, what is? Cole, darling, you don’t have to lie to me.” I looked down at my functional, double-breasted cotton coat, then at her ethereal white silk dress that probably cost more than my first car. The only thing they had in common was the absence of pigment. An involuntary twitch started at the corner of my eye. I sighed, deciding to intervene with logic—a futile weapon, I’d soon discover. “Ms. Sterling, I really am the chef. If you don’t believe me, you can come to the kitchen. There’s a chicken soup simmering on the stove right now.” She clapped her hands over her ears and stomped a stiletto-clad foot. “I’m not listening! I’m not! And even if there is soup, you probably just put it there to trick me!” Cole looked utterly exhausted. “Claire, what will it take for you to believe that Charlotte is just the chef?” “Get rid of her,” she said instantly, a triumphant glint in her teary eyes. “Then I’ll believe you.” She crossed her arms, looking like a detective who had just cracked a case wide open. “I’ve read this story a hundred times. The First Love and the Stand-In can’t coexist under the same roof. It’s only a matter of time before she schemes her way into my place. I won’t lose you, Cole. She has to go.” Hearing this, Cole’s frown deepened. He shot a hesitant glance in my direction. His gastritis had only just started to improve under my care; he was nowhere near ready to go back to takeout and bland protein shakes. But it was clear Claire wasn’t going to back down. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he made his decision. He walked over to me, lowering his voice. “Charlotte, I know our contract is for a live-in position, but given the… situation, I’m going to have to ask you to move into my penthouse downtown.” My ears perked up. “I’ll cover the commute, of course—double the rate for your trouble. And I’ll add a three-month salary bonus as compensation for the inconvenience. How does that sound?” My eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Cole’s downtown penthouse was a five-minute drive from the estate. Not only would I get a paid commute, but I’d also bank an extra quarter of a million dollars? Just for moving my suitcase? This was more than a win. This was a lottery ticket. I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “No problem at all, Mr. Donovan. Do you need me to move out right now?” I already had my phone out, ready to call a moving service. Cole seemed taken aback, probably expecting me to put up a fight or burst into tears. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but he just nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice flat. “That would be best.” The movers were surprisingly fast. As I directed them with my luggage, Claire sauntered over in her heels, looking down at me from her self-appointed pedestal. “See, Charlotte? You can sneak in while I’m gone, but it doesn’t matter. In the end, you’re the one being shipped out. In Cole’s heart, I’m the only one who matters. No matter how hard you try, a replacement will always be a replacement.” Just then, my phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. The seven-figure wire transfer for my “inconvenience” was shining on the screen. Suddenly, Claire’s face seemed almost angelic. She was my benefactor, the catalyst for this beautiful windfall. I smiled at her, a wide, genuine smile. “You’re absolutely right. You’re the most important person to Mr. Donovan. I could never compare.” She sniffed, mollified. “At least you know your place.” She turned and clicked away on her heels. In the distance, I heard Arthur, the house manager, asking where she’d like to stay. Her reply was loud and clear. “I’ll take the room Cole keeps locked, the one filled with my photos that he uses to remember me by.” Arthur sounded bewildered. “Ma’am, I don’t believe such a room exists.” Her voice shot up an octave. “How could it not? In the stories, after the First Love goes away, the CEO always keeps a locked shrine for her, a room no one is allowed to enter! If you don’t know about it, just say so. Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist!” Her voice faded as she walked further into the house. I just shook my head and offered a silent, two-second prayer for Arthur. He was going to need it. 2 Life in the penthouse was, for a time, blissfully quiet. My duties were simple: three times a day, Arthur would pick me up and sneak me onto the estate, steering clear of Claire’s line of sight, so I could prepare Cole’s meals. The rest of the time was my own. I felt my energy returning, the color coming back to my cheeks. Arthur, on the other hand, looked like he was wilting. Each day, the dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced. One morning, during our clandestine hand-off, I couldn’t help but ask. “Arthur, is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Don’t get me started, Ms. Hale. That Ms. Sterling is going to be the death of me.” He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Her first day here, she demanded that Mr. Donovan fire me. The reason? Because I failed to inform her that she was the ‘first woman he had ever brought home.’” My eyebrows shot up. “Then, the next day,” he continued, “she asked me if it was true that Mr. Donovan ‘hadn’t smiled in the ten years’ since she left. I just showed her a press photo from his interview two days prior—he was smiling in it. She got so angry she threw my phone against the wall.” It was as if a dam had broken. Arthur unleashed a week’s worth of grievances, detailing every bizarre, novel-inspired demand Claire had made. Listening to him, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I had dodged a cannonball. If I had stayed, I would’ve been a cast member in her daily melodrama, and I was pretty sure that kind of stress shaves years off your life. But my relief was premature. My peaceful existence came to a screeching halt a few days later when my doorbell began ringing with the frantic, insistent rhythm of an alarm bell. I opened the door, and Claire shoved past me, storming into the apartment. She surveyed the space like a conquering general, her eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling windows and designer furniture before landing on me with a triumphant sneer. “I should have known you’d leave so willingly,” she said, her voice dripping with accusation. “Cole had another house to hide you in all along!” A headache was already forming behind my eyes. I wanted her gone. “Ms. Sterling, I’m a chef. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, I can show you my employment contract.” I retrieved the document from my desk. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened in shock as they landed on the salary figure. “A million dollars?!” she shrieked. She snatched the contract from my hands and slammed it down on the coffee table with a laugh that was more of a sneer. “No chef makes that kind of money. This isn’t a salary, Charlotte. This is what he pays to keep you!” That was it. I earn my living with my own two hands, with years of training and skill. Her words were a direct insult to my professionalism. My patience snapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed Cole. “Mr. Donovan,” I said, my voice tight, “could you please come and manage your… First Love?” A heavy sigh came through the receiver. “She’s there? Put her on.” Claire took the phone, her face a mask of contempt. But as she listened, her expression began to shift. The color drained from her cheeks. She shot me a venomous glare, muttered a curt “I understand” into the phone, and hung up. Drawing herself up, she regained her haughty posture. “You got lucky today. But don’t think this is over. Cole might be blinded by you for now, but he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll see that a cheap imitation can never compare to the real thing.” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. I stood there, phone in hand, seriously contemplating billing Cole for emotional damages. To avoid another confrontation, I stopped going to the estate altogether. I prepared Cole’s meals in my own kitchen and had Arthur pick them up in insulated containers. A few days later, Arthur arrived not just with empty containers, but also with a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was an invitation to a welcome-home party for Claire. I stared at the gold-embossed calligraphy, and the throbbing in my temples returned. I was about to refuse when Arthur added the crucial detail. “Mr. Donovan said Ms. Sterling has been… insistent. He said if you attend, he’ll pay you ten times your daily rate for overtime.” He gave me a look that said, Some people have all the luck. My attitude did a complete 180. “Overtime pay? Don’t be silly. When Mr. Donovan needs me, I’m there for him. It would be my honor to attend.” The party was held at Cole’s estate. When I arrived, Claire was at the grand piano, bathed in a soft spotlight, looking for all the world like the ethereal ‘First Love’ she claimed to be. The moment I stepped into the room, several of the city’s most prominent figures—heirs to old money and titans of industry—left their conversations and gravitated toward me. “Charlotte, my dear! Does your presence here mean you’re catering tonight? My evening just got infinitely better.” “Are you considering any new offers, Charlotte? My mother has been practically begging me to poach you. Name your price.” The piano music stopped abruptly. Every head in the room turned toward Claire. She rose, picking up a microphone, her eyes blazing as she stared at the circle of influential people surrounding me. “For those of you who don’t know,” she announced, her voice amplified throughout the silent room, “I am Claire Sterling. Cole’s one true love. The woman you are all fawning over is nothing but a cheap, classless replacement.” Her voice dripped with scorn. “You’d be wise to choose who you associate with. Backing the wrong horse can be… costly.” A few people exchanged bewildered glances, but then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they turned back to me and resumed their pleasantries. Claire was seething. She clearly believed I had somehow brainwashed the city’s elite in her absence. But then, a new thought seemed to occur to her, and a cruel, mocking smile spread across her face. She glided over, her dress shimmering. Her voice was sickly sweet. “My performance was adequate, I suppose. But I’ve heard, Charlotte, that you are an even more accomplished pianist. Why don’t you play something for us? Unless, of course, you think you’re too good for our guests.”

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Before I married Grant Covington, his mother put me through a pre-nuptial obedience test. She made me kneel and serve champagne to the entire family. I knelt. She made me walk barefoot across the estate’s jagged gravel driveway to prove I had “grit.” I walked. She made me sign an iron-clad prenuptial agreement, stating that in the event of a divorce, I would leave with nothing. I signed. Grant stood by and watched it all, his face a mask of indifference. “It’s not a big deal, Chloe,” he’d said, his voice low. “Just get through it. These are just family traditions.” I smiled and nodded, a single tear betraying me as it traced a path down my cheek. The final part of the test came without warning: a sharp, stinging slap across my face from his mother, Eleanor. “If you want to marry into this family,” she hissed, “you need to learn your place.” I didn’t move. But upstairs, in his home office in the middle of a video conference with his board, Grant Covington suddenly coughed, spraying a fine mist of blood across his monitor. He clutched his own cheek, his eyes wide with a terror he didn’t understand, staring at me through the open doorway. [SYSTEM INITIATED: Empathic Link with Grant Covington is now active. All physical and emotional trauma inflicted upon the host will be experienced by the target at 100% intensity.] 1 The sting on my face hadn’t even begun to fade when Grant’s body went rigid, and he collapsed backward like a marionette with its strings cut. His handsome face, a face that had always been a canvas for arrogance and cool dismissal, was now twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Grant!” “Mr. Covington!” The Covington living room erupted. The symphony of chaos was immediate—screams, the frantic scrape of chairs, a table overturning with a crash. I stood frozen in the center of it all, watching as they scrambled to get Grant onto a stretcher, his body limp. The one who had started it all, his mother, Eleanor, stared for a single, stunned moment before her eyes found me. She pointed a trembling finger. “You!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You’re a curse! A goddamn black widow! My son is perfectly healthy, and the moment you’re in this house, he collapses!” I said nothing. I just lifted a hand to my own face, gently touching the raised, swollen flesh of my left cheek. It burned with a heat that felt strangely similar to the dying fire in my heart. The diagnosis from the hospital came back quickly: acute concussion with associated soft tissue damage to the face. Cause unknown. When Grant woke up, I was the only one in the room. He saw the perfect, five-fingered print blooming on my cheek—an exact mirror of the phantom impact he remembered—and the confusion in his eyes hardened into a familiar, chilling resentment. “Chloe, what did you do to me?” His voice was a raw rasp, thick with accusation. I looked at him, my expression unreadable. “I didn’t do anything. Your mother slapped me, and you collapsed.” “Absurd,” he scoffed, the sound sharp with contempt. “My mother hits you, and I start bleeding? Chloe, I knew you were desperate for my sympathy, but this is a new low. Are you really making up this kind of garbage now?” “It’s not garbage,” I said, my voice steady, each word a carefully placed stone. “A moment ago, we were bound by something called an Empathic Link. From now on, any pain I feel—physical or emotional—you will feel it, too. Perfectly.” Grant stared at me, his disgust a palpable thing in the sterile room. “Is this your new gimmick? I have to hand it to you, Chloe. The lengths you’ll go to just to get my attention… it’s almost impressive.” “You don’t believe me?” I asked. “I believe you’re insane,” he bit out. A small, broken laugh escaped my lips, followed by another traitorous tear. I wiped it away angrily. I looked at this man—the man I had loved with a fierce, unwavering devotion for ten years, a man whose heart remained a fortress of ice—and spoke in a tone so cold it startled even me. “Let’s make a bet, Grant.” “A bet about what?” He arched an eyebrow, looking at me like I was a particularly pathetic insect. “I bet,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, “that I’m going to make you understand, in every nerve of your body, exactly how much this last decade has hurt.” He didn’t answer. He just turned his head away and buzzed for the nurse, his dismissal more eloquent than any insult. He found my very presence nauseating. I looked out the window at the inky black sky. “You’ll believe me,” I whispered to the glass. “You will.” 2 When I returned to the Covington estate, Eleanor was waiting for me, her face a mask of rage. “You have the nerve to show your face here? You gold-digging witch! My Grant has never had so much as a paper cut his entire life, and the day he marries you, he ends up in the hospital! You’re bad luck!” As she screamed, she ordered a maid to take down the decorative riding crop that hung on the wall of the study. It was braided black leather, oiled to a dark sheen. My heart seized as I looked at it. I remembered when I first met Grant. He was just like that crop—proud, wild, and untamable. I’d spent years chasing after him, believing that if I just ran fast enough, loved hard enough, one day I’d be able to stand beside him. Now, I was just another object in his house he permitted to be beaten. The large television in the living room was on, tuned to an entertainment news channel. “Tech mogul Grant Covington was rushed to the hospital today,” the polished anchorwoman said. “His high school sweetheart, beloved pop star Isabelle Vance, was seen rushing to his side. Sources say she hasn’t left him for a moment, fueling speculation that rumors of his recent marriage to a mysterious nobody were greatly exaggerated…” On the screen, Isabelle was tenderly tucking the corner of a blanket around Grant’s shoulder. And the way Grant looked at her… it was with a softness, a warmth, I had never once seen directed at me. So he wasn’t a man made of stone. He was just reserving all his warmth for someone else. And I couldn’t even earn a shred of his trust. A wave of grief so profound it felt like drowning washed over me. Crack. The first lash of the riding crop across my back was electric. The pain was so sharp, so immediate, that my knees buckled. It felt like my skin had split open. “I’ll teach you to seduce my son, you little tramp! I’ll beat the ambition out of you!” Eleanor was in a frenzy, bringing the crop down again and again. Just then, my phone rang. It was Grant. With a trembling hand, I managed to answer it. “Chloe!” His voice was a furious, pained roar through the phone. “What is this, some kind of self-harm stunt to get my attention now? I’m telling you, stop it! Whatever you’re doing, it’s pathetic, and it’s only making me hate you more!” His voice was loud enough for Eleanor to hear. She thought I was tattling on her. Her expression curdled into something even more monstrous. “You dare call him? You think he’ll save you?” She raised her arm high, putting the full force of her body into one final, brutal swing. “Aaargh!” The sound that ripped through the phone was not Grant’s angry shout, but a raw, piercing scream of agony. It was a sound of unimaginable pain, a sound that bypassed the ears and shot straight into the spine. Eleanor froze. On the other end of the line, Grant’s screams dissolved into tortured groans, each one more desperate than the last. Panic finally broke through her rage. She dropped the riding crop and snatched the phone from my hand. “Grant? Grant, honey, what’s wrong? Talk to Mommy, what’s happening?” His voice came back, choked and ragged. “Mom… my back… It feels like it’s on fire… God, it hurts…” “Your back?” Eleanor’s face was a canvas of confusion. She glanced down at me, collapsed on the floor, my back a mess of bleeding welts. “Don’t you worry, baby, I’m coming right now!” she said into the phone. “It must be that witch. She’s putting a curse on you!” She hung up and ran out of the house. At the hospital, Grant was drenched in a cold sweat, the pain in his back so intense he could barely breathe. He grabbed his mother’s hand the moment she rushed in. “Mom,” he gasped, his eyes filled with a terrifying new suspicion. “Did you… did you just hit Chloe?” Eleanor’s eyes darted away for a second. “No! Of course not! Why would I do that? She was throwing a fit at the house, crying and screaming. I just scolded her a bit, that’s all.” Isabelle, who had been sitting quietly by his side, immediately chimed in, her voice dripping with counterfeit concern. “That’s right, Grant. Eleanor has been so worried about Chloe. But Chloe… she was saying some very strange things on the phone. I think she really upset your mother.” She gently rubbed Eleanor’s arm as if to comfort her. Grant looked at his “wronged” mother and the “kind-hearted” Isabelle. Then he thought of my dead silence on the phone. The flicker of suspicion was extinguished, replaced by a wave of disgust. Even if this Empathic Link thing was real, he thought, she was clearly hurting herself just to manipulate him. The woman’s deviousness knew no bounds. 3 Grant was discharged the next day. Isabelle came back to the estate with him, under the guise of “taking care of him.” Eleanor was, of course, delighted. While Grant was in his office taking calls, Eleanor and Isabelle summoned me downstairs. A pile of shattered porcelain—what looked like an antique vase—was swept into the middle of the floor. “The floor is dirty,” Eleanor said, her arms crossed. “Kneel and clean it up.” Isabelle stood beside her, feigning sympathy. “Chloe, just do as she says. Eleanor is just trying to teach you how things are done here. Grant doesn’t like women who don’t know their place.” My knees were already a canvas of deep purple bruises from the riding crop. Kneeling on the sharp, jagged pieces of porcelain sent spears of agony shooting up my legs. Every tiny movement was like having needles driven into my bones. Upstairs, Grant leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes closed. Suddenly, a searing, drilling pain exploded in his knees. It was so intense he cried out, his eyes flying open. That feeling… it was exactly like the pain in his back. His heart hammered in his chest. He shoved his chair back and ran from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached the landing just in time to see Isabelle holding a bucket of water. “Oh my!” she cried, pretending to trip. The entire bucket of ice-cold water sluiced down over my head. The shock of the cold made me gasp, and the water stung the open cuts on my knees, making me dizzy with pain. Seeing Grant, Isabelle immediately ran to him, burying her face in his chest, her body trembling with sobs. “Grant, darling, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Chloe just stood up so suddenly, I lost my balance… Do you think she was going to use a piece of the porcelain to… to hurt herself and blame us?” Eleanor jumped in immediately. “That’s exactly what she was doing! This woman is poison, Grant! You can’t let her stay here, she’ll destroy our family!” Grant looked at my drenched, pathetic form, then at Isabelle, sobbing in his arms. The doubt in his eyes vanished, replaced once again by that familiar wall of contempt. “Tie her to a chair,” he commanded to the maids in a voice of ice. “Let’s see her try to hurt herself now.” Two maids grabbed me roughly, dragged me to a dining chair, and bound my arms and legs with thick rope, pulling it so tight it bit into my skin. I couldn’t move an inch. Grant shot me one last, cold look before turning and leading Isabelle upstairs. Back in his office, as soon as he sat down, a strange, suffocating pressure enveloped his entire body. His bones, his muscles, every joint felt as if it were being crushed by invisible ropes, making it hard to breathe. He understood instantly. Chloe was tied up, so he felt tied up. That ridiculous “Empathic Link”… could it actually be real? A terrifying thought began to form in his mind. He stood up abruptly. “Isabelle,” he said to her as she peeled an apple for him, “why don’t you and Mom go on a shopping trip? Get out of the house for a bit. I need some time alone.” To his mother, he added, “Go relax, Mom. Use my card.” They were thrilled at the prospect and left almost immediately. The moment the front door clicked shut, the suffocating pressure around Grant’s body vanished. He stood motionless, his face a storm of conflicting emotions. After a long moment, he walked slowly down the stairs and stood before me, still bound to the chair. I was soaked to the bone, water dripping from my hair and tracing paths down my face. It was impossible to tell if they were from the bucket or from my own eyes. He watched me in silence. For the first time, his gaze was free of that cold, cutting disgust. He crouched down in front of me, his voice rough with a vulnerability he himself didn’t recognize. “Did they… did someone actually hurt you?” 4 My lips parted. The words, a tidal wave of every injustice, every heartbreak, every shard of despair, were about to pour out of me. But at that exact moment, the front door clicked open. Eleanor and Isabelle were back. “Oh, we forgot the new limited-edition handbag that just came in!” Isabelle chirped as she walked in. She saw Grant crouched in front of me, and her smile froze. “Grant… what are you doing?” Eleanor saw it too. Her face hardened. She strode over and yanked Grant away from me. “What could you possibly have to say to this curse?” she spat, pointing at me. “Look at her, playing the victim! It’s all an act to manipulate you, my son. Don’t you fall for it! A woman like that has a heart as black as tar.” Grant stood up. The flicker of doubt that had been in his eyes was extinguished by their words, crushed under the weight of his lifelong loyalties. His gaze, when it met mine again, was as cold and impatient as ever. Without another word, he turned and went back upstairs. The tiny ember of hope that had sparked within me was doused with ice water. I watched his retreating back, and my heart, piece by piece, turned to stone. That evening, Grant had to leave for an emergency at the office. The moment his car was gone, the jealousy and hatred in Isabelle’s eyes were finally unleashed. She sidled up to Eleanor. “Eleanor, the way Grant was looking at her today… he’s going soft. We can’t let this go on. We have to teach her a lesson she will never, ever forget.” Eleanor nodded grimly. They exchanged a look, a silent, vicious agreement, and then they came for me. They untied the ropes, and before I could even process what was happening, they each grabbed an arm and dragged me up the stairs and into the second-floor bathroom. “You want to seduce my son? I’ll give you a taste of what you deserve!” Eleanor’s face was a grotesque mask of fury. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and, with all her strength, shoved my head into the toilet bowl. The icy, foul water filled my nose and mouth instantly. I thrashed, my hands clawing wildly, but Isabelle pinned them behind my back. The feeling of suffocation was absolute. My lungs burned, screaming for air. My mind went fuzzy as black spots danced in my vision. Just as I thought I was going to die, Eleanor yanked my head back up. I gasped greedily for air, coughing and sputtering, tears and snot and filth covering my face. “Please…” I begged, my voice a weak croak. “Please stop…” “Begging?” Isabelle sneered. She picked up the toilet brush and scraped its filthy bristles against my cheek. “Maybe a good scrub with toilet water will wash away your delusions. You think you’re worthy of a man like Grant?” Eleanor gave me no time to recover. She grabbed my hair again and plunged my head back into the water. The world dissolved into a maelstrom of cold, darkness, and pain. My lungs felt like they were ripping apart. My consciousness began to fray, the edges of my vision dissolving into a black tunnel. My struggles grew weaker. The shadow of death felt cold and real. As the last flicker of my consciousness was about to be extinguished, the bathroom door exploded inward, kicked off its hinges with a tremendous crash. I was yanked out of the water and dropped onto the floor, where I lay heaving and retching like a dying fish, coughing up water until my throat was raw. Through my blurred vision, I saw Grant. He stood in the doorway, his face a mask of a terror and fury I had never seen before. He shoved his mother so hard she stumbled and fell, then pulled me away from the toilet. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he spoke, his voice trembled with an uncontrollable rage, the voice of a demon clawing its way out of hell. “Mom! Isabelle! What the hell are you doing?! Were you trying to drown her?!” 5 Eleanor, sprawled on the floor, looked up at her son in disbelief. “Grant, you pushed me? For her?” Isabelle, snapping out of her shock, ran to him, bursting into theatrical tears. “Grant, you don’t understand! It was Chloe! She went crazy, screaming that she didn’t want to live anymore! She was trying to drown herself in the toilet, we were trying to save her!” “Yes! She was trying to kill herself!” Eleanor scrambled to her feet, latching onto the lie. “We were trying to stop her, and then you came in and…” She clutched her chest, pretending she was about to faint. Grant looked at the absurd scene, a migraine pounding behind his eyes. On one side, his hysterical mother and his sobbing first love. On the other, me, half-dead on the bathroom floor. He made his choice. He scooped me into his arms, carried me quickly into the master bedroom, and laid me on the floor. Then he walked out, and I heard the click of the lock from the outside. “Chloe, you stay in here,” his voice came through the door, exhausted and commanding. “Don’t go anywhere.” It wasn’t protection. It was imprisonment. I lay on the cold floor, listening to the muffled sounds of his family’s arguments and reconciliations, listening to Grant’s gentle voice as he soothed his mother and Isabelle. My heart died. It didn’t break; it simply ceased to beat with any warmth. I had thought he might apologize, that he might finally protect me. It was all a fantasy. In this house, I would always be the one who could be sacrificed. Despair, cold and absolute, washed over me. But this time, I didn’t cry. I pulled myself up from the floor and walked to the large mahogany desk. I opened a drawer. Inside was the pen Grant always used, a German-made Montblanc with a custom iridium nib, incredibly sharp. I gripped the pen. I looked at the pale, soft skin of my own left forearm. And without a moment’s hesitation, I dragged the nib across my flesh. I didn’t need a protector anymore. From this day forward, I would be my own weapon. A sharp, wet sound sliced through the silence of the room. Blood, dark and rich, welled up instantly, eager to escape. At that exact moment, in the top-floor boardroom of Covington Corp. Grant, having just placated his mother, was now attempting to salvage an important international video conference he had abruptly abandoned. He was addressing the foreign directors, his voice smooth and confident, when a sudden, razor-sharp pain shot through his left arm. He glanced down. A dark red stain was blooming on the sleeve of his expensive bespoke suit, spreading with impossible speed. The blood was pouring out of him as if from an invisible wound. “Ah!” In front of dozens of his top executives and the stunned faces of the international board members on the screen, their CEO let out a guttural, animalistic scream of pain. I looked at the deep, gaping wound on my arm, at the blood that flowed freely from it, and I smiled. Our bet, Grant, I thought. It’s just getting started. And now, I make the rules.

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“On the last day my name was posted for a guaranteed place at Stanford, our sex tape went viral. He held me, his apologies a warm breath against my ear, then turned to his friend with a smirk. “”Chloe’s coming back,”” he said. “”Had to roll out the red carpet.”” So it was all a lie. Three years of devotion, of careful tenderness, had been nothing but a long, meticulously planned con. He’d systematically dismantled my life—my academic career, my family, my name—all to win a smile from the one he truly loved. He thought he had destroyed me. He didn’t realize that a person with nothing left to lose is where the danger really begins. 1 The day the video of Caleb Hayes coaxing me into bed went viral across campus, my life imploded. I was expelled. My fellowship to Stanford’s graduate program, the culmination of three years of relentless work, was revoked. It got so bad that guys started cornering me in the library stacks, asking for my price. “Like father, like daughter,” someone sneered, his words a venomous echo of the whispers that had haunted my family for years. “The old man had wandering hands, and she’s got open legs. Runs in the family, I guess.” “Always the quiet ones, you know? Acting all pure and untouchable, but they’re the freaks.” I ran to find Caleb, my heart hammering against my ribs. I found him holding court in a private lounge downtown, the air thick with cigar smoke and the laughter of his friends. “God, that was brutal, man,” one of them said, clapping Caleb on the back. “Dropping the video on the last day of the nomination period? Stone-cold. Wiped out her whole future.” “She probably still thinks you’re in love with her,” another chimed in, and the group roared. “So, three years of playing the devoted boyfriend,” a third one asked, leaning in. “When are you gonna tell her the show’s over?” Caleb let out a low, lazy laugh, the sound of it chilling me to the bone. “When Chloe gets back, I think. I want it to be a surprise for her.” He took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Someone has to pay for what her father did to Chloe. It’s only fair.” “Oh my god, did you see this? Send it to me, Jenna, send it to me now!” “I’m sending it to Mark. He had a thing for her last year, the idiot.” “Damn. I mean, her body is insane, you gotta admit.” “What good is that now?” The heated discussion from my roommates buzzed around me. My hand trembled, sending a jagged line across the differential equation on my tablet. My eyelids twitched violently when I heard the last comment. Jenna’s boyfriend, Mark, had a crush on me. Which meant the ‘her’ they were dissecting was, in all likelihood, me. I cleared my throat. “Is… is something going on?” The chatter stopped. Three pairs of eyes snapped up to meet mine, followed by a flurry of stifled giggles. “Nothing, nothing at all,” one of them said, a little too quickly. “Just focus on your studies, our little genius.” But their expressions told a different story. It was a look I knew all too well, a look that transported me back to the relentless bullying of my freshman year, the kind that still woke me up in a cold sweat. My fingers felt clumsy as I opened the unofficial university subreddit. It was lagging, struggling to load under the traffic. And then I saw it. Pinned to the top of the page was a video, the title in a huge, bold font: “NORTHWOOD UNIVERSITY’S ICE QUEEN HAS A SECRET MELTDOWN.” In the video, a girl’s face was perfectly, brutally clear. Flushed, her expression a mixture of pleasure and pain, her sounds… intimate. You didn’t have to be a genius to know what was happening. The girl was me. Just then, my phone buzzed. An official email from the Dean’s Office. My graduate fellowship had been revoked. Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. Three years. Three years of sleepless nights in the library, of acing every exam, of winning every academic competition, all of it for a spot in my dream program. It was all gone. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to breathe. Don’t cry, Ava. Not yet. Find Caleb. My hand was on the doorknob of the lounge when their voices drifted out, sharp and clear. “Releasing it on the last day of the fellowship review period… that’s a power move. Wiped her academic career off the map.” “And she probably still thinks he’s head-over-heels for her, hahaha.” “Chloe’s flying in next week. What’s the plan for dealing with Ava then?” And then Caleb’s voice, the same voice that had whispered love songs in my ear just last night, now laced with a chilling amusement. “When Chloe gets back. I’m giving her a welcome home present.” It was all for revenge. From the very beginning. My mind went blank. The intimacy we’d shared, the moments I’d treasured, twisted into a razor-sharp blade and plunged directly into my heart. I stumbled away from the door, turning right into the path of Jenna’s boyfriend, Mark. He worked as a busboy at a restaurant just off-campus. He’d made a pass at me once when he was dropping Jenna off, his hands getting a little too familiar. I’d gently mentioned it to Jenna, and somehow, the story had twisted into me being the one who hit on him. “Ava? Hey,” he said, a greasy smile spreading across his face as he blocked my path. His eyes crawled over me. “What’s the rush? You deaf or just blind? Didn’t you hear me calling your name?” He looked me up and down. “Wow, you’re a lot more covered up today.” Before, his harassment had been confined to creepy late-night texts. Now, the mask was off. “Get out of my way,” I said, my voice shaking. He only stepped closer, the smell of stale beer on his breath. “Come on, just name your price. I’m good for it.” I backed away, bumping into a hard chest that smelled of tobacco and expensive cologne. “She said, ‘get out of my way.’ Are you deaf?” It was Caleb. Mark scoffed. “Still protecting her after all this? You really want someone else’s sloppy seconds?” The video only showed my face. No one knew the man with me was him. After Mark scurried away, I looked up into Caleb’s dark, unreadable eyes. “My fellowship was revoked. Did you know?” “I’m sorry, Ava. I didn’t know there was a camera.” The lie was so smooth, so practiced. I started babbling, begging him. “Then please, just talk to the dean. Explain it to them. Please… I worked for three years… you know how much this meant to me…” He reached out, his touch impossibly gentle as he wiped away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. “I’ve already had my dad’s lawyers get the subreddit taken down. Don’t be scared.” He pulled me into a hug that felt like a cage. “Let’s get you a room at the Langham for a few nights, just until this blows over. Don’t cry. It kills me to see you cry.” He never answered my question. He didn’t have to. He wasn’t going to help me. He was such a good actor. If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I would have believed him all over again. “It’s okay,” he murmured into my hair. “It’s just your face. Nothing else was showing.” Caleb went to take a shower. He never locked his phone; he knew I never looked. Tonight, I did. It was a group chat. The name was “Chloe’s Welcome Wagon.” “Chloe, when are you coming home? We miss you like crazy!” “Chloe, Caleb has a huge surprise waiting for you!” Every message tagged a name I knew with a sickening dread. Chloe Morgan. A girl my father had mentored, taken under his wing. After bombing her SATs, she turned on him, claiming he had harassed her for years. She said the trauma was why she’d only scored an 1100. At the same time, an anonymous letter detailing the allegations landed on the university president’s desk, right when my father was up for tenure. The story exploded online. My father, a man who had dedicated twenty years to teaching, had his reputation destroyed overnight. He was fired. His photo became a meme. His history of mentoring underprivileged students was twisted by bloggers into something predatory. It was a nightmare. To protect me, he sent me to live with my mother, and then he disappeared from my life. Everyone at school started to avoid me. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the pervert’s tree,” they’d whisper. It was Caleb who had comforted me back then. “The guilty will pay,” he’d said. I tried to explain. “It’s not true. My dad didn’t…” “It’s okay,” he’d cut me off, holding me close. “I’m with you, not your father.” He never listened. Now I knew why. He didn’t care about the truth. Because in his mind, my father was a monster. And I was the monster’s daughter. A new message popped up in the group chat. “Hey Caleb, why’d you only film Ava’s face?” Caleb’s friend replied before he could. “Dude, are you stupid? He told her he only filmed her face. If he’d shown anything else, the video would have been taken down instantly. It never would have gone viral. Caleb thinks of everything.” Another message. “Damn. Caleb even sacrificed his own body for Chloe’s honor. A true knight in shining armor, hahaha.” The messages kept coming, one after another. I tilted my head back, fanning my eyes to stop the tears. It’s okay, Ava. You can go home. When I walked into the Newport mansion, my mother was sitting on the velvet sofa, sipping tea. She didn’t look up. “How is the fellowship coming along?” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. “It’s… it should be finalized soon.” “Should be?” A sharp sting exploded across my cheek. My ear rang. I stared at her, bewildered. “Mom? What was that for?” “You have the nerve to ask me that?” She threw her phone at me. It struck me just above my eye, the pain bringing instant, hot tears. My mother, Eleanor, was practically shaking with rage. One of her business partners had shown her the video at a luncheon today, a deliberate, public humiliation. Oh. So it wasn’t just the university that knew. I clutched my swelling face, my knees giving out as I sank to the floor. “Mom, please, let me explain…” I tried to crawl towards her, to make her listen, but then I saw another face. A familiar, smiling face, standing just behind my mother’s chair. The source of my nightmares. Chloe Morgan. She was back. “Explain what?” my mother hissed. “Have I ever told you who you can or can’t date? No. But to make a video like that? Have you no shame?” Her voice dripped with contempt. “You’re just as disgusting as that father of yours.” I shook my head, my throat tight. “No, Mom, it wasn’t my fault…” “Not your fault? Then was it mine? Did I take your clothes off for the camera? Honestly, Ava!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You’re just like him!” Chloe stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on my mother’s arm. “Aunt Eleanor, don’t be so angry. Maybe Ava just made a mistake…” My mother had always adored Chloe, ever since she’d come to live with us for a year in high school. She’d constantly compared us. “Look at Chloe! She never even held a grudge about what your father did.” She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Now she’s back. I want you to get on your knees and apologize to her for what your father did.” “I will not kneel for her!” “Then get out of this house and don’t ever come back.” The fine lines around her eyes trembled with fury. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, I’m your daughter! Why don’t you ever believe me?” “You dare call yourself my daughter? I have no daughter as shameless as you.” Our housekeeper, Maria, immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door. “Miss Ava, your mother is very upset. It’s better if you leave for now…” The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me. And there, standing on the marble steps, was Caleb.”

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I spent four years on the West Coast, earning my PhD. To prevent the vultures—my own extended family—from circling the corporate assets, my grandfather put my boyfriend, Ethan, in charge of the company as acting CEO. He started as my assistant, a bright, ambitious guy I’d handpicked myself. Now he was the regent of my kingdom. The day I came back, striding into the Sinclair Global headquarters that was rightfully mine, I discovered my regent had a new assistant. Her name was Brielle, and she was looking at my resume like it was a piece of trash she’d just scraped off her shoe. “Two internships in four years during a doctoral program?” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire executive floor to hear. “Looks like you can’t hold down a job. A classic flight risk. I’m surprised you even got an interview with a record like that.” With that single, venomous sentence, my authority in the company I was born to lead evaporated. She then offered, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, that she could “do me a favor” and find an opening for me in the mailroom. So I wouldn’t have to face another termination, she said. It would be a shame to tarnish my resume any further. I thought of my grandfather’s final piece of advice before I left: Observe before you act. See the real landscape, not the one you expect. So I bit back the rage, waiting for Ethan to arrive. I expected an apology, a frantic explanation for the mix-up. What I got was a scowl. “Brielle is pregnant with my son, Sloane. How dare you upset her?” he hissed, his eyes cold. “This is for the good of the company, for the Sinclair legacy. We need an heir with the strongest possible genetics. This is a strategic merger of our talents.” He paused, as if granting me a great concession. “I’ll still marry you, of course. That was the deal. The certificate will have your name on it. But Brielle needs the wedding, the ceremony. It’s for the child’s legitimacy.” He looked me up and down, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. “Brielle isn’t going to be some stay-at-home mom; she’s a brilliant executive. She’s no threat to your position as the ‘official’ wife. But this little scene you’re making? It’s pathetic. Now go down to the mailroom and try to be useful.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Me, Sloane Sinclair, the sole heir to this entire building and everything in it, being told to sort mail? He’d been keeping my seat warm for four years, and in that time, he’d forgotten whose name was carved into the granite facade outside. He wasn’t just sitting in my chair; he was trying to saw the legs off. 1 “Everyone is watching, Sloane,” Ethan said, his voice a low, menacing hum. “Brielle is my executive assistant, my right hand. If you openly defy her, how is she supposed to command any respect?” The Ethan I knew—or thought I knew—was gone. In his place was this stranger with chillingly remote eyes. Employees walking past shot me sideways glances, their expressions a mixture of pity and contempt for the ‘flight risk.’ In the cutthroat world of New York finance, a spotty work history is a death sentence. It screams incompetence and a difficult personality. If that label stuck, I could inherit the company tomorrow and never command a shred of real authority. Before I could form a defense, Ethan grabbed my arm and dragged me into an empty conference room. His fingers dug into my wrist, leaving a brutal, blossoming bruise. I sucked in a sharp breath. He looked at me as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Do you have any idea what she’s going through physically to secure the Sinclair line? You’re a woman. You should have some empathy.” He tapped a manicured finger on my resume, which was lying on the table. “Two internships in four years. That kind of instability… no serious company would tolerate it. You need to face facts, Sloane. Your profile is weak. Your genetics are a risk.” The words were so outrageous, I almost couldn’t process them. “If you want Brielle and me to continue steering this ship for your family,” he continued, his voice dangerously soft, “then you will go down to the mailroom for a few months, keep your head down, and stop causing trouble for her.” Rage, pure and hot, flooded my veins. I had pushed myself to the absolute limit for four years. For my grandfather. To silence my grasping uncles. To walk back into this company not just as the heir, but as the most qualified person for the job. I graduated with a 4.0 GPA. I’d received glowing performance reviews from both internships. The only reason I’d left the first internship for the second was to quietly clean up a catastrophic mess Ethan had made on an overseas acquisition. I’d leveraged the connections from my new position to save him, to save this company, from a multi-million dollar lawsuit. And he hadn’t even bothered to read my file. He just listened to her, to Brielle, and decided I was a failure. My face went cold. “You will walk out there right now and correct the record,” I said, my voice dangerously level. “And then you will fire Brielle.” He actually laughed. “I’m the CEO of Sinclair Global. You’re not in a position to give me orders.” His face hardened. “This company will belong to my son one day. Brielle is being generous by even letting you work here. Don’t push it.” I nearly choked on my disbelief. I pulled out my phone, ready to call the head of HR and have Ethan escorted from the building, only to find the entire executive directory had been… altered. In the four years I was gone, he had systematically replaced every single senior staff member loyal to my family. They were all his people. His face was a mask of arrogance. “Brielle is in a delicate condition. She can’t be under any stress. Apologize to her, sincerely, and I’ll have HR process your paperwork for the mailroom.” He leaned in closer. “Otherwise, you can just sit in this room until you rot.” He slammed the door on his way out. Through the glass walls, I could hear the receptionists gossiping. “God, I hope they don’t actually hire her. The last thing we need is some psycho ex-girlfriend wandering the halls. Total resume-wrecker.” “Don’t worry. Mr. Hayes and Ms. Sinclair are practically engaged. And everyone knows Brielle is the real Miss Sinclair, the one who inherited everything. That woman is about to be blacklisted from the entire industry.” “They’re such a power couple. Homewreckers should just die.” I took a deep, shuddering breath and sent Ethan a text. One: By the end of the business day, you’ll be begging me to take your office. Two: We’re done. He didn’t even bother to reply, probably assuming it was an empty threat. I opened the company’s internal network, logged into the main employee forum, and typed a single, clear message. To clarify any confusion: the engagement between Ethan Hayes and myself is terminated. I wish him and Brielle all the best. The entire company network exploded. 2 The moment I hit ‘post,’ my phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. It was my Uncle Robert. “Sloane, dear, how’s the first day back? Feeling a little overwhelmed? I’ve always said, a girl like you shouldn’t be bothering with all this stress. You should be at home, keeping your grandfather company.” I typed back instantly. “Everything’s wonderful, Uncle. Thanks for your concern. You should focus on your own grandkids.” He didn’t reply for a long time, then sent a curt message saying he would pick me up after work to “see how I was settling in.” The subtext was clear: if I showed the slightest sign of weakness, he and the rest of the pack would be ready to pounce. Before I could even refuse, the conference room door flew open. It was Ethan, his face contorted with fury, the veins on the back of his hands standing out like cords. “You take that post down right now, Sloane,” he snarled. “You tell everyone you’re obsessed with me, that you had a psychotic break, I don’t care. Fix it. My mother was already hesitant about our arrangement because you never seemed serious about starting a family. Brielle is doing what you wouldn’t. I will not let you drag her name through the mud.” My head was pounding. I’d fallen for him years ago because he was handsome, competent, and willing to accept that this was my legacy, not his. To spare his pride, I’d let him tell his family that he was the one in charge, a white lie I was now paying for. I never imagined he was secretly planning to install his own dynasty. He was my grandfather’s choice. For that reason alone, I gave him one last chance. “Fire her, Ethan. Do it now, and you can stay on in a reduced capacity.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking utterly exhausted by my irrationality. “Sloane, I didn’t want to have to spell this out for you.” He gestured to my phone. “If you don’t officially start with this company today, what do you think those wolves in your family are going to do?” He laid out his offer: if I publicly apologized to Brielle, admitted to being a delusional stalker, he would let me start in the mailroom. He would save me from my family. “Otherwise,” he finished, his eyes like chips of ice, “you won’t be working here at all.” I lifted my chin. “Did you forget, Ethan? Sinclair Global is legally in my name.” That broke him. “I am so sick of your arrogance!” he roared. “I’ve poured my life into this company for four years! Doesn’t the mother of my child deserve a say in how it’s run? Stop being so goddamn selfish, Sloane!” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if making a monumental decision, then turned and walked out. I watched him go, wondering what he was planning. A moment later, a searing pain shot up my ankle. I looked down to see scalding hot coffee soaking through my clothes, my skin turning an angry red. One of the receptionists stood there, a half-empty coffee pot in her hand. “Ugh, pathetic,” she sneered. “They’re a beautiful couple, about to get married, and you show up trying to ruin everything. Some of us actually have to work for a living, you know. We don’t have time for gold-digging drama.” Her friends chimed in, their words a volley of insults, convinced Brielle was the true heiress they needed to defend. 3 I never thought they would dare to physically attack me. As I saw another assistant approach with a fresh cup, I shoved the heavy conference room door open. The sudden move startled them. My eyes met theirs, cold and furious, and their bravado withered. A few of them scurried back to their desks, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens. I focused on the ones still glaring at me. “I am the owner of this company. If you value your jobs, you will return to them immediately.” My words were answered by a series of sharp, yapping barks. Behind the crowd, Brielle was approaching, one hand cradled protectively on her stomach, looking radiant. A wave of nausea hit me. My grandmother had left me a little white dog, Pip, when she passed away. I adored him, a living link to her memory. But when I’d first brought him to the office, Ethan had insisted it was unprofessional. For him, for the company, I’d reluctantly agreed to leave Pip at home. And now, here was Brielle, parading a pack of yapping Pomeranians through my office. “Sloane, please,” she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “The stress… you’re upsetting the baby. You’re the heir to Sinclair Global,” she cooed, for the benefit of her audience. Then she leaned in, whispering so only I could hear. “You’re a washed-up nobody with a trash resume. Without us, who would be running this place for you?” Her public performance solidified the narrative. To everyone watching, I was clearly the unhinged one. “Go get a real job,” someone muttered. “Maybe you’ll get fired less.” I was completely surrounded, completely alone. And then I saw it. The little white dog nestled in Brielle’s arms wasn’t a Pomeranian. It was Pip. My grandmother’s Pip. He saw me, and after a moment of confusion, he let out a series of hostile barks. A pain sharper than the burn on my ankle shot through my chest. Even he had betrayed me. “Excuse me, which of you is Mrs. Hayes?” A group of men in sharp suits stood behind the crowd. One of them held a velvet jewelry box. Ethan strode forward, wrapping a protective arm around Brielle. “Darling, don’t let her upset you. You’re going to be a beautiful bride.” In front of everyone, he took the box from the man, who I now recognized as our private banker. He opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was the Sinclair Sapphire. The legendary gemstone my grandmother had acquired at auction years ago, meant for me to wear on my wedding day. It was kept in the company’s most secure vault. And Ethan had just used his authority to steal it. He fastened the necklace around Brielle’s neck. A collective gasp went through the onlookers. “Oh my god, I’m so jealous. Mr. Hayes is the perfect husband.” “Jealous of what? She’s a Sinclair. She was born with it all.” “It’s just these desperate women who make things ugly. She’s a pretty girl. Why can’t she just get a real job instead of trying to sleep her way to the top? No wonder nobody wants to hire her.” My hands were shaking. I lunged forward, desperate to rip that necklace, my grandmother’s legacy, off her neck. Ethan shoved me back, shielding Brielle. “Are you insane, Sloane? Mrs. Sinclair’s will clearly stated this was a gift for my bride! Are you going to disrespect her dying wish?” Security guards grabbed my arms. In the struggle, the sleeve of my dress tore, exposing my shoulder. I had reached my limit. “You say it’s yours. I say it’s mine,” I said, my voice ringing with a clarity that cut through the chaos. “Let’s have the police settle it.” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Whatever happened next, I had to be in that CEO’s office by the end of the day. I would not let my uncles see me fail. 4 Panic flashed in Ethan’s eyes. He lunged, knocking the phone from my hand and ending the call. “Are you out of your mind?” he roared. “Your resume is already a disaster! You want to add filing a false police report to your record? You’ll be a pariah in this city. Anyone associated with you will be toxic.” He lowered his voice, a desperate attempt at conciliation. “Brielle is brilliant, Sloane. Our child will be extraordinary. As his mother—his adoptive mother—you can’t have a criminal record staining his future. Don’t do this.” He played his last card. “That overseas deal I almost botched? It was Brielle who fixed it. She saved me. She saved the company. You should be thanking her.” So that was it. He thought the person who had anonymously pulled strings to secure that foreign patent was her. That’s why he was so slavishly devoted. Suddenly, the fight drained out of me, replaced by a profound, weary emptiness. My finger moved, redialing. He couldn’t believe it. He snatched the phone again, but the call had already connected. He fumbled to hang up. “You’re going to create a PR nightmare!” he yelled, turning to the crowd of employees. “If this hits the press, our stock will tank. And all of you,” he gestured wildly, “could be out of a job because of her!” His words hit their mark. The fear in the room curdled into hatred, all of it directed at me. “You’re a worthless leech, trying to ruin things for the rest of us!” someone shouted. “We need these jobs!” One of the security guards, eager to curry favor, shoved me hard. I stumbled, and then they were on me, a flurry of fists and feet. The pain was shocking, alien. I curled into a ball on the floor, protecting my head, my world reduced to a cacophony of insults and the dull thud of blows. The irony was nauseating: they were beating me for threatening the generous benefits package that I myself had designed. My hand fumbled in my purse and found it: a can of pepper spray. I squeezed the trigger, sweeping it in a wide arc. Screams erupted as they scrambled back, clutching their eyes. “That 911 call went through,” I gasped, getting to my feet. “The police are on their way. You will all be held accountable for assault.” Fear finally dawned on Brielle’s face. The employees who had attacked me exchanged panicked looks. “She sounds so sure of herself… what if she really is…” Ethan laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “She’s bluffing.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. A moment later, phones buzzed all over the room. People looked at their screens, and the expressions on their faces shifted from fear to a mixture of pity, disgust, and contempt. My own phone buzzed. Before I could look, Ethan grabbed my wrist again. “I didn’t want to do this, Sloane,” he said, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But the company needs Brielle. You have to be sacrificed.” He leaned in, his breath foul. “Your family will disown you after this. But don’t worry. Once I have full control, I’ll still marry you, quietly. You just can’t ever call yourself Mrs. Hayes in public.” Suddenly, Pip launched himself from Brielle’s arms, a flash of white fur, and sank his teeth into Ethan’s leg. Ethan yelped and let me go. Pip stood his ground in front of me, growling, a tiny, valiant defender. A tear slid down my cheek. He hadn’t forgotten me after all. The momentary distraction gave me time to see the notification. Ethan had posted intimate photos of me to the company-wide forum. My photos. The comments were a cesspool. They called me a slut, a whore, demanding that “trash” like me be kept out of their respectable company. “If she’s the Sinclair heir, then I’m the King of England. She’s just some cheap tramp trying to blackmail her way into a payday.” “Look at her trying to steal the real Miss Sinclair’s necklace. She couldn’t afford a single stone in it if she sold her soul.” The Sinclair Sapphire on Brielle’s neck seemed to mock me, flashing under the fluorescent lights. My clothes were torn, my body bruised, my hair a mess. I must have looked insane. Ethan shook his head slowly. “If you’d just taken the mailroom job, Sloane, none of this would have happened.” “Mr. Hayes?” A new voice cut through the air, calm and clear. “I wouldn’t say another word if I were you. You have the right to remain silent.” Before I could turn, a man’s jacket was draped over my shoulders, covering my torn dress. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind face stepped in front of me, holding up a badge. “Officer Caleb Wright, NYPD. We received a 911 call reporting a theft and assault.” Behind him, two uniformed officers stood, ready and waiting.

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I was dying, and the maggots were feeding on me when she came. The only person who came to see me was the one who’d sworn to hate me for the rest of her life: my daughter. I lay on the hospital bed, a festering ruin, and her voice cut through the fog. “You gave me this life, and then you took my daughter’s. I’m here to see you out. To repay you for giving birth to me.” Her voice was cold, devoid of the warmth I remembered from a lifetime ago. “In the next life,” she whispered, “I pray I’m not your daughter.” A raw, guttural sound clawed its way up my throat. I wanted to see her face one last time, just once, but my eyes were sealed shut with filth. The few people who came to my funeral were righteous in their fury. I was the mother who favored sons she never had over the daughter she did. I didn’t deserve a peaceful death. I’d refused to pay for my daughter’s education, tried to marry her off to some rich old man, and then, the final sin, I had watched my own granddaughter die in agony. My daughter, Chrissy, had cut me out of her life. No calls, no letters, nothing. The sepsis that was devouring me started after I donated a kidney. Now, it had invited the worms to finish the job. Only in these final, lucid moments of horror did the truth become clear. It had all been a lie. A meticulously crafted story designed by my husband. I had worked myself to the bone to send money home for Chrissy. He had pocketed every last cent, all while poisoning her mind, telling her I was disgusted by her, that I wished she’d been a boy. Chrissy had disowned me. The world had pointed its finger and called me a monster. I died with a heart full of unresolved rage, a scream trapped in my rotting lungs. Then, I opened my eyes. And I was back on the day I agreed to donate my kidney to my granddaughter. 1 My husband, Mark, sat beside me, his face a mask of performative anger. “Chrissy has some nerve,” he seethed. “She hasn’t called you in what, seven, eight years? Didn’t even invite her own mother to her wedding. Now, out of the blue, she needs you to give up a kidney for her kid.” He continued his tirade, a perfect portrait of a wronged father. “You worked ten-hour days for her, eating meat once a month so you could send every penny of your paycheck back home. And what did you get for it? She cut you out of her life.” Mark took my hand. His touch was warm, but all I could see were these same hands, years from now, pinching his nose in disgust as he stood over my decaying body. “But Lily is your granddaughter,” he sighed, softening his tone. “She’s our only blood.” He saw the faraway look in my eyes and his patience wore thin. He stood up, pacing the small room. “It’s just one kidney, Rachel. You’ve got a spare. Can you please put your personal feelings aside for a minute? Your granddaughter is running out of time.” He stopped and looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Chrissy must be desperate, or she never would have called. Do you really want to push her to the edge?” A bitter hatred, cold and sharp, rose in my chest. In this moment, Mark was the loving father, the concerned husband. But I knew the truth. I knew that the moment I agreed, he would turn around and sell my kidney to the highest bidder. In my last life, my daughter waited, clinging to a final thread of hope. The news she received was that her mother was demanding three hundred thousand dollars for the organ. A sum she could never afford. My granddaughter, Lily, missed her window for a transplant. She died in pain. This was his pattern. He was the wedge, the poison. I remembered when Chrissy went into early labor. The moment I heard, I dropped everything and booked the first flight home. But Mark was there, waiting at the hospital entrance, and he physically blocked my path. “Are you trying to kill her?” he’d hissed, his grip like iron on my arm. “The stress of seeing you right now could cause a complication. You could kill them both.” He let go of me, his voice turning cold. “She made me promise. She said if she died on that table, it had nothing to do with you. Unless, of course, you were willing to pay up.” The word die shattered me. I collapsed into sobs, pulling out my checkbook, my hands shaking so badly I could barely write. I gave him every penny I had in savings. Just save her, I begged. Please, just save my daughter. Mark took the check and disappeared inside. It was the kind of bitter January cold that seeps into your bones, but I knelt on the frozen pavement by the entrance, praying to every god I could name. Take me. Take my life, but spare my daughter. I don’t know how long I knelt there. Hours, maybe. Eventually, through the haze of my grief, I heard the faint cry of a newborn. A moment later, my phone rang. It was Mark. “She did it,” he said, his voice flat. “A girl. Mother and daughter are fine. You’re a grandmother.” I hadn’t even finished my sigh of relief when he spoke again. “Chrissy knows you’re downstairs. She’s getting agitated, says she wants you to go. She can’t get worked up right now, Rachel. You need to leave.” I pulled myself up, my legs so swollen and numb they felt like stumps. I gave the hospital one last look over my shoulder, then turned for home. I had been so angry, so hurt. I’d asked myself a thousand times what more I could possibly do to earn her love. But then I would trace the faint, silvery line of the C-section scar on my stomach, and the anger would dissolve like smoke, leaving only a prayer for her happiness. Now I knew. The architect of all my pain was my own husband. He resented our daughter for not being a son, and he coveted the money I earned. He told Chrissy I hated her gender, that I’d tried to abort her. The money I sent home, he squandered. And while our daughter was working her way through community college, he told her I was trying to marry her off to some rich old man for a payout. Mark must have seen the look in my eyes, because he stopped pacing and his voice softened again, feigning sincerity. “Look, just… do this for me,” he said, his eyes welling up with fake tears. “Maybe if you agree to the donation, this can be a new start for you and Chrissy. Maybe you can finally fix things.” He was the image of a devoted father, desperate to heal his broken family. I blinked hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill. This time, they were not tears of sorrow, but of rage. “Alright,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll do it.” 2 Mark practically jumped for joy. He gave me a quick, hard hug before turning to leave. “I’m going to call Chrissy right now and give her the good news. Lily is saved!” He wasn’t going to call Chrissy. He was going to call the buyer. Three hundred thousand dollars for one kidney. Just enough to pay for the gender-selection IVF treatments he and his mistress had been planning, enough to guarantee the son he’d always craved. Even the thirteen thousand dollars I’d given him when Chrissy was in labor—that money had gone straight into his mistress’s pocket. All I had to my name had been turned into a cheap, almost insulting gift. He had shown up to Chrissy’s hospital room with a sad little gift basket from the hospital gift shop. And as he handed it to her, he’d continued to poison me in her eyes. “I told your mother you were in labor,” he had said, his voice heavy with false regret. “The first thing she asked was if it was a boy or a girl. When I told her it was a girl… Rachel just kept saying how embarrassing it was.” He’d paused, shaking his head as if ashamed. “I know I shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your mother to you, Chrissy, but what she said was horrible. That a ‘wasted effort’ had produced another ‘wasted effort.’ That she couldn’t show her face in public.” He’d placed the tacky basket on her bedside table. “She said saving a baby girl was a waste of social resources. That it would be better to just let her go. She swore she would never acknowledge this grandchild.” He’d sighed. “She wouldn’t even come inside. She just handed me this and left.” His words had ignited a firestorm. My daughter’s new in-laws were ready to come find me and tear me limb from limb. But Chrissy had just stared blankly ahead, rocking her crying newborn, her voice a hollow shell. “As far as I’m concerned,” she’d said, “my mother died the day she tried to sell me to that old man.” At the time, I’d gone home and fallen into a fever that lasted a week. After that, I was too scared to call her. I became a ghost, watching her life through the blurry lens of social media, trying to soothe the constant ache in my heart. I worked even harder, sending more money, but the chasm between us only grew wider. Then came the call about Lily’s kidney failure. As the only family member who was a match, I hadn’t hesitated. I’d agreed instantly. And after the surgery, when the infection took hold and I was left to die, the only person who came to say goodbye was the daughter who hated me most. Only then did I finally understand. Mark had been lying to me, to her, for over twenty years. His lies had destroyed our family. His lies had killed my only grandchild. My thoughts snapped back to the present. Mark was halfway out the door. I lunged forward and grabbed his arm, my grip like a vise. I looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll donate,” I said, my voice low and clear. “But I want Chrissy to come here and ask me herself.” 3 Mark’s body went rigid. He turned around slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Rachel, how can you be so cruel?” he spat, his mask of the loving father finally cracking. “You want to use your granddaughter’s life as leverage? You want to force Chrissy to get on her knees and beg you for forgiveness? You want the whole world to see her as the ungrateful daughter?” There it was. The ugly truth of him, raw and exposed. I let out a cold laugh. Before I could respond, the door swung open and a pretty, younger woman rushed in. I recognized her instantly. She was one of Chrissy’s high school classmates. And Mark’s mistress, Jessica. In my past life, as I rotted in that hospital bed, the bills went unpaid. The nurses called Mark over and over. He only answered once. I could hear Jessica’s theatrical moans in the background as Mark, breathing heavily, screamed at the nurse on the other end of the line. “If she dies, throw her in the trash.” “I’ve already divorced her. Stop harassing me.” I had tried to scream, to cry out against the injustice, but the maggots had already claimed my tear ducts and my vocal cords. I couldn’t even curse the heavens. Now, Jessica rushed to Mark’s side, steadying him as if he were about to faint. She turned to me, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “I have never in my life met a mother as selfish as you,” she declared, her voice dripping with condescension. “It’s bad enough you never cared about Chrissy, but to humiliate her like this? Now?” She glared at me, her voice rising. “Why don’t you just die, Rachel? You don’t deserve to be a mother.” She stood there judging me, this woman who had made Chrissy’s life a living hell in high school. She was the one who led the charge, isolating and bullying my daughter for receiving financial aid—aid she only needed because her father was stealing her tuition money. I stared at her, fighting the primal urge to tear her apart with my bare hands. “This is a family matter,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Who the hell are you to get involved?” I turned my gaze back to Mark. It felt like aiming a weapon. “All I said was that I wanted to see my daughter. Why does that sound like a threat to you?” My eyes narrowed. “You know how much I’ve done for Chrissy, don’t you, Mark? Or has something been going on that I don’t know about?” His eyes darted away, unable to meet my stare. Jessica’s venomous glare was fixed on me, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Mark shot her a look, silencing her. His momentary lapse in composure vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his familiar, blustering anger. “You know what, Rachel?” he snarled, pointing a finger at me. “If you don’t agree to this donation, right now, no conditions, we’re getting a divorce.” A laugh, raw and liberating, escaped my lips. “Fine,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. “Let’s get a divorce.” 4 The word hung in the air between us. The confidence on Mark’s face, the smug certainty that I would crumble, shattered into a million pieces. He lunged at me, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, his eyes bloodshot. “I knew it,” he screamed. “You’ve been screwing around out there, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been sending less and less money home.” His accusations grew wilder, more unhinged. “Have you no shame? You’ve disgraced my family, you’ve abandoned your daughter, and now you’re going to let your granddaughter die while you run off to start a new life?!” He was losing control, his grip tightening around my throat. I gagged, clawing at his hands. The room spun, a loud ringing in my ears. “Divorce is fine by me,” he choked out, his face inches from mine. “But the house, the car—they’re mine. You leave with nothing.” With a savage grin, he shoved me away. I stumbled backward, my spine crashing against the sharp edge of a table. A hot, searing pain shot through me, and I collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball. He and Jessica stormed into my bedroom. I could hear them tearing the place apart, drawers being ripped open, closets being emptied. They were looking for anything of value. My bank cards, the deed to the house, my savings bonds—Mark greedily stuffed them all into his briefcase. “If you don’t want to donate the kidney, fine,” he called out from the other room. “Find three hundred thousand dollars to buy one for Lily. In the meantime, I’ll be selling the house to cover Chrissy’s ‘emergency’ expenses.” By the time I managed to pull myself to my feet, they were gone. I hobbled downstairs, my body aching. The car was gone, too. But I didn’t care about any of it. All I could see was my daughter’s face as a little girl, her smile so soft and full of light. I walked to the hospital. When I reached Lily’s room, I pushed the door open gently. My granddaughter was so small and frail, hooked up to a ventilator. My daughter was slumped in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on the mattress. I could see strands of silver in her dark hair. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I reached out, my hand trembling, and gently touched her head. Chrissy jolted awake. Her eyes flew open, and when she saw me, she flinched back, slapping my hand away. Her face was a mask of suspicion. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Are you satisfied now? The ‘wasted effort’ is dying.” Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head, unable to speak. Just then, a phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with two words: My Dad. I grabbed her arm. “Don’t tell him I was here,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. She hesitated for a second, then answered the call. Mark’s voice, full of anguish and fury, filled the quiet room. “That woman is not a mother, she’s a monster!” he yelled, so loud I could hear him from across the room. “The second I told her Lily needed a kidney, she panicked. She sold the house and the car and skipped town, Chrissy! She took everything and ran so you couldn’t find her!” His voice became urgent. “Listen to me. I found another donor, a perfect match for Lily. You need to wire me whatever money you have right now. I’ll cover the rest. We have to move fast to save her.” Chrissy’s eyes widened in shock. She stared at me, then back at the phone, a wave of confusion washing over her face. In that instant, something clicked. A flicker of understanding, followed by a horrifying realization that turned her face a deathly shade of white. I couldn’t stand it another second. I snatched the phone from her hand. Two lifetimes of rage erupted from me in a single, guttural roar. “Mark,” I screamed into the phone, “how long are you going to keep this up?!”

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I sold my soul for $20,000 a month, and I’d do it again. The job posting was a godsend for a broke graduate like me. But when the signing bonus hit my account, the job posting vanished. The front door was locked from the outside. And my new boss? He’s not human, he lives in the shadows of my room, and he just informed me that the contract is for eternity.

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“I took his fortune and fled, carrying the one secret he could never discover: his heir. Now, he’s stormed back into my life. A predator with no memory of me, no recognition in his cold eyes. He looks at my pregnant belly with disgust, calling my child a “misshapen hope.” He demands I become his private chef, a prisoner in my own sanctuary. Little does he know, with every meal I serve him, I’m feeding the monster who destroyed my life… and the father of my baby. 1 The moment he appeared, I was polishing a silver candlestick with a soft piece of flannel. Behind me, the fire in the great stone hearth danced, stretching my shadow long and thin across the old-growth wooden floors. This place, The Briarwood Inn, was the peace I’d bought with the fortune that severed me from him. It was the only sanctuary for me and the secret I carried in my belly. The heavy oak door swung open, and a figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the gray dusk. An icy hand seemed to clamp around my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. It was him. Adrian. Even with the predatory aura of a king of the night banked like embers, the sheer pressure of his bloodline thinned the air in the room. I watched him approach, his face, as handsome and unforgiving as a marble sculpture, wearing an expression both familiar and alien. He had forgotten me. He’d forgotten the contract we’d burned to ash, forgotten everything. “Are you the proprietor?” His voice was a low thrum, like the plucked string of a cello, vibrating straight through me. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the flannel cloth. I forced a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. Are you looking for a room?” His gaze didn’t linger on my face. It dropped, instead, to the swell of my stomach, and a flicker of distaste—so quick I might have imagined it—crossed his unreadable eyes. I knew what it was. He was drawn to the scent of life radiating from me, yet repulsed by the vessel that carried it. “The food you make is adequate,” he said. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a king assessing a tribute. “I require a personal chef. Name your price. I’ll satisfy your greed, and I’ll see to it you’re rid of that… excess flesh.” My hand tightened on the candlestick. For a wild second, I imagined swinging it, shattering that perfect, handsome face. I took a deep, steadying breath, willing my voice to remain even. “I’m sorry, sir, but this inn is my entire life. I’m the owner and the cook. I’m not available for hire.” “Besides,” I added, my smile turning intentionally, deliberately warm, “this isn’t excess flesh. This is my hope.” “Hope?” A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, the sharp tip of a canine glinting in the firelight. “The hopes of mortals are always so fragile. And so… misshapen.” He took a step forward, and his shadow fell over me. He leaned in, his breath a cold whisper against my ear, his voice low and laced with menace. “I will say this one last time.” “You will be my chef.” “Or, I will buy this entire valley, including this quaint little inn, and leave you with no choice at all.” “Choose.” 2 My head snapped up, and I met his gaze. There was no negotiation in those deep, bottomless eyes, only a resolve so cold it threatened to freeze the marrow in my bones. He was serious. The man was insane. Buy the valley? This was my refuge, the home I had built for myself and my unborn child with the fortune he had given me and every ounce of my own strength. Who was he to just… buy it? “Sir,” I bit out, the formal address feeling like ash on my tongue, “coercion doesn’t exactly scream ‘classy’.” “I’m not a nobleman. I’m a predator,” he said, straightening to his full height and looking down at me as if I were a new, interesting acquisition. “And right now, your ‘craft’ has my attention.” I knew fighting him head-on was like throwing an egg against a castle wall. I forced myself to think, to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My eyes fell on the pot of stew simmering on the hearth. I ladled a small bowl and offered it to him. “Please, try this again. It’s made with wild rabbit from the ridge and chanterelles I picked at dawn. It’s been simmering all afternoon.” He glanced down. The rich, earthy aroma drifted up, and I saw something in him—an irritation, a deep-seated restlessness—settle for a moment. He took the spoon and brought it to his lips. In that instant, I saw his crimson-flecked pupils contract sharply. There it was again. That feeling. A familiarity so deeply ingrained in his soul it confused him, yet drew him in with an undeniable gravity. The battle within him was over. He set the spoon down and placed a heavy signet ring, carved with his family crest, on the table between us. “It seems you haven’t made up your mind.” He turned his head slightly. “Isabelle,” he called softly to the shadows by the door. “Bring the men. Clear out the Briarwood Inn. As of tonight, these are my temporary quarters.” “I’ll do it!” The words tore from my throat. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. He gave a subtle signal to his second-in-command, and she melted back into the dusk. “That’s better.” “I’ll cook for you,” I said, my fists clenched at my sides, fighting for the last shred of my dignity. “But I have conditions.” “Speak.” “First, I work for you only until the full moon. When your hunting season ends, so does our arrangement.” “Second, I cook only in this inn. If you wish to eat, you come here.” “And third,” I glanced down at my stomach, “I am responsible for my own affairs. That includes my personal health.” He watched me with an air of detached amusement, like a man admiring a small, feral creature still baring its claws from inside a cage. “Done,” he agreed, so easily it stunned me. Just as a breath of relief escaped my lips, he added, “However, I have a condition of my own. For the duration of your service, all of your time… belongs to me.” 3 “All of my time belongs to you?” My brow furrowed. “I’m a chef, not your slave.” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in your mortal body.” His eyes swept over me, pausing for a fraction of a second on my belly with an expression that clearly read encumbrance. “I simply need to ensure that when I require sustenance, my cook is readily available.” His logic was sound, yet it sent a chill deep into my bones. But I had no other move to make. And just like that, my Briarwood Inn became the temporary court of the von Carstein heir. And I became Adrian’s exclusive “chef.” The first day, I was introduced to the exacting demands of the immortal. Dawn, noon, midnight—his aide, Isabelle, would appear with some new, outlandish request. I spent the entire day spinning like a top in my own kitchen. After I’d finally served his late-night meal, I watched Isabelle carry a crystal glass of crimson liquid into Adrian’s chambers, her hips swaying with practiced allure. My back ached so badly I had to brace myself against the wall as I made my way to my room. A single thought consumed me: the moment the full moon rises, I’m taking my child and running. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get away from that monster. The next day, Isabelle’s passive aggression became active sabotage. I was preparing Adrian’s dinner when she clicked into the kitchen on sharp heels, feigning a stumble as she brushed past me. An entire pouch of finely ground salt tumbled into the simmering soup. “Oh, my goodness, Ella. So clumsy of me,” she said, her voice dripping with false regret, her eyes shining with malicious glee. I gave her a flat, unimpressed look, then silently carried the pot to the hearth and poured its contents directly into the fire. Then, from a second hook over the flames, I lifted another pot, identical to the first. Isabelle’s face froze. “You…” “I always make two,” I said blandly. “Just in case.” I walked past her with the fresh pot of soup, adding quietly, “Next time you want to pull a stunt, try paying attention first.” In the dining hall, Adrian watched me set the soup before him. He lifted the silver spoon, and as he tasted it, that familiar frown creased his brow. He set the spoon down, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine. “Have we met before?” My heart skipped a beat. I forced down the wave of panic, plastering on a perfect, placid smile. “Sir, you have a charming way with compliments. It’s an old line, but on a man as handsome as you, I suppose it still works. But really, how would a man of your stature know a simple country woman like me? You must be mistaken.” He studied my face, searching for a crack in the facade. After a long moment, he looked away, picking up his spoon again. “Perhaps.” 4 Adrian decided to “purify” his source of nourishment. A list, written on expensive parchment, was delivered to my kitchen. It dictated that I was to drink only spring water and consume a specific, limited diet of berries and tubers. He had concluded that the “taint” in my life-scent stemmed from my “bloated” form and my varied, common diet. I looked at the list and laughed without humor. He wanted to starve my child in the womb. I tossed the parchment into the fire. My baby needed nourishment. To hell with his purification. I continued to cook rich stews and savory braises, eating well myself until my cheeks were rosy with health. Adrian’s mood grew darker with each passing day. Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, he cornered me by the woodshed. “Why do you defy my orders?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low. “What orders?” I asked, playing dumb. “Ella!” He snapped my name, his anger finally breaking through his cold composure. “Look at the state of you. It’s… grotesque.” His words were a shard of ice, plunging straight into my heart. A hot surge of humiliation and fury rushed to my head, and my eyes instantly burned with tears. Just as I felt my control shatter, a booming voice erupted from the pathway. “Adrian! You blind, arrogant fool! Who are you calling grotesque?” My friend Helena, the village’s revered herbalist and midwife, stood there, a basket of freshly gathered herbs on her back. She stormed forward, shoving me behind her like a mother bear protecting her cub, and glared up at Adrian. “Which one of your damned eyes sees anything ugly here? This is abundance! This is life! What the hell would you know about it? She’s pregnant! She’s pregnant, you idiot!” Helena’s voice echoed across the courtyard. The world seemed to stop. The anger on Adrian’s face froze, replaced by an expression of pure, uncomprehending shock. His gaze moved slowly, inch by inch, from Helena’s furious face to mine, and then, finally, it settled on the high, round curve of my belly. The “encumbrance” he had mocked. The “excess flesh” he found repulsive. It was… a child? His mind went completely blank. Seeing the utterly lost look on his face, the days of pent-up fear and hurt inside me suddenly vanished. I straightened my spine, stepped out from behind Helena, and met his stunned gaze head-on. My voice was clear and steady when I spoke. “That’s right, I’m pregnant. But you can relax, my lord. The baby isn’t yours. You have no reason to feel burdened.””

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After my husband and my best friend murdered me, I found myself in a queue at the intake office of the afterlife. “Rebirth protocol is ready. Which household?” the administrator asked, his voice devoid of inflection. I pointed to the couple on the screen, the two architects of my demise, and my smile was a gash in the dark. “That one. I want to be the living testament to their love.” The administrator paused, a flicker of something like concern in his ethereal form. “Animosity of this magnitude can curdle the fate of your next life.” “That’s fine,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “In this life, I plan to be the kind of daughter who comes back to ‘repay’ her parents for everything.” 1 The next second, I was enveloped in the warm, amniotic dark, a feeling immediately shattered by a violent, spinning compression. It ended with a sharp, piercing cry. I, Chloe Morgan, had just been born into the body of Amelia Conrad, daughter of my enemies. “Congratulations, Mr. Conrad. She’s a beautiful girl, and what a set of lungs!” A nurse, smelling of antiseptic soap, wiped me clean and gently placed me in the arms of that woman. Isabella. My best friend. My Bella. She was pale and slick with sweat, but her face was aglow with a beatific, Madonna-like radiance. She reached for me, her voice a syrupy whisper. “Come here, baby. Mommy’s got you.” Mommy? You don’t deserve that name. The instant her fingertip grazed my skin, I unleashed the most volcanic, blood-curdling scream of my short existence. “WAAAAAAHHHHHH!” My shriek ripped through the serene atmosphere of the delivery room. The doctor and nurses jumped. Isabella flinched so hard she almost dropped me. “What’s going on? She was perfectly calm a moment ago,” one of the nurses said, rushing to take me. The moment I was out of Isabella’s arms, my cries subsided into soft whimpers. “It’s probably nothing. Newborns can be finicky about who holds them,” the doctor offered, already turning away. But Isabella’s expression had already started to curdle. Back at the Conrad estate, this became our new reality. If she came within ten feet of me, my internal alarm would blare. If she reached for me, I would transform from a cherubic infant into a feral thing, a cornered animal. My limbs would flail, my tiny, sharp fingernails raking at any exposed skin—her face, her neck, her arms. “Ouch!” Isabella hissed in pain, looking down at the three angry red welts now blooming on her forearm. I took that as my cue to wail even louder, as if I were the one who had been grievously wounded. “What the hell is going on in here?” Michael, my former husband, stormed in, drawn by the noise. He took in the scene: Isabella with blood on her arm, and his daughter screaming in her embrace as if being tortured. “I… I don’t know. It was so sudden,” she stammered, her face ashen. Michael snatched me from her with an impatient grunt. The second I was nestled against his chest, my crying ceased. I let out a few pathetic, hiccuping sobs, buried my red face in the warmth of his shirt, found a comfortable position, and drifted off to sleep. The picture of docile innocence. A complete stranger to the creature I’d been moments before. Michael stared down at the angelic daughter in his arms, then at the scratches on his wife’s skin. His brow furrowed into a hard line. From that day on, it was the rhythm of our lives. If Isabella held me, I would scream and claw. If Michael, my grandfather, my grandmother, or even the nanny held me, I was as placid and perfect as a doll. Within a month, Isabella’s body was a canvas of old scars and new scratches. She had to use a thick layer of concealer just to cover the marks on her face. And the rumors began to whisper through the manicured lawns of our community: the new Conrad baby, for some reason, couldn’t stand her own mother. One night, after I’d managed to catch her lip with my nail, she finally broke. “What is wrong with you?!” she hissed, shutting the nursery door. She loomed over my crib, her face a grotesque mask of fury in the dim light. “Are you some kind of demon? Why me? Why only me?” I simply stared back at her, my eyes wide, clear, and innocent. Yes. I am the demon who has come for your soul. Seeing me quiet and calm, a sliver of her sanity returned. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to convince herself. “You’re just a baby… you don’t understand anything… you don’t understand…” Her hand, trembling, reached for me again, as if to test the theory one last time. Just then, the door creaked open. Michael walked in with a bottle of warm milk. What he saw was his wife’s contorted, snarling expression and her hand moving, threateningly, toward our daughter. “Bella! What are you doing?!” He lunged across the room, scooping me into his arms and shielding me from her. The look he gave her was frigid with disappointment. “Nothing! I wasn’t—I was just trying to hold her!” she cried, her voice thin with desperation. Michael rocked me, murmuring soothing words, then spoke to her without even looking up. “If you can’t handle her, then stay away from her.” “From now on, Maria will take care of her.” 2 Stripped of her maternal duties, Isabella’s status in the house plummeted. She went from the lady of the manor to a peripheral figure, a ghost in her own home, a mother in name only. Michael grew colder by the day, and my grandparents began to look straight through her. Her only function was to appear at family gatherings, holding me for the cameras to create the illusion of a happy, loving family. And I, bathed in the adoration of everyone else, grew to the age of two. I was beginning to form words—simple, clumsy, and each one meticulously calculated. The stage was my grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday party. The Conrad estate was filled to the brim with high-society guests. I was the star of the show, a little porcelain doll in a red velvet dress, perched on my grandfather’s lap, soaking in the praise. Isabella stood off to the side, a forced smile painted on her face, draped in an expensive gown that looked like a costume. I knew she was waiting for an opportunity, a moment to perform her motherly love in public and claw back a shred of dignity. It came, as I knew it would, during the cake-cutting. She approached with a small plate, her movements a study in practiced elegance, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Amelia, my darling. Come, let Mommy give you some cake.” She had calculated that I wouldn’t dare humiliate her in front of so many important people. She had calculated wrong. I’d been waiting for this day for two years. I squirmed out of my grandfather’s arms, landed on my feet, and scrambled backward as if she were a monster emerging from the shadows. My face was a mask of pure terror. “No… no touch…” I babbled, my words slurring with manufactured fear. The smile on Isabella’s face froze. A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd as guests exchanged curious glances. “Amelia, sweetheart, it’s okay. Mommy won’t hurt you…” she pleaded, her voice tight. She took another step forward, trying to grab my hand. Showtime. I lifted my tiny hand, and with all the force my small body could muster, I pointed a trembling finger at her beautifully made-up, now twitching face. I summoned every ounce of hatred from my past life, every memory of her betrayal, and forged it into a curse. And through the mouth of a two-year-old, I screamed it, one syllable at a time. “Bad… la-dy!” “Kill… er!” A stunned silence fell over the grand ballroom. Every eye bounced between me and Isabella, whose face had become a bloodless, ghostly white. “Killer?” “What did she just say? Did I hear that right?” “My God, that child… is something wrong with her?” The whispers swelled into a tidal wave. My grandparents were the first to react, scooping me into a protective embrace. “Hush now, Amelia, you’re safe,” my grandmother cooed, patting my back. “Did you have a bad dream last night? Such silly things to say.” But Michael’s face had lost all color. Isabella completely shattered. “I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger back at me, her voice ragged and wild. “It’s her! That little monster is lying! She’s not a normal child! She’s a demon!” A mother, in front of a room full of people, calling her own daughter a “monster” and a “demon.” “Shut your mouth!” Michael roared, striding forward and slapping her hard across the face. The sound cracked like a whip in the silent room. “Are you insane?! She’s a two-year-old child!” I buried my face in my grandfather’s shoulder, and over the chaos, I watched the two of them, the architects of my first death, begin to tear each other apart. A thrill of pure, cold victory shivered through me. 3 The fiasco at the birthday party was the final nail in Isabella’s coffin. “That crazy woman.” “Such a bitter shrew.” “Cursed by her own daughter.” The labels stuck to her like tar. She became a pariah in the Conrad family. Michael started avoiding her like the plague. It was as if he truly believed I was some kind of vengeful spirit, and he’d rather lock himself in his study than be in the same room with the “true love” he’d killed for. Completely isolated, Isabella’s mental state deteriorated rapidly. She no longer dared to approach me, but her eyes followed me everywhere, burning with a venomous hatred. She resorted to petty cruelties—spilling my milk “by accident,” making loud noises while I was sleeping, pinching my arm hard when no one was looking. I endured it all in silence. She was venting. And I was waiting for the perfect moment to shove her into hell. That moment was tied to the crystal music box hidden in the back of her jewelry drawer. It was a gift from Michael, a memento from when she’d first told him she was pregnant with me. I slipped into her room when she was downstairs. I dragged a vanity stool over, climbed onto her dressing table, and rummaged until my fingers closed around the cool, multifaceted glass. Without a moment’s hesitation, I raised it high and brought it crashing down onto the marble floor. CRACK! The music box exploded into a thousand glittering shards. But that wasn’t enough. I closed my eyes, picturing my own mangled body in the wreckage of my car. Then I picked up the sharpest piece of glass and, without flinching, dragged it across the soft, pale skin of my own forearm. A sharp, white-hot pain seared through me. Blood welled up instantly. The pain was so intense it almost made me black out, but I held on. I smeared a few drops of my own blood onto the lace dress of my favorite doll. Then, clutching the doll, a walking exhibit of my “victimhood,” I stumbled out of the room. “Grandpa! Grandma!” My terrified, tear-choked scream brought everyone running. They found me in the hallway, my clothes disheveled, my body trembling, clutching a blood-stained doll. A deep gash on my other arm was bleeding profusely. “Oh my God! Amelia!” My grandmother let out a horrified shriek and was the first to reach me. I collapsed into her arms, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, and pieced together the perfect lie with my carefully practiced, broken speech. “Mommy… bad…” “Mommy… no like… Amelia…” I held up the bloodied doll, my cries escalating until I was nearly hysterical. “Smash… dolly… dolly broke…” Finally, I showed her my bleeding arm, my voice a pathetic whimper. “Arm… hurt… owie…” Every word was a hammer blow to their hearts. Isabella, drawn by the commotion, stood frozen in the doorway. She stared at the wound on my arm, then at her own empty hands, her mind a complete blank. “No… it wasn’t me… I didn’t…” Her denials were pathetic, meaningless in the face of my blood. “You poisonous bitch!” my grandfather roared, his body shaking with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at her, his eyes blazing. “How dare you lay a hand on this child! This family has no place for a monster like you!” Michael was stunned silent by the bloody scene. He looked from me to the raving, frantic Isabella, and the last shred of affection he might have held for her was replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. As they rushed me towards the door to go to the hospital, I looked over my grandfather’s shoulder. Past all the panicked faces, my eyes met Isabella’s. She looked dead already, her face a mask of gray despair. I formed two words with my mouth, speaking only to her. “Go. Die.” She understood. And as she stared at me, a sound tore from her throat—a scream of such primal terror it was no longer human. 4 The cut on my arm required five stitches. I became the most precious and fragile treasure in the Conrad family, handled with painstaking care wherever I went. My grandfather hired two full-time bodyguards whose only job was to ensure Isabella never came within ten feet of me. Isabella herself was placed under effective house arrest, confined to her bedroom suite. I heard stories of her smashing things, screaming that I was a demon, that I had hurt myself to frame her. No one believed her, of course. Who would believe the word of a madwoman who harmed her own child? But I knew this wasn’t enough. House arrest wasn’t the end. I wanted her gone. Erased from this house, from my life, completely. One afternoon, I told my bodyguards I wanted to play hide-and-seek by myself, a ruse to get them to leave me alone. Then I tiptoed to her bedroom door. It was unlocked. She was sitting on the floor amid the glittering shards of the broken music box, muttering to herself like a lunatic. I pushed the door open and walked in. The sight of me sent her scrambling backward into a corner like a terrified rabbit. Her eyes were wide with fear. “What… what do you want?” I walked right up to her and crouched down, my voice low and steady, utterly alien coming from a child. “I’m here… to get my things back.” Isabella’s pupils constricted to pinpricks. I looked at her, and slowly, I let a smile spread across my face. It was Chloe’s smile. The one she knew better than anyone. “You stole my husband. You killed me… and now, I’m going to take it all back. Piece by piece.” “AAAAAHHH!” In that instant, the last thread of Isabella’s sanity snapped. She finally knew. I wasn’t just a child. I was Chloe’s ghost, returned from the grave to claim her debt. “Demon! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, you demon!” she shrieked, lunging at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, burning with a raw, murderous light. She grabbed my arm and started dragging me out of the room, toward the long, winding marble staircase in the main foyer. I didn’t fight her. I even went limp to make it easier. I was counting the seconds in my head. I knew that in ten seconds, my grandfather would be leaving his study to come downstairs for his daily afternoon tea. “Die, you little monster! Die!” Isabella was completely unhinged. She dragged me to the edge of the landing and raised her hand to strike me. Now. I heard the soft click of the study door opening. In the split second before her hand could connect with my face, I sucked in a breath and let out the most piercing, terrified scream I could manage. “MOMMY! DON’T PUSH ME—!” Then, I deliberately wrenched myself from her grasp and threw my own body, without hesitation, down the several dozen feet of cold, unyielding marble steps. The world became a spinning, chaotic blur. The impact of my bones against the stairs sent shockwaves of agony through me that threatened to pull me into darkness. THUMP. My body landed in a broken heap on the foyer floor. My left arm was bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. The pain was a tidal wave, drowning me. But I fought through it, using the last of my strength to lift my head. I saw my grandfather, standing at the top of the stairs, his face white with horror, his body trembling as he stared at the hellish scene before him. He had seen Isabella’s hand, raised and ready to strike. He had heard my desperate cry: “Don’t push me!” And he had watched my “helpless” body tumble down the entire flight of stairs. I met his horrified, furious, and heartbroken gaze. I raised my good arm, my hand shaking, and pointed a trembling finger at the woman who was now frozen in place like a statue. My voice was a ragged whisper, mixed with tears and sweat. “Grandpa… help…” “Mommy… she… she tried to… kill me…” As the last word left my lips, my head lolled to the side, and I let the darkness take me. Just before I passed out, I heard my grandfather’s roar—a sound so distorted by rage and grief that it was barely human.

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