I was born with a superpower: I could see the “Breakup Countdown” floating above every couple’s head. With this perfectly accurate number, I’d managed to avoid men who were destined to lead me to a dead end. With Julian Sterling, my boyfriend of three years, the countdown above his head was originally fifty years. But five minutes before our engagement party, I watched those numbers spin backward in a wild, frantic blur. They dropped straight to “0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, 0 seconds.” Then he walked out of the VIP dressing room. Right behind him was Chloe, his cousin, her face flushed and her breathing uneven. She casually adjusted her messy hair and smirked at me. “Audrey, I’m so sorry. Julian said you’re like a stiff piece of wood. He said touching you is about as exciting as touching a stone.” “Unlike me. I actually know how to make him feel alive.” I looked at the glowing green “0” above Julian’s head, which practically screamed his betrayal. Calmly, I slid off my engagement ring. “Trash belongs in the dumpster. The wedding is off.”

The banquet hall fell so silent you could hear the champagne bubbles popping. The faint smile on Julian’s face instantly vanished. But Chloe only pressed closer to him, her fingers hooking into his sleeve. “Audrey, don’t be like this. All our family and friends are here today. If you make a scene, you’ll be the one embarrassing the Sterling family.” I looked at Julian. The numbers above his head were still stuck at zero. The green light was blinding. Three years ago, when Julian first confessed his love to me, it was snowing heavily. I was standing outside my dorm building, not daring to take the bouquet of roses he was holding out to me. I asked him, “Julian, would you believe me if I told you I can see when people are going to break up?” He laughed softly. “Then look at me. How much time do we have left?” I looked up. A ridiculously long string of numbers glowed above his head. Fifty years, seven months, and three days. I cried right then and there. Julian panicked, shoving the flowers into my arms and awkwardly wiping away my tears. “Hey, don’t cry, Audrey. If fifty years isn’t enough, I promise I’ll try my best to live longer.” In the years that followed, he used that line to comfort me countless times. I really thought we had a lifetime. Now, fifty years had become zero. Julian finally spoke, his voice tense. “Audrey, put the ring back on. Chloe is young and doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. I’ll make her apologize to you later.” “Later?” I tossed the ring straight into the top glass of the champagne tower. With a sharp clink, the liquid splashed, reflecting the cold chandelier light. “Julian, can what the two of you did in the dressing room wait until ‘later’?” His face darkened. “Do you have to do this here?” Chloe let out a soft laugh. “Audrey, it’s not like you just found out Julian can’t stand your cold, rigid rules. You always used that stupid countdown to pressure him, bragging about how you two had fifty years left. You made him feel like he was trapped by your side forever.” She looked at me, her voice not loud, but clear enough for the relatives in the front rows to hear every single word. “But people get tired. Numbers don’t change, but men do.” Julian hissed under his breath, “Chloe.” Chloe’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Did I say something wrong? Julian, you literally just said in there that you wanted to see if Audrey would still be so arrogant once that fifty-year safety net was gone.” My heart felt like it had been hollowed out. It wasn’t just the pain of betrayal. It was the realization that he had long grown sick of the very thing I cherished most. Julian took a step forward, reaching out to grab my hand. “Audrey, May isn’t in good health. We can’t cancel the party today.” He knew exactly how to manipulate me. My parents died when I was young, and May raised me all on her own. Years ago, Julian was the one who pulled strings at the hospital, getting May on the exclusive waitlist for a world-renowned heart surgeon. I owed him too much. I looked at his head. Zero. Not a single second more. I pulled my hand back, avoiding his touch. “May has a weak heart, and yet you chose to cheat in the dressing room of our engagement party?” Julian froze. But Chloe suddenly smiled. The moment she wrapped her arm around Julian’s, a new set of numbers flashed above both of their heads simultaneously. 13 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes. I stared at the numbers for a few seconds and said quietly, “You two won’t last long.” The smile on Chloe’s face stiffened, but she quickly tossed her head back. “That’s enough for me. At least today, he chose me.” Julian’s impatience finally broke through. “Audrey, enough. Every time we fight, you start threatening me with those stupid numbers.” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, rushed footsteps echoed from the backstage area. An event coordinator ran up to me, her face completely pale. “Miss Audrey… May is not in the holding room.”

I snapped my head up. The coordinator glanced nervously at Chloe, lowering her voice even further. “Miss Chloe said earlier that she was going to take your grandmother to watch your engagement video preview.” The next second, the giant projector screen in the hall lit up. But it wasn’t our engagement video. It was the security footage outside the VIP dressing room. The video had no sound, but it was clear enough for everyone to see. Chloe walked out of the room with her shoulder strap falling down, and Julian followed closely behind, buttoning up his collar. A dead silence fell over the hall. Then came the sharp gasps and the hushed, frantic whispering. May was sitting in her wheelchair in the front row, still holding the candy I had prepared for her. She didn’t understand the drama. But she understood the look on my face. She looked up at me, her lips trembling. “Audrey, sweetie… is someone hurting you?” I rushed forward to block the screen. “Turn it off!” I screamed. The staff scrambled in a panic, but the video kept playing. Chloe stood in the crowd, calling out, “Audrey, I just wanted May to see that Julian can actually be passionate. You always act so cold and distant, May probably thought Julian didn’t even like you.” Julian strode over to the control panel and violently ripped the power cord out. The screen went black. He turned around and saw May’s deathly pale face. For the first time, panic flashed in his eyes. “Call a doctor!” By the time the standby medical team rushed in, May was clutching my hand, refusing to let go. “Audrey, what’s wrong between you and Julian?” My nose stung with tears, and I pressed her cold hand against my cheek. Julian knelt beside her, softening his voice. “May, I’m sorry. I messed up. I’ll handle this.” May didn’t even look at him. Julian looked up at me. “Audrey, let’s postpone the engagement party. I’ll take Chloe away first. Tomorrow, I will personally come to your house to make things right.” His eyes held that familiar urgency. I almost believed him. But then Chloe suddenly picked up a broken champagne glass from a table and dragged the sharp edge across her palm. Blood instantly welled up and dripped down her wrist. She didn’t cry. She just stared straight at Julian. “You’re taking me away? To where?” She let out a bitter laugh that sounded worse than sobbing. “Julian, after my dad died, my relatives treated me like a nuisance. Audrey has May to love her, and she has you to protect her. Even her stupid countdown serves as her shield. What about me? I try to steal you just once, and she wants to drag me through the dirt.” Julian stood up, clearly torn. “I need to take her to the hospital too.” I stepped in front of him. “You just said you were taking her away.” He stared at the blood dripping from Chloe’s hand, his jaw clenched tight. “She’s bleeding, Audrey. Hospital first.” Chloe shot me a look. It was a brief, subtle glance. But it said everything: See? He still cares about me more. In the hospital hallway, May was wheeled into the observation room. Julian stood next to me, his phone buzzing nonstop. Chloe was sobbing hysterically from the emergency bay on the other side of the corridor. I said, “Julian, go to her. Let’s just end it here.” He closed his eyes. “Audrey, stop using breakups to threaten me. Don’t you believe in your countdown more than anything? Until it hits zero, you won’t leave me.” “It already did.” Julian froze. Chloe’s crying echoed from the other end of the hall again. Ultimately, he turned away. “I’ll be right back.” He never came back. At 2:00 AM, a nurse walked up to me with a ward transfer notice. “Miss Audrey, the pre-op consultation for your grandmother has been suspended. Also, we need to vacate this VIP private suite.” I took the document. On the family signature line, written in bold, familiar handwriting, was one name: Julian Sterling.

I sat with that piece of paper until the sun came up. May woke up once, asking if it was raining outside. I told her no. She whispered, “Then why are your eyes so wet?” I turned my face away. At 7:00 AM, Julian finally showed up at the hospital. He was still wearing the same shirt from yesterday. Chloe followed closely behind him, her hand wrapped in heavy gauze. When Julian saw the document in my hand, his expression shifted. “I didn’t tell them to stop the consultation.” I pushed the signature line right in front of his face. “This is your handwriting.” He stared at it for a long time, as if finally recalling something. “Chloe was hysterical yesterday. The hospital asked me to sign a bunch of caretaking and transfer papers. I didn’t read them closely.” Chloe leaned against the doorframe, her voice raspy from crying. “Audrey, Julian isn’t a doctor. It was just a couple of papers. May is so old, she should be treated with caution anyway. Don’t blame everything on Julian.” I glared at her. “Shut up.” She laughed. “Why should I shut up? Audrey, you are so good at playing the victim. You know damn well that as long as May needs the Sterling family’s help, you won’t dare to actually break up with him. You’re only making a scene today because you want Julian to beg for your forgiveness.” Julian frowned. “Chloe, go wait outside.” For once, Chloe didn’t obey. “No! Audrey talks about her stupid countdown every day like she’s some kind of chosen one. But even if your countdown is real, did it ever tell you that your man would get sick of you?” I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The hallway fell dead silent. Chloe clutched her cheek, tears instantly streaming down her face. Julian immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her. “Audrey!” Then his voice softened. “I’ll get the consultation rescheduled. I’ll deal with Chloe too. Just don’t push things to a point where we can’t fix them.” “What do you mean by ‘can’t fix’?” I asked him. “Was what you did in the dressing room fixable? Or was signing the papers to suspend May’s treatment fixable?” Julian choked on his words, unable to answer. Suddenly, the door to May’s ward opened. She was leaning against the headboard, her voice incredibly weak. “Audrey, come inside.” When I walked in, she handed me a small cloth pouch she kept by her pillow. Inside was the savings she had scraped together over her lifetime, along with an old, vintage silver bracelet. “Let’s transfer hospitals,” she said. I shook my head. “May, the waitlist for another specialist is too long.” “Then we will wait,” she said, gently stroking my hair. “Don’t stay in a place that makes you cry just for my sake.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My tears fell onto the back of her hand. That afternoon, Julian came back with some soup. I was the only one left in the room. He set the soup on the nightstand. “Audrey, I just talked to the doctors. The consultation is back on for this afternoon. As for Chloe, I’m having my team send her back to her aunt’s place.” He reached out to touch me. I flinched away. Pain flashed in his eyes. “You never used to flinch away from me.” “And you never used to make me feel so dirty.” Julian’s phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Chloe, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. “Julian, I don’t want to live anymore. If you throw me away too, I really have nowhere left to go.” Julian looked at me. I said, “Go ahead.” He stood there, frozen. His face was pale, but eventually, he bolted out of the room. A second later, my phone vibrated. Chloe had sent me a video.

In the video, Julian was sitting in the corner of a VIP lounge, spinning my engagement ring around his finger. Someone laughed and asked him, “Are you seriously going to marry Audrey? She watches that stupid countdown above your head every day. Doesn’t that creep you out?” Julian had clearly been drinking. His voice was low and heavy. “She’s too sure of herself. She’s convinced I’ll love her for fifty years, convinced I’ll never leave.” Chloe leaned closer to the camera, smiling. “So, do you want to see if she’ll still choose you once the numbers hit zero?” Julian didn’t answer. He simply slid the ring back into his pocket. The door to the ward opened again. I looked up to see Julian returning. He was breathing heavily, having clearly turned back halfway without meeting Chloe. In his hands, he held a fresh bouquet of white roses. They used to be my favorite. I loved them because when Julian first gave me flowers, he said white was pure and suited me perfectly. But he had forgotten. Every flower at our engagement party had been red roses, chosen by Chloe. Julian held out the flowers. “Audrey, we need to talk.” I tapped the video on my phone. The audio echoed loudly in the quiet room. “Do you want to see if she’ll still choose you once the numbers hit zero?” Every ounce of color drained from Julian’s face. “Where did you get that video?” “Does it matter?” He took a step toward me, then stopped. “I was drunk that night. I admit, I said some stupid things. But I was just… I was just tired of you always looking at me like I was bound to you for fifty years. Like no matter what I did, I had no choice but to come back to you.” I asked, “So you used Chloe to test me?” Julian’s eyes grew red. “I never wanted to actually hurt you.” “But you did.” His voice cracked. “In the dressing room, nothing actually happened. She purposely messed up her clothes so you would see. The moment I walked out, I regretted it. But you were already standing there.” I looked at him. I realized there was something far worse than betrayal. Maybe he didn’t go all the way. But he had stood by and let Chloe trample my dignity in front of all our family and friends. He had let May see that video. And time after time, when forced to choose between me and Chloe, he had run to her. Julian grabbed my wrist. “Audrey, please give me another chance. I’ll send Chloe away. The countdown isn’t absolute, right? If it could drop from fifty years to zero, it can go back up. We can fix this.” I looked up at his face. “Julian, the countdown didn’t change first. You did.” His grip loosened. His phone rang again. Chloe had sent a location pin. It was the hospital rooftop. Then came a voice message. “Julian, I’m on the roof. The wind is so cold up here.” Julian’s expression shattered. I handed him his phone. “Go.” He didn’t take it. “I’m not going.” Three minutes passed. Suddenly, a nurse screamed from the hallway, “Someone is climbing over the rooftop railing!” Julian snapped his head toward the door. I saw the struggle in his eyes. I saw that he still cared about me. But when a life was on the line, no one could just ignore it. He whispered, “Audrey, wait for me. I’ll be right back.” He sprinted out of the room. I stood in the quiet ward, staring at the empty air where his zero had been. May called out to me from her bed. “Audrey.” I turned and helped her into her wheelchair. Dr. Ethan Vance was already waiting at the door. He was May’s primary cardiologist from our previous hospital. When I contacted him last night, he had only asked one thing: “Are you sure about this?” I said yes. The transport ambulance was waiting in the basement. I made one last trip back to the penthouse Julian had bought for our future home. I packed my clothes. My wedding dress was still hanging in the living room. I left the keys on the entryway table and locked the door behind me. Chloe didn’t jump. She had just sat on the ledge, crying about how scared she was. Julian stayed on the roof with her until the nurses coaxed her down. Only then did he realize my phone was switched off. When he rushed back to the penthouse, the sun was rising. He pushed the door open. The apartment was completely empty. The “Fifty-Year Bucket List” we had stuck to the fridge was gone. On the first page of his journal, he had once written: Julian Sterling, 50 years, 7 months, 3 days. On the very last page, I had left him my final words: Julian Sterling, 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, 0 seconds. Even the longest forever has an end. From now on, our paths will never cross.

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Halfway through our wedding, Julian and I were in the dressing room changing our outfits. Suddenly, Julian turned to me, his voice laced with guilt. “Chloe, I’m sorry. I can’t file our marriage license tomorrow.” I smiled, not thinking much of it. “Then we can do it the day after tomorrow, or when you’re done with this busy season. There’s no rush.” Julian avoided my gaze. His voice sank. “It’s not a matter of time.” “I mean… we can’t get legally married at all.” My hand, which was gently resting on my slightly bloated belly, froze. I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you calling off the wedding?” Julian immediately pulled me into his arms, cooing softly, “Of course not. It’s just… five years ago, I legally married someone else abroad. It was a business alliance arranged by my family. I had no choice.” “But Chloe, you’re the only one I—” Before Julian could finish his sentence, the door was slammed open. Marcus, the best man, rushed in, panting. “Julian, there’s a woman and a child outside. They’re calling for you.” “She claims… she’s your wife from abroad, and that’s your son.”

Before I could even process what was happening, Yvonne Reed pushed past Marcus, holding a young boy in her arms. She looked at Julian, tears streaming down her face, looking incredibly pitiful. “Julian… my mother passed away.” The boy in her arms, about three or four years old, started crying along with her, pointing at Julian. “Daddy! Daddy!” I stared at the boy. He looked at least seventy percent like Julian. My brain felt like it was about to explode. I violently pushed Julian away. I stood there, frozen for a few seconds. Slowly, the brutal reality sank in. The man I was marrying had already become someone else’s husband five years ago. No. Perhaps I didn’t even have the right to call Julian my husband. In the eyes of the law, I was the homewrecker. The other woman. A cold shiver ran down my spine. My whole body began to shake uncontrollably, and my knees buckled. Julian rushed forward to support me. “Chloe…” “Slap!” Before he could utter another word, I swung my hand and slapped him hard across the face. I took a deep breath, desperately suppressing the roaring emotions inside me. “Julian, today is our wedding. The entire high society is out there. You might not care about your reputation, but I care about mine. Come out with me right now. We will announce an early end to the reception and send the guests away gracefully.” “Then, we will call both of our parents and handle this mess together.” Knowing he was entirely in the wrong, Julian took the slap without a word. Seeing my cold expression, he tried to reach out again. “Chloe…” “Don’t say my name!” I cut him off sharply. Even the sound of his voice made me sick to my stomach. I lifted the skirt of my wedding gown and turned to walk out. Julian hung his head and followed me. But just as I was about to push the door open, Yvonne screamed behind us. “Leo! Leo, what’s wrong?” “Don’t scare Mommy!” I looked back. For some reason, the little boy in Yvonne’s arms had turned a terrifying shade of purple. His body was twitching, and he quickly lost consciousness. Julian darted past me, snatching the child from Yvonne’s arms. He asked frantically, “What happened?” “It looks like an allergic reaction! What did you feed him?” Yvonne was sobbing hysterically, completely unable to give a coherent answer. Beside them, Marcus suddenly remembered something. He yelled, “Could it be that peanut pastry? On our way here, the kid said he was hungry. When we passed the dessert table, he grabbed a piece. Maybe he’s allergic to peanuts? Should we make him throw up?” But at this point, Julian clearly didn’t care about the details. He held the child tight and rushed toward the door. “There’s no time. We have to go to the hospital right now.” He didn’t even look at me. He just ran past me, disappearing down the hallway with Yvonne and the child. I stood there in my white wedding dress, completely alone. I stared blankly at the empty doorway. My groom had just abandoned me at our wedding to run off with his secret wife and child. Emptiness, humiliation, anger. So many emotions choked my throat, leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I covered my face and wept silently, unable to even make a sound. Until Marcus’s hesitant voice broke the silence. “Chloe… there are still so many guests outside. What should we do about the wedding?” I forced myself to stop crying. I wiped my tears, walked back to the vanity, and applied a layer of powder to cover the tear stains. “Tell them…” my voice cracked, “tell them Julian felt suddenly ill. The wedding is over. I’m going out to see them off.” I walked out of the dressing room, forcing a polite smile to bid the guests goodbye. Faced with my parents’ confusion, I could only offer a vague excuse. Meanwhile, Julian’s parents, Richard and Eleanor, helped me play along while offering me apologetic, guilty smiles. So, they knew. They knew all along. My heart shattered into a million pieces. What was this? A family-wide conspiracy to trick me into a sham marriage? When the last guest left, Eleanor and Richard walked up to me, looking extremely anxious. “Chloe, Julian just called. He said he’s back at your new villa, and everything with Yvonne and the baby has been settled. You two just got married. Don’t let some outsiders ruin your relationship. Go back and talk it out. Everything can be resolved.” “There’s nothing a young couple can’t resolve over a good talk.” I let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, I don’t think I can carry the title of ‘wife’ anymore. Legally, Yvonne is Julian’s wife. I, Chloe Vance, am the irrelevant outsider here.” “Since things have come to this, I think our families’ business merger should be put on hold.” “I’m tired. I’m going home.” Without waiting for their hypocritical excuses, I turned and drove straight to our new villa. The moment I pushed the door open, Julian stood up from the sofa. He had been waiting for me. He held a stack of papers and eagerly handed them to me. “Chloe, you’re back. Today… I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” “Don’t worry, I’ve settled everything with Yvonne. Look, this is a divorce agreement. Yvonne and I just signed it. Once we file it with the court, we will be officially divorced.” “After that, I’ll marry you legally. I won’t waste another second.” I looked down at the papers but didn’t take them. Instinctively, I touched my belly, intending to ask him about the child. But at that moment, a figure wearing an apron walked out of our kitchen. It was Yvonne. “Oh, Miss Vance, you’re back.”

Seeing that I didn’t reply, Yvonne didn’t look embarrassed at all. Instead, she turned to Julian with a playful, scolding tone. “Julian, look at you. Miss Vance has had such a long, exhausting day. The moment she walks in, you start lecturing her. Can’t this wait until we’re at the dinner table?” “Go wash your hands, both of you. Dinner is ready.” Julian nodded and reached out to hold my hand. I slapped his hand away. My face was dark as I glared at him. “Why is she in our house?” Seeing my anger, Julian quickly explained, “Yvonne’s father sold their house abroad. They have nowhere to stay right now. For convenience, I thought they could temporarily crash here.” “I’ve already sent my assistant to rent an apartment for them. It will take a week at most.” “Then they’ll move out.” But I wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t going to be fooled by such a pathetic excuse. “Julian, there are thousands of luxury hotels in New York, and you have at least a dozen properties under your name.” “And yet you chose to bring her to our newlywed home? Are you trying to disgust me?” “Get them out. Now.” Seeing that I wouldn’t budge, the smile on Julian’s face began to fade. His tone grew cold. “Chloe, can’t you just show some compassion?” “Just treat them like a charity case and let them stay for a couple of days. They’ll stay on the first floor, and we’ll be on the second. They won’t get in our way.” I didn’t say a word. I just stared at him with absolute disappointment. My silent gaze made Julian look flustered and guilty. He knew that no matter what, he was the one who had started this mess. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Yvonne cut him off. “Julian, Miss Vance. Please don’t fight because of us. I’ll take Leo and find a hotel.” “Miss Vance, please don’t blame Julian. This is all my fault. He sent me the divorce papers a year ago, but I was the one who kept stalling, hoping we still had a chance. I’m the one who ruined your wedding.” As she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes again. She looked incredibly tragic, staring at Julian with deep longing. Then she blinked rapidly, forcing her tears back. “Alright, let’s not talk about this.” “Go wash your hands and eat. I’ll bring out the dishes.” At first, I wasn’t entirely sure. But watching Yvonne perform this little act, I was one hundred percent certain she was a master manipulator—a total green tea bitch. How did I know? I could see the guilt and tenderness softening Julian’s face as he watched her. If she really cared about not causing trouble, she wouldn’t have put on this show. She would have checked herself into a hotel long before we arrived. Sure enough, halfway through dinner, Yvonne looked at me timidly. “Miss Vance, I can survive in a hotel alone. But Leo is still so young. I’m afraid he won’t get used to a hotel room. I noticed there’s a fully furnished nursery on the first floor.” “Could we…” I put down my fork, my response instant and cold. “No.” Yvonne gasped, clearly not expecting me to reject her so ruthlessly. She tried to play the pity card again. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for favors. But Leo grew up abroad, and his immune system is very weak. He has so many allergies—nuts, pollen, even dust mites. I’m just worried about his safety in a random hotel.” “Miss Vance, I’m begging you. Please…” I frowned, losing my patience. “Yvonne, do you not speak English? I said no. And I mean no.” Having been completely shut down, Yvonne turned her tearful eyes to Julian, looking like a whipped puppy. “Julian, Leo is your son after all. He was just in the ER because of a peanut allergy. Please.” Julian was swayed. He looked at me, preparing to persuade me. But I cut him off before he could start. “That nursery is prepared for my future child. If her child has a weak immune system, so does mine.” “I don’t want strangers using the room and leaving germs behind.” My words were harsh. It triggered Julian’s protective paternal instincts. He slammed his fork onto the table, his guilt replaced by rage. “Chloe! How can you say something so heartless? Germs?” “You wanted me to divorce, and I had my lawyer draft the papers immediately. You didn’t want them to stay, and Yvonne willingly offered to leave. Now, it’s just an empty nursery, and you’re being this cruel?” “We don’t even have a child yet! What’s wrong with letting Leo stay there for a few days?” Staring at Julian’s furious, distorted face, I gently placed my hand over my lower abdomen. My voice was dead calm. “We do have a child.” “Julian, I’m pregnant.”

Julian’s self-righteous anger froze on his face. Even Yvonne looked completely stunned. I massaged my temples, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. I stood up. “Forget it. If she wants to stay, let her stay. I have a nursery ready at the Vance family estate anyway. I’ll just take my baby and live there.” “I’m full. I’m going to bed.” I had just washed up and crawled into bed when Julian pushed the door open. He carried a plate of sliced fruit, creeping toward me like a guilty dog. He reached out, wanting to touch my stomach. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. I didn’t know you were pregnant. What I said earlier…” I rolled over, turning my back to him and avoiding his hand. My attitude was ice-cold. I really didn’t want to hear his repetitive, meaningless apologies. “I’m sorry.” “It’s my fault.” He never lacked apologies, but he also never hesitated to hurt me. Didn’t he find his own words hypocritical? But I was too exhausted to even argue with him. I kept my eyes closed and muttered, “I’m tired. I don’t want to eat.” Julian had no choice but to set the plate down. He leaned in closer, wanting to hold me. But before his fingers could even brush my shoulder, Yvonne’s voice echoed from downstairs. “Julian! Can you help me give Leo a bath? I cut my finger while cooking and can’t get it wet!” Julian let out a sigh of frustration. He stood up and walked out. I curled my lips in a cold mock. Yvonne must be terrified right now, which was why she was desperately trying to keep Julian by her side. But that was fine with me. At least I could get a peaceful night’s sleep. Throughout the night, Julian was kept incredibly busy. “Julian, can you come over and help me look at some schools for Leo?” “Julian, Leo wants you to play Legos with him. Just for a little bit, please?” “Julian, Leo seems to have a fever. Can you come check on him?” … The next morning, when I woke up, Julian was still asleep in the nursery. I walked downstairs and saw Yvonne busy in the kitchen. She noticed me and offered a sweet, gentle smile. “Miss Vance, you’re up? Breakfast is almost ready.” “But I made everything according to Julian’s taste. I hope you don’t mind.” I ignored her banter and walked closer. With a smirk, I asked, “Miss Reed, first an allergic reaction, now a fever. You only have one son. If you keep using him like this… aren’t you afraid you’ll accidentally kill him?” Yvonne’s smile faltered. Seeing that Julian wasn’t around, she dropped her innocent act. She glared at me, her eyes venomous. “Are you going to tell Julian?” “Chloe, save your breath. I am the mother of his son. Do you think he will believe you or me?” “Let me tell you the truth. I have no intention of divorcing Julian. Blood is thicker than water. With Leo here, I will be tied to Julian for the rest of my life. He can never leave me.” She looked at me with pure provocation. “If you don’t mind the disgust, feel free to stay as his mistress.” “While the three of us live happily ever after.”

Her snake-like gaze made me feel physically sick. Just as I turned to walk away— “Slap!” Yvonne raised her hand and slapped herself hard across the face, causing a trickle of blood to escape her lip. Before I could react, she covered her face and began to sob hysterically. “I’m sorry, Miss Vance! I know you hate me, but you can’t just hit me!” In the next second, I was violently shoved aside. Julian rushed in. He looked at Yvonne’s swollen cheek, then turned to glare at me with boiling rage. “Chloe! What is wrong with you?” “Just because Yvonne is sweet and gentle doesn’t mean you can abuse her! She is Leo’s mother! Leo is still asleep. If he wakes up and sees this, do you know how traumatized he’ll be?” Watching Julian shield Yvonne behind him, a sharp pain pierced my chest. I kept my face completely blank. “I didn’t touch her.” “Julian, we’ve known each other for years. If I do something, I own up to it.” Julian fell silent. He looked at me, then at the crying Yvonne. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Finally, he brushed past me with a dark face, leading Yvonne away to apply ice to her cheek. I stood frozen in the kitchen. After a long while, I let out a self-deprecating laugh. I knew that no matter how much it hurt, I had to let go. Seeing how Julian wavered whenever Yvonne and his son were involved, he would be dragged down by them forever. I couldn’t live my life under their shadow. I went up to the study and called my parents, telling them I was moving out of the villa. I was pregnant and couldn’t handle any heavy lifting. I decided to let my parents send some movers to pack my things later. But as I stepped out of the study, Leo came running down the hallway at full speed. My instincts kicked in, and I tried to dodge him. I managed to avoid colliding with him. But the heavy toy airplane in his hand swung violently, striking me right in the abdomen. “Ah—” A sharp, agonizing pain exploded inside me. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching my stomach. I looked up at Leo through the tears of pain. In his other hand, he was holding… Peanut cookies? Isn’t he severely allergic to peanuts? I weakly raised my hand, trying to warn him. “Don’t eat… allergy…” But only a broken gasp escaped my lips. The cramping in my abdomen grew worse, like a knife twisting inside me. Just then, Yvonne rushed around the corner. She knocked the cookie out of Leo’s hand and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Julian! Come quickly!” “Miss Vance fed Leo peanut cookies! She’s trying to kill him!” Immediately, Julian’s panicked footsteps rushed up the stairs, followed by his roaring voice. “What?” “Chloe, are you insane?” Julian bolted into the hallway. He saw me collapsed on the floor and assumed I was guilty. Without hesitation, seeing Leo starting to struggle for breath, Julian scooped the boy up, preparing to run. But I managed to reach out and grab the hem of his trousers. I wanted to beg him to save me. I felt a warm, heavy flow of blood rushing out of me, as if my insides were being torn apart. It hurt so bad. Our baby was slipping away. But the pain kept me from speaking. I could only look at him with desperate, pleading eyes. But Julian didn’t even look down. He violently ripped his pants away from my grip, shouting at me, “Let go of me!” “Chloe, if anything happens to Leo…” “I will sue you for attempted murder! I will make sure you rot in prison!” With that, he and Yvonne rushed past me and disappeared. The last thing I saw before blacking out was the triumphant smirk on Yvonne’s face. I didn’t expect her to be this insane. Triggering two severe allergic reactions in a child within such a short period of time was life-threatening and could leave permanent damage. But I couldn’t think about that anymore. The excruciating pain drained all my strength. I couldn’t even make a sound. I collapsed into the pool of my own blood. In the fading darkness, I heard the faint, terrified screams of my parents, followed by the blaring sirens of an ambulance. Then, there was only silence. Meanwhile, in the pediatric ward on the fifth floor of the hospital, Leo’s condition had finally stabilized. Julian pulled out his phone, which had been on silent. The moment the screen lit up, a barrage of missed calls flooded in. My father, my mother, and even his own parents. Dozens of missed calls in bright red. It sent a chill down Julian’s spine. Before he could process it, the phone rang again. It was his father, Richard. The moment he picked up, his father’s furious roar echoed through the speaker. “Julian! Get your pathetic ass down to the first-floor emergency room right this instant!” “Chloe had a miscarriage.” “She’s hemorrhaging. They’re trying to save her life!”

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Melanie Landry, my housekeeper’s daughter, had what you might call a pathologically thin skin. Not physically—though she acted as if a gentle breeze would bruise her—but emotionally. On her very first day at Briarwood Prep, I approached her desk. As student council president, I figured it was my job to make her feel welcome. “Hey, Melanie,” I said, keeping my tone warm. “If you need anything at all, or just want a tour of the campus, let me know.” Her eyes welled with tears instantly. She bit her lower lip, staring up at me with a look of pure, concentrated betrayal. “Brynn, I know my family doesn’t have what yours does,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But do you really have to rub your privilege in my face? Does making me feel small make you feel good?” I stood there, utterly speechless. My desk mate, Zora, noticed how distressed Melanie looked. Melanie had buried her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking. Zora, being the genuinely kind soul she is, leaned over. “Hey, are you feeling okay? Do you need a bottle of water, or maybe a trip to the nurse’s office?” Melanie slammed her hands on her desk and stood up so fast her chair screeched against the linoleum. She pointed a shaking finger at us, tears streaming down her face. “Enough! You rich kids have no idea how hard I had to fight just to get into a school like this! I’m already struggling to keep up with the curriculum, and you just sit there and mock me! Is my struggle a joke to you?!” Zora blinked, completely bewildered. “I… literally just asked if you wanted to see the nurse.” Just then, Wayne strolled into the classroom, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Melanie’s entire demeanor shifted. The tears dried up, replaced by a sudden, fragile shyness. She practically floated over to him, looking up through her lashes. “Hi. Um, is anyone sitting next to you? You’re the only person here who doesn’t look like a snob. Everyone else is bullying me… Can you… protect me?” Wayne stared at her, his expression a mix of profound confusion and mild annoyance. “Uh, the only empty spot next to me is the trash can. Is that what you’re asking to sit next to?” Melanie’s face flushed a violent, angry red. “You’re all the same!” she shrieked. “You all just look down on me because my family is poor!” I rubbed my temples, the first headache of the semester blooming behind my eyes. “If you hate us so much,” I said quietly, “then why are you even here?” … The moment the words left my mouth, Melanie broke down completely. She looked at me with a mixture of grief and utter indignation. “Brynn, I don’t know what I did to make you hate me. From the second I got here, you’ve done nothing but target me! Yes, my mom is your housekeeper. I get it. But housekeepers have dignity, too! Who do you think you are, trying to kick me out of school?” Before I could answer, she sank onto the floor right there in the middle of the classroom, sobbing loudly. The commotion drew everyone’s attention. Students began crowding around the door, whispering. “She wants to expel me!” Melanie wailed, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “My mom worked herself to the bone to get me into this academy! Expelling me is as good as ruining my life!” I sighed, trying to keep my voice even and calm. “You’re twisting my words, Melanie. Nobody is trying to expel you. I just think you’re overanalyzing everything we say. If you’re going to view every casual conversation as a personal attack, you’re going to make yourself miserable here.” “See? There you go again!” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “Gaslighting me! You are so malicious!” Zora, desperate to stop the scene, grabbed a bag of organic chips from her backpack and tried to hand them to her. “Look, just get off the floor, okay? We can talk about this. I swear I was just trying to be nice earlier.” Melanie slapped the bag out of Zora’s hand. “I don’t want your pity!” She looked up at Wayne, clearly expecting him to defend her honor. Wayne, who possesses the emotional intelligence of a golden retriever and a mouth that operates entirely without a filter, just looked at her, then back to me. “Brynn, why is she sitting on the floor waving her arms around like that? Is she doing some kind of weird toddler cosplay?” The classroom went dead silent. Even Melanie’s crying hitched. She stared at him, looking utterly crushed. “How can you say that to me? Is it because of her? Because she’s rich, you’re taking her side?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. I had forgotten that Wayne is practically incapable of diplomacy. With Melanie on the verge of another hysterical fit, and desiring nothing more than a peaceful school year, I stepped in. “Wayne, stop. Melanie is just overwhelmed. Don’t make it worse.” But before Wayne could even shrug, Melanie turned her fury back on me. “Oh, cut the act, Brynn! You’re just gloating because he chose you over me. You’re trying to rub your little high school romance in my face. You are disgusting!” I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath. I remembered this morning, when her mother, Mrs. Landry, had stood by our front door with a look of quiet, desperate anxiety. She had begged me to look out for Melanie, to be patient with her. At the time, I thought Mrs. Landry was just being a nervous mom. Now I realized she knew her daughter was a walking, talking powder keg. “I was just trying to get you to stop crying,” I said. “Look at you! I express my discomfort, and you minimize it by calling it ‘crying’!” “You’re overthinking this.” “I haven’t done anything, and you’re already calling me paranoid!” “Fine. I’m sorry. Is that what you want?” “What is that supposed to mean? You think I’m just throwing a tantrum?!” I was losing my mind. “Then what, exactly, do you want from me?!” I burst out. Melanie wiped her face with the back of her hand, her chin lifting defiantly. “I want a public apology! From all of you! You have degraded my character!” A collective gasp echoed through the room. I took a deep breath, forcing my hands to remain steady at my sides. “On what grounds, Melanie?” Her face lit up with a strange, triumphant energy, as if she had been rehearsing this speech in front of a mirror for months. “You think you’re better than me because of your family’s money,” she said, her voice ringing out clearly. “You treat me like a joke. And your family treats my mother like a slave! She works tirelessly to take care of you, and you treat her like dirt. Why does your family get to sit in an air-conditioned living room eating expensive fruit while my mother has to get down on her knees to scrub your floors?!” She stood up, brushing off her skirt, looking down at me as if she had just won a historic victory. But as the seconds ticked by, the triumphant silence she expected didn’t come. Instead, she was met with a room full of people staring at her as if she had lost her mind. We were at a private prep school; almost everyone in this room had household staff. Our class representative, a quiet girl named Chloe, spoke up, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, doesn’t Brynn’s family pay her mom a base salary of like eighty thousand a year? Plus health insurance and bonuses? That’s more than my cousin makes as a junior accountant. Scrubbing floors is literally the job description.” “Seriously,” someone else whispered from the back. “Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. If Brynn’s parents didn’t pay her mom so well, she wouldn’t even be able to afford the tuition here.” “If you care so much about your mom scrubbing floors, why don’t you help her?” Zora added, her sympathy completely evaporated. “You just want to play the victim.” I looked at Melanie, feeling a profound sense of exhaustion. “My mom actually bought Mrs. Landry a high-end industrial steam mop so she wouldn’t have to bend over. Mrs. Landry insisted on scrubbing by hand because she said she wanted to do a perfect job to justify her salary. We’ve told her a dozen times she doesn’t have to do that.” Nods of agreement went around the room. Melanie’s shoulders began to shake violently, her face twisting in pain. “You’re lying! You’re all ganging up on me! Is it because I’m poor? Is that why you think you can treat me like this? What is even the point of working hard and getting an education if all you people care about is money?!” She was falling apart, her voice cracking. It was obvious this wasn’t how she pictured this going. At her old public school, playing the misunderstood, underprivileged girl had always won her friends and sympathy. Here, the mirror was being held up, and she hated what she saw. “You’re all just a bunch of elitist snobs!” she screamed. I sat back down, completely checked out of the conversation. “Whatever you say, Melanie.” Melanie sobbed even harder. Zora leaned over, whispering in my ear, “Is she… clinically insane?” “I think she’s just incredibly insecure,” I sighed. Wayne, after staring at Melanie for another long minute, reached his own conclusion. “She’s a psycho.” A few minutes later, the homeroom teacher called me to the office. Because of her transfer status, there were still some administrative forms Melanie needed to sign regarding her academic records. Even though she was the last person I wanted to speak to, I was the class president. It was my responsibility. I walked back to her desk and kept my voice completely neutral. “Melanie, the counselor needs you in the front office to sign your transfer paperwork and verify your transcripts.” I delivered the message in one breath and turned to leave, but Melanie slammed her book shut and stood up. “Why do you have to yell it out like that?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Are you trying to make sure the whole room knows I’m a transfer student? Do you want to make sure everyone knows I don’t belong here?” I closed my eyes, counting to three. “I didn’t yell. You didn’t respond the first time I called your name, so I raised my volume slightly so you could hear me. It was a normal speaking voice.” “So now you’re saying I’m deaf?” I had no words. The rest of the class stared in disbelief. Wayne finally snapped. “Do you even speak English?” Melanie’s face went white, then red. She threw a vicious glare at me, her eyes burning with hatred. I just shook my head. I hadn’t even been the one who insulted her. By the time the final bell rang, I was thoroughly drained. When I got home, Mrs. Landry was waiting by the foyer, looking at me anxiously. “Miss Brynn… how was Melanie’s first day? Did she… settle in okay?” I forced a polite, empty smile. “Oh, she made quite an impression, Mrs. Landry.” Mrs. Landry caught the dry sarcasm in my voice. She wrung her hands, looking incredibly small and helpless. I sighed, setting my backpack down on the bench. “Mrs. Landry, with her personality, why did you insist on sending her to Briarwood? It’s a high-pressure environment.” Mrs. Landry let out a long, weary sigh. “I told her she shouldn’t come here. But she… she accused me of holding her back. She said I thought she wasn’t good enough to be around wealthy kids. She cried for weeks, Brynn. I didn’t know what else to do… I’m so sorry. She’s just so sensitive, but she really isn’t a bad girl. I’ll talk to her, I promise.” I didn’t say anything. When Mrs. Landry first brought up the transfer to my parents, we hadn’t thought much of it. It was her money, and she had every right to spend it on her daughter’s education. But looking back, it was a massive mistake. Later that evening, Zora called me. “Brynn, you need to go on TikTok right now. Melanie started an account. She’s livestreaming, claiming she’s ‘fighting the elite’ at school, and she’s dragging us—and specifically you—through the mud!” She sent me a link. I clicked it and saw Melanie’s face on the screen. The video was titled: “Class vs. Character: Surviving Briarwood Prep. We might start at the bottom, but we have the grit they’ll never buy.” In the comments, hundreds of strangers were cheering her on, sharing their own stories of being bullied by wealthy peers. In just a couple of hours, her follower count had jumped by over ten thousand. I stared at the screen, utterly baffled. Mrs. Landry made over eighty thousand dollars a year. Melanie wore mid-tier designer clothes, and her mother bought her practically whatever she wanted. In what world was she an impoverished, oppressed victim? Wayne texted me next, asking if I wanted him to handle it. I thought of Mrs. Landry—of how she had stayed up with me, making soup and checking my fever when I was sick and my parents were stuck in Europe on business. “Don’t worry about it,” I texted back, feeling a dull ache in my chest. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Let’s just hope she lets it go.” The next morning, I intercepted Melanie before homeroom. “Melanie, we need to talk. There’s clearly a misunderstanding, and I want to clear the air. Let’s not make things harder for your mom.” Melanie scoffed, a cold, ugly smirk spreading across her face. “Oh, now you’re scared? You’re terrified I’m going to take your friends away, aren’t you? You should have thought of that before you treated me like trash. Just wait. By the end of the term, everyone in that classroom is going to be on my side.” “Melanie, list—” She covered her ears, shoving past me. “I don’t want to hear your lies! I’m going to make sure you know what it feels like to be completely isolated!” I stood in the hallway, watching her walk away. I was genuinely baffled. Why did she hate me this much? What had I actually done to her? When I walked into the classroom a few minutes later, Melanie was handing out gourmet artisanal popsicles. She was laughing, chatting with a group of girls. “It’s so hot today, I thought I’d treat everyone,” she was saying. The other students, caught off guard but polite, accepted them with quick smiles. Melanie looked over at me, tossing her hair with a smug, triumphant grin. Then, she walked over to Wayne’s desk, holding out a premium, custom-flavored ice cream bar. Her voice turned soft, almost breathless. “Wayne… I think we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe someone has been whispering things in your ear to turn you against me. Can we start over?” Zora nudged my elbow. “Brynn, is she seriously hitting on Wayne?” I stared at Wayne, remembering the time a girl had tried to hand him a love letter in freshman year, and he had asked her if it was a formal declaration of war, sending her running away in tears. I couldn’t help but let out a sudden, sharp laugh. The second the sound left my lips, I knew I had made a mistake. Melanie’s eyes filled with tears instantly. But before she could utter a single word, Wayne scrambled out of his chair and walked over to me, looking genuinely terrified. “Brynn, tell me she didn’t poison this. She looks like she’s about to unhinge her jaw and eat me alive.” I looked at Wayne’s completely earnest, terrified face, and then at Melanie’s devastated, venomous expression. “Ah,” I realized. “That’s what this is.” It wasn’t about the money. It was about Wayne. Melanie had developed an instant, intense crush on him the moment he walked into the room yesterday, and because Wayne only paid attention to me, I had become her ultimate enemy. Melanie marched over, her voice shaking with rage. “What’s the matter, Brynn? Is your family’s fortune so grand that you can’t even tolerate a simple popsicle? Are you threatened by a dessert, or are you just threatened by me?!” My patience finally snapped. “Are you actually insane, Melanie? If I wanted to target you, do you honestly think you’d still be enrolled at this school?” Melanie gasped, her body trembling. “There it is! You finally admitted it! You look down on me! You think I don’t belong here!” Tears streamed down her face as she gestured wildly. “I spent my own allowance to buy the most expensive treats for everyone! I offered you my absolute best, and you still treat me like dirt!” I stared at her, unimpressed. “You didn’t even buy one for me.” The words hung in the air. Melanie froze. The dramatic tension evaporated in a second of pure, awkward silence. The students who had already started eating their popsicles suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, staring at the melting treats in their hands. Melanie glared at me with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. Then, she turned and bolted out of the classroom, sobbing. Zora gave me a slow thumbs-up. “Seriously, how has she survived this long? Does she just run on a constant cycle of salt water?” I sighed, stepping out of the room to call my parents. I asked them if we could gently arrange to have Melanie transferred to another class, or even another school. Having her in my class was becoming an exhausting, full-time job, and I still had to study for my exams. As I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. “Brynn. I’m going to make sure everyone knows how cruel you really are. I’m going to make you feel the pain of being publicly ruined.” A cold knot formed in my stomach. Seconds later, a commotion erupted in the hallway. Someone screamed, “Oh my God! Someone is on the roof! She’s going to jump!” We rushed to the windows. High above us, on the edge of the school’s concrete roof terrace, sat Melanie, her phone clutched in her hand, streaming live to the world.

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Marrying Beckett was supposed to be my happy ending. Instead, it was the beginning of a quiet, slow-burning misery. But every time the word “divorce” formed on the tip of my tongue, a text from my future self would stop me. [Keira, just hold on. Beckett loves you. He really does. In the end, you two will find your way back to each other.] And I believed her. For two long years. Until tonight. I went to pick Beckett up from an exclusive VIP lounge downtown. The heavy mahogany door wasn’t fully closed. “Hey, Beck, I heard Serena is flying back from London next week,” one of his friends drawled, followed by a chorus of low whistles. “Yeah, man, Serena made it pretty clear she’s coming back for you. You two were the golden couple of the Greenwich country club back in the day. Don’t tell me you don’t regret settling for Keira?” My hand froze on the brass door handle, my chest tightening with a familiar, crushing ache. In my other hand, my phone buzzed, vibrating against my palm. [Keira, don’t believe her! The texts I sent you over the last two years—I was forced to send them! Leave Beckett. Get as far away from him as you can!] … Before I could even wrap my head around the text, the door swung open from the inside. It was Brody, one of Beckett’s younger tag-alongs. He had driven Beckett home a few times late at night. His face flushed with surprise when he saw me. He turned back toward the room, raising his voice: “Hey, quiet down, guys. Keira’s here to pick up Beckett.” The lounge was a hazy mess of half-empty crystal glasses and lingering cigar smoke. The wealthy heirs had dropped their polished, old-money facades, lounging carelessly over leather sofas. Some had brought dates, who looked at me with fleeting pity. Others looked at me with knowing, cynical smirks. “Well, aren’t you a lucky man, Beck? No matter how late it gets, your wife always comes running to fetch you.” In high school, they had called me the “charity case” or the “scholarship girl” behind my back. Once Beckett married me, they started calling me “Mrs. Cross.” But they never respected me. They tolerated me because of Beckett. Their real golden girl, the heart of their circle, was Serena. I had always known this. Beckett sat in the center of the main leather booth. He didn’t look drunk; his collar was crisp, his posture upright. But when he looked at me, his eyes were empty of expression. “Hey, don’t mind them, Keira,” Brody said, stepping in to help. “They’ve had a few too many drinks.” He reached out to steady Beckett. Beckett ignored him. Instead, he extended his hand directly to me. “Sera, help me up.” The room fell dead silent for a fraction of a second, followed by a wave of hushed snickers and knowing glances. The looks pierced my back like needles. Brody looked embarrassed: “Beck’s had a rough night… Let me call his driver for you.” My hand hovered in mid-air, my fingers curling tightly into my palms. Beckett frowned, suddenly grabbing my wrist. His hand was burning hot from the alcohol. I tried to pull back, but his grip tightens, cold and unyielding. The heavy door slowly swung shut behind us as we walked out. Behind me, someone was already dialing Serena’s number. “Man, I told you Beck’s been thinking about Serena all these years. One whisper of her coming back and he loses his mind. I gotta call her…” The door clicked shut, sealing the sound inside. The soundproof walls of the club swallowed the whispers, but the words lingered in the chilly night air. Even drunk, Beckett walked with a rigid, military straightness, his eyes half-closed. With his heavy arm slung over my shoulder, I pulled out my phone with my free hand, desperately typing the reply to that mysterious text. “So what are you saying? Beckett and I don’t have a future? What happens if I stay?” Beckett’s driver was waiting at the curb. I only had time to hit send before getting into the car. In the backseat, Beckett finally closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. Suddenly, both phones in my purse vibrated. One was my personal phone. [Don’t stay with him, Keira. If you’re still with him when Serena gets back, you will lose everything. Trust me, you don’t want to live through the things I’ve lived through.] The other phone was Beckett’s—the one Brody had slipped into my bag earlier. The notification banner displayed a message from a contact saved simply with a star emoji: [I’m back.] The winter in New York was brutal. Even with the heater blasting, the chill in my heart wouldn’t lift. The neon lights of Times Square blurred past, casting sharp shadows over Beckett’s high, aristocratic nose. I watched him for a long time. Then, slowly, I slipped my hand out of his grip. Serena was back. Beckett had finally got what he was waiting for. So I wouldn’t make him wait any longer. The next morning, Beckett was already gone. The faint scent of his signature woody cologne, mixed with Creed Aventus, lingered in the air. On the marble vanity, the bottle of Creed Aventus had been moved to the very front. The bottle Serena had bought him. Four years ago, right before she moved to London, she had asked me—her quiet high school deskmate—to hand it to him. “Please, Keira. Beckett’s furious that I’m leaving without telling him. Just give this to him for me, okay?” I remembered looking at her bright, dazzling smile, my fingers clenching the gift bag. I took it anyway. When I handed it to Beckett, he hadn’t said a word. The bottle remained unopened for years, tucked away at the very back of our bathroom cabinet after we married. I always thought he had simply forgotten to throw it out. But now, it was sitting right there, in the most prominent spot on the counter. A bitter smile formed on my face in the mirror, looking tired and hollow. During our first year of marriage, I had used my first major project bonus to buy him a bottle of the exact same cologne. I loved the crisp scent of blackcurrant, birch, and ambergris. When I had playfully waved the scent toward him while he was adjusting his cuffs, he had quietly stepped back. “You like it?” he had asked, his voice neutral. I had nodded, but his subtle retreat froze my heart. It wasn’t that he disliked the cologne. He just disliked it coming from me. I walked down to the dining room. Breakfast was already set by our housekeeper, Martha. “Mrs. Cross, Mr. Cross said he had an early board meeting. He asked me to prepare your favorites.” On the wall-mounted TV, a financial segment was broadcasting Beckett attending a major strategic merger announcement. Under the flashing cameras, he looked sharp, cold, and effortlessly handsome. I wanted to kill the last lingering hope in my chest. So I pulled out my phone and texted the future me. “Beckett has actually been… good to me these past two years. Why did things turn out so badly for you?” The other side went silent for a long time. So long that I assumed she wouldn’t reply. Just as I finished my breakfast, the red notification bubble popped up. [We did have good times, Keira. Honestly. But once Serena returns, everything changes. You and I both know how much she matters to him, don’t we?] The food suddenly tasted like ashes. Yes. I’ve always known how Serena was the exception to every one of his rules. In our elite prep school in Manhattan, no one cared about a scholarship girl who had just moved from a small town in Connecticut with her single mother. The quiet girl from a working-class background was an easy target. My papers were torn, my notes went missing, and once, someone even stuffed a live frog into my locker. Before a midterm exam, a boy from the varsity team walked over to my desk, smirking and waving a water gun. “Well, look at the top student in our grade. You’re gonna help me pass today, right?” When I didn’t answer, he squirted water at my face. “I’m talking to you, nerd.” With my shirt soaked and my head down, I sat in agonizing silence, waiting for the bell. Just as he was about to push further, a lazy, commanding voice drifted from the back row. “That’s enough. The exam’s starting.” The boy immediately backed off, muttering an apology as he shuffled away. I whispered a thank-you, but the boy behind me didn’t reply. The bell rang, and his casual words settled deep into my chest. “If you keep staying quiet, they’ll only push harder. If you’re angry, say it.” During that exam, my mind drifted for the first time. Afterward, I grabbed my pens and ran out to thank him properly. But when I caught up, I saw his tall, relaxed frame walking toward a gorgeous, vibrant girl. “Beckett, hurry up! The place is going to be packed!” “I already booked us a private table, princess,” he replied, his voice incredibly gentle as he took her designer bag and guided her around the corner. I stared at the soft, fond smile on his face and quietly stopped walking. Maybe I should have stopped walking two years ago, too. I rubbed my temples and put down my fork. The rest of my breakfast had gone cold. My phone buzzed. The contact name read: “Husband”. [Taking you to see an old friend tonight.] I stared at it, then replied: [Okay.] Serena was more stunning and elegant than she was four years ago. Sitting among a table of wealthy heirs who had all found success, she was still the undisputed center of attention. The moment she saw me, she waved enthusiastically. The private dining room went quiet for a brief second. “Over here, Keira! You’re the last to arrive! But then again, Manhattan traffic is always a nightmare.” Beckett was already there, leaning close to her, whispering something with a soft smile. I swallowed hard. On the table sat a glass of warm almond milk—my favorite. But my seat was set far apart from theirs. They sat incredibly close, almost brushing shoulders. And I was left to sit in my isolated spot, like an uninvited guest arriving late. I sat down quietly. Beckett, barely looking up, slid the glass of almond milk toward me. Serena’s eyes lingered on the gesture for a split second before she looked away. “Man, I knew you’d end up marrying our quiet New England beauty,” one of the guys laughed. Another nudged him, whispering, “Well, if Serena hadn’t rushed off to London right after graduation, things might have been different. You shouldn’t have waited so long to come back, Sere.” Beckett said nothing. Serena overheard and retorted playfully, “Oh, please! Everyone knows Beckett never listened to anyone back then. But the moment Keira told him to stop fighting, he actually put his fists down.” A trace of helplessness crossed Beckett’s face. He called the waiter to order some herbal tea, then gently stabilized Serena as she leaned toward me. His voice was incredibly soft, dripping with a tenderness I rarely heard. “Alright, I told you not to drink so fast. Look at you now.” “You’re not the boss of me, Beckett!” Serena mumbled, but she obediently sank back into her seat. “Keira, don’t listen to him. I barely had anything. It’s just… I’m so happy to see everyone again.” The guy who had suggested calling her earlier chimed in, “We’re happy too! Even Beck, who hates reunions, showed up. That’s some serious VIP treatment, Serena.” The smile on my lips turned bitter. During our senior year, the teacher paired us up for a peer-tutoring program. I became Beckett’s partner. Looking at his usually detached face, I had offered a nervous, polite smile. “Hi, Beckett. Looking forward to working with you.” Serena, sitting in front of us, had spun around. “Beckett, couldn’t you have scored a little lower? I would have gladly tutored you!” Then, as if noticing me for the first time, she gave a dazzling smile. “Keira, you’ve always got the best grades. Let’s all help each other!” Aside from occasional awkwardness from Serena’s intense energy, that year went smoother than I ever expected. No one messed with my locker, and the bullying stopped completely. But in the spring semester, I was cornered in an alley by a couple of local thugs while buying school supplies. Beckett happened to walk past the alley entrance and turned back. He pinned the ringleader to the brick wall, his fists landing with sickening thuds. His friends rushed in, screaming at him to stop, but his eyes were wild with rage. He wouldn’t let go. Shaking with fear, I ran over and grabbed his sleeve. “Beckett, stop… please. You’re going to kill him.” He finally froze. He stared blankly at the blood on his knuckles, stood up, and let his friends guide him away. As I lingered at the edge of the alley, Serena stepped in front of me, her expression icy. “Keira, did you forget what you promised me?” Now, Serena looked up at me from Beckett’s shoulder, her eyes hazy with alcohol. I looked away. How could I forget? The day after the fight, Beckett didn’t show up to school; his family was sorting out the legal mess. Serena had cornered me in the hallway, asking if I liked him. “You probably don’t know this, Keira, but Beckett and I have been set up by our families since we were kids. He was just being chivalrous. I don’t want you getting any ideas.” Looking at her fierce, possessive gaze, and remembering how Beckett always yielded to her, I had lowered my eyes. “Of course not. I’m going back to Connecticut after graduation anyway. We won’t cross paths.” But I didn’t go back. And she didn’t end up with him either. Now, Serena’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You promised you wouldn’t fall for him, Keira… but I go away for a few years, and I come back to find you two have been married for two years…” The room temperature plummeted. I could feel the quiet judgment and mocking stares of the people around the table. Someone whispered, “So she swooped in when Serena left? How desperate.” Beckett looked at me, his lips parting as if to say something, but instead, he adjusted his grip to support Serena’s weight. In the end, he didn’t say a word to defend me. The party dragged on until late. Everyone tacitly left the task of taking the drunk Serena home to Beckett. No one asked about me. I had been a ghost all night—arriving in silence, leaving in silence. Outside the elevator, I met Beckett’s gaze. He said quietly, “Keira, Serena is really out of it. I need to take her home first.” I nodded and stepped toward the curb to hail a cab. “You…” Beckett frowned. “I’ll have my driver take her to the estate first, then you and I can…” An Uber pulled up immediately. I opened the door. “No need. Go take care of Serena. I’ll get home myself.” Beckett opened his mouth to speak, but Serena slipped slightly in his arms. By the time he secured her in the backseat of his Maybach, my cab was already merging into traffic. I watched the luxury car shrink in the rearview mirror until it disappeared completely. “Miss,” the driver said, looking at me through the mirror, “that gated community in Greenwich has strict security. My cab won’t be allowed past the gates.” “That’s fine. Just drop me off across the street. I’ll walk.” It took me two years to realize. I managed to walk from my small-town life into his home, but I never managed to walk into his heart. But that’s okay. It’s only been two years. I still have time to walk away. When I got home, I began to pack. I left everything in the walk-in closet untouched. I didn’t touch any of the designer jewelry or bags he bought me. I only packed the hand-stitched patchwork quilt my mother had made for me. The wedding quilt she spent months sewing, stitch by stitch. I remembered her words: “My sweet girl is starting her own family now. I won’t follow you to New York to be a burden. Just take care of yourself, okay? If you’re happy, my heart is at peace.” But I had never used that quilt. It had been tucked away at the very bottom of the linen closet, looking as pristine as the day she finished it. My throat tightened. I hugged the heavy quilt tightly to my chest, letting myself sink into the bed, feeling for a fleeting second like I was back in my mother’s arms. The next morning, Beckett still wasn’t back. There was a text from him from last night: [Serena is too drunk, and I didn’t want to alarm her parents, so I’m staying over to look after her. Don’t wait up. Go to sleep.] Twenty-eight words. I stared at them for half an hour. Even though I had prepared myself, my chest still ached with a sharp, stabbing pain. I left the text unanswered. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. An Instagram notification popped up. It was an update from Serena. [Four years later, and some things never change. Still the one quietly watching over me.] In the photo, Beckett was asleep, his head resting at the edge of her mattress. The comment section was already buzzing. “Are they finally back together?” “My favorite couple is back!” “I knew you two still had feelings. True love always finds a way!” It had only been three minutes since she posted it, and the likes from mutual acquaintances had already filled a page. These were the people Beckett had introduced me to when we got married. He had told me, “My friends are your friends. If I’m not around and you need anything, just call them.” What he didn’t know was that almost immediately after adding me, they had muted my accounts. Our message threads were always a graveyard of silence. They only acknowledged the golden couple approved by their parents. They only acknowledged Serena. I knew. I always knew. Before leaving, I gave Martha a few quick instructions. She looks hesitant. “Mr. Cross should be home soon. Perhaps you could wait…” I shook my head. “No need.” I locked my phone screen, turned around, and walked out the door.

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Alyssa and I were standing in the county clerk’s office. We were just one step away—waiting for our photo to be taken for the marriage license—when her phone rang, and she walked out. She left me standing there in the middle of the registry office, stranded and utterly humiliated. I called her. No answer. I texted her. Nothing but silence. Finally, out of options, I dialed her childhood best friend’s number. Sure enough, Alyssa picked up. “Steven, seriously, can you stop nagging me?” Alyssa’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Chase has a fever. I have to stay here and take care of him today. Stop calling and waking him up. We can just reschedule the marriage license for another day.” I sat frozen on the plastic waiting room chair, the phone pressed to my ear. “This is the seventh time we’ve rescheduled, Alyssa,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying. “So what?” she snapped. “The clerk’s office isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like it’s going to disappear!” My face went entirely numb, though inside, it felt like a knife was twisting in my chest. The clerk behind the counter gave me a look of deep, painful sympathy. “Are we still doing this, sir?” she asked gently. I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slowly. “Yes. We are.” … I pulled up my contacts and called Tyler’s older sister, Viola. I told her I was in. I agreed to her proposal. After hanging up, I asked the clerk if she could give me just a few minutes. I was still sitting there, dazed, when Viola walked through the double doors. She had parked her sleek, cherry-red Ferrari right out front, and the moment she stepped inside, she commanded the room. People actually stopped murmuring just to look at her. Viola walked straight to me and sat down in the plastic chair beside mine. She crossed her long legs, her expression cool, sharp, and businesslike. “Changed your mind?” she asked, looking at me intently. “You’re ready to go through with this sham marriage to get our families off our backs?” I nodded quietly. It wasn’t just about escaping my family’s constant nagging. For me, the clock was ticking. I needed my grandmother to find peace before she left this world. Six months ago, her health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. She had been confined to a hospital bed ever since, and every single time I visited, she would take my hand and ask when I was going to settle down. She wanted to see me married. She wanted to know I wouldn’t be left behind in this world. She kept saying that if she knew someone was by my side, she could close her eyes without worrying about leaving me all alone. That was why I had been begging Alyssa to marry me for the last six months. We had made it to the county clerk’s office seven times. Seven times we stood on the precipice of a life together, and seven times she had walked away, always for some urgent crisis involving Chase. The last time, Chase had sprained his ankle, and she had to rush to his apartment because he “couldn’t bear the pain.” The time before that, Chase had locked himself out of his apartment, and she had to drive across town with his spare key. And the time before that, Chase was craving a specific bowl of ramen from a diner uptown, and she abandoned me to go wait in line for him. Every single one of those seven times was because of Chase. Every single time, Alyssa had abandoned me without a second thought. The irony was suffocating. I had given her seven chances. And she couldn’t even spare five minutes to take a photo with me to seal our future. But honestly, as I watched her walk out this time, I didn’t feel the sharp sting of heartbreak. Maybe I had simply gone numb. Or maybe, deep down, I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, my mind drifted to what my grandmother had whispered to me from her hospital bed last week. “Steven, sweetie, I don’t think I have much time left. I might not make it to your wedding. But even if you end up alone, you have to promise me you’ll be strong. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.” I had promised her I would be strong. So, I was done compromising. I was done waiting. “Alyssa, I gave you your chances. Seven of them.” The paperwork with Viola went smoothly. But just as we stepped into the small booth to have our photo taken, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Alyssa. “Don’t be mad, Steven. I really couldn’t leave Chase today. But I’m back home now, and I’ve cooked your favorite pasta. I’ll be waiting for you! xoxo” Viola glanced over at my screen, her expression unreadable. “Still want to go through with this?” she asked quietly. I took a deep, steadying breath. “Keep going,” I said, looking straight at the camera. We walked out of the office a few minutes later, holding our official marriage certificate. Before she got back into her car, I turned to her. “Are you free tomorrow? There’s somewhere I need you to go with me.” Viola swung her long legs into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. “Call me with the details,” she said, starting the engine. “And be ready. My parents will probably require your presence in a couple of days to prove we actually did this.” With a quick nod, she drove off. Life is a strange, unpredictable thing. I had spent four years in college and three years afterward building a life with Alyssa, only for it to crumble into nothing. Yet here I was, legally bound to Tyler’s older sister—a woman I had barely spoken to before today. On my way back to the apartment, Alyssa texted again, this time with a photo. The dining table was covered in a massive spread of food. “Where are you? Dinner is ready! If you’re late, there won’t be any left!” She meant it, too. By the time I unlocked the door and walked inside, the dining table was a disaster zone. The plates were scraped clean, with nothing left but stained napkins and empty serving dishes. Chase was sitting there, looking every bit the innocent, bright-eyed golden boy. He looked up at me with mock contrition. “Oh, Steven, I’m so sorry. I was just starving, and Alyssa insisted I eat first. I hope you don’t mind.” Even a blind man could see the smug provocation in his eyes. For a split second, my blood boiled, and my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides. Chase and Alyssa had been inseparable since they were toddlers. In Alyssa’s world, he occupied a sacred space that no one else could touch. Our relationship used to be easy, full of laughter and effortless love. We rarely argued. And when we did, I was always the one to cave, to apologize, to take the blame just to keep the peace. I carried the weight of her temper because I loved her. My friends used to tell Alyssa how lucky she was to have someone who adored her so unconditionally. But the moment Chase came back into her life after college, everything changed. She became someone I barely recognized. “Steven, why are you just getting back now? I texted you hours ago,” Alyssa said, stepping out of the kitchen. She frowned the moment she saw me. In her mind, she was used to me dropping everything and rushing home the second she snapped her fingers. “I had some things to take care of,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “What could possibly be more important than coming home to the dinner I made for you?” Her tone was casual, but the underlying accusation was clear. I had no intention of telling her about my marriage to Viola. Since I had already made up my mind to leave, Alyssa was nothing more than a stranger to me now. I had only come back to pack. “Nothing major. I have an unexpected business trip, and I need to pack a bag,” I said. Without waiting for her response, I walked straight past her and into the bedroom. But the moment I pushed the bedroom door open, I froze. The bed sheets I had neatly made that morning were a tangled mess, and the closet doors swung open, my clothes rifled through. I could have overlooked that. But on my nightstand, the intricate, handcrafted wooden replica of an old cathedral—the one my grandmother had spent weeks putting together for me—was snapped in half. Tiny pieces of wood and delicate carvings lay scattered across the hardwood floor. Something inside me snapped. “Alyssa!” I yelled, my voice shaking. “Who was in here? Who broke my things?” Alyssa sauntered in, her brow furrowing slightly before smoothing out into complete indifference. “Oh, please. It’s just a wooden toy. I’ll hire someone to glue it back together for you later.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. That flippant, dismissive tone was the perfect summary of how little I meant to her. And looking at her face, I knew immediately who had done it. Only Chase could warrant this level of immediate, defensive protection. “Chase broke it, didn’t he?” I said quietly. My calm voice seemed to ignite a fire in her. Her eyes flared with anger as she stepped into my space. “Do you have proof that Chase did it? Maybe you didn’t build it right and it fell over on its own! Don’t you dare start throwing wild accusations at him, Steven. Unless you have actual proof, keep your mouth shut before I sue you for slander!” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. She protected him so fiercely, so effortlessly. One simple, logical question, and she was threatening to take me to court. But she hadn’t always been like this. I still remembered the rainy night I fell in love with her. I had gotten into a minor car crash, and she had run three blocks through a downpour without an umbrella to find me. That proud, image-conscious girl had stood in the pouring rain, screaming at the reckless driver who hit me, completely unconcerned with how she looked. What happened to that girl? How did she turn into this? I didn’t argue. She was right about one thing—I didn’t have proof. I knelt on the floor and began carefully picking up the wooden shards, placing the broken halves of the cathedral into a box. From the doorway, Chase’s pathetic, whining voice drifted in. He limped into the room, leaning heavily on the doorframe. “Alyssa, please don’t fight with Steven because of me. Even though I didn’t touch it, if Steven wants to blame me, let him. Nobody really liked me when I was growing up anyway. It’s only natural he hates me too.” He hobbled over and knelt beside me, pretending to help. But as he did, he deliberately planted his sneaker firmly onto one of the larger wooden carvings on the floor and ground his heel into it, crushing it to splinters. Leaning in close, he whispered so only I could hear: “I broke it. What are you gonna do about it?” A white-hot rage flared in my chest, and I shoved him away. But before my hand even made full contact with his shoulder, he threw himself backward onto the floor, his bandaged ankle hitting the corner of the nightstand with dramatic force. He let out a sharp cry of pain. “Steven! I was just trying to help!” Before I could even process the theatricality of his fall, Alyssa grabbed my arm, her grip bruising. Her face was twisted in a savage glare I had never seen before. She looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Even if you hate him, did you have to physically assault him? He’s injured, Steven! He’s a patient!” I looked at her, my arm aching in her grip, and felt a profound sadness wash over me. The girl I loved was entirely gone. “I barely even touched him,” I said, my voice dead. The slap was sudden and deafening. My head snapped to the side, and a hot, throbbing pain flared across my cheek. “You’re still lying!” Alyssa screamed. “Do you think I’m blind, Steven? I was standing right there! I saw you push him! First you lie about him breaking your toy, and now you attack him? I never knew you could be this cruel. You’re vicious!” I couldn’t even breathe. I didn’t bother trying to defend myself anymore. What was the point? She had already written the script in her head. She let go of my arm, looking down at me with cold disgust. “Nothing to say? You’re pathetic, Steven. Truly pathetic.” But instead of anger, I felt a strange sense of relief. If there had been any lingering warmth, any foolish hope left in my heart, that slap had extinguished it completely. I didn’t argue. I didn’t struggle to explain. As Alyssa helped Chase to his feet, he looked over her shoulder and mouthed a single sentence to me: “You never stood a chance.” If you want her so badly, she’s yours. Terrified that Chase had aggravated his ankle, Alyssa quickly called an Uber and practically carried him out of the apartment to the hospital. I slowly stood up, my legs slightly shaking. In the full-length mirror near the closet, the bright red imprint of her hand was already bruising on my cheek. She had hit me with everything she had. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of my lip. That slap had shattered the last of my illusions. I spent the next hour packing every single piece of clothing I owned into a suitcase. What I couldn’t fit, I dragged down to the dumpster. Before I walked out, I called a local real estate agent and listed the apartment. It was mine, bought with my grandmother’s hard-earned savings as a wedding gift for my future. Now, the thought of staying here made my skin crawl. Some things are too dirty to clean. I dragged my suitcase to a nearby hotel for the night. From here on out, I was going to spend every spare second with my grandmother. The next morning, I called Viola. Her voice was thick with sleep when she answered. It took a few gentle nudges—and a quick call to Tyler to help coax her out of bed—before she finally got moving. On our way to the hospital, Viola and I rehearsed our story. My grandmother had met Alyssa before and knew she was the one I had planned to marry. To keep her from worrying during her final days, I asked Viola to play along, hoping we wouldn’t slip up. To my surprise, Viola was a natural. She connected with my grandmother instantly, chatting effortlessly about everything from the hardships of the older generation to modern technology. By the time we had to leave, my grandmother was holding Viola’s hand, reluctant to let go. She pulled me close, patting my hand gently. “Stevenary, dear… this one is good. She’s a hundred times better than that Alyssa girl.” A wave of panic hit me. I didn’t want my grandmother to know I had rushed into a marriage of convenience, so I forced a laugh and whispered, “Grandma, you must be getting confused. This is Alyssa.” My grandmother gave me a knowing, gentle look. “I may be sick, Stevenary, but I’m not blind. I know exactly who she is. I just hope my old bones can hold out long enough to see your wedding reception…” I quickly pulled our marriage certificate out of my coat pocket and placed it in her frail hands. “You don’t have to wait, Grandma. We’re already married. See? And we’re planning the party right now. You’ll make it.” She pulled out her reading glasses and studied the document carefully. Finally, a warm smile spread across her face. “I knew it. Not that Alyssa girl. Viola… Viola. What a beautiful name.” I gave her an affectionate, exasperated look before stepping out of the room. Viola was waiting for me in the hallway, but she wasn’t alone. She seemed to be in the middle of a tense confrontation. As I drew closer, I realized the people she was arguing with were Alyssa and Chase. I didn’t know what had started it, but Alyssa’s voice cut through the quiet corridor, making my chest tighten painfully. “My boyfriend made a mistake, okay? I already apologized on his behalf. But for a woman who looks as refined as you, you sure are acting like a classless, shameless brat!” “My boyfriend.” The words echoed in my ears. To her, Chase was her boyfriend. So what was I? Just a placeholder? A convenience? “If you make a mess, you clean it up,” Viola replied, her voice cool and lethal. “If everyone had your twisted logic, we wouldn’t need laws. Being injured doesn’t give him a free pass to act like an animal.” Alyssa and Chase stood there, completely outmatched. Right then, Alyssa spotted me walking toward them.

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In our custody battle, my ex-husband, Thomas, had one main argument: “She can’t even speak proper English. How is she supposed to help our son with his prep school coursework?” His attorney pressed play on a recording. It was me, trying to teach our son, Toby, his bedtime vocabulary. My voice was halting, the vowels flat and clumsy, the consonants tripping over themselves. A faint, condescending snicker rippled through the gallery. “My client,” Thomas’s lawyer said, adjusting his glasses, “can provide the child with superior educational resources and, crucially, a domestic environment free of linguistic barriers.” He enunciated those last words with a sharp, pointed clarity. The judge turned her gaze to me. “Does the mother have anything to add?” I opened my mouth, but the words withered on my tongue. There was nothing to say. He was telling the truth. My spoken English was a disaster. I was a textbook grinder, a girl from a provincial, dirt-road town overseas who had studied her way across oceans through sheer brute memorization and standardized tests. I could write a flawless academic paper, but in conversation, my tongue still stumbled. Even now, the simple “th” sound felt like a wall I couldn’t climb. I lost. The judge awarded primary custody to him. Outside the courthouse, Thomas’s new girlfriend, Regina, was waiting. She held Toby’s report card—straight A’s—and offered me a sweet, pitying smile. “Elena, don’t take it too hard,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Honestly, Toby was starting to pick up that heavy, provincial drawl of yours. It’s going to take me at least six months of speech coaching to undo the damage.” I squeezed the custody papers in my fist, my nails cutting into the paper. I couldn’t find my voice. Thomas was already ushering Toby into the back of his pristine SUV. As the car pulled away, Toby pressed his small face against the glass, tears streaming down his cheeks. I collapsed onto the concrete steps of the courthouse, sobbing until my chest ached and my legs refused to carry me. But the judge’s final words echoed in my mind, carved in stone: “Should the mother demonstrate stable, competent educational and linguistic support capabilities, she may petition for a modification of custody.” A week later, I swallowed my pride and pushed open the door of a small, unpretentious community language clinic at the edge of my neighborhood. The instructor looked up from his desk, slid a printed paragraph toward me, and gestured for me to read. I stumbled through the sentences, my throat dry, my accent thick and wooden. When I finished, I whispered a quiet “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “You aren’t unable,” he said softly. “You’re just afraid.” … I paid the registration fee and took a seat in the very back row. There were twelve students in the room. Eleven of them were five-year-olds. I was the only adult. The plastic chairs were designed for toddlers; when I sat down, my knees practically brushed my chin. The man at the whiteboard was Gideon. He tapped a marker against a series of phonics rules, leading the class in a rhythmic call-and-response. When it was my turn, my tongue grazed the roof of my mouth, and I instinctively recoiled. I swallowed the final consonant, the word emerging flat and warped by my native tongue. A little boy in the front row turned around, pointing. “Mr. Gideon, that lady said it wrong.” The classroom fell dead silent. I lowered my head, my ears burning with a fierce, humiliating heat. After class, I went to a local bookstore. I spent forty dollars—a significant amount for my tight budget—on a beautifully illustrated set of phonics readers. I took a grueling one-hour bus ride to the gated suburban community where Thomas lived. Regina came down to the gate to meet me, wrapped in an elegant silk loungewear set. She smiled gently. “Elena, sweetie, please don’t bring these things anymore. We honestly can’t let Toby use them.” She took the plastic bag without another word. I turned and began the walk back to the bus stop. After a few steps, I realized my transit card had slipped from my pocket. I doubled back to search the grass. Through the wrought-iron fence, I saw Regina casually drop the bookstore bag into a large trash bin. Thomas walked up, frowning. “Was that her? What did she bring?” Regina’s voice drifted over the hedge, airy and light. “Just some cheap, poorly translated paperbacks from a discount store. The phonetic guides are all wrong. I’ve already ordered the original British audiobooks for Toby. Keeping stuff like this around will only ruin his linguistic foundation.” Thomas nodded. “You’re right. Don’t let her junk past the gate again.” I sank down behind the manicured shrubbery outside the fence, watching the colorful spines of the books I had spent an entire afternoon hand-picking rest among the garbage. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let a single sob escape. That night, I sat on the edge of my twin bed in my cramped apartment, recording my voice on my phone. I recorded it dozens of times, my voice shaking with every attempt. Finally, I sent a clip to Gideon. Ten minutes later, his voice message came back. “No crying in the recordings,” his tone was clipped, professional. “Your ‘th’ is still too far back. Stick your tongue out, bite down slightly, and push the air. Redo it. Tears won’t fix a bad accent.” I wiped my face, held down the record button, and forced myself to speak again. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a text from Thomas: “Next Friday is Toby’s preschool International Day. Parents are expected to interact entirely in English. Don’t come. I don’t want you embarrassing him in front of the faculty.” On Friday afternoon, I went anyway. I stood at the edge of the sprawling, pristine playground of the bilingual academy, wearing my best white button-down shirt. My fingers tightly gripped an index card covered in handwritten English phrases. I had practiced these simple greetings with Gideon for an entire week, wanting nothing more than to ask the teachers directly how Toby was adjusting. In the center of the lawn, Regina and Thomas stood side-by-side. An expatriate teacher was leaning down, ruffling Toby’s hair and smiling warmly at Regina. I stepped closer, close enough to catch their conversation. “Your boy is exceptionally bright,” the teacher said in standard, polished English. “You must be a wonderful mother.” Regina smiled gracefully, offering no correction. Instead, she slipped into an impeccable, fluid British-inflected accent, discussing Toby’s reading list and vocabulary progression with effortless charm. Toby stood beside her, looking up at her with pure, unquestioning adoration. My feet felt like lead, but I forced myself forward. “Hello,” I said, my voice tight and strained with anxiety. The teacher turned, looking at me with polite confusion. I wanted to ask how Toby was sleeping, how his lunches were. But under Regina’s cool, smiling gaze, the vocabulary I had rehearsed for days evaporated. My pronunciation became a muddled slur, my grammar fracturing into pieces. The teacher’s confusion deepened. He turned to Regina, lowering his voice. “Is this lady Toby’s nanny?” Regina gave a soft, delicate gasp, covering her mouth. “Oh, no, she is…” Before she could finish, Thomas grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the crowd. He pulled me behind the brick corner of the school building, his face livid. “Elena, are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “Regina spent six months networking to get Toby integrated into this elite circle! And you show up here, sounding like a backward immigrant, broadcasting to the entire school that Toby has a mother who can barely string a sentence together?” He shoved my shoulder back against the wall. The pain was sharp. I looked at him, my vision blurring. “I am his mother. I have every right to see him, to ask how he is doing.” Thomas let out a cruel, dry laugh. “His mother? Does being his mother give you the right to drag him down to your level? When the teacher took Regina for his mother just now, Toby didn’t correct him. He looked proud. Face it, Elena. You don’t belong in his world anymore.” He walked away, leaving me leaning against the cold brick, shivering from the inside out. During class that evening, I couldn’t utter a single syllable. No matter how many times Gideon tapped the board, my throat felt like it had been poured full of concrete. When the session ended, we were the only two left in the quiet room. Gideon walked over to my low desk and handed me a dry-erase marker. “Write it on the desk,” he said. “Write what?” my voice was barely a whisper. “Write: “I am his only mother.” He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes piercingly sharp. “Write it down. Look at it. And read it aloud until you believe it.” I gripped the marker, my hand trembling violently. My phone screen lit up on the plastic table. It was an email from Thomas’s attorney. “In light of the mother’s severe deficiency in providing necessary educational and linguistic support for a competitive preparatory environment, our client will petition the court to terminate all visitation rights and initiate paperwork for the child’s enrollment in an overseas boarding program.” Terminate visitation. The words felt like a rusted saw dragging across my chest. The next morning, Thomas sent me a video file. In it, Toby sat in a spacious, sunlit office wearing a tailored navy blazer. Sitting across from him was an admissions officer from an elite private academy. The interviewer asked, “And who helps you with your homework at home, Toby?” Toby’s eyes darted toward someone off-camera—Regina. In a sweet, practiced voice, he replied, “Aunt Regina. She’s just like a real mom to me.” The clip cut off. My phone immediately rang; it was Thomas. “Did you see that? That’s Toby’s mock interview for the academy next month. They require a fully supportive, English-fluent home environment.” His tone was casual, which only made it more vicious. “Sign the waiver, Elena. Give up your visitation. Right now, your existence is just a blemish on his transcript. That fifty-dollar community class of yours wouldn’t even qualify as a joke to the board of admissions.” My fingers dug into the glass screen of my phone, my nails leaving smudges. “And if I refuse?” “Then we go to court,” Thomas sneered. “And I’ll make sure the judge sees exactly how a woman who sits in a room of five-year-olds learning basic phonics is sabotaging her own son’s future.” The line went dead. I collapsed onto the curb, gasping for air. He was erasing me from my child’s life, piece by piece. That afternoon, I walked straight to the family court and filed a petition for a custody review hearing. Win or lose, I had to stand my ground. That evening at the center, Gideon didn’t make me sit with the children. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat directly across from me. He switched entirely to English, his delivery rapid, his words sharp. “If you stand in that courtroom, and their lawyer calls you a low-income, linguistically deficient mother who has nothing to offer her child, how do you counter?” I froze. He began grilling me, adopting the aggressive, precise cadence of a seasoned trial lawyer. I stammered, “I… I love my baby…” “Not enough!” Gideon cut me off, his voice commanding and heavy with pressure. “Love is the cheapest word in a courtroom. Give me facts. Give me logic. Again!” For hours, under the relentless storm of his questioning, I was on the verge of breaking. But at the peak of my humiliation and despair, something shifted. A strange, quiet clarity washed over me. I opened my mouth and, using every ounce of phonetic training I had hammered into my brain over the past months, I hurled the English words back at him, line by line, steady and clear. Gideon listened in silence until my final rebuttal. He slowly took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Your pronunciation,” he said softly, “is more than ready.” He stood up, stacking his lesson plans. “Go show them you aren’t a joke.” Wednesday morning. The family court hearing room. Thomas wore a bespoke dark suit, with Regina sitting beside him. She looked elegant and understated—light makeup, a simple pearl necklace—the picture-perfect image of an educated, high-class mother. The hearing commenced. Thomas’s lawyer immediately delivered his opening salvo. “Your Honor, we submit this letter of intent from the prestigious Wellington Academy. The institution mandates a rigorous, English-fluent domestic environment. Meanwhile, the biological mother, Elena…” He paused, letting a condescending smile play on his lips. “As far as we have documented, is currently enrolled in a community center class, learning basic alphabet phonics alongside toddlers.” A few low snickers came from the gallery. The lawyer’s voice grew colder. “The biological mother’s linguistic proficiency is literally at a preschool level. It is highly improbable that a woman who requires basic remedial classes alongside five-year-olds can offer any meaningful academic support. Her continued influence will only stifle the child’s social mobility and cognitive development.” Thomas looked at me, his eyes full of that familiar, patronizing pity. The judge turned to me. “Does the petitioner have a response?” I stood up slowly. I lifted my chin, looking directly at Thomas and his high-priced lawyer. Then, drawing a breath, I delivered my statement entirely in English. My pace was deliberate, but every single syllable was steady, carved with precision. “It is true that I study at a fifty-dollar-a-month community program,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “Because that is the absolute limit of what my current income allows. But I do not believe a mother who starts from zero, practicing her pronunciation hundreds of times a day against a bare wall for her son, is a blemish. The real blemish is using wealth and social class as weapons to sever a child’s bond with his own mother.” A dead silence fell over the courtroom. The pity on Thomas’s face hardened into a freeze. Regina’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp panic. The clarity of my speech and the structure of my argument had caught them completely off guard. But Thomas’s lawyer recovered quickly, leaping to his feet. “Your Honor, I object! This emotional speech is clearly ghostwritten and mechanically memorized over weeks of rote practice. It does not reflect her actual day-to-day communication or educational capacity!” The lawyer pressed forward, zeroing in on what he thought was my weakest point. “Tell us, who is the instructor who coached you to recite this? Is it the coordinator of that unregistered, unaccredited neighborhood daycare center? Your Honor, rote memorization under the guidance of an uncertified community center worker carries zero academic weight. It cannot be accepted as proof of educational competence.” He pointed a finger at me, his gaze sharp and venomous. “Unless she can prove her instructor holds internationally recognized credentials in education or linguistics, this entire performance is a fraud!” I was backed into a corner. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I had no idea what credentials Gideon held; he was just the man who taught at the cheap community center. Thomas leaned back in his chair, a smug smile creeping back onto his lips. The judge frowned, looking down at me. “Can the petitioner provide any documentation regarding the qualifications of her instructor?” I closed my eyes, a cold wave of despair washing over me. At that exact moment, the heavy double doors of the hearing room were pushed open. Gideon walked in, wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, one hand in his trouser pocket. He moved with effortless authority, stepping right past the gallery and dropping a thick, sealed portfolio bearing a heavy metallic seal directly onto the desk in front of Thomas’s lawyer. “I am her instructor,” Gideon said, his voice quiet but commanding. “Feel free to open that and see if I am qualified to provide her endorsement.” The lawyer gave him a skeptical look and pulled the documents from the envelope. The moment his eyes brushed the official letterhead and the signature at the bottom, the smug color drained from his face, leaving him entirely pale.

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The night before Viola proposed to me, my mother was diagnosed with a malignant tumor. Combining every cent I had in the world, I was still thirty thousand dollars short of the deposit required for her emergency surgery. I called Viola, sobbing, begging to borrow the money. But the voice that answered her phone belonged to her—three years in the future. “Viola… my mom gets better, right?” I whispered into the receiver, my hand trembling against my chest. “You’ll help me save her. You always do, right?” Silence stretched over the line, heavy and cold, for three agonizing seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice was stripped of any warmth I had ever known. “Your mother is dead,” the future Viola said. “You asked me for thirty grand, and I turned you down. But the very next day, I bought your best friend a thirty-thousand-dollar Cartier bracelet.” My fingers tightened around the phone, my other hand squeezing the biopsy report so hard the paper crinkled in my grip. She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Honestly, Tyler had been throwing himself at me for months. I only held back because of you. But I didn’t realize how cheap you were beneath it all. Begging me for thirty thousand dollars like a common parasite.” The next evening, Viola got down on one knee in front of me, holding out a diamond ring, asking me to marry her. In that moment, all I could think about was the last thing her future self had said before she hung up the phone the night before: “If things go as planned, tomorrow night will be our first time together—Tyler and me.” “Of course, you can choose not to ask me for the money. But without my charity, your mother will only die faster.” “Your move, Jesse. You decide.” … “Will you make me the happiest woman alive? Will you marry me, Jesse?” The moment the words left her lips, both of our phones chimed. Mine was a text notification from the hospital, a stark demand for the outstanding balance. Hers was a rapid, rhythmic series of text alerts, vibrating incessantly against her thigh. “Who is texting you?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Let me see.” I saw the brief, guilty flicker in her eyes before she quickly turned her body, shielding the screen. But I was fast enough. I caught the name and the words glowing on the glass. It was Tyler. My best friend since childhood. “I know you’re getting married tomorrow. Just give me tonight. Please.” The world tilted. My foot caught on the edge of the brick pathway, and I fell hard onto the gravel. The sharp stones sliced open my palms, hot blood welling up instantly. Behind Viola, the elaborate firework display she had commissioned began to detonate against the dark sky. A brilliant, colorful explosion. A magnificent, cruel joke. I let out a broken, breathless laugh, tearing off the formal tie around my neck. The blood from my hands smeared across the dark silk, soaking the fabric. Tears finally spilled over, blurring the face of the woman I had loved for five years. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “Forget it, Viola. I won’t marry you.” I pushed myself up and ran in the opposite direction. She made a move to follow, but her ringing phone anchored her to the spot. Through the freezing wind, her voice drifted over to me. She didn’t sound devastated. If anything, there was a strange, unsettling note of relief in her tone: “Yeah. I just proposed. He said no.” “Hey, stop crying. I’m on my way to you now…” …… At the hospital, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the ICU window, looking at my mother. The cancer had wasted her away in a matter of hours. It is true what they say—sickness arrives like a landslide. Only yesterday she had collapsed, and today I was holding a terminal diagnosis. “Mr. Fletcher,” the billing administrator said, tapping a pen on the counter. “The deposit you made won’t cover her next round of intensive care. You need to clear the balance downstairs.” I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone to check my banking app. My total net worth: $4,053.62. Not even a fraction of the tens of thousands needed for her treatment. Originally, I had more than enough saved. But two weeks ago, Tyler had come to me, begging for a loan to jumpstart his “business venture.” I remembered how he had clutched my hand, tears streaming down his face. “Jesse, I don’t have a wealthy girlfriend like you do. If you don’t help me, my family is going to force me to marry some older woman back home just to pay off their debts.” I hadn’t hesitated. I gave him every cent of my savings, not even asking for a promissory note. I had no idea that along with my life savings, he was also taking my future wife. I took a deep breath and called Tyler. The word “repay” had barely left my mouth when a familiar, sleepy voice echoed from his end of the line. “I’m out of the shower. Who’s calling?” “Wrong number…” Tyler cut himself off. There was a pause, and then I heard him let out a soft, mocking chuckle. He raised his voice, clearly intending for her—and me—to hear. “Viola, darling, did Jesse turn down your proposal because you didn’t offer him a big enough trust fund? He always did say he’d marry anyone who paid off his debts.” I had never said anything of the sort. But on the other end, Viola said nothing. No denial. No defense. Soon, the sickeningly intimate sound of rustling sheets and soft murmurs filled the receiver. This was it. The first time the future Viola had warned me about. The call ended with a sharp click. I tried calling back, desperate, but it went straight to voicemail. I slid down the hospital wall, burying my face in my hands as the tears finally broke through. The sheer, suffocating weight of it all pressed down on my chest, sending a violent wave of nausea through my stomach. I dragged myself to the nearest trash can and retched until there was nothing left. For the first twenty-five years of my life, my world had revolved around three people: my mother, Tyler, and Viola. I never could have imagined that in a single night, I would lose all of them. Desperate, I did something I had never done before—I began calling every acquaintance, distant relative, and old classmate in my contacts, begging for a loan. The responses fell into three categories: a polite “I don’t have it,” an awkward excuse, or a pitiful hundred-dollar transfer to quiet their own consciences. To make up the difference, I took on three separate temp jobs, working myself to the bone. Aside from the hours I spent sleeping or sitting by my mother’s bedside, I didn’t allow myself a single moment of rest. During this time, Viola sent me one text message. Just three words: “Don’t regret this.” Viola would probably never understand why I had suddenly become a different person. Just as I still couldn’t comprehend how five years of love could be so easily poisoned by a third party. It was her future self who reached out to me more often, her texts appearing on my screen like ghosts: “You don’t have to push yourself like this.” “Even if you work yourself to death, you can’t save her. What’s the point?” When I saw those messages, I was standing under a brutal ninety-degree sun, handing out flyers for fifteen dollars an hour. I didn’t have the breath or the energy to reply. That evening, a coordinator from my staffing agency texted asking if I could cover a VIP shift at an upscale lounge downtown. “The tips alone are more than we make in a month,” she urged. “If my kid weren’t sick, I’d never give this up.” I couldn’t afford to say no. But I never expected that when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private suite, I would see Viola again. She was sitting at the center of the plush leather booth, her eyes locking onto mine through the dim, smoky light. Curled up tightly against her side was Tyler, looking smug and radiant. One of her wealthy friends sneered, looking me up and down. “Well, look who it is. Viola, isn’t this the gold-digging ex who wouldn’t marry you without a massive payout? Working as a barback now? What’s the play, Jesse? Looking for a new sugar mommy?” The room erupted into laughter. Tyler’s laugh was the loudest. Clearly, he had spent the last few weeks painting me as a villain to her social circle. Now that he had successfully climbed into her bed, he didn’t need to pretend anymore. He leaned his head on Viola’s shoulder, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Viola, Jesse seems really desperate for cash lately. He’s been hitting up all our mutual friends for loans. Shouldn’t we do something to help him out?” Viola’s expression remained unreadable. After a long, tense silence, a cold smile played on her lips. “Sure,” she said. She tapped the toe of her designer heel against the row of expensive, high-proof whiskey bottles lined up on the low table. “A thousand dollars a shot. You game?” She knew I was severely allergic to alcohol. She was doing this purely to humiliate me, to watch me crawl. But what she didn’t expect was that under the mocking stares of the entire room, I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I reached down, grabbed a bottle of neat whiskey, tilted my head back, and began to drink. The burning liquid scorched my throat, sending an immediate, violent spasm through my stomach. I dug my fingernails into my palms, drawing blood, forcing myself to swallow, fighting the urge to vomit. By the time Viola snapped out of her daze and ripped the bottle from my hands, more than half of it was gone. “Jesse, are you fucking insane?!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Why do you need money this badly?!” Under the sudden rush of alcohol, my eyes stung with tears. For a split second, I wanted to tell her how exhausted I was. How scared I was. How desperately I wanted my mother to live. But the future Viola had already proved to me that even if I told her the truth now, nothing would change. I wiped the wetness from my chin and held up my phone, showing her my digital payment code. My voice was flat, empty of emotion. “What I drank… that should be at least twelve grand, right?” She cursed under her breath, her fingers trembling as she scanned the code and transferred the money. Then, she pointed at the door. “Get out.” The moment I stumbled out of the suite, my legs gave way. I collapsed against the hallway wall, sliding down to the carpeted floor. Looking at the notification of the twelve-thousand-dollar transfer, I let out a jagged laugh. But the laughter quickly turned into tears. With this money, combined with what I had saved and borrowed, I finally had enough for my mother’s surgery deposit. But right then, my phone rang. The screen flashed with the hospital’s number, shattering my fragile hope. “Mr. Fletcher, your mother’s condition has suddenly deteriorated!” the nurse gasped. “It’s an emergency. You need to get here immediately!” I don’t know how many times I tripped and fell on the dark streets. By the time I burst through the hospital doors, my knees were torn and bleeding, and I had lost one of my shoes. But I was still too late. I didn’t get to say goodbye. All that was waiting for me was a cold sheet and a death certificate. I threw myself over her cooling body, sobbing until my chest felt like it would split open. “Mom… please. Don’t leave me alone. Take me with you… please, mom…” Even the ICU nurses, who saw death every day, turned away to wipe their eyes. “Mr. Fletcher, I’m so sorry,” one of them whispered, handing me a tissue. There was an old superstition in my family that you must never let your tears fall on the face of the deceased. If you did, their soul wouldn’t find peace, and they might take the person they loved most along with them. In that dark room, I wished with everything in me that the superstition was true. My mother was my only family, my entire world. With her gone, what was the point of drawing another breath? My phone buzzed. It was a call from the future Viola. “Jesse, your mother…” “Why?！” I screamed into the receiver, not letting her finish. The dam broke, and every ounce of pain, betrayal, and exhaustion poured out of me. “Why, Viola? Tell me why!” “Why is it that no matter what I do, I can’t save her?!” “Why did you and Tyler betray me when I did nothing wrong?!” “Why did the woman I loved for five years end up in bed with my best friend?!” “Tell me why! Just tell me!” There was a dead, suffocating silence on the other end. And then, a sound I hadn’t expected: a quiet, muffled sob. After a long pause, she whispered, “I’m sorry.” The anger drained out of me, leaving me entirely hollow. I slid down the wall, sitting flat on the cold hospital floor. A question slipped past my lips: “Viola… do you regret it now?” The future Viola didn’t answer. Instead, she said something strange, her voice sharp with sudden panic: “Jesse, don’t look out the window.” But she was too late. As soon as the words left her mouth, a massive firework detonated in the night sky outside the hospital window. One after another, brilliant bursts of light illuminated the dark room like artificial daylight. Two young nurses walked past the door, their voices drifting in: “Oh, look! That’s the display Ms. Clifford ordered for her new boyfriend. It’s supposed to go on all night.” “Must be nice. I heard her ex-boyfriend refused to marry her because she wouldn’t pay off his debts. What a leech. Glad she found someone better.” Right. I had almost forgotten. Today was Tyler’s birthday. I opened my social media. My feed was flooded with pictures of Tyler wrapped in Viola’s arms, surrounded by a mountain of designer gift boxes. His caption read: “I asked for money, love, and the world. She gave it all to me with a smile, and called me cute for asking.” I stared at the screen, my face completely blank. I liked the post, and then I blocked him. A second later, my phone rang. It was the present-day Viola. “Jesse, are you out of your mind? Today is Tyler’s birthday! Why did you block him?!” she demanded. “He’s literally crying his eyes out right now. You need to apologize to him immediately!” I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden, blinding pain seized my chest. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. The world spun, blackness encroached on my vision, and I collapsed backward into the dark. When I opened my eyes, a doctor was standing over my bed, his expression grim. “Mr. Fletcher, we got your lab results back. It’s not good.” “Severe physical exhaustion combined with extreme psychological trauma has triggered acute myocardial damage. Your heart is failing.” I held the paper, staring at the diagnosis code for a long time. Then, I dialed the future Viola’s number. “Am I… going to die?” The silence stretched again, but this time, her choked sobs were loud and undisguised. “I’m so sorry, Jesse… I’m so sorry…” So, even my own life was running out. There was a strange comfort in that. Her voice turned desperate, begging: “Please, start the treatment now. Don’t push yourself anymore… do it for me, please?” I hung up. I pressed my hand against my aching chest. Even if she hadn’t told me, I had no intention of fighting. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’ll be with you soon.” If my mother’s death was a fixed point, and nothing I did could alter it, then why keep fighting? I might as well surrender now and spare myself the agony. Thirty minutes later, I walked out to the hallway, rejecting every medical intervention the hospital offered. But physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I dragged my heavy limbs to the administrative office, finalized my mother’s death certificate, signed the cremation authorization, and sat on a wooden bench outside the crematorium. I watched the thin spiral of gray smoke rise from the chimney, dissolving into the white clouds. I reached out, trying to catch it, but my fingers closed on empty air. In the end, I decided to take her ashes back to our old apartment. She would be safe there, with me. But as I walked up the steps holding the urn, I found Viola and Tyler waiting at my door. “Where the hell have you been?!” Viola snapped. “I told you to apologize to Tyler. Did you not hear me?!” I didn’t even look at her. I lowered my head and tried to brush past them, but Viola grabbed my arm. Her eyes swept over my pale, sunken face, and she froze for a fraction of a second. “Why do you look like this?” I winced, trying to pull away. In the confusion, Tyler suddenly reached out and snatched the ceramic urn from my arms. “Jesse, what’s this? What are you hiding?” “Give it back!” I lunged at him like a wild animal. It all happened in a blur—Tyler shrieked, ducking behind Viola, and let go of the urn. It shattered against the concrete floor. A cloud of fine, gray dust rose into the air. Without thinking, I swung my arm and slapped Tyler hard across the face. In the next second, Viola lunged forward, shoving me hard. I fell backward onto the concrete. “What is wrong with you?! Over a stupid vase?!” she yelled. The sharp ceramic shards sliced deep into my palms, but I felt nothing. I crawled forward on my knees, desperately scraping my mother’s ashes back together with my bare hands. I knelt there in the quiet, scraping up the dust, watching my own blood stain the gray remains of the only person who had ever truly loved me. I didn’t even hear the front door click shut when they left. That night, clutching a framed photo of my mother, I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills I had bought on the way home. As my eyelids grew heavy, I heard the faint chime of the wind chimes on the balcony. With the last of my strength, I turned my head and saw a figure standing in the doorway… Mom. My phone lay on the mattress, the screen glowing with my last text to the future Viola: “Thank you for telling me the truth. It’s finally over.” …… At 1:00 AM, Viola’s phone rang. It was the hospital. “Hello, is this the emergency contact for Jesse Fletcher? He’s just been admitted for an intentional overdose of sleeping pills. We are running his stomach now.” Viola didn’t remember how she got to the hospital. Her mind was a complete blank as she ran red lights across the city. It wasn’t until she saw Jesse’s name on the critical care sheet that her denial shattered. Just then, Jesse’s phone, which she had scooped up from his apartment floor, began to ring. She answered it mechanically. But she never expected the voice on the other end to be her own. Only, it sounded years older, raspy, and completely broken.

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My father was sitting alone on a sterile plastic chair in the emergency room lobby, clutching his mangled, bloody forearm, when I finally sprinted through the double doors. “Sweetheart, don’t worry,” he said, his voice trembling as he tried to offer me a reassuring smile. “I’m just an old fool. I couldn’t figure out how to work that high-tech check-in kiosk. The machine wouldn’t respond when I pressed it, and the folks waiting behind me in line started getting upset…” … A sharp, hot lump rose in my throat, and I had to fight back the tears stinging my eyes. The doctor on duty cut away my father’s dusty flannel sleeve, his brow furrowing deeply as he inspected the wound. “Why did you wait so long to bring him in? This laceration is incredibly deep. If you had delayed any longer, he could have lost permanent mobility in this hand.” The dried blood had fused the fabric of his shirt to his torn skin. As the nurse gently peeled it away, the wound began to bleed afresh, raw and angry. Yet, my father kept trying to play it down. “It’s alright, Doc. I still need to get back to the job site. Just throw a few quick stitches in it. No need for any of that expensive medicine.” It took eight stitches to close the gash. Throughout the entire process, my father gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound, still trying to comfort me with his eyes. Every time the needle pierced his flesh, it felt as though it were tearing through my own heart. Finally, the tears spilled over. I walked out into the hallway and dialed Blake’s number. “Blake, you claim you couldn’t understand my dad’s thick country accent, but are you seriously telling me you couldn’t see that his arm was gushing blood?” A faint rustle of static came through the receiver, followed by Blake’s smooth, impatient sigh. “Maeve, I had a massive quarterly meeting this afternoon. I couldn’t jeopardize a multi-million-dollar deal just to walk your father through an check-in screen. Those automated kiosks have voice prompts. If it was really that hard, you should have taught him how to read the screen beforehand. He can’t rely on me to hold his hand for every little thing.” Hearing him lay out his excuses so righteously left me entirely breathless. Before I could even find my voice to reply, a soft, familiar whimper sounded in the background. “Blake,” a sweet, girlish voice called out. “The vet is ready to draw Coco’s blood now…” With a sharp “click”, the line went dead. My father, his arm now heavily bandaged, stepped out of the treatment room. He looked at my pale, silent face and gently tugged at the sleeve of my jacket. “Don’t go starting a fight with Blake, sweetheart,” he muttered, looking down at his worn-out work boots. “He’s a busy man, running a big company. His time is valuable. I’m just an old construction worker who can’t read a computer screen. I’m the one who caused all this trouble.” Seeing the deep humiliation in his eyes made my chest ache. “Dad, would you like to take a trip? Let’s go somewhere far away. Just the two of us.” After booking the tickets on my phone, I helped my father out of the hospital. Just as we reached the curb, a familiar black SUV pulled up, and the driver’s side window rolled down. Blake waved his hand dismissively. “Get in. I’ll take you guys home.” He didn’t even look at my father, let alone greet him. Yet, my father immediately nodded, offering a grateful, hurried smile as he reached for the door. At that moment, the passenger window rolled down. Inside, a tiny toy poodle nestled in the arms of Amber, Blake’s new intern. The dog began barking frantically at us. My father flinched, stepping back so quickly he nearly tripped over my foot. Amber pouted, stroking the dog’s head as she muttered under her breath, “Grown men who are scared of little dogs are so weird.” Blake didn’t correct her. Instead, he checked his watch, his tone clipped. “Hurry up and get in. It’s about to pour.” I helped my father into the backseat, making sure he was settled before sliding in beside him. Almost immediately, a light, cold drizzle began to fall. The window next to my father was wide open, and the freezing wind, carrying droplets of rain, whipped directly against his freshly bandaged arm. I reached for the window control on the door panel, but the button was completely unresponsive. “Blake, can you roll up the back window, please?” He didn’t even bother to look in the rearview mirror. “Amber gets car sick easily. She can’t stand the smell in enclosed spaces. She’ll throw up.” My father’s hands clenched his worn jeans. He shrank himself further into the corner of the seat, trying to occupy as little space as possible, remaining entirely silent. Looking at his defeated posture, a wave of cold fury washed over me. “I thought you had a massive quarterly meeting this afternoon,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “How did you find the time to take her dog to the vet?” Blake let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “What, are you jealous of a dog now, Maeve? Amber is trying to make a living in this city all on her own. She doesn’t have any family here. As her boss, it’s only natural that I look out for her.” I had heard that exact excuse more times than I cared to count. On our fifth wedding anniversary, he had stood me up for the entire evening because Amber had just broken up with her boyfriend and “needed a friend to keep her from doing something reckless.” When I was bedridden with severe food poisoning, unable to even stand up to get water, he was at the office pulling an all-nighter with Amber because “it was her first big presentation, and she needed the moral support.” When I got into a minor car accident and was waiting in the rain for the tow truck, he was at a concert with Amber, later dismissing it with a careless, “I was out of town on business, Maeve. Don’t be dramatic.” Each act of “professional guidance” had been bolder than the last. Perhaps I should have stepped aside a long time ago. When the car finally pulled up to our apartment building, Blake kept the engine running. “You two head up first. Amber has a marketing proposal she’s struggling with, so I’m going to drop her off and help her walk through the strategy. Oh, and I went ahead and bought your dad’s train ticket back home for tomorrow morning.” Just like always, Blake couldn’t wait to push my family out of his sterile, perfect life. But this time, I didn’t back down. “Don’t worry about my father’s schedule,” I said, staring at the back of his head. “He’s going to stay here with me for a while.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, filled with a fleeting touch of surprise. Seeing the cold resolve in my gaze, he backed down. “Fine. Whatever you want. I have a lot of late nights ahead of us at the office, so I’ll probably just crash at the corporate apartment.” When we reached our floor, my father instinctively reached down to the shoe rack, looking for the cheap, disposable paper slippers we kept for delivery workers. I gently placed my hand over his. “Dad, use the guest slippers.” He hesitated, looking at the plush, high-end slippers Blake had explicitly forbidden him from using during his last visit, before slowly sliding his feet into them. Our living room sofa was massive and incredibly soft, but my father only dared to sit on the very edge of the cushion, his hands resting stiffly on his knees. “Maeve, this is all my fault,” he whispered, looking at me with a worried, anxious expression. “I’ve caused a rift between you and Blake. Maybe… maybe I should just take that morning train back tomorrow.” I didn’t answer. I simply turned toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make some dinner.” When I pulled open the double doors of the refrigerator, I froze. The shelves, which Blake used to keep stocked with my favorite sparkling waters and organic snacks, were practically bare, save for a thin layer of frost. It had been months since we had gone grocery shopping together, months since we had sat down for a proper, home-cooked meal. “Maeve,” my father’s quiet, hesitant voice drifted in from the living room. “Are you… are you happy with him?” “Of course I am, Dad,” I replied automatically, though the words tasted like ash in my mouth. “Look at this place. I have everything I could ever want.” There was a long, heavy silence. When I turned around, my father was standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. “Maeve,” he said softly. “I didn’t ask if you have things. I asked if you are happy.” A sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest, and my eyes welled with tears. To the rest of the world, I was the lucky girl who had married into high society, the envy of everyone who knew us. But no one had ever bothered to ask if I was happy. When Blake and I first met, his family was already arranging a marriage for him with a woman from a prominent dynasty. Yet, he had pursued me with a fierce, unrelenting passion. When his mother had tracked me down at the coffee shop where I worked and slid a blank check across the table, Blake had burst through the doors, grabbed the check, and torn it to shreds right in front of her. “She is the only woman I will ever marry,” he had shouted, his voice echoing in the quiet shop. “If you don’t like it, you can write me out of the family.” To keep us apart, his family had sent him overseas for his master’s degree. But during those four years of long-distance, Blake had flown back to see me over fifty times, enduring grueling twenty-five-hour layovers just to spend a single weekend in my arms. “I promised I’d see you every single month,” he would whisper, holding me close. “And I never break my promises to you.” Back then, his love had been like the summer sun—blinding, intense, and warm enough to keep the rest of the cold world at bay. But the sun always sets. Our love had slowly cooled, dissolving into the mundane, repetitive routine of daily life, until it became practically imperceptible. And then, Amber arrived. It was only then that I realized the sun hadn’t burnt out. It had simply stopped shining on me. The way Blake looked at Amber, the rules he broke for her, the frantic worry in his voice when she called—it was a flawless, mirror image of the passionate boy who had fought his entire family for me a decade ago. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Amber had just posted to her story. “So grateful for the late-night fuel from the best boss ever! Now I have the energy to crush this presentation!” The photo showed a lavish spread of high-end takeout. But it was the corner of the image that caught my attention—a man’s hand resting on the edge of the mahogany table, a familiar platinum band catching the light of the desk lamp. I turned back to my father and forced a small, bright smile. “Dad, let’s go out. I’m taking you to that steakhouse you’ve always wanted to try.” The prime rib, which I usually loved, felt like cardboard in my mouth. At one in the morning, the front door clicked open. I was lying on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. I didn’t get up to take his coat or put away his briefcase like I usually did. Blake walked straight toward the kitchen, stopping short when he saw the clean countertops. “Did you not brew my herbal tea tonight?” “I was busy. I forgot,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on my screen. He let out a long, weary sigh, walking over to the sofa and sitting down beside me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “Are you still throwing a tantrum over this afternoon?” “I told you, Maeve. She’s just an intern. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” But whether they had crossed a physical line or not didn’t matter anymore. The casual disregard, the subtle classism directed at my father, the slow, agonizing accumulation of neglect—I was simply done. I gently but firmly pushed his arms away and stood up. “I’m going to bed.” “I’ve been sleeping poorly lately, and you toss and turn a lot. You should sleep in the guest room tonight.” On my nightstand lay a folded white paper I had brought home from the clinic earlier that morning. “Positive. Six weeks.” I had planned to present it to him as a surprise for our upcoming anniversary. Now, looking at the sterile black ink, I realized there was no point. The next morning, the rich, savory aroma of breakfast woke me. My father had already prepared a spread of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toasted English muffins. But on the edge of the dining table, a sleek black American Express card sat reflecting the morning light. My father looked at it uncomfortably. “Maeve, Blake left that for me before he went to work. He said it was a gesture of appreciation for my visit.” “I didn’t touch it. I didn’t want to make things difficult for you.” I set my fork down, picked up the titanium card, and tossed it directly into the trash can beside the pantry. “Eat up, Dad. The nurse is coming to help me take you to the clinic to get those stitches checked.” The private nurse I had hired arrived right on time. Just as we reached the front door, my phone rang. Blake’s voice was laced with irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me you were taking your dad to his follow-up appointment?” “There was no need to hire outside help. I have an opening in my schedule this afternoon. I was going to drive him myself.” Hearing this, my father immediately began slipping his jacket off, looking toward the living room. “Oh, well, if Blake is coming, we should probably wait. Save the money on the nurse.” I shook my head gently, taking my father’s arm. “No, Dad. Let’s go. We aren’t waiting on him anymore.” He had made too many promises he couldn’t keep. His credit had run out. An hour later, I was sitting on a cold vinyl bench in the hallway of the women’s clinic, waiting for my name to be called. “Maeve Franklin, room three.” Just as I stood up to walk toward the examination room, a sudden commotion broke out at the far end of the corridor. Blake was walking briskly down the hall, his face pale with worry, carrying Amber in his arms. “Where is the attending physician?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “Get her into a private room immediately!” A nurse hurried over. “Sir, what is the emergency?” “She has severe dysmenorrhea. She’s practically fainting from the pain! You need to give her an intravenous analgesic right away!” As he turned, his eyes collided with mine. He froze. After carefully laying Amber onto a gurney, his face hardened, and he walked over to me, his presence suffocatingly tense. “Maeve? What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you tracking my phone?” I saw a faint, distinct smudge of red lipstick near his collar. I instinctively slid the appointment slip behind my back. But Blake’s eyes were sharp. He caught the movement and reached out, trying to snatch the paper from my fingers. Before he could, Amber’s weak, tearful voice drifted from the treatment room. “Blake… it hurts so much… where are you?” Blake let out a heavy, conflicted sigh, his hand dropping to his side. “She collapsed at her desk during a project review. It’s technically a workplace injury, so it’s my responsibility to oversee her care. If you’re feeling under the weather, go to our family’s private practice. Use the VIP concierge. I’m just too swamped to deal with this right now.” Without waiting for my reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared into her room. Through the cracked door, I could hear his low, soothing murmurs as he comforted her. I turned back to the nurse holding the clipboard. “I’m ready for the procedure.” The doctor looked over my chart, confirming the details. “Six weeks. We can proceed with the vacuum aspiration under conscious sedation. Is your partner here to sign the consent form?” “I’m a widow,” I said, my voice entirely flat. The pre-op routine was a blur of blood draws, ultrasounds, and blood pressure checks. I navigated the corridors alone, a ghost passing through a crowd of expectant couples. As I walked past the private recovery suites, I noticed one door was left slightly ajar. Blake was sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a paper cup of warm water, blowing gently on it before holding it to Amber’s lips. “Slow down. Don’t burn yourself.” Through the gap, Amber’s eyes met mine. She didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned her head slightly closer to Blake’s shoulder, a faint, victorious smile playing on her lips. It was a quiet, unmistakable declaration of ownership. I felt a strange, hollow sensation in my chest as I walked into the operating room and lay down on the cold table. As the anesthesiologist prepared the IV, the nurses began chatting quietly amongst themselves. “Did you see the gentleman who brought that girl in earlier? I thought she was his wife, the way he was panicking.” “Oh, no, his actual wife is someone else. But did you see how devoted he is? I heard that years ago, he literally let his family disown him and took a beating with a cane just so he could marry her.” “Really? Wow. I guess after five years, even the strongest marriages lose their spark.” The cold sedative began to flow into my veins, sending a shivering chill up my arm. As my consciousness began to drift, a single, hot tear escaped my eye and slid into my hair. The boy who had loved me fiercely at twenty was gone. And he was never coming back. I left the hospital an hour later, leaning heavily against the brick wall, my lower abdomen aching with a dull, throbbing pain. Suddenly, a barrage of blinding white flashes erupted in front of me. A dozen reporters, carrying heavy telephoto lenses and microphones, blocked the exit, creating a chaotic bottleneck. Through the crowd, Blake emerged, his jacket draped over Amber’s head, shielding her entirely from the cameras as he pushed his way through. “Mr. Luther! Is this the mysterious wife you’ve kept hidden from the public for the last five years?” “Mrs. Luther, how did you and Blake meet?” “Are you visiting the women’s clinic because you’re expecting an heir to the firm?” Blake didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer a single word of correction. He simply kept his arm tightly secured around Amber’s shoulders, his expression dark. “Out of the way. Let us through.” Within ten minutes, the local business and tabloid sites were flooded with notifications. “CEO Blake Luther and His Wife Spotted at Women’s Clinic—A Devoted Marriage Unbroken by Time.” The accompanying photos showed Blake shielding Amber with an intense, possessive protectiveness. Overnight, Amber had become the envy of the city—the official Mrs. Luther. My phone began to vibrate constantly. Among the stream of confused texts from acquaintances was a single, vitriolic message from my mother-in-law: “I knew a girl from your background would never hold a husband’s attention. Absolute disgrace.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then quietly blocked her number. A few seconds later, Blake’s call came through. “Maeve, the media thing was an accident,” he said quickly, his voice tight. “If I had denied she was my wife on camera, the press would have run wild with rumors about an affair, and our stock price would have plummeted before the morning bell. You know we’re in a critical transition phase right now. I can’t let anything disrupt the company’s valuation.” My voice was incredibly hoarse. “So you calculated everything. The company’s stock, her reputation, the public’s perception… but did you think about me, Blake? Even for a second?” His tone shifted, anger coloring his words. “Can you please stop making a mountain out of a molehill? I’ve had a brutal day, I’m exhausted, and I don’t have the energy to stand here and be interrogated by you.” I held my aching abdomen, and a quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “You claim you’re so busy. But you’re never too busy to drive her to the clinic, or to cook her dinner, or to make sure her water is the perfect temperature. Do you tuck her in at night, too?” “Maeve, you are being completely unreasonable!” he snapped, slamming the phone down. I arranged for a car to take my father to the airport to wait for me, then returned to our apartment alone to pack my things. Five years of marriage, and my entire life fit into half of a single suitcase. I slipped my platinum wedding ring off my finger and placed it quietly on the dark wood of the nightstand. Just as I reached for the zipper of my suitcase, the front door lock clicked. Blake walked in, looking disheveled, a strong scent of whiskey clinging to his clothes. He held up his phone, showing me a photo of Amber smiling beside a handsome young man. “She has a boyfriend,” he said, his eyes bloodshot, his voice carrying a strange, defensive edge. “Are you satisfied now?” He looked like a man who had just lost a fight, trying desperately to sound like a victor. He was trying to reassure me, but the hollow look in his eyes belonged to someone who had just had their heart broken. His gaze drifted down to the suitcase by my feet, and a tentative, relieved smile touched his lips. “Oh, you already packed? Perfect. I booked a trip to Iceland for you and your dad.” “I know I messed up this time, Maeve. Once this merger goes through, I’ll set the record straight with the media. Take your dad and go have a good time. Consider it my apology.” I looked at him for a long moment, then quietly nodded. “Okay.” He let out a long breath, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He reached behind his back and produced a beautifully wrapped, heavy black box with a gold-embossed logo. It was a limited-edition handbag I had searched for months to find, with only three pieces available worldwide. “I had to pull a lot of favors to get this for you,” he said, holding it out. “Since I can’t go with you, take this to Iceland.” I didn’t take the box. I simply pointed to the sofa. “Just leave it there.” Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, he reached out and gently smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Go get some rest. Keep your phone on, and call me when you land.” I pulled my suitcase toward the door. He had no idea that once I walked out of that apartment, I was never coming back.

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The headlines were savage: “Oscar-Winning Actress’s Secret Ten-Year-Old Child Exposed.” At virtually the same hour, a photo of me berating my ten-year-old daughter on a public sidewalk trended worldwide. The court of public opinion immediately reached its verdict. They decided that I, a D-list indie actor clawing for relevance, was using a child as a cheap publicity stunt to ride the coat-tails of a scandal. They even gave me a charming nickname: “The Toxic Father.” Before the dust could even settle, Christian Croft—the golden-boy heartthrob of the moment—dropped a carousel of photos on Instagram. In them, he was feeding my daughter ice cream, smiling warmly, and kneeling on the pavement to tie her sneakers. His caption read: “Well, the secret’s out. I wanted to wait until she was a teenager to share her with the world, but here we are.” Within minutes, the post had millions of likes. The internet exploded with headlines: “Meet Caroline Maxwell’s Gorgeous Daughter and Her Devoted Husband.” I stared at my tablet, my brow furrowing deeper with every comment I read. Finally, I turned to the woman lying beside me, her limbs tangled in our duvet, and asked, “Did you find our daughter a second dad behind my back?” Caroline bolted upright, immediately dropping to her knees on the mattress. “Babe, I swear to God, I would never!” … I watched her, the tight knot in my chest loosening just a fraction at her sheer panic. “Then explain the trending page.” Caroline wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, her words tumbling out in a nervous rush. “I was running late to my shoot. Hazel came to find me, and I was going to leave her with my publicist for a bit. But Christian was just… there. He insisted on watching her. You know what Hazel is like—she sees a handsome face and her brain turns to mush. I figured nothing bad could happen since my publicist was right down the hall. I didn’t think he’d do this!” She held up three fingers, her expression deadly serious. “Babe, if I ever did anything to betray you, may lightning strike me down, and may I never be allowed to hold you again.” I rolled my eyes. What a dramatic, ridiculous curse. Caroline scrambled closer, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin. “You know you’re the only one for me. I literally turned down Harvard just to follow you to LA. I worked so hard to finally have you. Why would I ever risk losing this?” She wasn’t lying about that part. Our love story didn’t have much drama. We were high school sweethearts. We shared a desk for three years, a slow-burning friction that eventually caught fire. She was the valedictorian destined for greatness; I was the boy who spent his afternoons memorizing monologues, desperate to break into acting. She never forced me to solve calculus equations; instead, she spent her nights browsing theater forums, compiling binders of casting calls and trivia about my favorite actors. During my drama school auditions, we lived apart, but she would call me from a dusty payphone, her voice a fragile wire connecting us across the distance, telling me how much she missed me. In the end, she walked away from her Ivy League acceptance. She chose a local university just to accompany me to bleak, empty casting offices, holding my jacket while I auditioned for roles I’d never get. Years bled by. I remained an obscure indie actor, a shadow in the background, while her raw, effortless talent caught the eye of a legendary director. She became the youngest woman to win an Academy Award. The very night she clutched that gold statuette, she looked past the flashing cameras, came home, and proposed. “Marry me, Tom.” On the day we signed our marriage license, she wanted to post it—to hard-launch us to the world. I put a stop to it immediately. “Caroline, my career is hanging by a thread. I finally built a tiny, loyal fanbase that respects my work. If you drop this bomb now, the narrative will become about you pulling strings for me. If you ruin this, I’m leaving.” She had cried about it countless times over the decade. Even now, she was complaining. “Other actresses get to have their beautiful, public fairytale weddings. And look at me. I have a ten-year-old child, and I’m still living like your dirty little secret.” She nudged her nose against my chest, sensing my hesitation. “Now that the rumors are flying anyway, why don’t we just do it? Let’s go public. It’s been ten years, Tom. Hazel has to call you ‘uncle’ when we’re out, and she can’t even hold my hand in public. It’s hurting her. And it’s killing me.” Before I could formulate an objection, she sat up, a look of fierce determination in her eyes. “We’re doing it. You have that press panel tomorrow morning, right? I’m going to crash it. I’ll stand by you.” She didn’t wait for my approval; she practically bolted from the room. The next morning, the venue was buzzing. My agent, Mike, met me backstage, his face pale as paper. “Tom, look at Twitter. It’s a bloodbath.” He handed me his phone. The hashtags were brutal: #CancelTomMaxwell, #ToxicDad, #TheRealFatherChristian. Christian had poured gasoline on the fire overnight. He’d posted two more photos. The first showed him with a soft, cinematic gaze, watching Hazel kick a soccer ball in a park. Caption: “Pure bliss. Everyone I love, right here.” The second was a close-up of two hands clasped together. Caption: “Happy 10th anniversary ;)” The internet swallowed it whole. “So Christian is Caroline’s secret husband! They look so good together.” “They worked on that indie film ten years ago; Christian was a minor character. It all makes sense now!” “Such a romantic hard launch.” “Chris, tell us, is Caroline next to you right now?” Christian had liked that last comment. I stared at the screen. Wait. If Caroline was wrapped around me in our bed all night… who the hell was he holding hands with? Mike looked like he was preparing for a funeral. “Tom, with the way things are blowing up, the media is going to crucify you today. Christian is also on the panel. If you were officially Caroline’s husband, the organizers would be kissing your feet. But right now, everyone thinks Christian is her man. With her clout backing him, they are going to drag you through the mud. Whatever they ask, you have to keep your composure.” Christian and I had been pitted against each other for years. We had a similar “brooding, classic-Hollywood” aesthetic, which meant his rabid fanbase accused me of plagiarizing his entire existence. If I wore a charcoal suit, I was copying him. If I posted a melancholy quote, I was throwing shade. If I was caught on camera looking in his direction, they claimed I was glaring at him in pure envy. Some corners of the internet even insisted I’d gone under the knife to copy his face. I found it exhausting. He was basically a glorified fast-fashion model; why would I reconstruct my jawline to look like a guy who made a living selling tea-toxes on Instagram? The panel was being broadcast live. Because of the brewing scandal, the viewer count skyrocketed into the millions within seconds. The host, Sean Kelly, wasted no time. He went straight for the jugular, asking both Christian and me about the viral photos. Christian grabbed the mic first, offering the camera a weary, practiced sigh. “I honestly didn’t expect the paparazzi to catch us. Her mom was so distraught this morning, blaming herself for not protecting our privacy. Even though my girl and her mother have been wanting to go public for a long time, I’ve always felt that, as public figures, we still deserve a small corner of the world just for ourselves.” Sean’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. “So, Chris, you’re officially confirming your marriage to Academy Award winner Caroline Maxwell?” Christian’s ears flushed a performative pink. He offered a bashful, evasive smile. “Ah, let’s keep the focus on my little girl, shall we?” Sean took the bait, pivoting smoothly. “Of course. Let’s talk about the little princess. Looking at those photos, you two seem incredibly close. What’s your parenting style like?” Christian smiled warmly, adjusting his collar with casual elegance. “I think I’m what people call an old-school dad. I always save the best for her. If there’s a dessert she likes, I won’t touch it; it’s hers. I love leaving little surprise gifts for her. I just want to give her the absolute best.” The live chat went wild. “He’s so gentle, I’m crying!” “The perfect dad, the perfect mom. This kid won the genetic lottery.” “I need to see their daily life!” Sean caught the sentiment and immediately put Christian on the spot. “Any chance we could get a sneak peek at one of these sweet father-daughter moments?” Christian nodded, pulling out his phone. He tapped a file, and the camera zoomed in on his screen. On screen, Christian’s voice was honey-sweet: “Careful, sweetheart. I got your favorite soda right here.” A second later, Hazel came sprinting into the frame on her chubby little legs, throwing herself into his arms. Her squeaky voice echoed through the studio speakers: “Thank you! You are literally the most handsome boy in the entire world!” My eyes rolled so far back into my head I nearly saw my own brain. I knew I banned high-fructose corn syrup at home, but did she really have to sell her soul to a stranger for a single can of Fanta? Naturally, the internet caught my reaction. “Is Tom Maxwell seriously rolling his eyes at this? The jealousy is dripping off him.” “Of course he’s bitter. He tried to claim he was her dad, got exposed as a fraud, and now he has to watch the real father be perfect.” Christian glanced at the live feed and gave a soft, paternal smile. “You have to spoil your own kid, right? There’s really nothing to worry about. We’re incredibly happy.” “Chris is literally a romance novel hero brought to life. He makes it look so easy.” “Didn’t Caroline say in an old interview that she fell in love with her husband at first sight? She was totally talking about Chris!” Christian ducked his head, clearing his throat with a sheepish grin. “Please, guys, let’s not get into that. I promised her I’d keep those memories private.” Within minutes, the trending topics shifted: #CarolineFirstLove, #TheRealChrisAndCaroline, #LoveAtFirstSight. It was physically painful to watch. I didn’t know if Caroline had ever felt love at first sight for Christian, but she certainly hadn’t for me. We spent our first two years of high school actively trying to ruin each other’s lives before we realized we were in love. There was no magical spark; it was a slow, grueling war of attrition. Sean turned to me, a predatory gleam in his eyes, and shoved the microphone in my face. “Tell us, Mr. Maxwell. Do you believe in love at first sight? Or, perhaps more to the point… how exactly do you plan on proving that the child in those photos is yours?” I frowned, ready to spit out some generic, publicist-approved platitude to deflect. But then I pictured Caroline’s tear-stained face in our bedroom last night, her exhaustion from living in the dark. The words changed in my mouth. “Why should a father have to prove his own child belongs to him?” I asked, my voice steady, cutting through the studio noise. “Is it any different from having to prove you exist? And frankly, I don’t care much for ‘love at first sight.’ I prefer the kind of love that actually survives the quiet, hard years.” “Is he seriously shading Chris right now?” “Get him off the stage. This nobody wouldn’t know real love if it hit him in the face.” “Sure, you can prove you exist, but you definitely can’t prove that kid is yours, loser.” Sean smirked at the live feed, then turned back to me with a chilling coldness. “Well, since Mr. Maxwell seems unable to offer any real proof, why don’t we let the little princess speak for herself? We actually managed to get a brief video interview with her. Chris, I assume you don’t mind?” Christian feigned surprise, but his eyes locked onto mine, shining with vicious triumph. “Of course,” he said, adjusting his posture. “I want my daughter to grow up knowing the truth. She needs to understand that the world can be a dangerous place, and that some people will use any lie to get ahead.” “This poor baby, being used as a pawn by a clout-chaser.” “Bring out the clip! Let the kid expose this creep!” Sean signaled the control room. The massive screen behind us flickered to life. There she was. My darling daughter. The background was a generic, sterile hotel room—definitely not our house. She was wearing an oversized blazer that swam on her small frame. She looked directly at the lens, her eyes rimmed with red, looking entirely traumatized. My stomach bottomed out. Fear spiked through my veins, and I whipped my head around to glare at Christian. He met my gaze, a slow, smug smile spreading across his face. On screen, an off-camera interviewer spoke: “Sweetheart, can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. Tom Maxwell?” Hazel paused, sniffing dramatically, and then—right on cue—a single tear rolled down her cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had she actually been hurt? Had this bastard done something to her? I was half-ready to leap off the stage and throttle Christian. But then she spoke. My foot froze. My fingers curled into fists—not from fear, but from sheer, unadulterated frustration. “He…” Hazel whimpered, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “He hits me. One time, I gave him a nice face mask as a present, and he… he beat me for three days. I was so scared.” The chat exploded into a frenzy of rage. “Child abuser! Lock him up!” “Oh my God, someone call Child Protective Services immediately!” “Get him off the screen! Put him in jail!” Even the cameramen and production crew in the studio were glaring at me like I was a monster. Christian’s eyes welled with performative tears. His voice shook with anger. “I… I was so busy with filming last month. I trusted Tom. We’ve known each other for years, so I asked him to watch her for a few days. How could he do this? She’s just a little girl! She was only trying to make him happy!” He turned away, taking a deep, ragged breath as if struggling to contain his grief. The comments flooded with sympathy for Christian and death threats for me. I stared at the screen, watching my ten-year-old theatrical prodigy squeeze out another round of crocodile tears. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. Hazel wasn’t finished. “And when I tried to help him feed his pet fish,” she sobbed, “he threw a massive fit and locked me in my room!” The interviewer’s voice soft-balled: “And how is Mr. Christian Croft to you?” Hazel let out a wet hiccup, her tone suddenly brightening. “Oh, he’s amazing! He always gives me candy and takes me to the amusement park!” The studio was in an uproar. Christian stood up, marching over to my chair. He stood over me, looking down with righteous indignation. “Mr. Maxwell, how could you do that to her? She’s an innocent child! How could you lay a hand on her? Don’t you think you owe me—owe the public—an explanation?” I let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Why on earth would I owe “you” an explanation?” “You are a monster,” Christian snarled, raising his hand as if to strike me on live television. But before his arm could come down, a voice cut through the chaos. “Touch him and I will destroy you.” I looked up. Standing at the entrance of the stage was Caroline, her face set in stone, firmly holding our pint-sized fugitive by the collar of her oversized blazer.

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I have been dedicated to charity work for fifteen years. No matter how chaotic my schedule, I carve out a few days every year. I personally oversee the purchase of massive shipments of brand-new winter coats, sturdy boots, and school supplies. I drive them myself into the deepest, most forgotten hollows of the Appalachian hills. Over the years, I have funded the rebuilding of local schools and paid the salaries of teachers out of my own pocket. Eventually, my annual trips into these isolated valleys began to draw volunteers and charitable organizations from all over the country, all of them wanting to join my caravan. This year, our destination was Pine Ridge, a notoriously impoverished mountain town. I stood at the edge of the gravel parking lot near the community center, handing out supplies to the children as they lined up. Before long, a young girl stepped up to the table. She stood out even among the hollow’s neglected children. Caked in dry mountain clay, her cheeks hollowed out by hunger, she was little more than a bundle of sharp bones under a threadbare flannel shirt. She kept her head bowed as she took the heavy winter coat I handed her, but she didn’t leave the line. She hesitated, her small shoulders tensing, before she whispered in a trembling voice, “Ma’am… could I have a box of pads, too?” I stared into her eyes. The world went dead quiet around us for two agonizing seconds. Then, with a sudden, violent jerk, I snatched the coat right out of her hands. “You think you deserve my charity?” I said, my voice cold and sharp. … The moment the words left my mouth, the entire lot fell into a suffocating silence. The volunteers froze mid-motion, their hands suspended in the air as they stared at me in absolute shock. To everyone who knew me, Delia Campbell was the darling of national philanthropy. For fifteen years, I had built a legacy on rescuing vulnerable, suffering children from the cracks of society. Yet here I was, standing in front of a starving, ragged little girl, spitting venom. The girl stood paralyzed, the blood draining completely from her already pale face. She bit her cracked lower lip so hard it looked ready to bleed, her tiny, dirt-encrusted fingers clawing at the hem of her oversized shirt as she fought back tears. Clyde, the local town commissioner, quickly scrambled forward, his worn face written with panic. “Mrs. Campbell! Please, don’t misunderstand,” Clyde pleaded, his hands raised in defense. “Gracie isn’t a greedy girl. Her life has been nothing but misery!” He took a deep breath, trying to shield her. “Her mother died not long after giving birth to her baby brother. Her father, Hank, is a hopeless drunk who lives out of a bottle. Hank beats her constantly, drunk or sober. Her body is covered in a map of old and new bruises. Their family is the poorest in the entire valley. Please, in your great heart, don’t hold a grudge against a miserable child.” Clyde’s voice cracked with genuine sorrow. But I acted as if I hadn’t heard a single word. My gaze never drifted back to Gracie. To me, she had simply ceased to exist. I reached down, picked up a brand-new wool jacket and a set of markers from the table, and handed them to the little boy standing behind her with a warm smile. “Here you go, sweetheart. Make sure you study hard, okay?” I continued passing out the supplies, my movements calm, methodical, and entirely unbothered. Around the lot, the volunteers began to whisper, their hushed voices buzzing like angry hornets. “What on earth just happened? Delia has never treated a child like that.” “That poor girl looks like she’s about to collapse. She’s starving and abused, and Delia just treated her like trash. How could she be so heartless?” “Maybe there’s a misunderstanding? Is Delia having some kind of breakdown?” They leaned into each other, exchanging bewildered glances. No one could rationalize what they had just witnessed. Even Bridget, my assistant of six years, stepped closer to me. She kept her head down, her voice a tense whisper near my ear. “Delia, that little girl didn’t get any supplies. She looks absolutely desperate. Can’t we just give her a coat?” I paused, turning my head slightly to give her a flat, cool look. “Desperate?” I murmured, loud enough for the sound to carry. “There are millions of desperate children in this world, Bridget. Do you think we can save them all?” My words cut through the mountain air, landing squarely on Gracie. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. A raw, ragged sob tore from her throat, and she collapsed to the dirt, wrapping her thin arms around my boots. “I’m sorry, ma’am! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have asked for the pads!” she wailed, her voice thick with terror and humiliation. “I don’t want them anymore! I didn’t mean to make you mad! I don’t even need the school supplies—just please, please give me a winter coat! I beg of you!” She clung to my legs, stripping herself of every ounce of dignity. “I have a baby brother at home. My dad said… he said if I didn’t bring home a winter coat today, he’d beat me to death tonight! Ma’am, he really will kill me! I’m not lying!” Her desperate cries echoed off the surrounding hills. The volunteers looked on, their faces twisted with pain and burning sympathy. One of the female volunteers broke down, tears streaming down her face as she rushed forward and pulled Gracie’s frail, bony frame into her arms. “Delia, please, she’s just a child! Give her the coat!” “Yes, exactly! She’s a young girl, asking for basic hygiene products is completely normal!” “You’ve spent fifteen years doing this. Isn’t helping kids like her the entire point of your foundation?” The pleas turned into a chorus of condemnation. To everyone present, I was a cold, unfeeling monster. Yet, my expression remained carved in stone. I looked at the crowd, my voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. “These are my supplies, bought with my money. I choose who gets them, and I don’t take directions from my volunteers.” The bluntness of my response silenced the crowd, leaving them speechless and seething. Bridget stood beside me, staring at the hard profile of my face, her confusion turning into deep disillusionment. “Delia, I don’t even recognize you,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’ve been with you for six years. I’ve never seen you discriminate against anyone. She’s a child who asked for help. What did she do to deserve this?” I glanced at her. “How do you know her misery isn’t an act?” Bridget froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. “An act? Delia, look at her! Look at how thin she is! How could anyone fake that?” “Anyone can act, Bridget.” The words left Bridget entirely speechless, but she was far from convinced. To her, I had become a stranger—someone terrifyingly cold. I pushed down the storm of emotions swirling in my chest. Ignoring the girl’s quiet sobbing and the hostile glares of the crowd, I went back to distributing the supplies. The first day of our trip ended in that heavy, suffocating atmosphere. The next morning, the sky was a bruised, dull gray when the second convoy of supply trucks rolled into the Pine Ridge lot. Unlike the day before, these trucks were loaded with heavy sacks of flour, rice, cooking oil, and thick, insulated blankets for the winter. And unlike the day before, Gracie was already there. She was standing at the very front of the line, a solitary, fragile figure in the freezing dawn. She was wearing the same filthy, oversized shirt. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she stood with her weight shifted awkwardly to one side, clearly nursing a leg injury. Clyde walked over to me, letting out a heavy, tired sigh. “Word is, when she got home empty-handed yesterday, her daddy nearly beat her to death. She walked back up here in the middle of the night and sat on that cold stone step for hours just to be first in line.” I followed Clyde’s gaze to her thin, shivering frame. My eyes remained entirely devoid of pity. Once the distribution table was set, I looked at Gracie, who was watching me with wide, hopeful eyes. Without a word, I stepped right past her, reaching out to hand the first blanket to the boy standing second in line. It was a blatant, deliberate snub. The volunteers’ collective restraint, stretched thin over the last twenty-four hours, snapped. A young male volunteer named Jared lunged forward, slamming his palm onto the folding table. The impact rattled the metal frame, sending several bags of rice spilling onto the dirt. “Enough, Mrs. Campbell! What the hell is your problem?!” Jared roared, his face flushed with anger. “Look at these kids! You’re helping everyone except her! She is the most desperate child in this hollow! Why are you torturing her?!” Another volunteer stepped up, her eyes red and brimming with tears of disappointment. “We traveled hundreds of miles with you because we respected your work. We believed in your heart! But this? This is disgusting. This isn’t charity. It’s abuse! You’re using your power to torment a helpless child who has nobody!” Suddenly, a reporter in the crowd stepped forward, thrusting a smartphone screen directly into my face. “Mrs. Campbell, why don’t you take a look at what the rest of the world thinks of your ‘charity’?” I looked down at the screen. There, sitting at the very top of the trending topics on social media, were three hashtags: #DeliaCampbellBulliesChild #TheTwoFacesOfDeliaCampbell #CampbellOrganicsBoicott Someone had recorded a video of me snatching the coat back from Gracie the day before. They had uploaded it to TikTok, and overnight, it had exploded across the internet. Thousands of comments were flying by in real-time, each one more venomous than the last: Is this woman insane? If you don’t want to give, don’t give. Why humiliate a starving kid? Did you notice she smiled at all the boys but turned like ice when the girl stepped up? Internalized misogyny much? I bet her entire fifteen-year career is a fraud. She’s probably a sociopath who does this for tax write-offs. This makes me sick. We need a full audit on her foundation immediately. Watching the digital mob tear my life’s work to shreds, Bridget began to pace frantically. “Delia! What do we do? The internet is destroying you!” she cried, her voice trembling. “You have to make a statement! Clarify this! If you don’t, everything you’ve built over the last fifteen years is going to burn to the ground!” I looked at her panicked face, and to her horror, a small, tired smile touched my lips. “Clarify what?” I asked quietly. “Everything in that video is real. I did snatch the coat. They aren’t lying.” My apparent indifference was the final straw. Three of the lead volunteers stepped forward, their faces twisted in disgust. They ripped their official foundation badges off their chests and tore off their volunteer vests, throwing them onto the gravel at my feet. “We’re done. We are not spending another second helping you build your ego.” “We joined this foundation to protect the vulnerable, not to watch a billionaire bully a child.” “You stand there, so high and mighty, and you don’t even have the decency to admit you’re wrong. We’re leaving, Delia. And we are never coming back.” One by one, the other volunteers followed suit, stripping off their gear and leaving it in a pile on the ground. The warm, unified team I had spent years building fractured in a matter of minutes. I watched them turn their backs on me. My mouth opened, a sudden urge to scream the truth rising in my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down. I couldn’t speak. Not yet. I needed absolute certainty first. “Delia, they’re all leaving,” Bridget whispered, her voice hollow. “Are you really not going to say anything?” “I can’t force them to stay, Bridget.” Bridget stared at me, her eyes clouded with profound disappointment. “If all of this is true… if you really are this cruel, then I guess I wasted six years of my life believing in a lie.” I took a deep, steadying breath and met her gaze. “Bridget, in your heart, do you honestly believe I am the monster they say I am?” Bridget opened her mouth to say no, but her eyes fell to the pile of discarded vests on the dirt, and she looked away. The silence was her answer. Within minutes, the lot was empty, save for the scattered supplies, a pile of volunteer vests, and a group of terrified, whispering locals. Clyde stood to the side, wringing his calloused hands, his face pale. He was terrified that in my anger, I would pack up the trucks, cancel our funding, and leave Pine Ridge to freeze. Gracie, too, seemed frightened by the chaos. She trembled, her eyes wide as she looked at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am! It’s all my fault! Please don’t fight with the others… I don’t need anything, I’ll go…” Seeing her like this, Bridget snapped. She stepped past me, marched over to the supply table, and picked up a heavy winter coat, a sack of flour, and a bottle of cooking oil. She shoved them into Gracie’s arms. “Take it,” Bridget said fiercely. “And go home.” I watched the exchange but did not move to stop her. Instead, I turned to Clyde, my voice calm and steady. “Don’t worry, Clyde. Every cent of the funding I promised Pine Ridge will be delivered. I don’t break my contracts.” Clyde let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging with relief as he muttered his thanks. That afternoon, my phone rang. It was my head of PR. Angry mobs were flooding our corporate accounts, spamming our pages with boycotts. Sales for Campbell Organics had plummeted off a cliff in a matter of hours. Our retail partners were already sending termination notices for our distribution contracts, threatening massive lawsuits for brand damage. By evening, my father, who had been frail for years, heard the news. The stress triggered a massive stroke, and he was rushed to the ICU. Then came the calls from my husband, Matthew. “Delia! You have to make a public statement! Apologize, do whatever it takes! The company is going to collapse!” The world was spinning out of control. Everyone was screaming at me to bow my head, to beg for forgiveness. But I stayed in my motel room near the hollow, waiting for the one thing that mattered. On the fourth day, the storm reached its peak. A swarm of independent journalists and local news reporters descended on Pine Ridge, their cameras pointed at Gracie’s front door. They interviewed her in the dirt yard of her shack, capturing her small, shivering frame against the backdrop of rural poverty. Gracie wept on camera, her voice cracking as she described her daily struggle. “Sweetie,” one reporter asked gently, leaning in with a microphone, “is it true that the rich lady from the city bullied you?” Gracie immediately shook her head, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “No, no! Mrs. Campbell is a good lady! It’s my fault… I was greedy. I shouldn’t have asked for things I didn’t deserve. I made her mad.” Her attempts to defend her “bully” only made the public more furious. The internet exploded with righteous indignation. And then, my phone buzzed. It was Matthew again, his voice tight with raw panic. “Delia, it’s bad. Someone leaked Toby’s school address online.” My heart stopped. The blood in my veins turned to ice. “What?” “They’re posting online that if you don’t make a public, kneeling apology within twenty-four hours, they’re going to pay Toby a visit at school. Delia, you need to get back here.” I had remained calm through the destruction of my reputation, the loss of my company, and the betrayal of my staff. But the moment they threatened my son, a primal, white-hot rage flared in my chest. “I’m driving back now,” I said. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and walked out of the motel. But when I reached my SUV, I found the exit blocked. A crowd of reporters and local activists had tracked me down. They swarmed the vehicle, blocking my path, their cameras flashing against my windshield. “She’s trying to run!” someone shouted. “Are you scared now, Delia? Why did you bully that little girl?” “Give us an explanation! You can’t just leave after what you did!” Lenses were pressed against my side windows, capturing my pale, furious face. I put the car in park, turned off the engine, and stepped out. “You want an explanation?” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and slipped a small, worn photograph from the back of the case. I held it up, facing the lenses of the cameras. “This is my explanation.” The crowd fell instantly silent. The reporters squinted, and the cameras zoomed in on the small, faded piece of paper. And as the image registered, the anger in the crowd evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling shock.

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