The alert from my neighborhood Facebook group lit up my phone screen while I was in the kitchen, trying to scrape together some semblance of dinner. Someone was tagging me. Over and over. “@Clara Miller, unit 502. Your son took a key to my brand-new Rivian.” “What the hell are you raising over there? Does he want a head start on a juvenile record?” “This happens again, I swear to God, I’m breaking his fingers.” Then, the floodgates opened. Other neighbors chimed in. “My car got hit last week! A gash from the headlight to the trunk!” “Has he even left a single car in the garage untouched? Who are his parents? Do they even care?” “That explains it. I saw him walking with a key out the other day, just dragging it along the wall. I thought it was just a sound. He’s a little monster.” I turned off the stove, the motion feeling heavy, distant, as if I were moving through water. From the junk drawer, I pulled out the small black ledger. The one I kept just for this. This was the 56th time my son had keyed a car. The first time, it was our neighbor’s old Honda. I paid two hundred dollars. The tenth time, a BMW from the floor below us. Two thousand dollars. The thirty-sixth time, a Porsche in the reserved parking area. Ten thousand dollars. That was the last of our savings. Every payment since then had been made with money I’d swallowed my pride to borrow. I walked down to the garage. The gleaming electric truck sat under the fluorescent lights, a cruel white scar marring its side. My son, Leo, stood beside it, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Mommy,” he said, his voice perfectly guileless. “Didn’t you say that if I scratched the cars, I’d get a new toy? Why is that man so mad?” There it was again. That practiced, theatrical innocence he used every single time, designed to thrust me into the crossfire. The truck’s owner heard him. His face went from red to purple. He whipped out his phone and pointed it at me, the red light of the recording already on. He was live-streaming. “Everyone, get a look at this!” he yelled into the phone. “It’s the mother! She’s the one telling her kid to do it! This is the kind of trash poisoning our society!” The comment feed on his screen became an instant, waterfalling blur of judgment. In the reflection of his phone, I saw myself: wearing a stained sweatshirt, my unwashed hair plastered to my cheeks. I looked from my own haggard reflection to the jagged line on the car door, and a strange, broken sound escaped my lips. I started to laugh. 1 I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood like this, being screamed at by a stranger. The first time was three years ago. Leo was three. I was on our small balcony watering the plants. He had found my keys, which had fallen on the floor, and quietly slipped away. He used them to draw a wobbly, misshapen flower on our neighbor’s brand-new car. Faced with the owner’s fury, I felt a shame so hot it was physically painful. All I could do was apologize, over and over, and promise to pay for everything. Back then, I thought it was just curiosity. A toddler’s mistake. I taught him, again and again: you can’t touch other people’s things, and you certainly can’t break them. He would nod, his expression serious and understanding. I thought he’d gotten the message. But then it was other cars in the neighborhood. Cars in the mall parking garage. Cars parked on the street. Anywhere we went, if there was a car, he would leave his “masterpiece.” I apologized a thousand times. I paid out a fortune. I tried everything. Patient conversations. Stern punishments. Taking away his tablet. Time-outs. I even took him to a child psychologist. The verdict was always the same: he’s a perfectly normal, exceptionally bright child. Just a bit mischievous. But he never stopped. Every single time, he would look at me with those crystal-clear eyes and promise with all his heart, “I’ll never do it again, Mommy. I promise.” And the next time, he’d choose a more expensive car and carve an even deeper line. He’d look at me with an even more innocent expression. And then, just like now, he would pin all the blame squarely on my shoulders. He made me the villain, the target of everyone’s rage, the woman they could all point their fingers at. I don’t know why he does it. All I know is that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in years. I wake up in a panic, checking his bed to make sure he hasn’t slipped out to create a new debt, a new humiliation for me to bear. Now, listening to the car owner’s furious ranting, watching the endless stream of insults and curses on his livestream, and seeing the woman in the reflection—hair a mess, clothes stained, clutching a cheap ledger like a bible—I laughed again. Is this really my fault? Why did the child I nearly died to bring into this world make me, a thirty-two-year-old woman, look and feel fifty-two? Before I got married, I was an illustrator with a bit of a name for myself. I had my own studio, my own ambitions. Now, my eyes are sunk in dark circles, my skin is sallow. My entire life revolves around scratch repairs and payment plans. Everywhere I go, people whisper and stare. I’m like a rat in the gutter, despised by everyone. My laughter only seemed to stoke the owner’s rage. “Your son destroys my car and you have the nerve to laugh?” “If I were as big of a failure as you, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now!” Other residents, drawn by the commotion, added their own fuel to the fire. “Exactly! Your kid looks smart enough. How hard is it to teach him not to destroy property?” “If you can’t even handle that one simple thing, what’s the point of you?” “You’re an embarrassment to women.” Just as the chorus of condemnation reached its peak, my husband, Graham, appeared. “What’s going on?” He was wearing a crisp, ironed button-down shirt. He jogged over, saw the glaring scratch on the car, and his face fell in perfect, practiced understanding. Then, he turned to the owner, his voice the epitome of grace and apology. “I am so, so sorry. My wife… she hasn’t been managing him well. She will cover all of your damages.” 2 I looked at Graham. He looked the same as the day I first met him. Clean. Put-together. Incredibly polite. And just like our son, he was an expert at shifting all the blame onto me. At the sight of him, the neighbors’ anger subsided slightly. “Mr. Miller, you see the mess this has become.” “Honestly, and we’re not trying to attack you, but you need to get your wife under control. She’s ruining this kid.” “Forget it, the guy has it hard enough. Imagine being married to a walking disaster, constantly having to clean up her messes.” I stood there like a criminal on trial, watching as everyone’s gaze toward Graham softened with pity. I watched as Leo ran to his father’s arms, playing the part of a poor, frightened boy who had been misled by his own mother. From beginning to end, I was the only villain in the story. Graham let out a heavy sigh, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, everyone. It’s my fault for not keeping a better handle on things at home.” Then, he looked at me, his voice laced with a familiar, weary disappointment. “When I’m with Leo, he never touches things that aren’t his. Why can’t you teach him that?” Yes. I’d like to know that, too. Why is it that when Leo is with his father, he’s a perfect angel? But the moment he’s in my care, he becomes a demon with a vendetta against expensive cars. I wanted to explain, but by the time the words reached my lips, they turned into a bitter smile. Forget it. I’ve said it all a thousand times before. And every time, the response from Graham is the same: “This is your issue, Clara. Stop trying to blame it on our son.” I said nothing more. I just quietly took out my phone to arrange the payment. Graham, holding Leo, turned and walked away without a backward glance. The next day was the 50th wedding anniversary for Graham’s parents. I woke up early, dressed Leo in a new outfit, and repeated the instructions carefully. “Leo, honey, Grandma and Grandpa have invited a lot of guests today. At the restaurant, you have to be on your best behavior. No running around, and absolutely no touching things that don’t belong to you, okay?” He blinked his big eyes and nodded enthusiastically. “I know, Mommy. I’ll be a good boy today.” Graham came out of the bedroom, shot me a look, and said coldly, “Do you have to be so dramatic? You act like you’re guarding a prisoner.” He added, with a dismissive wave, “If you just paid more attention on a daily basis, he wouldn’t need these constant lectures.” 3 It was always like this. When I was the one paying for damages and apologizing, he was in his home office with his noise-canceling headphones on, “working.” When I tried to gently reason with Leo, he’d tell me I was too soft, that I lacked authority. When I raised my voice and disciplined Leo, he’d say I was hot-tempered and giving our son a traumatic childhood. When I took Leo to a psychologist, he said I was overreacting and needed to look for the cause of the problem in myself. He always found a way to stand on the moral high ground, enjoying the peace and quiet I bought with my own sanity, only to critique my methods from a safe distance. He would push me until I became a hysterical, screaming mess. And then he would smile that calm, gentle smile. “See? You can’t even control your own emotions. How do you expect to raise a child properly?” I used to argue with him. I used to doubt myself. I used to break down and cry. Now, I don’t even have the energy to open my mouth. We arrived at the upscale hotel we’d booked for the party. His parents and all the relatives were already there. The moment they saw Leo, their faces lit up. “Oh, there’s my handsome grandson! You look so sharp today!” “He does. You can just tell he’s a smart, well-behaved boy.” And today, Leo was. He sat quietly beside me, eating his food in small, neat bites. The adults mingled, glasses clinked, and the atmosphere was warm and celebratory. They chatted and reminisced. After a while, Leo tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy,” he whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.” The fact that he had asked so politely filled me with a small sense of relief. Graham smiled and ruffled Leo’s hair, then glanced at me. “See? What a good boy.” His eyes held a flicker of smugness. “I really don’t know what you’re so anxious about all the time.” I ignored him, took Leo’s hand, and led him to the restrooms just outside our private ballroom. I waited for him by the door. A few moments later, a piercing car alarm shrieked from the direction of the parking garage. It was followed by a man’s furious roar. “What the FUCK? Who did this? Who the hell keyed my car?!” “Goddammit, it’s a limited-edition Bentley! I just got it!” “Which one of you assholes did this? Get the hell out here!” My blood ran cold. My stomach dropped. I called out to the men’s room door, my voice trembling. “Leo?” “Leo, are you in there?” Silence. The restroom was empty. My heart seized in my chest. I broke into a run, sprinting toward the parking garage as if my life depended on it. I burst into the garage to find a crowd gathering around a gleaming black Bentley. A deep, long, white gash ran from the front fender all the way to the taillight. A man in an expensive suit was absolutely apoplectic, screaming at his car. 4 I knew that scratch. I knew it like a part of my own body. The commotion had drawn the attention of our party. Graham and all our relatives came running out. When they saw the defaced Bentley, they gasped. Everyone froze. And then my son, Leo, ran from behind a pillar, a car key clutched in his hand. He dove into my arms, sobbing loudly for everyone to hear. “Mommy, didn’t you say this was the most expensive car?” he cried. “Didn’t you say if I scratched it, you could buy me the biggest Transformer ever? Why is that man yelling at me?” His innocent, tear-filled accusation made every single person turn to look at me, their eyes like daggers. “Clara, are you insane? You told him to key a car like this?!” Graham screamed, his face turning crimson. His father, trembling with rage, pointed a shaking finger at me. “Are you trying to bankrupt our family on purpose?!” I shook my head, trying to find the words. “No, I didn’t, I—” SMACK! Graham’s mother slapped me hard across the face. “You dare lie about it?” “Leo is six years old! Do you think he knows how to make up a story like that?!” “A child doesn’t know any better! If you, his mother, didn’t tell him to do it, why would he?” “I knew it! You’ve always been jealous of our family’s success! You’re trying to destroy us!” The car’s owner saw me and his eyes narrowed with fury. He pulled out his phone and immediately started another livestream, the title a sensationalist banner: INSANE MOTHER FORCES 6-YEAR-OLD SON TO VANDALIZE MILLION-DOLLAR CAR FOR A TOY! He bellowed at his phone’s camera, “You all see this? This is the woman! I heard her son with my own ears! She put him up to it!” “I just had this car imported! I haven’t even had it a week! This woman is a psycho!” The story from the day before was still fresh in people’s minds. The moment I appeared in a new livestream, hundreds of thousands of viewers flooded in. The comments were a tidal wave of hate. “It’s that bitch again! Is she mentally ill?!” “Holy shit, telling her kid to key a million-dollar car? What is wrong with her brain?!” “She doesn’t deserve to be a mother! She’s a menace to society!” “Call the cops! They need to arrest this lunatic and lock her up!” The online mob was rabid, hurling the most vicious curses imaginable at me. The story was exploding, my face plastered across every social media platform. “Psycho Mom,” “The Vandalism Coach,” “Social Menace”—these were my new titles. More and more people gathered in the garage. Fueled by the car owner’s rage, the mood of the crowd reached a fever pitch. They started pointing, shouting, and someone even threw a lit cigarette butt at me. I stood in the center of the circle, a condemned prisoner awaiting execution, enduring the storm of their hatred. I looked at their faces, twisted with a desire to see me ripped apart. And then I looked at my son, nestled in my arms, who gave me a tiny, triumphant smile that only I could see. In that moment, I did something that shocked everyone to their core. 5 Under the glare of a dozen phone cameras, I raised my hand and slapped myself hard across the face. Twice. The sharp, cracking sounds echoed through the garage, silencing the roar of the crowd. Everyone stared, dumbfounded. Even the livestream comments seemed to pause for a beat. Into the stunned silence, I spoke, my voice cold and flat. “Yes. I’m a terrible mother. I’m a criminal.” There was no emotion in my tone. As they all watched in bewilderment, I scanned the crowd, my expression blank. “It’s my fault. I was greedy.” “It’s my fault. I failed to raise him right.” “It’s my fault. I ruined your perfect day.” “There. Are you satisfied now?” Without another word, I stopped looking at them. I ignored the shocked, angry, and contemptuous stares. I pushed my way through the crowd and walked out. Behind me, after a moment of dead silence, the garage erupted in an even more ferocious wave of discussion. And above it all, Graham’s furious, panicked shout: “Clara, what the hell is this new psychotic episode?” “You can’t just walk away! Get back here and clean up this mess!” No. The mess that needed cleaning wasn’t the scratch on that car. It was the years of filth that had accumulated in my own heart. I went straight home. The first thing I did was pull the divorce papers I’d prepared months ago from my desk drawer. Then, I started packing. I’m only thirty-two. I refuse to spend the rest of my life consumed by a child who is deliberately trying to ruin me, trapped in an endless cycle of debt and public condemnation. I am a person first, a mother second. I am done living this small, terrified life. This cold house has given me nothing but despair, humiliation, and exhaustion. Graham, my husband, the eternal bystander, always looking down on me from his pedestal. And the child I risked my life to give birth to, always stabbing me in the back, always setting me up for public disgrace. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why this father and son duo teamed up to torture me this way. But I’m done serving them. I’ve had enough. I didn’t have much to pack. The house was filled with Graham’s expensive suits and Leo’s designer toys. My own existence had been whittled down to nothing but cleaning up their messes. I gathered a few articles of clothing, my old art supplies, and my important documents. Then I dragged my dusty suitcase out from under the bed. As I bent down, my fingers brushed against something cold and hard tucked away in the back. I reached in and pulled it out. My eyes widened. My breath caught in my throat. I finally understood why Leo had become the boy he was.

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I was treating some friends to dinner at the new private club my cousin, Leo, was running. When the evening wound down, I flagged down a server. “The check, please. Just put it on Leo’s tab.” The young man nodded, but before he could turn away, a manager I’d never seen before stepped in his path. She aimed a smile at me that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sir, this is a members-only establishment. We don’t ‘run tabs.’” A flicker of annoyance. “I’m the owner’s cousin. Just let him know.” The manager let out a short, sharp laugh and slapped a leather billfold on the table. Inside was a bill for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. My eyes scanned the itemized list. Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation: $15,000. Elite Network Integrity Fee: $30,000. Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment: $25,000. And on and on, a laundry list of ludicrous service charges. When did Leo’s place get this brazen? “What’s the matter? Can’t pay the bill, so you start name-dropping?” The manager’s eyes raked over me, from my simple watch to my well-worn dress shoes. “I’ve met plenty of the owner’s ‘relatives.’ None of them have ever been quite so broke, so shameless, and so full of it.” Right there in front of her, I dialed Leo’s number and put it on speaker. “You have ten minutes to get her out of my sight. Or I pull the plug on this whole club.” 1 Leo’s voice crackled through the phone, laced with panic. “Ethan? What’s going on? Is there some kind of misunderstanding?” “A misunderstanding?” I glanced at the manager beside me. Vanessa, according to her name tag. She stood with her arms crossed, a smug smirk playing on her lips, enjoying the show. “Why don’t you ask your star manager what she’s been up to?” I could hear the muffled sound of Leo talking to Vanessa, punctuated by her dismissive, whispered excuses. “Ethan, look, Vanessa was just following procedure,” Leo’s voice came back, strained. “Don’t give her a hard time. This one’s on me…” “Leo,” I cut him off. “I didn’t call you to get a free meal. I called you to tell you to handle your employee.” Vanessa must have felt emboldened by whatever Leo whispered to her, because she plucked the phone right out of his hand. “Listen, sir,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Our owner is a kind man, so he won’t hold this against you. But the rules of Aura are the rules. Either you settle your bill now, or we’ll have to ask you to have a chat with our security team in the back office.” Her voice, amplified by the speakerphone, was arrogant, utterly certain of her victory. My friends, important partners in my industry, exchanged awkward glances. I’d brought them here tonight to impress them, to give them the best experience at my cousin’s place. Instead, my own reputation was being ground into the dirt. “Fine,” I said, ending the call. I looked directly at Vanessa. “I’ll pay the bill.” Her smug smirk widened into a triumphant grin. A few minutes later, Leo himself scurried over, an apologetic smile plastered on his face, though his eyes darted around nervously. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. Vanessa’s new, she doesn’t know the ropes,” he said, while simultaneously wrapping an arm around Vanessa’s waist in a gesture of intimacy. Vanessa leaned into him, looping her arm through his. Her tone wasn’t an apology; it was a declaration of ownership. “Leo is generous enough to let you call him cousin. But that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and act like you own the place. Aura is the culmination of his life’s work. It’s not a soup kitchen for freeloaders like you.” With that little speech, she’d painted herself as the valiant defender of her lover and his empire, and me as the pathetic, freeloading parasite. I almost laughed. His life’s work? Did she have any idea that this entire club, “Aura,” from the brand concept to the architectural design, from the operational philosophy to the very font on the menu—every word, every brick—had come from me? Leo was just the executor. Or, to be more precise, the mascot I’d put out front. Watching the way he looked at Vanessa, a pathetic mix of helplessness and adoration, a cold dread washed over me. When had my cousin become such a clueless fool? 2 “Since your manager is so by-the-book, why don’t you have her explain this hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar bill to me.” I ignored Leo, my gaze fixed squarely on Vanessa. She was clearly annoyed that I was dragging this out, but she maintained her air of superiority. “The services at Aura are priced for a certain clientele. If you don’t understand, it simply means you’re not on that level.” She gestured for a server to lead us from the private room to the main lounge area. It was bustling with the evening’s patrons. She was going to humiliate me publicly. My friends had seen enough. One of them stood up. “Ethan, why don’t we just go? I’ll take care of this.” I held up a hand to stop him. This was no longer about the money. Vanessa had the ridiculous bill mounted on a display stand and placed on a coffee table. Her voice was perfectly modulated—not shouting, but loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear every word. “The Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation, fifteen thousand dollars. Every suite at Aura has had its metaphysical harmony professionally calibrated to ensure our guests’ business dealings are blessed with fortune. It’s an energy science. You might not get it, but there are plenty who will pay for it.” “The Elite Network Integrity Fee, thirty thousand. The people who frequent Aura are the city’s movers and shakers. Do you have any idea how many wannabes and grifters we turn away at the door? This fee covers the service of filtering out the social static, protecting you from potential risks. Isn’t that worth it?” “And this one: Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment. While you were dining, one of our resident musicians was performing a custom composition just outside your suite, adjusting the melody in real-time based on the rhythm of your conversation. That is the price of true artistry.” With every item she announced, a low murmur rippled through the lounge. Eyes turned towards me, a mixture of curiosity and contempt. I was the clown who had crashed the gates of high society, only to find he couldn’t afford the ticket. Leo stood off to the side, his face pale. He tried to speak several times, but Vanessa silenced him with a sharp glance. He just stood there, watching, letting his girlfriend publicly crucify me. The last thread of affection I held for him was beginning to unravel. “Are you finished?” I asked calmly when she was done. Vanessa crossed her arms, her chin held high. “I am. So, Mr. Shaw, are you ready to pay? Or are you going to continue wasting our time?” “Of course,” I nodded, pulling out my phone. “But I don’t carry that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to have my assistant bring it over.” She scoffed. “Oh, this again? Trying to stall?” “You don’t have to believe me,” I said, dialing my assistant. “Bring three million dollars in cash to Aura. Immediately.” I made sure to emphasize the words “three million.” Vanessa’s pupils contracted for a split second, then her eyes lit up with a raw, greedy fire. She probably thought I was intimidated, trying to buy my way out of the humiliation. Her gaze shifted, now sizing me up like a fool with too much money. A whale. “Now you’re talking,” she whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. “Consider the extra a little tip for the trouble you’ve caused me and Leo tonight.” 3 My assistant is nothing if not efficient. Less than twenty minutes later, two men in sharp black suits, my personal security detail, walked through the club’s entrance carrying three large, heavy-duty briefcases. Every head in the lounge turned. The latches on the three cases were clicked open, revealing crisp, neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. They seemed to glitter under the crystal chandeliers. The murmuring crowd fell silent. Vanessa’s breathing became heavy, her eyes glued to the money. Leo was stunned, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me in disbelief. “Ethan, what are you doing? This isn’t necessary…” “Whether it’s necessary or not isn’t for you to decide,” I said flatly. I motioned for my assistant to push one of the cases in front of Vanessa. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand. You should count it.” A flash of embarrassment crossed her face, but it was quickly swallowed by her avarice. She actually reached out and began to count the money with a flourish, as if to prove a point. The sight of her, so smug and triumphant, was repulsive. I turned my back on her and addressed my guests with an apologetic smile. “Gentlemen, I am truly sorry for this evening’s spectacle. Please, allow me to cover all of your expenses tonight. Furthermore, I own a spa resort just outside the city. I’d like to invite all of you for a weekend retreat, on me, as a proper apology.” These were sharp men. They understood immediately that I was not just saving face, but demonstrating power. They accepted graciously, and the tense atmosphere finally eased. After my friends had departed, the lounge was empty except for me, Leo, and Vanessa, who was still absorbed in her “counting.” Leo finally broke. He rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Ethan, don’t be like this. Can we please talk about this at home? Don’t be mad at me.” I pulled my arm free. Looking at his face, I felt like I was seeing a stranger. “Leo, the moment you stood by and watched her humiliate me, you should have known there was no going back.” “I didn’t, I…” he stammered. Just then, Vanessa finished her count. She snapped the case shut, rising to her feet with an air of absolute victory that cut Leo off. “Leo, darling, why are you wasting your breath on him? The bill is paid. We’re even. We should really discourage this kind of riff-raff from coming around. It lowers the tone of Aura.” She took Leo’s arm, her eyes locking with mine in a defiant stare. “Oh, and by the way,” she said, gesturing to the other two briefcases. “I’ll be taking these two million as compensation for my emotional distress, and as an apology to Leo. Don’t mind if I do.” She reached for the cases. “Stop,” I said, my voice cold as ice. My two security men took a single, synchronized step forward, blocking her path. Vanessa’s expression soured. “What? Thinking of backing out?” “Not at all,” I said, walking towards her until I was looking down at her. “I just want to make sure you understand something. You can take this money. But I’m not so sure you can afford to spend it.” My assistant, perfectly on cue, presented a document and a pen. “What is this?” Vanessa asked, suddenly wary. “A receipt of services,” I said simply. “You’re accepting three million dollars. Sign here, acknowledging the payment, and we’re all square. Otherwise, you don’t get a single dime.” Vanessa snatched the document, her eyes scanning it quickly. It listed all of her fabricated charges, along with the additional “Emotional Distress Compensation” and “Apology Fee.” The terms were clear, the amounts precise. To her, it was just a formality. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the pen and scrawled her name—Vanessa Croft—on the signature line. She tossed the document back at me and moved triumphantly towards the money. “There. Now the money is mine.” “Is it?” I carefully folded the signed paper, a cold smile touching my lips. I took out my phone, not even bothering to look at them again, and made another call. “We can begin.”

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The financial aid application from a girl in my major was flagged. An error. I tried adding her on Instagram to give her a heads-up on how to fix it. I sent a request. And then, a little while later, sent it again. Both times, the request was denied. The second time, it came with a note attached to her now-private profile: My boyfriend doesn’t like me adding random guys. My roommate, Mason, was the one who told me to check the department’s GroupMe. That’s where I saw she was tearing me to shreds. “I mean, I rejected him twice already. You’d think he’d get the hint. How desperate can you be?” “Another one of those guys who thinks he’s God’s gift. Seriously, does the toad really think he has a shot with the princess?” I had to laugh. Me, the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar corporation, a toad? 1 Mason shoved his phone in my face, and I scrolled through the chat log that was exploding in our department’s GroupMe. The one leading the charge was a girl named Scarlett Rhodes. Our major’s undisputed queen bee. Her profile picture was a professionally edited selfie. Perfect makeup, a gaze that managed to be both alluring and dismissive. I frowned but didn’t say anything, just handed the phone back to Mason. “Whatever. Let her talk.” I’m the student liaison for my department, which basically means I’m the TA for the freshman seminar and a glorified assistant to our academic advisor. Collecting and organizing student paperwork is part of the job. Scarlett was applying for the Polaris Foundation Scholarship, one of the most generous—and scrutinized—grants at our university. It’s backed by a massive private foundation, and the entire process is firewalled from the school. The university just collects the initial applications. When I was sorting the files, Scarlett’s application immediately stood out. In the box for annual family income, she’d added an extra zero. $300,000. The eligibility cutoff for the scholarship was a family income under $80,000. The foundation’s automated system would see that number and instantly kick her application out in the first round. Technically, it wasn’t my problem. My job was just to collect and submit. But then I read her personal statement. A father with a chronic illness, a mother working odd jobs to make ends meet. Every sentence painted a picture of struggle. I felt for her. It seemed like she could really use the break. I just wanted to give her a heads-up. Tagging her in the main GroupMe was the easiest way, but it would have been humiliating for her, putting her financial situation on blast for everyone to see. After a moment of hesitation, I chose the more considerate, albeit more difficult, route: a private message on Instagram. I thought it was a simple act of kindness. Turns out, no good deed goes unpunished. And now I was “the toad.” A few of her cronies were already chiming in on the chat. “Don’t let it get to you, Scarlett. Some people just don’t know their place.” “For real. He sees a pretty girl and thinks he can just slide into her DMs. Like, look in a mirror, dude.” “Toad trying to get with a princess. Pathetic!” Then, a user with the handle “Scarlett’s Knight,” whose profile pic was him leaning against a sports car, jumped in. “Who’s the clown harassing my girl? Give me a name. I’ll make sure he doesn’t walk straight on campus again.” That would be her boyfriend, Blake, a trust-fund kid with too much time on his hands. Scarlett replied instantly: “Oh, Blake, don’t be so aggressive! He’s just some guy in our classes. Probably just… gets a little carried away, you know.” That ellipsis she used was a work of art. It screamed delusional obsession without her having to type a single word. A fresh wave of laughing-face emojis flooded the chat. Mason was fuming. “Leo, this girl is unbelievable. You were trying to help her.” “You should just call her out right here, right now. Expose her.” I shook my head, handing his phone back. “It’s not worth it. You can’t reason with people like that.” My silence in the chat was apparently taken as an admission of guilt. Scarlett posted one more message. “Awww, he’s not even saying anything now. Guess the truth hurts. lol.” I locked my phone screen. Out of sight, out of mind. It was just an application form. If she didn’t care enough to get it right, why should I? It was her future. Her loss. 2 The next day, the vibe on campus was different. I could feel it. As I walked down the hall, a group of students who had been laughing together suddenly went silent when they saw me. Their eyes were filled with a uniform, undisguised contempt. When I entered the lecture hall, it felt like every head in the room turned in my direction. Scarlett was holding court in the center of the room, surrounded by a few of her friends. She was wearing a delicate white dress, her long hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. She looked ethereal. She saw me, and the smile on her face faltered for a second. It was quickly replaced by a look of disgust, mixed with a hint of smug satisfaction. The girls around her immediately started whispering, pointing at me. “That’s him?” “He looks so normal. I thought he’d be creepier.” “Scarlett, has he bothered you again?” Scarlett lifted her chin, her voice just loud enough for half the room to hear. “What more can he do? After everyone called him out in the GroupMe yesterday, he’s basically a social pariah now.” A ripple of laughter went through her circle. I ignored them, my face a mask of indifference, and walked to an empty seat in the back row. I took out my textbook. For the rest of the morning, I could feel their eyes on me. Little pinpricks of judgment that made it impossible to concentrate. At lunch, I had just gotten my food and sat down at a table in the corner of the dining hall. A moment later, Scarlett and Blake appeared, their trays clattering as they sat down directly across from me. Blake had bleached-blond hair, an earring, and was draped in designer streetwear. He was trying very hard to look intimidating. “Well, well, if it isn’t the toad himself—” Scarlett cut him off with a sharp nudge. She then leaned against his shoulder, adopting a wounded, fragile expression. “Blake, can we eat somewhere else? Just looking at him makes me lose my appetite.” Blake’s face immediately softened into a look of concern. “Of course, baby. Don’t get upset. He’s not worth it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box, flicking it open in front of me. Inside was a glittering necklace. I recognized the Swarovski swan logo. “Ta-da! Look what I got for you. Had a friend pick it up in New York yesterday. It’s the latest design.” Scarlett gasped, covering her mouth. “Wow, it’s beautiful! Blake, you’re the best.” The display drew the attention of students at the surrounding tables. Blake shot me a triumphant glare, his eyes brimming with smug provocation. It was a look that screamed: See this, you loser? What could you possibly offer her compared to me? I kept my head down, silently pushing the tasteless Salisbury steak around my plate. I could tell the necklace was a knockoff from ten feet away. The clasp on a genuine Swarovski piece would never be that crude. 3 I had the afternoon off, but a call from my academic advisor, Mr. Davies, summoned me to his office. Mr. Davies was in his forties, with thick black-rimmed glasses and a perpetually serious expression. When I walked in, I saw Scarlett was already there. She was sitting across from him, her eyes red-rimmed as if she’d been subjected to some great injustice. The moment she saw me, she physically recoiled, her eyes widening in feigned terror. She was a hell of an actress. Mr. Davies cleared his throat loudly, adjusting his glasses. “Leo, you’re here. Have a seat.” I pulled a chair out and sat. “Mr. Davies, you wanted to see me?” His eyes lingered on my face for a few seconds, laced with disapproval. “Leo, you’re a good student. You work hard, you’re diligent in your duties. The faculty sees that.” His tone shifted. “However, you need to be mindful of how you interact with your peers. You must maintain an appropriate distance.” He paused for emphasis. “Especially with female students.” A knot formed in my stomach. “Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” On cue, Scarlett’s sniffling grew louder. “Mr. Davies, it’s my fault… my family’s situation… I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted to lessen their burden a little. I never thought applying for a scholarship would lead to… this kind of trouble.” She let out a sob, then casually added, “My boyfriend was so angry when he found out. His father knows some people on the Polaris Foundation’s board, and he said he’s going to make sure they hear about this…” Mr. Davies’s expression changed instantly. His gaze on her became noticeably more sympathetic, almost fawning. He quickly reassured her. “Scarlett, this is not your fault. Rest assured, the university will handle this matter seriously.” He turned back to me, his tone hardening. “Leo. You sent an Instagram request to Ms. Rhodes. After she declined it, why did you send it again?” “This young woman has made it clear that she has a boyfriend and is not interested in your advances.” “Do you understand that your behavior has caused Ms. Rhodes significant distress?” I tried to explain. “Sir, I was only trying to contact her because of her scholarship application—” “Enough!” Mr. Davies cut me off, his patience gone. “If there was an issue with her application, you could have addressed it publicly in the GroupMe, or you could have come to me. Why did you insist on contacting her privately?” “It’s hard not to question your motives in this situation!” I stared at his self-righteous face, the words of my defense catching in my throat. “Sir, if that’s what you’ve chosen to believe, then I have nothing more to say.” “Is that your attitude?” He slammed his hand on the desk. “Leo, I am warning you. Cease this inappropriate behavior immediately. Stay away from Ms. Rhodes!” “If this happens again, I won’t hesitate to write you up for disciplinary action!” Scarlett stood off to the side, a smug, triumphant look on her face. I stood up, not giving either of them another glance, and walked out of the office. The door clicked shut behind me, silencing Scarlett’s fake sobs. I stood in the empty hallway, staring out the window at the bleak, overcast sky. It felt like a block of cement had settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. 4 In the days that followed, I became a ghost in my own department. No one spoke to me. If they saw me coming, they would physically alter their path to avoid me. There were always whispers, always poorly concealed smirks and laughs at my expense. “The obsessive stalker.” “He should take a look in the mirror.” “I heard Mr. Davies chewed him out. Serves him right.” Scarlett, meanwhile, was relentless. Almost every day, she’d post something passive-aggressive on her Instagram story or in the GroupMe. “Spotted someone lurking in the corner of the library again today. Can’t seem to shake him.” Attached was a blurry photo of my profile. “Ugh, it feels like I’m being swarmed by a fly. Buzz, buzz, buzz.” Mason wanted to fight her in the chat, but I held him back. It was pointless. Anything I said now would just be seen as a defensive lie. I poured all my energy into my studies and a research project I was helping one of my professors with. The library and the lab became my only sanctuaries, the only places I could find a moment’s peace. The final submission deadline for the Polaris Scholarship arrived. Ten minutes before the cutoff, I dropped off the stack of alphabetized applications at the university’s financial aid office. Scarlett’s form was in there, right between Richards and Scott. The glaring error was still there. She hadn’t changed it. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she didn’t think it was important. Or maybe, she never even bothered to double-check her own work. As I handed the stack of files to the administrator, I hesitated for a fraction of a second. In the end, I said nothing. You think you’re so untouchable? Fine. Pay the price for your own arrogance and stupidity. A week later, the list of first-round qualifiers was posted online. Scarlett’s name was not on it. Just as I expected. That afternoon, I was walking back from the library when I saw Scarlett and Blake arguing by the campus lake. “I thought you said your dad knew people on the board! What the hell happened?” Scarlett’s voice was shrill. “How am I supposed to know! Maybe they’re just stricter this year,” Blake shot back, clearly annoyed. “You can’t even handle one little thing for me! What good are you?” “Are you seriously trying to blame me, Scarlett? Your application was rejected because you filled it out wrong. Who’s fault is that?” “What are you talking about? What did I do wrong?” “The rejection email from the system was crystal clear: ‘Error in reporting annual family income’! You made a rookie mistake, and now you have the nerve to blame me?” Scarlett froze. I could see the moment the memory hit her. The color drained from her face. Her head snapped around, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me, standing a hundred feet away. The look she gave me was pure venom. It was the look of someone who wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands. 5 Our final project for a core class was a group assignment. The teams were assigned randomly by the course software. I stared at the list on my screen, a dull throb starting in my temples. Leo Vance. Scarlett Rhodes. Blake Miller. Plus two of Scarlett’s closest friends. The five of us. One group. You have got to be kidding me. Mason leaned over to look at my screen and let out a string of curses. “Oh, you’re screwed. That’s the group from hell. Dude, you have to go to the professor and get switched out.” I shook my head. Switch? How? What’s my reason? That Scarlett and I are cosmically incompatible? It would just make me look guilty. Sure enough, not long after the list was posted, a new group chat popped up on my phone. Scarlett was the first to type. “Just so we’re all clear, nobody is slacking off. If you drag down our group’s grade, you’ll have to answer to me.” She didn’t use my name, but everyone knew who she was talking to. Blake immediately chimed in: “Yeah, don’t think you can ride our coattails just because you got lucky with the grouping.” The other two girls added their own cheerleading comments. I didn’t say a word. Our first group meeting was at an off-campus coffee shop. I arrived on time. The other four were already there. As soon as I sat down, Scarlett pushed a stack of books and articles across the table toward me. “We’ve decided on the topic and outline. We’re doing ‘The Construction and Propagation of a City’s Image in the New Media Environment.’” “These are the reference materials. You’re in charge of consolidating them and writing the first draft. I want it by next Wednesday.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact, as if she were my boss giving me an assignment. “I’m writing the whole first draft?” I asked. “Well, yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “We’re handling the research, the final PowerPoint design, and the in-class presentation. The work is perfectly divided.” Blake was leaning back in his chair, leg bouncing. “Consider yourself lucky you get to do some work for Scarlett’s grade.” I looked at the four of them. Scarlett and Blake were sipping their lattes. The other two girls were scrolling through their phones. The so-called “reference materials” on the table were just a few textbooks from the library. The spines hadn’t even been cracked. “Fine.” I gathered the books and stood up. “I’ll be in touch.” With that, I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard Blake’s derisive snort. “What a poser. In the end, he still does what he’s told.” 6 For the next week, the library became my home. I dug through academic journals, compiled data, and analyzed case studies. To add more substance to the report, I even asked my professor to connect me with a former student of his who now worked in the city’s communications department. He sent me some internal reports that weren’t publicly available. On Tuesday night, I sent the 15,000-word first draft to the group chat. The chat remained silent. About half an hour later, Scarlett finally replied. “Got it.” No thank you. No feedback. It was as if I had just completed a simple, expected task. The next evening, I was in the lab helping my professor crunch some numbers when Scarlett called. Her tone was hostile from the start. “Leo, what is this garbage you sent? It’s a complete mess.” I frowned. “What’s wrong with it?” “What’s wrong with it? Everything! The logic is weak, the examples are boring, and the conclusion is flat! Do you even know how to write a research paper?” I fought to keep my voice even. “Then what changes do you suggest?” “How should I know? That’s your job! Look, I don’t care what you do, but I need a revised, better version by tomorrow morning. If our grade suffers because of you, I swear you’ll regret it.” She hung up before I could say another word. I listened to the dial tone, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. A week of my life, poured into that paper, and she dismissed it as worthless. She couldn’t even provide a single specific point of criticism. This was purely about making my life difficult. I went back to my dorm, opened my laptop, and stared at the document. I wasn’t changing a single word. Instead, I renamed the file “Final Draft.” Then, I created a new document. I systematically went through my original work, deleting all the core data analysis, the most compelling case studies, and every piece of information I’d gotten from the internal city reports. What was left was a hollow shell—vague theories and outdated examples you could find on the first page of a Google search. I reformatted this gutted version, and also named it “Final Draft.” Then, I logged into the university’s course portal. I uploaded the original, 15,000-word, comprehensive report as an individual submission under my name only. Only after I had done that did I send the gutted “Final Draft” to our group chat. I tagged everyone. “Report has been revised according to Scarlett’s feedback. Please review.” 7 The submission deadline for the project was Friday at noon. Friday morning, our first class was with the professor for that course. Professor Albright was in her fifties, a brilliant academic with a reputation for being incredibly strict. She had zero tolerance for academic dishonesty or students who didn’t pull their weight in group projects. Just before class started, Scarlett and her friends walked in, dressed to the nines. When she saw me, Scarlett shot me a haughty look and walked right past my desk as if I were invisible. I noticed she was carrying a new Louis Vuitton bag. Looks like Blake was trying to buy his way back into her good graces. I wondered what grade of fake that one was. Professor Albright entered the classroom and set down her notes. “Good morning. I assume everyone has submitted their final reports?” Her gaze swept across the room. “I was looking through the submissions this morning. Most groups submitted on time. However, there is one group I’d like to discuss in class.” The room went dead silent. Professor Albright adjusted her glasses, her eyes finding our row. “The group that worked on ‘The Construction and Propagation of a City’s Image in the New Media Environment.’ Scarlett Rhodes, Blake Miller, Leo Vance…” She read all five of our names. Scarlett’s posture immediately straightened. A smug smile spread across her face. She clearly thought the professor was about to praise our work. Professor Albright’s eyes finally landed on me. “Leo, I also received an individual submission from you on the same topic.” “And I must say, your individual report is comprehensive, well-researched, with novel case studies. Its quality is worlds above the report submitted by your group.” She paused, her voice turning icy. “Now, would someone like to explain to me what, exactly, is going on here?” “Is this a case of a breakdown in teamwork, or is it a case of… someone attempting to take credit for another person’s labor?”

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“After I woke up as an emperor, a system gave me one single objective: destroy the kingdom. So, naturally, I started phoning it in. I spent my days and nights in a haze of music and wine, living a life of pure, shameless decadence. I was determined to embody the image of a “”Bad King”” down to the very last detail. But then my ministers started hailing me, their voices ringing with adoration: “”Your Majesty’s wisdom is divine!”” That’s when I realized something was going terribly wrong. Wait a second… how did we end up with the whole world bowing at our feet? 1 I woke up from what felt like a week-long bender to find myself not in my dorm room, but in a four-poster bed the size of my entire apartment. I was also wearing silk pajamas. And I was, apparently, the king. Oh, and there was a system hardwired into my brain. It had a sleek, minimalist interface that hovered in my vision, and only one objective: ACHIEVE THE ‘DYNASTY’S END’ SCENARIO. The conditions were simple: ruin the kingdom while ensuring my own personal safety. A slow smile spread across my face. This was the easiest final exam I’d ever been given. Become a disastrous ruler? A “”Bad King””? As a modern college student perpetually on the verge of academic probation, I was a natural. Phoning it in wasn’t just a skill; it was a core tenet of my personality. All I had to do was neglect my duties, promote the most corrupt sycophants I could find, and let graft become the national sport. Throw in some wildly extravagant parties and a few pointless, expensive projects to bleed the treasury dry, and the kingdom would implode in no time. I cracked my knuckles, a surge of ambition—the first I’d felt in years—coursing through me. I was going to be the most legendary failed monarch in history. 2 The next morning, I was dragged to the Grand Council chamber, a cavernous hall of marble and gold, and plopped onto a throne that was surprisingly uncomfortable. As the assembled lords and ladies of the realm bowed, chanting something about my eternal reign, I fought back a massive yawn. A five a.m. council meeting? This wasn’t just tyranny; it was a crime against humanity. Down below, a stern-looking man with a perfectly trimmed grey beard stepped forward. Secretary Harrington, the Lord Chamberlain, cleared his throat, his scroll held aloft. “”Your Majesty, the Scholastic Appointments are upon us. You should—”” I slammed my hand on the arm of the throne, the sound echoing through the silent hall. “”Council dismissed!”” A collective gasp rippled through the room. I hitched up the ridiculous satin robe I was wearing and practically jogged out of the chamber, ignoring the chorus of sputtering protests behind me. “”Your Majesty, this is highly irregular!”” “”Sire, we must—”” Yeah, no. If I let them talk, I might accidentally do something competent. Can’t have that. 3 I went back to the royal chambers—my chambers, I guess—and immediately dove back into that glorious bed for a much-needed second sleep. When I finally surfaced around noon, my personal attendant, a quiet and unnervingly efficient man named Miles, informed me that Secretary Harrington was waiting for me. He hadn’t just waited; he had been standing vigil outside my doors since the council meeting. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken water, and had refused every attempt by the guards to make him leave. He just stood there, ramrod straight, for seven hours. All for a chance to speak with me. I paused, a half-eaten grape halfway to my mouth. Seven hours. Now that was dedication. This guy was the real deal—a true patriot, a man of iron conviction. A model public servant. 4 I put down my fruit platter and hurried to the doors. There he was, just as Miles had described, standing in the oppressive heat of the corridor, his formal robes soaked through with sweat. His face was flushed, but his eyes burned with a fierce determination. When he saw me, a jolt of energy seemed to pass through him. He tried to bow, his body swaying unsteadily. I rushed forward and caught his arm. He gripped my hand, his own trembling with exhaustion and emotion. Tears welled in his eyes. “”The appointments, Your Majesty,”” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “”They are the future of this kingdom. We cannot afford to be complacent. I implore you, for the good of the realm…”” He trailed off, his eyes rolling back before he collapsed into my arms. Miles, ever-prepared, was already there with a goblet of water. Once Harrington was revived and sitting, looking deeply moved, I knew what I had to do. I made a proclamation on the spot. This man, this pillar of integrity, was being reassigned. I was making him the new governor of Saltwind County, a remote, windswept fishing outpost in the furthest corner of the southern provinces. “”For your unparalleled service…”” I began. Harrington’s eyes shone with gratitude. Then the rest of my words hit him. “”Governor? Of… Saltwind?”” I nodded gravely, clapping him on his bony shoulder. “”A man of your caliber is wasted here in the capital, Harrington. I need my best people on the frontiers, solving the real problems of the common folk!”” His face went chalk-white. He opened his mouth to argue, but I just waved my hand dismissively and had the guards escort him away to prepare for his journey. 5 Watching Harrington’s despairing figure being led away, I felt a thrill of accomplishment. I’d successfully exiled one of the most dedicated, honest men in government. Surely, I was one step closer to ruin. Ping. A notification from the Downfall System flashed in my mind’s eye. [ANALYSIS: Secretary Harrington has been rigging the Scholastic Appointments for over a decade. His network has ensured that only the children of wealthy nobles are considered, systematically sidelining promising candidates from the common class and causing widespread disillusionment among the educated populace.] [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Meritocratic Reform.’ Public Hope +50.] I just stood there, stunned. It took a full minute for the reality to sink in. Are you kidding me? That old man wasn’t a patriot. He was the king of cronyism, the poster boy for systemic corruption. 5 I wanted to tear my hair out. He could have been my masterpiece, my right-hand man in the glorious project of running this kingdom into the ground! And I’d just shipped him off to count seagulls. And honestly, Harrington? Couldn’t you have just told me? If you’d said, “”Hey, Your Majesty, I’m planning to fill the government with my useless, silver-spoon nephews,”” I would have given you a promotion! But it was too late. I was the king. I couldn’t just take it back without looking like an idiot. I figured I’d wait a few months and then quietly recall him under some flimsy pretext. Two weeks later, a report arrived. Secretary Harrington’s carriage had been waylaid by highwaymen on the road south. He was dead. My single greatest asset in this whole endeavor, gone. Just like that. This was an outrage! In a fit of performative anger, I ordered a kingdom-wide crackdown on all bandits and highwaymen. [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Clearing the Roads.’ Regional Stability +5.] I just… I buried my face in my hands. Fine. No more accidents. From now on, I’m only doing bad things. On purpose. I swore it, tears of frustration streaming down my face. It was time to find a real villain. 7 On my twentieth day of successfully avoiding all morning councils, I remembered a name I’d overheard the palace staff whispering about: Lord Wallace, a deputy in the Treasury. Rumor had it he was one of the most notoriously corrupt officials in the kingdom’s history, a man whose personal wealth was said to rival the crown’s. Perfect. My kind of guy. I had Miles bring me the treasury ledgers. Sure enough, tax revenues from the southern salt trade were down by three hundred thousand gold pieces this year. I also recalled a snippet of gossip about Lord Wallace recently purchasing a massive new estate in the city’s most exclusive district. That was my man. This had to be him. “”Miles,”” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “”Fetch me Lord Wallace.”” 8 Lord Wallace was a portly, middle-aged man who knelt before me with a perpetually worried expression. I rubbed my hands together like a cartoon villain. “”My dear Wallace,”” I began, “”I have a vision. A grand tower, so tall it pierces the clouds. The Starlight Spire.”” Wallace looked up, his face a mask of distress. “”Your Majesty, the treasury is… strained. We lack the funds for such a project!”” I waved a dismissive hand. “”Then divert the funds from the military budget. And while you’re at it, raise taxes by thirty percent.”” His eyes widened in horror. “”Sire, that would be ruinous for the people! It would cripple our defenses! Surely, this is unwise…”” Unwise? It was genius! I was handing him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter. How was he supposed to skim off the top if I didn’t authorize a massive, wasteful public works project? This guy was a hell of an actor. Playing the part of the prudent official. “”Enough,”” I snapped, getting impatient. “”Just do it. And if you do it well, the position of Secretary of the Treasury is yours.”” His eyes darted back and forth for a moment, a flicker of something—greed? ambition?—crossing his face. Finally, he bowed his head. “”As you command, Your Majesty. I will do my utmost.”” I leaned back, deeply satisfied. Finally, the wheels of destruction were turning. 9 That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, the system pinged again. [ALERT: Lord Wallace is currently conducting a late-night audit of the military budget. Thirteen high-ranking officers implicated in an embezzlement scheme have been identified. Four million gold pieces in missing funds have been recovered.] I sat bolt upright in bed. What? The next morning, a haggard but triumphant Wallace was kneeling outside my chambers, tears streaming down his face. “”Your Majesty, your brilliance is beyond measure! You knew all along that the army was being hollowed out by grifters! I have followed your implicit command and will immediately re-allocate the recovered funds to rebuild our northern border forts!”” The system chimed in, a cheerful, soulless sound. [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Astute Oversight.’ Integrity +50, Public Approval +100.] I felt a scream building in my throat. You were supposed to build the tower! Why are you investigating corruption? And even if you find it, you’re a corrupt official! Aren’t you supposed to take that money for yourself? Where is your professional integrity?”

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My eyes fluttered open to a new world and an old notification. [Dead yet? If not, get over here and apologize. If Spencer forgives you, I’ll consider not dumping you.] I mentally grabbed the System by its digital collar and demanded an explanation. …Right. So, the original owner of this body completed the 100 tasks for the female lead and has returned to his own world to save his lover. Then I brought you in. I clutched my head, a silent scream echoing in my mind. “I asked you to find me a world with women, not a world with a toxic nightmare!” Calm down. I never said you had to stay with her. This place is full of beautiful women. Besides, the last guy left behind an eight-figure bank account, completely untouched. I brought you here to live a little. Or a lot. Tens of millions? Suddenly, I was feeling much better. My phone buzzed again. A new text from the same number. [You have thirty minutes. Get to this suite. And you’d better mean the apology. Don’t be stubborn.] My fingers flew across the screen. [Previous owner of this number is deceased. This is his ghost. You’ve been blocked. Boo.] 1 [?] [You’re dead? So a ghost is texting me back?] [Don’t play these childish games, Leo. You know my patience is thin.] Tsk. Technically, if the System hadn’t pulled me in the second the original soul left, this body would be dead. I wasn’t even lying. But whatever. I’d seen this script a thousand times. The “100 tasks” she’d set were undoubtedly a parade of humiliations. At best, it was kneeling in the rain at midnight. At worst, it was donating a kidney on a whim. Classic martyr-complex fiction. The System’s taste was truly depraved. The thought of dealing with a woman like that turned my stomach. And why should I? I was rich now! Tens of millions! “System, buddy, pal. Check my accounts. What are we talking, exactly?” One sec… Eighty million… What’s with that look? You’re going to spend it right now? I nearly launched the pillow into the ceiling. “Spend it? Of course, I’m gonna spend it! Money you don’t spend is just paper! Find me the biggest, most decadent, over-the-top luxury club in this city. I want the one with the highest-quality models!” “I’m ordering eight at once!” I’d been poor my entire last life. It was finally my turn to be the guy who buys the bar. 2 I showered and styled myself into a vision of cool intensity, choosing a wickedly handsome dark red silk shirt. I did a few turns in front of the full-length mirror. The body was fantastic—broad shoulders, long legs. Just like my original. Satisfied. As I was about to head out, my phone rang. An unsaved number. I answered it. “Leo, it’s been half an hour. Where are you?” “Don’t think you can do whatever you want just because you’re my boyfriend. When you do something wrong, you apologize. Have you forgotten how to be a decent human being?” The disdain and impatience in her voice were so thick you could cut them with a knife. Ah, so this was the toxic ex. What a drag. But my mood was too good to be ruined. I could afford to be generous with an explanation. “Listen, lady, your boyfriend checked out. Permanently. I’m just the ghost possessing his body, so no, I won’t be coming.” “As of this moment, you and this body have zero connection. Lose my number. Bye!” I hung up, blocked the number, and ran a hand through my hair. I slipped on my leather shoes. “Let’s roll! To The Platinum Club!” 3 When I told the manager I wanted his most extravagant VIP suite and his most expensive hostesses, the man’s smile nearly split his face. He personally escorted me, promising to bring his top talent over shortly. I was grinning just as wide. I’d never experienced this kind of luxury before. But before we even reached the suite, a voice cut through the plush hallway. “Well, well, look who it is. Leo.” A man I didn’t recognize swaggered toward me. “I thought you had some backbone. All that talk about not coming, and here you are, crawling back with your tail between your legs.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled towards a nearby suite. “Meredith! Your man’s here!” I gave the guy a once-over. Dressed well enough, but he had the forgettable face of a background character. A moment later, a whole entourage spilled out of the adjacent suite. One of them started clapping. “I won! See, I told you! He’s trained like Meredith’s little puppy. He might throw a little tantrum, but in the end, he always comes when he’s called.” He held out his hand to another man. “Ten grand. Pay up.” The other guy sighed, pulling out his phone to make the transfer with a sour look. A man and a woman emerged from the center of the group. Judging by their looks and the way the others parted for them, they were the main event. The woman’s face was a mask of derision. “So you decided to show up? I was actually starting to believe you were dead.” I took in the scene and pinged the System. “System, who are these clowns? Is that the female lead?” …Yes. I had no idea she was here. So that was Meredith. Which meant the guy standing a little too close to her must be the Spencer she’d mentioned. But— What did that have to do with me? I gave her a cheerful smile and an “OK” sign with my hand. “You got it. You should absolutely consider me dead.” “From now on, when you see me, you’re seeing a ghost. Just pretend you can’t see me, okay?” I turned to enter my suite, but a hand shot out and grabbed my arm. Meredith’s face was stony. “You’re not going to apologize?” “Why would I apologize?” “You knew Spencer was allergic to mangoes, yet you ordered a fruit platter with mango on it. He almost went into anaphylactic shock. You don’t think you should apologize for that?” I almost laughed. “He knew he was allergic to mangoes, yet he ate from a fruit platter with mango on it. Is he an idiot?” A strange, awkward silence fell over the hallway. It was broken by a cloyingly sweet voice. Spencer’s. “Meredith, don’t be too hard on Leo. I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose. It was dark in the suite, and I just… I ate it by mistake. Let’s just drop it.” I immediately jumped on it. “You hear that? The professional victim himself said he ate it by mistake. Are you insane for trying to pin this on me?” “Let go. Let. Go.” I shook my arm hard, dislodging her grip. When I looked up, the expressions on everyone’s faces were priceless. Spencer pointed at himself, his face a picture of disbelief. “…Did you just call me a professional victim?” “Oh, sorry, I have no filter. Besides, you look a little green around the gills. Is there a problem?” “Leo, that’s enough!” Meredith’s voice was sharp. “If you didn’t want to apologize, why did you even come here?” “To beg me not to break up with you?” “Is this how you beg?” I crossed my arms, relaxed, and narrowed my eyes. “Beg for what? Lady, this is The Platinum Club. It’s the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city. What do you think I’m here for?” As if on cue, the manager returned, followed by a line of stunningly beautiful women, each one a different type. The manager bowed obsequiously. “Mr. Pierce, I’ve brought the ladies. Are they to your satisfaction?” The hallway went dead silent. I let my gaze sweep over the lineup, and my eyes lit up. “Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Bring them all inside!” I told the manager to take them to the suite and to open a few bottles of his best champagne. When I turned back, Meredith and her entire crew were frozen in place, staring as if they’d seen a ghost. For real, this time. 4 Just as I was about to step into paradise, my arm was grabbed for a second time. Again? Meredith’s voice was a low growl through gritted teeth. “Leo, did you come here to hire escorts?!” I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “None of your damn business. I already told you, I’m not your boyfriend. Go hang out with your little lapdog Spencer and leave me alone.” I tried to pull away, but her grip was tight. So I lifted my leather shoe and brought the heel down hard on her foot. I didn’t hold back. Meredith’s face went white, and she instantly let go. She looked like she wanted to scream but choked it down, her expression twisting in pain, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. “Fine, Leo. Just… fine.” “Don’t you dare come crawling back to me, begging for forgiveness. Let’s go!” Meredith waved a hand dismissively, turning on her heel and storming back to her suite, her crew trailing behind her like confused ducklings. A few of them cast lingering, curious glances back, clearly wanting to see how the rest of the drama would unfold. I gave them a very impolite middle finger and strode majestically into my suite. Damn, this place really was the city’s temple of indulgence. The quality of the women was unreal. Sexy, sweet, all of them with killer figures. They cooed “Leo” and “honey” until my heart melted. I popped six bottles of champagne, my hands finding their way around plenty of slender waists. I grabbed the microphone and launched into a passionate, off-key karaoke session. The women were incredibly supportive, listening with rapt attention as if I were a rock god, even though I sounded like a dying animal. My soaring high notes occasionally drew curious onlookers to the door of my suite. Whatever. A true artist always draws a crowd. I had my arm around the sexiest, spiciest woman in the room, completely lost in the song. Just as I was about to hit the crescendo, the door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. At that exact moment, the seven women surrounding me pulled the strings on confetti cannons they’d been holding. A shower of glittering streamers and flower petals exploded across the room, covering the intruder from head to toe. The group of people standing in the doorway gasped. Meredith stood there, trembling with rage. “Leo, get over here right now!” Her again? This woman was like a dog with a bone. I patted the woman next to me on the shoulder, signaling her to release me. “Lady, you’re seriously a ghost I can’t shake. What is it now?” 5 Without a word, Meredith strode forward and tried to pull me toward the door. “You’re coming with me!” “Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Don’t touch me! To me, my darlings! Protect your king!” The eight women immediately swarmed, pulling me back and forming a protective human wall in front of me. With enough money, even models could become my personal army. Behind Meredith, her sycophantic friends were whispering. “Has he completely lost his mind?” “How dare he push her like this? Meredith is going to explode.” “This is a new tactic, I guess. The nice guy act wasn’t working, so now he’s playing hard to get?” Meredith’s face was a shade of livid green. “If your goal today was to piss me off, then congratulations, you’ve succeeded.” “Get out here!” I was speechless. This was absurd. “Are you crazy? I’m paying for this. Why would I leave?” “Is your face prettier than theirs? Is your waist smaller? No? Then could you please get lost? You’re ruining the mood.” Meredith slammed her palm against the doorframe. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll actually break up with you?” Huh? So we weren’t broken up yet? “Oh my god, please! Yes! Let’s break up! Do it! From now on, just pretend I don’t exist, okay?” Spencer stepped forward, placing a hand on Meredith’s arm. “Meredith, don’t be angry. He’s just throwing a tantrum. He’s your boyfriend, after all. He feels like he can act out with you. It’s normal for him to be a little childish~” Nice one, Mr. Passive-Aggressive. Fan those flames. Meredith’s cheeks puffed out with rage. “Have I been too easy on you? If you don’t come out of there right now, you can forget about ever being with me again!” God, I wished she would believe me. I really, truly was not her submissive “boyfriend.” I was a ghost. A squatter. But honestly, in a situation like this, who would believe that? I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “ARE YOU DEAF? I SAID LET’S BREAK UP!” “LEO! DON’T YOU REGRET THIS!” “WHOEVER REGRETS IT IS A DOG!” Meredith’s face cycled through shades of green and purple, as if she’d been poisoned. After a long, tense standoff, she stomped her foot so hard that her friends behind her flinched. She shot me one last, fiery glare, then turned and stormed away, grinding her teeth. What a waste of my time. Ten whole minutes. 6 I ignored the drama and went back to drinking with the lovely ladies in my suite. By the time we were done, it was midnight. I staggered out of the room, fumbling for my phone to order a car. I hadn’t even gotten a firm grip on it when I stumbled headfirst into a woman’s shoulder. The phone clattered to the floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. Shit. I was about to look up and give her a piece of my mind when I was blinded by a divine light. Oh, my god. I’d run into an angel. My vocabulary failed me. I had no words to describe how beautiful this woman was. In one glance, I had already planned out which college our future children would attend. The manager had been holding out on me. How dare he not bring this goddess to my suite? I made a decision. I would buy her freedom. Then I’d build her a golden palace and we’d make love day and night. I leaned against her, feigning helplessness, and poked her shoulder with my finger. “You little devil. You broke my phone. Now I can’t even call a car to get home.” “As punishment, you’ll have to drive me.” I waited for a moment, but she didn’t move. I glanced up again. Our eyes met. Her face was backlit, making it impossible to read her expression. Playing hard to get. She must be new here. I raised my hand to tilt her chin up, but she caught my wrist mid-air. “Are you harassing me?” “Tsk. This isn’t harassment, darling. This is flirting.” Quick as a flash, I snatched the brooch from her uniform and gave her my most charmingly fake smile. “Baby, you take me home, and I’ll give this back to you. How about it?” The woman stared at me for a long moment, then a very faint, very small smile touched her lips. A musical voice slipped from her throat. “Fine.” 7 I had seriously overestimated myself. I imagined that when we got home, the beauty and I would get up to all sorts of things, exploring every position, a battle of passion lasting three hundred rounds. Instead, my useless body passed out cold in the car. Pathetic. The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache to find the woman sitting perfectly composed in an armchair across from my bed, her legs crossed, watching me with a curious gaze. She was fully dressed. I peeked under the covers. My clothes were still on. Damn. Missed my chance. …But it was fine. There would be other opportunities. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Morning, beautiful. Where are we?” Her expression was unreadable. She ignored my question. “Do you know who I am?” “Hey, don’t be shy. Working at a club is nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve got money. I can buy out your contract. All you have to do is promise to be my little kitten.” “By the way, what’s your name?” The woman arched an eyebrow. “Sloane.” Wow. Even her name was sweet. I liked it. “Excellent. From now on, you’re my one and only.” Sloane’s lips curved into a smile that completely captivated me. She leaned back leisurely into the armchair. “As I recall, Mr. Pierce, you already have a girlfriend, don’t you?” “What? No! That’s slander! Not true!” I delivered the three denials with conviction. “Don’t you worry. I’m single now. You are absolutely not the other woman. No one’s going to call you a homewrecker.” The words were barely out of my mouth when someone started knocking on the front door. The knocking grew more and more frantic. Who the hell delivers packages this early? I got out of bed to answer it, playfully patting Sloane’s thigh as I passed. “You just wait here for me, kitten.” The moment I opened the door, my good mood evaporated. Meredith was leaning against the wall, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Are you over it yet?” “If you are, you can unblock me now.” 8 I was dumbfounded. “Wait, why are you here? Didn’t we agree that whoever came crawling back was a dog?” She pushed herself off the wall, her expression a mix of exasperation and something that looked disturbingly like affection. “Woof. Happy now?” “I know you just did all that yesterday to make me angry. I’ll let the thing with Spencer go. We’ll just forget about it. But I don’t want it to happen again.” “And I take back what I said about breaking up. You love me too much. Breaking up with you would kill you. I could never do that to you.” “Now, unblock me. Be good.” She moved to hug me. I shoved her away and ran my hands through my hair in frustration, a torrent of curses flowing through my mind. “Look, lady, you’re a narcissist. You’re not exactly short on guys. Why are you so obsessed with me?” “To you, the old Leo was just a toy you could pick up and put down whenever you wanted. Do us both a favor and just pretend you don’t know me, okay? I seriously want nothing to do with you.” “You’re exhausting.” Meredith’s expression tightened for a second, but then she relaxed, letting out a low chuckle. “Still this angry?” “I guess I really have spoiled you. I used to make you stand in the rain for half an hour to go buy a cake for Spencer, and you wouldn’t say a word. Now I just ask for an apology, and you throw a fit like this.” “Alright, stop sulking. We can—” Her words died in her throat. Her face darkened instantly. “Leo, who is she?!” I turned to see Sloane standing behind me, one hand in her pocket, her expression cool and detached. “Hey, I told you to wait in the room. Why’d you come out?” She tilted her chin toward Meredith. “You said you were single. Who’s this?” I chuckled, trying to push Sloane back into the bedroom. “Nobody. Don’t know her. Not important. You go wait for me, I’ll be right—” My arm was seized in a vise-like grip. Meredith’s face was as black as thunder. “Don’t know me?” “Leo, I casually mentioned I wanted a good luck charm from that ridiculously hard-to-reach monastery on Mount Astor, and you climbed thousands of steps to get it for me. I said I was craving a pastry from Le Renard, and you got up at four in the morning to drive to the other side of the city and beg the owner to open early for you. I even made you get on your knees and polish Spencer’s shoes, and you agreed without a second thought. You said you would die for me, that you’d do anything I asked.” “You love me that much, and now you’re standing here, telling some random woman you don’t know me?” 9 A moment ago, she was just an annoying insect I wanted to swat away. But hearing her say those things—using another man’s devotion as a weapon in an argument—disgusted me to my core. She had no right. My playful demeanor vanished. I looked at Sloane and spoke seriously. “Go back inside.” Then I turned and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door partially shut behind me. “Let’s talk.” Perhaps startled by the sudden coldness in my voice, Meredith released my arm, though her eyes were still sharp with anger. “Who is she? Why is she in your apartment? Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” “Fine. I’ll explain.” I leaned against the door, my eyes locked on hers. “Have you ever heard of transmigration? Body-snatching? Demonic possession?” I paused, giving her a moment to process before continuing. “I am not your boyfriend. I’m a soul from another world, occupying this body. The body’s original owner is no longer in this world. This place was never his home to begin with; he’s returned to where he belongs. As far as you’re concerned, he’s dead. His soul is gone. You will never find him again.” “Understand?” Meredith stared at me, blankly at first. Then a short, sharp laugh escaped her lips. “Leo, you’ll really make up any excuse to cheat on me, won’t you? Do you hear yourself? Does any of that sound remotely believable?” “No. But it’s the truth.” Once you’ve crossed universes, the concept of ‘believable’ kind of goes out the window. “If you’re going to lie, at least make it a good one! Do you think this is some kind of fantasy novel?!” Her voice rose, echoing in the quiet hallway. I rubbed my ear, my expression flat. “Don’t get hysterical. I’m just stating the facts.” “Don’t you think I’ve changed? You said it yourself: the old Leo did whatever you said. But look at me. Since last night, have I been anything but disgusted by you? Can’t you tell the difference between a lover’s pout and genuine, deep-seated revulsion?” Meredith’s face slowly went rigid. “And another thing. Leo—the original owner of this body—was never in love with you. You thought he was hopelessly devoted, that he’d move heaven and earth for you. That was never about you. He was just completing tasks.” “He felt nothing for you. What you saw as undying love was, to him, a series of cold, impersonal objectives on a checklist.” “No matter how humiliating, how degrading, as long as he could do it, none of it mattered. To him, those hardships were a gift from God.” “Because once he completed your 100 tasks, the woman he loved in his own world would wake from her coma. He could go back to her, and they could live out the rest of their lives together.” “And you? You were just a supporting character in a dream he was having. And who remembers every face they see in a dream?” Meredith was silent. She searched my face, desperately looking for any flicker of deceit, any sign that I was lying. But slowly, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t believe you.” “You’re just saying this because of that woman. What did she do to you? What kind of poison did she feed you to make you say these things?” She was still questioning me, but the conviction in her voice was gone. Every word I spoke was a hammer blow against the walls she’d built around herself. “Fine. You don’t believe me.” “Let me ask you this. You claim he loved you. Did he ever once, voluntarily, show you any affection? Did you ever hear him say the words ‘I love you’?” Meredith’s pupils contracted sharply. 10 The System told me the original Leo was one of life’s unlucky ones. His parents died when he was young. Relatives kept their distance; no one wanted to take him in. He grew up in an orphanage, where he had one friend, a girl he’d known his whole life. They scraped by together, sharing leftover food, and against all odds, they fell in love and planned a future. Then a car accident took her from him. The System said that when its colleague found Leo, he was standing on a bridge, his face devoid of all expression, about to jump. When he learned he could go to another world and bring his love back to life, he was ecstatic. He would have done anything. It wasn’t just about completing tasks; he would have traded his life for hers in a heartbeat. So for him, Meredith’s demands—things that would be soul-crushing for any normal person—were barely an inconvenience. Buying her pastries at 4 a.m.? He’d been forced to stand outside all night in the cold at the orphanage as punishment. Kneeling to polish Spencer’s shoes? He’d knelt on the floor and eaten scraps others had thrown away. Even being mocked as Meredith’s pathetic lapdog, being bullied and slandered by her friends—he endured it all with a genuine, heartfelt joy. Because every insult, every humiliation, brought him one step closer to the day his love would wake up. Meredith stood before me, stunned and speechless. “Finished reminiscing? Does any of that ring a bell?” Meredith stammered, “He was just… shy. He wasn’t good at expressing himself…” “Okay, let’s say he was shy. I’ll ask you another question. Did he ever let you touch him?” More silence. “Physical attraction, real desire, is an urge. It’s an uncontrollable need to be close, to touch, to share every little moment of your day, every meal you eat.” “Think back. Did Leo ever once initiate holding your hand? A hug? A kiss? Any kind of intimacy?” “Now, scroll through your text history. Besides responding to your demands, did he ever once reach out to you to share anything about his life?” I’d seen the chat logs. The original Leo had never even sent Meredith a “good morning” or “good night” text. Meredith’s face was ashen. She pulled out her phone, her thumb swiping frantically across the screen. The more she scrolled, the more panicked her expression became. “Impossible… I don’t believe it. You have to be lying.” “If he didn’t love me, why would he agree to be my boyfriend?!” I scoffed. “All he did was agree. He nodded his head and completed another task. Why wouldn’t he?” “You keep saying you don’t believe me, but haven’t you noticed? You’re already referring to him as ‘he,’ not as me.” “Your subconscious already accepts it. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.” “So, I hope you won’t come looking for me again. Instead of wasting your time harassing me, maybe you should use it to mourn the man who never loved you in the first place.” Meredith’s carefully constructed composure finally cracked. Her eyes lost focus, a flicker of terror in their depths. I’d said my piece. I turned, went back inside, and closed the door, shutting out her lost and bewildered gaze. 11 I leaned against the back of the door and took a deep breath. Don’t get angry. Don’t get angry. Wasting my energy on a toxic narcissist wasn’t worth it. Besides, there was a goddess in my bedroom. I slapped my cheeks a few times, plastered a brilliant smile on my face, and walked back into the room. Sloane was still sitting in the armchair, her legs crossed, her head propped on one hand. Her eyes, filled with an amused curiosity, followed me as I entered. “All done?” “Done. So done. She’s a nobody, a piece of static. Don’t even give her a second thought. You’re the one who matters to me.” “Now, let’s get back to our previous conversation. Will you be my little kitten? You’ll never have to work at The Platinum Club again. I’ll give you this much a month.” I held up ten fingers. “A hundred thousand. Is that enough?” Sloane narrowed her eyes, a soft, almost imperceptible laugh humming in her throat. What was that? Not enough? I’d never been a sugar daddy before; I had no idea what the going rate was. “Um… if that’s too low, the price is negotiable.” As long as it wasn’t completely insane, I could probably swing it. Sloane uncrossed her legs, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, bringing her closer to me. “I’d heard that the notoriously difficult heiress of the Vance family had a hopelessly devoted suitor, a man willing to die for her. A true romantic legend. But seeing you today, it seems the rumors were a bit off, wouldn’t you say?” What? Now it was my turn to be stunned. Sloane’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Mr. Pierce, a word of advice. The next time you bring a woman home, you might want to do a little research first. You never know if you’re bringing home a kitten… or a tiger that eats men for breakfast.” After dropping that cryptic bombshell, she stood, straightened the collar of her jacket, and with a polite, “Excuse me,” she walked out of my apartment with the posture of a queen. It wasn’t until the front door clicked shut that I snapped out of my daze. My gut told me there was much more to her than met the eye.

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Twenty years ago, when she was seven, Mia Thorne supposedly saved my father from a blizzard. From that day forward, she became the patron saint of our family. She was fragile, so the entire household orbited her. The richest milk, the organic chicken broth my mother simmered for hours, even the rare hugs from my father—they were all hers. And me? As the biological daughter, all I ever got was the same tired line: “Claire, be good to your sister.” I thought I would just have to endure it for the rest of my life. Until my twenty-second birthday. My brother, Cole, drove in all the way from his army base, dust still on his boots. He wasn’t here to celebrate with me. He was here to corner me in the doorway of my own apartment. His jaw was set, his eyes as hard as granite. He looked at me like I was a suspect in an interrogation room. “Mia’s kidneys are failing. End-stage. We ran the tests. Out of the whole family, you’re the only match.” He slid a folded document out of his jacket. A surgical consent form. “Claire, don’t make this hard on Mom and Dad. And don’t force my hand.” 1 My hand, wrapped around a mug of tea, went rigid. Hot water sloshed over my knuckles, raising a patch of red skin. “So?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Cole pulled a platinum credit card from his wallet and placed it on the small kitchen table, sliding it toward me. “That’s a hundred thousand dollars. I know you’re scraping by. This is enough for a down payment on a decent condo.” He paused, and his voice dropped another degree, becoming even colder. “Mom and Dad feel this is your duty as a daughter of this family. Mia’s health problems all started because she saved Dad.” I stared at the card, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. So that’s what one of my kidneys was worth. A hundred grand and a lecture on ‘duty.’ I lifted my gaze to his face, which looked like it had been carved from stone. “Cole… what if I say no?” His eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned in close, his shadow falling over me. “Claire,” he said, biting off each word. “This isn’t a discussion. It’s a command.” In his eyes, I couldn’t find a single flicker of brotherly affection. There was only the cold, unyielding authority of a commanding officer dealing with an insubordinate soldier. A tool. In that instant, my heart froze solid. I remembered when I was six. Cole took us hiking in the state park. I slipped on a patch of wet leaves and tumbled down an embankment, my leg sliced open by a broken branch. Blood was everywhere. I screamed for my brother, but he was already halfway down the trail, carrying Mia, who was dizzy from low blood sugar. He never once looked back. He sent a park ranger to find me later. By the time the ranger got to me, the mosquitoes had feasted on me for hours and the gash on my leg was hot with infection. Lying in bed with a raging fever, I overheard Cole talking to our mother outside my door. “Mom, I never should have taken them out. You know Mia isn’t strong enough for a hike.” No one, not once, asked if my leg hurt. So I learned. I learned to be quiet, to endure, to shrink myself down into the smallest possible space so I wouldn’t be a problem for anyone. I thought if I was just good enough, just understanding enough, one day they would finally see me. Today was my birthday. I’d waited all day for a call, a text, anything. Instead, I got this. In the end, I found myself on the operating table. It wasn’t because of Cole’s command, and it wasn’t for the money. It was because my mother stood on the sidewalk outside my walk-up apartment building all night long. The early autumn wind was sharp and cold. She was wearing nothing but a thin cashmere sweater, and in the space of one night, she seemed to have aged ten years. She held my hand, tears streaming down her face like a broken string of pearls. “Claire, I’m begging you. Please, do this for me. Save Mia. If she dies… your father won’t survive it.” I looked at the silver strands in her hair, and the sentence I’m your daughter, too, got caught in my throat, a hard, painful lump I couldn’t swallow. My entire life has been a lesson in yielding. This time was no different. I agreed. The day before the surgery, I checked into the hospital. Mia was in a VIP suite on the top floor, with private nurses and a constant stream of visitors. I was in a standard triple room on a lower floor, my bed shoved against a drafty window. The wind whistled through the cracks, chilling me to the bone. No one came to see me. That night, the ache in my side was too intense to sleep. I shuffled down the hall, hugging the wall, to ask the nurse for a painkiller. As I passed the VIP wing, some strange impulse made me stop outside Mia’s room. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, I could hear my mother’s gentle, soothing voice. “Don’t you worry, my sweet girl. It’s a small procedure. You’ll just take a little nap and it’ll all be over.” “Claire is young and strong,” she continued. “She’ll bounce back in no time. It won’t affect her at all.” Then I heard Mia’s voice, thick with tears. “But… don’t I owe Claire too much?” My father’s deep, authoritative voice cut in. “Nonsense. What our family owes you is something she can never repay. As our daughter, it’s her duty to pay back a small part of that debt on our behalf. It’s only right.” Cole spoke up, his tone firm. “Don’t think about anything but getting better. Afterwards, I’ll make sure she keeps her distance. I won’t let her bother you about this ever again.” Every single word was a perfectly aimed dart, sinking deep into a heart already riddled with holes. 2 So that was it. In their eyes, my sacrifice was simply what was owed, and my very existence was a potential annoyance to Mia. I leaned against the cold wall, the linoleum chilling my bare feet as I made my way back to my room. I felt the blood turn to ice in my veins. I was wheeled into the OR. The surgical lights were blinding. Through the glare, I watched the surgeon pull on his mask, his scalpel glinting. The anesthesia entered my IV. As the world dissolved into blackness, my last thought was, Maybe this is for the best. Once I’m asleep, I won’t feel a thing. When I woke, the sky outside was dark. A tearing pain ripped through my side with every breath. I couldn’t move, and my throat was so dry it felt like it might crack. The woman in the next bed, a kind-faced lady in her fifties, saw I was awake. She poured me a glass of water and helped me sit up enough to drink it. “Honey, where’s your family?” she asked, her voice full of sympathy. “Going through a major surgery like this, you shouldn’t be all alone.” She sighed softly. I managed a weak smile and said nothing. Cole didn’t show up until the evening of the third day. He was carrying a thermos, a look of impatience etched on his face. He set it down on the bedside table with a thud. “Mom sent soup.” I turned my head to face the grimy window. “Not hungry.” His brow furrowed, clearly irritated by my lack of cooperation. “Claire, don’t be childish. Mia’s surgery was a complete success. The whole family is thrilled.” He paused, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “Once you’re recovered, Mom and Dad will find a better job for you. You’ll be taken care of.” He sounded like he was making a charitable donation, or placating an unreasonable subordinate. I looked at him, and the absurdity of it all struck me. It was almost funny. Slowly, enunciating every word, I said, “Cole, did you know? I never wanted to compete with her for anything. I just… I just wanted you to look back at me, just once.” Cole froze for a second, then a flicker of derision crossed his face. “Look at you? Look at what? The bottomless well of resentment you carry around, acting like the whole world has wronged you?” “Claire, can’t you just grow up? Mia is ten times more mature than you are.” “Mature?” I repeated the word. My chest heaved, pulling at the stitches in my side. The pain was so sharp it made my vision swim. “If I had been the one to pull Dad out of that snowdrift, would you think I was… mature?” Cole’s face darkened instantly. “What are you talking about?” he snapped. “Are you trying to dredge that up again?” His voice was a low growl. “You’d really stoop to making up lies like that just for attention?” I stared at his furious expression, and the last, tiny ember of hope inside me finally went out. Of course. They never believed me. On the day I was discharged, the family’s driver came to pick me up. No family, no welcome home. I was dropped off at my small rental apartment. Before leaving, the driver handed me an envelope from Cole. Inside was the credit card for the hundred thousand dollars, and a note written in Cole’s sharp, aggressive script: Take care of yourself. Don’t cause any more trouble. So, even me coming home to recover was considered ‘trouble.’ I lay in bed. My wound ached, but my heart ached more. The doctor had told me that with only one kidney, my body would be significantly weaker than a normal person’s. I couldn’t overexert myself, couldn’t pull all-nighters, and my life expectancy would likely be affected. I was only twenty-two, and my future had already been sold at a discount. I spent two weeks recovering in my apartment. Not a single person from the family came to visit. My mother called occasionally, brief, hurried conversations. “How’s the recovery going?” she’d ask, before the topic inevitably shifted to Mia. “Mia is doing wonderfully, she has so much more energy now! She said she wants to pick out a gift for you.” “Your father hired the best nutritionist for her. Three gourmet meals a day, all sorts of supplements to build up her strength.” I would listen in silence, saying nothing. Every phone call felt like salt being poured directly into my wound. Once I could move around a little better, I went back to the family house to pick up the last of my things. The house was on the base, a two-story colonial with a neat yard. As I walked in, the sound of cheerful laughter filled the air. 3 Mia was on the sofa, dressed in a pink cashmere lounge set, her cheeks rosy with health. She was reading the newspaper aloud to my father. My mother was next to her, peeling an apple in one long, continuous spiral. Cole was kneeling in front of Mia, helping her change into a pair of plush slippers. The scene was so perfectly cozy, like a painting. And I was the intruder who had just smeared dirt all over the canvas. When they saw me, the laughter died. My mother stood up, a flicker of awkwardness in her eyes. “Claire, you’re back. Is your side feeling better?” Mia stood up too, a timid look on her face as she shrank behind Cole. “Claire…” she whispered. I ignored them and walked straight upstairs to my room—the smallest one, the one that faced north and never got any sun. A thin layer of dust covered everything. It was obvious no one had been in here since I’d left. My belongings were piled in a corner, covered by a drop cloth. I quietly began to pack my old books, photos, and my childhood diaries. Halfway through, I found a small wooden box I’d forgotten about, shoved under the bed. I opened it. Inside were the rocks and pebbles I’d collected on that hike when I was six, and a single, neatly folded piece of paper. I unfolded the letter. The paper was yellowed with age, but the handwriting was clear. It was from Mr. Henderson, our old next-door neighbor. His son had been on the search and rescue team that day. “Little Claire,” it read. “I need to tell you I’m sorry. I was on the mountain that day, and I saw it with my own eyes. You were the first one to find your dad. You were so tiny, digging at the snow with your bare hands until they were raw. But afterward, everyone started saying it was the other little girl, Mia, who saved him. I wanted to speak up for you, but your father is the General, and we’re just regular folks… I hope you don’t hold it against me. You’re a brave, good kid.” I held the letter, my whole body shaking. I hadn’t misremembered. Someone else had seen it. I stormed downstairs, letter in hand. In the living room, they were trying to coax Mia into eating some fruit. I slammed the letter down on the coffee table, my voice trembling with a rage that had been buried for twenty years. “Look at this! All of you, read it! The one who saved Dad that day was me! It was me, not her!” Everyone froze. The color drained from Mia’s face. Tears welled up in her eyes instantly, and she looked like she might faint. My father snatched the letter. He glanced at it for a single second before throwing it to the floor, his face turning a dark, furious shade of red. “This is ridiculous! Some letter from God knows where proves nothing!” he roared. “Claire, have you sunk so low? You’ll resort to anything to get attention, won’t you?” My mother started to cry. “Claire, how can you say that about Mia? She ruined her health for your father, and you want to stab her in the heart like this?” I looked at Cole. My only brother. I clung to one last, desperate shred of hope. He strode over, snatched the letter from my hand, and tore it into tiny pieces. “Enough.” He stared at me, his eyes filled with a chilling, profound disappointment. “Claire, you disgust me.”

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My blood can cheat death, but it cannot read a human heart. I once gave my immortal life to the woman I thought had saved me, only for her to destroy me. But time rewound. And in the eyes of another dying girl, I saw the locket I had lost as a child. My grand sacrifice was a lie. A stolen identity. This time, I will awaken the one I truly owe my life to. And as for the imposter? She will repay every ounce of the suffering she caused… a hundred times over. 1 As one of the Blood Kindred, I was born with an eternal curse. A life force pulses in my blood, potent enough to turn back the tide of death itself. In my last withered lifetime, I used that power to heal Seraphina de Valois, the most dazzling jewel of Parisian society. My reward was her family’s cold vow: the healer would be bound to the healed, his fortune and his miracle absorbed into the Valois legacy. The forced engagement shattered Seraphina. Her true love, a man named Julien Reed, was in the Alps at the time, searching for some mythical herb to cure her. When the news of our betrothal reached him, he fell from a glacier. They never found a body. A year later, she did. She found him perfectly preserved in a crevasse of ice. She made me slice open my wrist. On that frigid night, I could hear the frantic, unhinged rhythm of her heart. I could smell the sharp, metallic scent of obsession clinging to her like a bitter perfume. She forced me to feed my life into his frozen corpse. “If you hadn’t interfered, Julien would have brought back the divine medicine and saved me! You killed him!” she shrieked, her voice like shattering crystal. “If your blood is such a miracle, then bring him back to me!” “Seraphina, he’s been dead for a year,” I pleaded. “My blood can mend living flesh. It cannot resurrect the dead.” But she just watched me with cold, flat eyes as my life drained away, drop by drop, along with the ancient, inhuman power that flowed within it. When I opened my eyes again, time had rewound. I was standing in the de Valois mansion on the very day they first summoned me. The stale air, a cloying mix of expensive perfume and old dust, assaulted my senses. I glanced at the pale figure in the wheelchair. Beneath her meticulously applied makeup, I could smell it—that faint, sickly-sweet odor of decay. It was the signature of a life force slowly extinguishing itself. “Mademoiselle de Valois, your legs… they have withered. No power on this earth can restore what is already dead.” At my words, Seraphina’s head snapped up. A furious blush stained her delicate features. “You charlatan! Get out of my house!” The ghost of a smile touched my lips. I turned to her mother. “Madame de Valois, if my family—the von Valerius line—declares a decay irreversible, then it is final. You are still young. Perhaps you should consider conceiving a new heir.” Before the words had fully settled, Seraphina’s teacup came flying at my head. To a mortal eye, it would have been a blur. To me, it moved with the lazy grace of a floating feather. Without shifting my feet, I simply tilted my head and plucked the porcelain from the air. The rose-gold rim was steady in my hand, not a single drop of the warm tea spilled. I placed it back on the table without a sound. Madame de Valois, thoroughly shaken, rushed forward. “Monsieur von Valerius, please, forgive her. Seraphina’s condition has made her…” I waved a hand, a gesture of deep, unutterable weariness. “I understand. I don’t deign to bicker with a cripple whose life is so fleeting.” As I turned to leave the gilded cage of a mansion, I could feel Seraphina’s entire body trembling with rage. Her frantic heartbeat was a drum against my ears. Madame de Valois hurried after me, her voice a desperate whisper. “Monsieur, is there truly nothing that can be done? If you could cure Seraphina, the Valois family would give you anything you desire.” The problem wasn’t that I couldn’t. It was that I wouldn’t. The memory of my last life was a brand on my immortal soul, every breath a reminder of the terrifying depths of mortal greed. “I’m afraid I can do nothing for Mademoiselle de Valois’s legs.” Seraphina had wheeled herself to the doorway, just in time to hear me. Her sweet voice was laced with venom. “Mother, Julien is already on his way back to Paris. He’s bringing the Starflower of the High Mountains. My legs will be healed.” She glared at me. “This has nothing to do with you. I don’t need a stranger’s pity.” Madame de Valois sighed, the sound heavy and tired. “My child, the Starflower may help you recover, but it won’t be enough to let you stand again…” Seraphina remained defiant. “I told you, Julien will heal me.” I gave her one last, long look before taking my leave of her mother. As I stepped out of the mansion’s grand entrance, a horseless carriage roared to a stop before me. A woman emerged, despair carved into the lines of her face, and fell to her knees at my feet. “Monsieur von Valerius, I’m begging you… please, save my daughter.” 2 It was only then that I learned there had been another victim in the accident a year ago. Seraphina’s rival, as it turned out: Elara d’Amboise. Since the crash, Elara had been lost in an endless sleep, her life signs as faint as a candle flame in a gale. But after the hell of my past life, I would not bleed for anyone so easily again. My blood is the very essence of my being, not a commodity to be squandered. I politely declined Madame d’Amboise’s request. She didn’t press me. She simply wiped her tears and departed, a portrait of quiet grief. A week later, an invitation from the de Valois family arrived. A grand nocturnal salon was to be held. Julien had returned. Madame de Valois implored me to attend, to verify his “miracle cure.” Inside the salon, the light from the crystal chandeliers was a painful glare to my eyes. The entire space thrummed with the cacophony of life—hundreds of hearts beating in their cages of bone, warm blood rushing through veins. The smell of champagne, cigars, and raw desire mingled into a torrent that grated on my nerves. I stood like a stone island in a chattering sea of mortals. Julien stood beside Seraphina’s wheelchair like a loyal knight. Madame de Valois approached me, her brow furrowed with worry. “It’s not that I fear his medicine won’t work,” she confessed in a low voice. “I’m terrified of seeing the hope in Seraphina’s eyes die again.” Before I could respond, Julien was wheeling Seraphina toward us. “You needn’t worry, Madame,” he said, his smile radiating confidence. “I will have Seraphina walking again.” Seraphina squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with adoration. “Julien, the moment I can stand, I will marry you in the latest gown from the House of Worth.” Then, Julien turned to me, his smile sharpening into a sneer. “Unlike certain old-world aristocrats who cling to their reputations, I actually deliver on my promises.” Several of the renowned physicians who had previously treated Seraphina frowned. “Such arrogance, Monsieur Reed,” one of them scoffed. Seraphina, however, just smiled proudly. “I have faith in Julien. He is going to heal me!” A short, cold laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. It was a sound devoid of warmth, like the wind on a winter night. Julien’s jaw tightened. “Monsieur von Valerius, I’ve heard you’re the most gifted healer of your generation. Yet you do nothing but stand by and watch. It makes one wonder if you truly possess the power of your legends.” I raised my glass, the crimson liquid within catching the light like fresh blood. “In that case, I eagerly await the day Monsieur Reed has Mademoiselle de Valois on her feet again.” My placid demeanor enraged him. “I know you want to marry Seraphina, but she loves me. And I’m the only one who can cure her.” From her chair, Seraphina’s voice dripped with acid. “Damian, even if you could heal me, I would never, ever marry you.” The entire performance was beginning to bore me. Mortals wasted so much of their fleeting existence on such tedious dramas. I turned to leave, but Julien blocked my path. “Damian, I challenge you. A wager. The loser will kneel and admit defeat, and be banished from Paris forever!” I stopped. A slow smile spread across my face. This might, after all, provide a flicker of amusement in my endless night. I turned back to him, and as I smiled, my lips parted just enough to reveal the tips of my canines. “I accept your wager. But I will not be healing Seraphina de Valois. I am going to awaken Elara d’Amboise.” 3 “Ten days,” I announced, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. “We have ten days. Let’s see whether you can make Seraphina de Valois stand, or I can awaken the sleeping Elara d’Amboise.” “So, Julien Reed,” I asked, my eyes locked with his. “Do you dare?” A wave of whispers erupted through the hall. A flash of triumph lit Julien’s eyes. “I accept!” I let my smile widen. “I will not lose.” From her wheelchair, Seraphina laughed with contempt. “Elara is a living corpse. You couldn’t even fix my legs, and you think you can wake her?” My gaze drifted down to her legs, my sight feeling as though it could pierce the skin and see the slow rot taking place within. “Be careful, Seraphina. All medicines come with a price. With Monsieur Reed’s ‘miraculous’ arts, you might just find that in addition to your legs remaining useless, you’ve acquired some other… interesting afflictions.” With that, I turned and walked away. The next morning, Madame d’Amboise escorted me to the hospital. Sunlight cast dappled patterns on the floor, and I instinctively avoided the patches of light, keeping to the shadows. I walked to Elara’s bedside. She lay perfectly still, her breath so shallow it was nearly imperceptible. I reached out, my cold fingertips brushing against her cheek, feeling the last lingering trace of mortal warmth. Then, I held out my own wrist and, using a fingernail sharpened to a point, drew a fine, precise line across the skin. There was no mark of a mortal blade. The skin simply parted, and a few drops of blood, so dark they were almost black, welled up. They carried a strange fragrance, a mix of ancient dust and night-blooming flowers. This was not a simple gift; it was the sharing of my very eternity. I let the drops fall between her lips, watching them disappear against her pale mouth. Seven days, at most. My blood, my essence, would call her sleeping soul back to her veins. “Monsieur von Valerius, thank you,” Madame d’Amboise whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Madame, I am not doing this for payment. I am doing this to win,” I said, meeting her tear-filled eyes. “And rest assured, I will wake your daughter.” Before she could respond, Julien appeared, pushing Seraphina’s wheelchair. “So this was your game all along,” he sneered. “You’re just after the d’Amboise family’s money.” Madame d’Amboise’s expression turned to ice. “I have absolute faith in Monsieur von Valerius.” Seraphina was quick to her defense. “Madame d’Amboise, you can’t let him touch Elara!” I raised a hand, silencing Madame d’Amboise’s retort, my gaze settling on Seraphina’s legs. “Seraphina,” I said calmly. “Haven’t you noticed? Your legs… they’re atrophying even further.” 4 Seraphina instinctively pulled the blanket higher over her lap. “What are you talking about, Damian?” A flicker of panic crossed Julien’s face before he stepped in front of her wheelchair. “You don’t know anything, von Valerius. Shut your mouth.” I just smiled and said nothing. That night, after administering Elara’s daily dose of my blood, I received a note from a courier sent by Madame de Valois, describing the mysterious liquid Julien was using. Just then, a soft sigh came from the hospital bed. I moved to her side as silently as a wraith. “Elara? Are you awake?” Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. She blinked, her gaze focusing on my face. “Damian?” she murmured, breathing my name. I stared at her, a jolt running through me. My blood had forged a link within her; she could sense my presence. “You… know me?” Before she could answer, the door flew open and Madame d’Amboise rushed in. I retreated silently into the shadows of the room, leaving them to their reunion. For the next few days, Elara threw herself into physical therapy. By the end of the week, she was walking on her own. Soon, the tenth day of the wager arrived. The Valois mansion was filled to capacity. When Elara and I walked into the grand ballroom together, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. My very presence seemed to drop the temperature in the room, and every eye was drawn to us. The murmurs of the crowd drained the color from Julien’s face. “You… you actually did it?” I offered him a cold smile. “You’ve lost, Julien. Time to honor our agreement.” Just as he was about to buckle, a clear voice rang out from above. “Who says we’ve lost?” Seraphina de Valois. Standing at the top of the grand staircase. A triumphant grin spread across Julien’s face. “You see, von Valerius? Seraphina can stand!” Seraphina looked down at me, her face a mask of contempt. “You said I was a lost cause, Damian. But here I am.” I just shook my head. My hearing could pick up the faint, agonizing protests of sinew and bone beneath her skin. I could smell the accelerating corruption of the ‘Corpse-Flower Tincture.’ “Your legs might have been salvageable before, Seraphina. But now… now they truly are hopeless.” Fire ignited in her eyes. “Let’s see how long that arrogant look on your face lasts!” With that, she lifted her foot to take the first step down.

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I bought a merman on the black market. He was captivating. And he was dangerous. But then came the nights I’d find him watching me through the glass, his eyes burning with a predatory stillness. And after that, the dreams began—dreams so vivid and strange they felt more like memories. 1 To get back in my good graces, my underlings brought me to The Onyx Room, the most notorious private auction house in Solace City. I’d spent the entire evening slouched in a plush velvet armchair, feeling the boredom settle deep in my bones. I was idly flipping a vintage stiletto dagger I’d recently acquired, letting the blade catch the amber light, and shot a lazy, half-smiling glance at the man who’d invited me. He flinched, his leg starting to jiggle under my gaze. Just as I was about to dismiss him entirely, the auctioneer on the stage below finally reached the last lot of the night. The Onyx Room was all dark wood, hidden alcoves, and the low glow of amber lamps—a speakeasy vibe for clientele with monstrously deep pockets and questionable morals. The auctioneer, a man with a flair for the dramatic, raised a finger to his lips, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. His voice dropped to a husky whisper, pulling the room into a shared secret. “And now, for our final piece. I guarantee this is something that will drive every last one of you to madness.” He paused for effect. “It originates from the Gamma Labs project. A ‘failed’ experiment, they called it. But I tell you, it is nothing less than a masterwork of creation itself…” As he spoke, two stagehands wheeled out an enormous container draped in a thick, crimson curtain. The thing was massive, tall enough that its top cleared the high ceiling by only a few feet. Every eye in the room was fixed on it. Even I felt a flicker of interest and straightened in my chair, a cynical smile playing on my lips. A failed experiment. Just another toy for the obscenely wealthy. The underground world had been flooded with them for years—horrific chimeras born from illicit gene-splicing. Half-human, half-serpent monstrosities; children with the faces of cats; men twisted into beastly wolf forms. Every one of them a “failure.” But this was different. The red curtain fell. Under the dim, theatrical lighting, the container was revealed to be a massive, cylindrical cultivation tank, filled with a pale, glowing blue liquid. A collective gasp swept through the crowd below. They were stunned into silence by the sight, and I felt my own breath catch in my throat. Because floating serenely inside was a merman. A merman with no visible signs of crude genetic fusion. He was a creature of intense, breathtaking beauty, possessing an androgynous allure that blurred the lines of gender. But the bare, sculpted lines of his torso made it clear he was male. His frame was long and elegant, yet the defined muscles of his chest and arms rippled with a power you couldn’t ignore. His lower body was a magnificent tail, at least six feet of shimmering, gunmetal-silver scales that caught the dim light like a thousand tiny mirrors. He appeared to be sleeping, his hair—a startling shade of cobalt blue—drifting around his head like a deep-sea halo. As the water gently eddied, I could just make out the translucent, fin-like membranes behind his ears. His face was a masterpiece of sharp, delicate lines and chiseled angles. His eyelashes were stark white, like a dusting of frost, casting faint shadows on skin so pale it seemed almost inorganic. He looked like a deity who had presided over the cosmos, only to fall to earth when his celestial throne crumbled. This wasn’t a product of a creator. This was the creator himself. “I wonder what he looks like with his eyes open,” I murmured, the words escaping before I could stop them. As if on cue, he opened them. And then, in the space of a blink, I met a pair of deep blue eyes. The gaze was placid, yet it hit me with the force of being dragged into the crushing depths of the ocean. It was the feeling of tearing a perfect rose from a thorny vine with your bare hands. Captivating. And dangerous. Across the sea of bidders on the floor below, through the one-way glass of my private booth, our eyes locked. I knew he shouldn’t be able to see me. But he did. I was sure of it. His stare held no discernible emotion, yet it pierced right through me, sending a chill down my spine that was equal parts warning and… exhilaration. My lips were suddenly dry. I ran my tongue over them. I loved this feeling—the thrill of a challenge, the promise of a conquest. I raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze without flinching. When the bidding below descended into a frantic, near-violent frenzy, I raised my hand. And I ended it. I stood and walked to the glass, tracing the outline of his face on the cool surface. Leaning in, I smiled and mouthed the words, a silent declaration of ownership. You’re mine. As I turned to leave, I glanced back one last time. And I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth, which had been perfectly neutral, twist into a subtle, contemptuous smirk. 2 Merfolk. The legends painted them as enigmatic, powerful creatures of the deep. Wild, cunning, and brutally intelligent. They were said to possess eyes that could pierce the darkest abyss, a sense of smell that could track blood for miles, and voices that could weave hypnotic spells. Whispers and folklore. No one in the modern world had ever actually seen one. And now, I owned one. He might be a product of a lab, but his flawless form made that single imperfection utterly irrelevant. I had him moved to my estate and placed in the shark tank. “Tank” was a modest term. It was a massive, private aquarium built into the foundation of my villa, its main wall a sweeping curve of reinforced glass that formed one side of my subterranean lounge. It was where I liked to unwind. And occasionally, where I’d feed my sharks with people who had disappointed me. I wanted to see which was the more ferocious predator: the merman or the sharks. Based on the legends of their savagery, the outcome was anyone’s guess. But three days passed, and the bloody spectacle I’d anticipated never happened. In fact, the only violence was directed at my staff; two of the handlers who performed the daily feedings had been bitten by sharks that were suddenly, uncharacteristically aggressive. I stood before the vast glass wall for a long time, watching the blue light from the ceiling shimmer through the eerily quiet water. Not only were my sharks, usually restlessly patrolling, nowhere to be seen, but the merman was also missing. Puzzled, I pressed my face closer to the glass, trying to peer into the deeper, darker recesses of the tank. A sudden, prickling chill crept up the back of my neck. I snapped my head up. There he was. Floating directly above me in the water, near the surface, looking down at me from the other side of the glass ceiling. He was positioned like a sea god passing judgment on a mortal subject. His white eyelashes were lowered, obscuring his expression, but his presence filled me with a strange unease that made the blood hum in my veins. Still looking up, I gave him a lazy wave. I didn’t know if he could hear me, let alone understand, but I called out anyway. “Come down. I don’t like craning my neck to talk to… anyone.” He seemed to understand. With a single, powerful flick of his silver tail, he descended, slicing through the water until he was hovering directly in front of me, separated only by a few inches of glass. I stepped closer, my fingers tracing the outline of his face on the cool surface. “You are devastatingly beautiful,” I said, my voice low. This time, I knew he heard me. And I knew he understood. Because his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, a look filled with an unreadable intent. He opened his mouth and said something, but no sound reached me through the glass. I asked him a few more questions, but he just watched me with that same unnerving gaze from the auction, offering nothing more. It was a letdown. I suppose I couldn’t expect much. He was a “failure,” after all. He could have been human once, or maybe just a fish. But if he was modeled on a human, then whoever possessed that face before the experiment must have been a walking cataclysm. 3 Over the next few days, I went to see him a few times. He either stared at me, motionless, or was nowhere to be found. The novelty began to wear off. I’d expected a wild hawk that needed breaking, but he seemed to have been tamed almost instantly. It was boring. My interest waned, and I stopped visiting the lounge. Until the night of the full moon. It hung high and heavy in the sky, a perfect silver disk. I was drinking alone on my terrace when one of my men rushed in, breathless, to report that the merman had vanished. Annoyed, and with a pleasant buzz from the scotch, I made my way down the winding staircase to the aquarium lounge. The moment I stepped onto the gallery, I saw him. He was there, hovering on the other side of the glass, watching me. A flare of anger cut through the alcohol haze. “Have I not been feeding the sharks enough lately? Are you all so bored you have to lie to my face?” I snapped, my voice echoing in the vast, quiet space. I jabbed a finger toward the merman. “And you. What are you looking at? Are you some kind of mute fish?” Fueled by liquor and irritation, I stalked toward the glass. I misjudged the small step down from the gallery to the main floor, my ankle turned, and I pitched forward. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. But it never came. After a long moment, I hesitantly opened them. A cold dread, sharp and sobering, washed over me, chasing away the last vestiges of my drunken stupor. I was floating. In the water. On the other side of the seamless, impenetrable glass wall was the very lounge I had just been standing in. And then, a pale, cold hand snaked around my waist from behind, locking me in an unbreakable grip. 4 Every nerve in my body went rigid. The primal, exhilarating fear of being trapped in a predator’s den flooded my senses. I’d been drinking in the comfort of my own home, dressed only in a silk nightgown with a light robe thrown over it. The thin fabric was now soaked, clinging to my skin. The robe had a low-cut back, and I could feel the distinct, icy touch of his skin against mine—a coldness that wasn’t human. I didn’t have time to wonder how I was able to breathe underwater, how I wasn’t drowning. The owner of the hand shifted, his head moving to rest beside my shoulder. I felt his breath, damp and cool, against the shell of my ear, the sensation impossibly clear through the water. It was a feeling so alien, so dangerous, it sent a tremor of pure adrenaline through me. I was terrified. I was thrilled. I didn’t dare turn around. This was a merman, a creature of legend known for its deadly siren song. Even as a lab creation, he was an unknown, and I had to treat him with the respect a predator deserved. I fought to control the trembling that threatened to take over my body, my eyes darting around, searching for a reflection. In the dim, blue light, the curved glass wall offered a distorted mirror. The image was surreal. I was floating like a marionette with its strings cut, my dark hair fanning out around me like seaweed, my white silk gown billowing softly against the current. Behind me, the merman was an imposing shadow, his form, including his tail, easily nine feet long. He dwarfed me, caging me completely. One of his arms was clamped around my waist. His cobalt hair mingled with mine, a swirl of blue and black that looked almost tender. In the reflection, his expression was one of lazy, sated satisfaction, his silver tail swaying gently with each breath. He lowered his head, nosing at the side of my neck. I felt the sharp points of his teeth graze the artery there, sending a wave of ice through my veins. What is he doing? Is he going to eat me? A thousand scenarios flashed through my mind, none of them fitting the slow, deliberate way he was acting. His other hand, fingers tipped with sharp nails connected by translucent webbing, had already slipped under my robe, tracing patterns over the bare skin of my back. My senses screamed at me to be on guard. I watched his reflection, ready to strike at the first sign of aggression. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine in the warped glass. My heart hammered against my ribs. He knows I’m watching. His expression didn’t change, but I felt a subtle shift in the water around me, an invisible pressure building. My instincts screamed, the hair on my arms standing on end. “What do you want?” I tried to say, the words catching in my throat. I never got them out. I couldn’t even process why I could speak underwater. His free hand shot up, gripping my chin and tilting my head back, exposing the fragile line of my throat to his gaze. And then he kissed me. It was sudden, overwhelming. I raised my hands to fight him off, to push him away, but in that same instant, the world fell out from under me. The strange buoyancy, the ability to breathe—it all vanished. The crushing weight of the water slammed into me. The desperate, burning need for air filled my lungs. Panic set in. My thoughts fractured. Is this considered interspecies harassment? Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, I thought I heard it—the legendary song of the mermen. It was a deep, resonant hum, an ancient summons from the abyss. The language was alien, but I felt a flicker of recognition, a certainty in my gut. He was saying my name. Ava. The world was going dark. The pressure was unbearable. Just as my consciousness began to fade, I heard the faint, muffled shouts of my men from the other side of the glass. And then, everything went black. 5 When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor of the lounge gallery, right where I had tripped. Several of my men were gathered around me, their faces etched with concern. I pushed them away and scrambled to my feet, my eyes fixed on the empty aquarium. “When you came in,” I demanded, my voice raw, “where was I?” “Right… right here on the floor, Ms. Thorne,” one of them stammered, confused. “Did you see the merman?” I asked, my gaze sweeping the tank again. They exchanged uneasy glances. “No, ma’am.” I stared into the deceptively calm water for a long moment, my thumb brushing against my swollen lips. Without another word, I turned and strode out. I summoned a gene-splicing expert, a jumpy old man who paled when he saw the blood-stained dagger I was cleaning. He nervously launched into a long-winded explanation of the merman’s genetic makeup. “Spare me the lecture,” I cut in, impatient. “Just tell me how he pulled me into the tank. What kind of ability is that?” “I… I have no idea, Ms. Thorne,” the old man stammered, wringing his hands. “Are you certain… perhaps you’d had a bit too much to drink and it was… a dream?” I gave him a look that made him shrink. My men “politely” escorted him out. I sat on the sofa, stewing in my own thoughts, then rose to my feet. I summoned every person on the estate’s staff. “Everyone,” I announced, my voice dangerously calm. “We’re going fishing.” I stood before the glass wall and watched as a team of divers swept back and forth through the massive tank. Half an hour later, they’d found nothing but a few shark teeth, shed naturally during the season change. Not a single trace of him. A cold, humorless smile spread across my face. He was in there. I knew he was. He was deliberately letting them miss him. So, the silver-tailed merman wanted to play games. I’d tried to tame him, and now he was trying to tame me. If it weren’t for the fact that I was on dry land and he was in his element, I would have shown him a thing or two about the cruelty of humans. I ordered the food supply to the tank cut off. I had underwater cameras installed. And I forbade anyone from going near that part of the estate. For days, I watched the monitors. Nothing. The merman remained hidden. Just as I was about to lose interest again, he appeared. He materialized in the center of the main camera’s view, staring directly into the lens. It felt as if he could see me sitting on the other side. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was wild, aggressive, and charged with a wickedness that belonged to some forgotten, malevolent god. My breath hitched. And then I had to admit it. He was, without a doubt, provoking me. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to treat me, Ava Thorne, with such blatant disrespect in my own city. I immediately ordered the divers back in the water to capture him. But by the time they reached the tank, he was gone again. Staring at the empty, blue-lit water on the screen, I laughed softly. “Alright then,” I whispered to the empty room. “Let’s see who tames who.” 6 That night, for the first time in years, my sleep was not a dreamless void. It was filled with a strange, hauntingly vivid dream. In this dream, I was a woman of another time, a formidable privateer captain sailing the high seas. My mission was to chart a new trade route, but a violent storm had thrown my ship wildly off course somewhere in the Atlantic, near the Strait of Gibraltar. After the storm broke, the seas calmed. “Captain,” my first mate said, his voice hesitant as he approached me on deck. “We’ve… pulled something from the water. You should come see it.” His reluctance piqued my curiosity. I followed him below deck, where the crew, who had been huddled together, quickly parted to reveal their find. I stopped short, stunned. It was him. The merman from my tank. But this version of him was in a wretched state, his body covered in deep, gruesome wounds. The dream-version of me, however, was unfazed. She seemed to possess a worldly knowledge of such creatures. She strode forward and crouched beside the barely conscious merman, tilting his chin up with her fingers. She completely ignored the venomous glare he shot her, studying his face with a clinical interest before letting out an appreciative, low whistle. “A foreign merman, is it? Handsome devil. Just my type.” …I had to admit, despite the public setting, that sounded exactly like something I would say and do. This merman, unlike the one in my tank, seemed to have a strategic mind. He knew he was injured, weak, and powerless. So, he simply lay there, limp and unresponsive, allowing himself to be handled. My dream-self knew precisely how to deal with him. She ordered a set of shackles brought forth, forged from what my first mate called “cold iron and silver.” Instead of putting the merman back in the water, she had him chained by her bedside in her cabin. I had to give her credit. On land, it was her territory. How could she fail to break a beast on her own terms? And she was certainly relentless. The dream flashed forward. I saw myself sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a piece of specially prepared fish, trying to coax him. “Hungry? Tell me your name, and you can have it. I know your kind can speak.” The merman lay on the floor, his eyes like chips of ice, radiating a cold, murderous fury. I paid him no mind, even daring to run my hand over his bare torso, stroking the smooth skin as I mused aloud. “Fine, don’t talk. I’ll just name you myself. My name is Ava. You can share it. How about… Ava’s Isle? No, just Isle.” I paused, considering my own brilliance. “A woman of letters and poetry, that’s me. See how artistic that sounds?” The merman, shackled by his hands and tail, could only glare at me, the rage in his eyes so potent it was a physical force. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole. Having satisfied my curiosity for the moment, I offered him some mock comfort. “Don’t struggle. Being caught by me is the best thing that could have happened to you. In your condition, if I threw you back in the sea, you’d be nothing but shark bait.” I paused, a slow, pleased smile spreading across my face. “Now that I think about it, I’m your savior. And since you’re refusing to speak, you can’t thank me with words. You’ll just have to repay me with your body.” I had no idea if the merman understood my words, but I was certainly enjoying myself. Gazing at his impossibly beautiful face, a familiar itch started under my skin. I leaned down, cupped his jaw, and pressed a firm kiss to his thin lips, lips that I knew hid sharp teeth. “Hiss—” He bit me. “So shy,” I murmured, licking the drop of blood from my lip. I looked at his defiant, sneering face and was about to go in for another, more forceful kiss. But just as I reached for him, the morning light flooded my vision. The dream was over. 7 “Son of a—” I woke up snarling, furious at the interruption. But the words died on my lips as my eyes adjusted to my surroundings. I froze, not daring to move a muscle. Because I was in the exact same position as in my dream: sprawled on top of the merman. His stunning face was inches from mine, so close I could feel his cool breath ghosting across my skin. But this wasn’t my dream. I was in the water, in his domain, held captive in his arms. Discretion is the better part of valor. I looked from his teasing, observant gaze down to my own empty hands, and offered a weak, ingratiating smile. “Long time no see.” He raised a single, perfect eyebrow. The arm around my waist tightened, pulling me even closer. The sudden movement made me lose my balance in the water, and I instinctively threw my arms around his neck to steady myself. A low, throaty chuckle vibrated through his chest and echoed in the silent water. I snapped my head up to meet his eyes, saw the amused curve of his lips, and understood instantly what he was doing. He was playing with me. My fear, my small, desperate movements—it was all a game to him. In that moment, I forgot I couldn’t swim. I forgot I was at his mercy. I, Ava Thorne, always repay my debts. My hand, already around his neck, slid up into his cobalt hair, my fingers finding the translucent, webbed fin behind his ear. “You ruined a perfectly good nightgown,” I said, my voice dripping with false fairness. “A little touch for a touch seems only fair, don’t you think?” I gently pinched the delicate membrane, a sly smile on my face. “Nice texture,” I commented honestly. Seeing no aggressive reaction from him, no baring of teeth, that reckless, self-destructive part of me decided to push my luck. My hand slid from his fin to his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before brushing over his lips. He caught the tip of my finger between his teeth, a gentle pressure, not a bite. Under his smoldering, predatory gaze, I laughed softly. “Why so gentle? Haven’t you eaten? Or is it possible the great merman knows how to be tender with a lady?” As I spoke, my other hand began its own exploration, gliding over the hard, defined planes of his chest. But this time, I had pushed too far. I had grossly overestimated my ability to operate in his world. It was only later that I would understand the monumental, almost fatal, mistake I had made. The merman was in his mating season, and my foolish provocations had nearly gotten me killed. Or worse. Lost in the intoxicating feel of his skin, I failed to notice the change in his eyes, the deep blue darkening to a stormy, abyssal black. By the time I sensed the shift in the atmosphere, it was too late. His silver tail, which had been swaying lazily, shot out like a whip, coiling tightly around my waist. “What are you doing?” “Hey, where are you touching?” “Whoa, easy there, handsome! Let’s talk about this! Don’t rip the silk!” “Isle! Okay, okay, I won’t touch you! I’m sorry!” “Damn it, I said I’m sorry!” “…”

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For eight years, I was the perfect wife to a man who claimed he never wanted children. Then I found out he had a six-year-old son, born on our anniversary, and his entire family was in on the lie. They thought I would crumble. They thought I would cry. They forgot that my name is on the door of the most ruthless divorce law firm in the state. And I’m about to take on my most personal case yet. 1 On our eighth wedding anniversary, Ethan’s text arrived like a predictable weather forecast: Stuck at the office. Raincheck? For a moment, disappointment flickered. Then, with a familiar, practiced motion, I cancelled the reservation at Per Se. He was always busy. We hadn’t properly celebrated an anniversary in years. It was almost a relief when my paralegal knocked on the doorframe. “Ava, that new client is here. The one who insisted on you.” I settled back behind my desk. The woman who walked in had a smirk playing on her lips before she even sat down. “Our son is six now,” she began, without any preamble. “And everyone knows that children born outside of a marriage still have inheritance rights. So, you tell me, what’s a wife who can’t even produce a child still clinging to a dead marriage for?” She slid a file across the polished surface of my desk. “Honestly, we had a ceremony years ago, abroad. If his wife wasn’t such a ball-busting lawyer, we’d have a marriage license by now.” I opened the folder. The name on the intake form was Ethan Hayes. A jolt went through me, but I dismissed it. A coincidence. A common name. Because everyone knew my Ethan was child-free by choice. He didn’t just dislike kids; he claimed to loathe the very idea of them. But then she pushed a photo from her purse and laid it on the desk. My breath caught. It was like looking at a childhood picture of Ethan. The same unruly brown hair, the same shape of the eyes. Before I could process it, she produced another photo. This one made the world tilt, then shatter. It was Ethan, my Ethan, his head bent with a look of intense, gentle focus, carefully pulling a tiny sock onto a small foot. So, he didn’t hate children. He just hated the idea of having children with me. The realization hit me with such force that a wave of nausea washed over me, and I had to swallow down a gag. The woman across from me simply arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, Ava,” she said, my name a poison dart from her tongue. “Are you going to take the case?” … I stared at her, my hands trembling under the desk. My throat felt like it had been clamped in a vise. I couldn’t speak. On my phone, a text from Ethan an hour ago still glowed: Got a surprise for you for the anniversary, babe. Later. A bitter laugh tried to crawl up my throat. Some surprise. This was the kind of gift you only wanted to receive once in a lifetime. The woman, Sophia, let out a soft, mocking laugh and stood up, placing her phone face-up on my desk. She looked down at me, savoring the pale shock on my face. “Did you know,” she said, her voice a confidential purr, “that ever since my son was born, Ethan has never once spent an anniversary with his wife?” She leaned in closer. “Because my little boy was born on your wedding day. Of course, he wants to be with us, to celebrate his son’s birthday.” “You tell me, Ava,” she whispered, “a woman who stays in a marriage like that… does she have some kind of humiliation fetish?” She laughed outright at that, a bright, cruel sound. My fingers dug into the edge of my mahogany desk, the polished wood biting into my skin. I was trying to stop the shaking, but my nails scraped against the wood until I felt a sharp sting. A lawyer’s first rule is to maintain a poker face. Never let them see your weakness. But my face had drained of all color. I was broken. So that was it. That was why he was always “working late” today. I pushed the feeling down, crushed it into a tight, manageable ball in my chest until I could force words out. “Is it possible,” I heard myself say, my voice thin and reedy, “that he’s never actually asked his wife for a divorce?” Sophia feigned a gasp. “Oh, of course not. He wouldn’t want to hurt her poor, fragile feelings.” She paused, her eyes glittering. “But you’d think a woman would take a hint, wouldn’t you? I mean, from what I hear, they haven’t had… you know… a real marriage in years.” Her voice dropped again, laced with venomous pity. “He told me that after all this time, the thought of her body just… bores him to tears. He said he couldn’t imagine being saddled with a boring woman who would only produce a boring child. That would be the end of his life, he said.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s why he’s always so… energetic with me. Making up for lost time.” A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. My vision had gone numb, fixed on the photo on her phone. I burned the image into my memory, a self-inflicted wound I would revisit again and again. Ethan and I were the cliché. Childhood sweethearts. We’d grown up together, our hands always finding each other. He proposed a year after we started dating, desperate to lock it down. At first, he said he didn’t want kids because he was afraid they would steal my love from him. The one time I pushed it, he got so angry he slept in the guest room. “Now you know what it feels like to not have me in your bed because of a kid!” he’d yelled through the door. I’d laughed then, thinking it was just him being childish. I respected his choice. The box of condoms in our nightstand was always replenished before it was empty, just in case. Not that we’d used one in years. Eight years of marriage. I thought we’d dodged the seven-year itch. Even as he got busier with his company, he was never impatient with me. He’d just ask for my understanding, quoting some tired line about how a man’s thirties are his new sixties. I believed him. But the reality was a six-year-old boy. I didn’t even know when it started. When he had started living this entirely separate life. Just then, Sophia’s phone screen lit up with a notification. The profile picture was the same one I had saved in my contacts. The same man who, just this morning, told me he was swamped with work. The message preview read: Hey baby, on my way up. A polar vortex of ice swept through my veins. Sophia picked up her phone, her expression a mask of pure scorn. “It seems the great Ava Harrison isn’t so great after all.” She slipped the phone into her designer bag. “My husband is here to pick me up. We’ll talk later.”

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1 The night Gavin’s parents were taken, he was walking out the door—not to save them, but to go camping with her. I didn’t stop him. I just called 911. In my last life, I begged him to stay. He saved his parents, but Lily was killed by a wild animal on her trip. After that, he never spoke to me again. On the day I was due to give birth, he drove me into the wilderness and left me there. “If it weren’t for you,” he said coldly, “Lily would still be alive.” He watched as beasts tore me apart. I woke up screaming, soaked in cold sweat, my body aching with phantom pain. Trembling, I checked my phone. The date confirmed it: I was back. Reborn on the day his parents were kidnapped. In a few moments, the phone would ring. The kidnappers would demand five million dollars in cash, to be delivered in thirty minutes. Any delay, and they’d kill them. Gavin and I were a story written by our parents. Childhood friends, a match made by our families before we even knew what it meant. Whether it was for the sake of our family empires or for the sake of my own foolish heart, I was always meant to be his wife. I knew about his ex, Lily. Their relationship was a passionate flame his parents had worked hard to extinguish. Before our wedding, I’d looked him in the eyes and asked him if this was what he truly wanted. If he was marrying me because he loved me. He said yes. To both. So I walked down the aisle with a heart full of hope. After the wedding, he was a ghost in our home—distant, cold, his texts and calls with her a constant, secret hum in the background. I chose to be blind and deaf to it all, swallowing my pain in silence. I loved him. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, of watching my marriage crumble. A choice that cost me my life, and the life of my unborn child. But this time would be different. This time, I wouldn’t make the same mistake. I watched him jog down the stairs, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I slowly pushed myself up from the sofa. Our eyes met, and his gaze was like ice. “I’m not coming home tonight,” he said, the words clipped and final. I didn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on the landline phone on the end table. Right on cue, it began to ring. I snatched it up and hit the speakerphone button. A distorted voice crackled through the line. “We have Richard and Helen Thorne. Five million in cash. Thirty minutes. Westwood Plaza. You call the cops, they’re dead.” Gavin heard every word. He merely frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his handsome features, before letting out a short, derisive laugh. “Really, Elara? Is this fun for you?” he sneered. “Getting my parents to play along with this pathetic little drama?” I looked at his face, the same face that had watched me die, and the love I’d nurtured for over a decade turned to ash. “You heard the call, Gavin. What you do next is your decision. I’m staying out of it,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “If you want to believe it’s a performance, fine. But I’m telling you, this isn’t a game.” Perhaps the sheer lack of emotion in my voice gave him pause. He hesitated for a heartbeat. But only a heartbeat. Then he turned and strode out the door without another word. Last time, he’d reacted the same way, convinced it was a ploy to keep him home. But I knew it was real, and I had thrown myself in his path, screaming and crying until he’d finally relented. He’d joined the search, and his parents were saved. But by the time he returned, it was with the news of Lily’s death. And all the blame landed squarely on my shoulders. The moment the front door clicked shut, I dialed 911. Five million in cash wasn’t something I could produce in half an hour. Besides, there was no guarantee they’d release his parents even if I paid. This was a job for professionals. The dispatcher said a car was on its way from the local precinct. But before they arrived, my cell phone rang. It was an old friend of Gavin’s from the police academy. “Elara? It’s Mark. You and Gavin having a fight?” I frowned. “What’s this about, Mark?” “Look, I just got the dispatch. We’re buddies and all, but filing a false report is a big deal. I get you’re fighting with Gavin, but you can’t pull stunts like this. He and Lily are just friends. You keep this up, you’re just making him a laughingstock.” It took me a second to process what he was saying. “What are you talking about? Did Gavin tell you I filed a false report?” Silence on the other end. I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Mark, I’m giving you one chance. Get your ass over here and do your job, or my next call is to Internal Affairs to report an officer obstructing a kidnapping investigation.” He scoffed. “Don’t treat everyone like they’re Gavin, Elara, ready to jump at your command. I’m not your family’s private security.” His voice dripped with contempt. “You’re not worth a single strand of Lily’s hair.” I hung up. Then I dialed 911 again, reported the kidnapping a second time, and formally filed a complaint against Officer Mark for dereliction of duty. A different pair of officers arrived fifteen minutes later. They were professional, their faces grim as I explained the situation and played the recording of the first call. They immediately ran a trace on the number, but it came back as a burner, already disconnected. All we could do was wait for the kidnappers to call again. While the police set up, I was on the phone with my financial advisor. “How much liquid cash can I access right now?” “Two-point-three million? Get it ready. All of it.” Next, I called Gavin’s uncle, David. The moment I mentioned the kidnapping, he gasped. “Who would do such a thing? Is Gavin there?” “He’s gone camping with Lily,” I said flatly. “Uncle David, they’re demanding five million. I can’t cover it all myself. Can you help me? I’ll pay you back within a week.” “Don’t be ridiculous, child, this is for my brother! We’re family. How much are you short?” “Two-point-seven million.” “Don’t worry. I’ll get it.” The thirty minutes evaporated in a haze of adrenaline and fear. The phone rang again. I answered, a tech expert beside me trying desperately to get a location trace. He quickly shook his head. No luck. My stomach plummeted. The voice on the other end was sharp, impatient. “Time’s up. Where’s the money?” “I don’t have it all yet,” I pleaded. “Please, just give me a little more time. My husband isn’t here, I don’t have access to that much cash on my own.” “I told you what would happen if the money wasn’t there!” “Please, don’t hurt them! You want money, right? Killing them won’t get you paid. It’s a lose-lose. Give me another half hour. I swear I’ll have the money.” As soon as I finished speaking, a muffled, gut-wrenching scream echoed through the phone—my mother-in-law. The kidnapper’s voice returned, laced with chilling amusement. “Half an hour. For every minute you’re late, I take a finger. You want to stall? Be my guest.” The line went dead. Just then, a pale-faced Officer Mark appeared in the doorway. He’d clearly overheard the call. “Gavin called me…” he stammered, avoiding my eyes. “He said… he said his parents were just helping you with an act to keep him home…” I was too drained to even respond. One of the other officers spoke up. “Call him back. Now. Tell him what you just heard.” Mark nodded, fumbling for his phone. He dialed, but after a moment, shook his head. “Busy.” I thought of my mother-in-law, Helen. She was so delicate; a paper cut was a major incident. I couldn’t imagine the agony she was in. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I tried calling David again. His line was also busy. A minute later, he called me back. But before I could ask about the money, he sighed heavily. “Elara, child, it’s not right of you to play with an old man’s heart like this. I know my brother and his wife spoil you, but this is too much. I just spoke to Gavin. Thank God he told me the truth before I had a heart attack.” The world tilted on its axis. My blood ran cold. “Gavin told you it was an act?” I asked, my voice hollow. “Uncle, I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but can you reach my in-laws right now? Can you? Because the police are standing right here in my living room.” He just sighed again. “Gavin has someone else in his heart. Child, maybe it’s time to let him go. Just divorce him. It would be a release for you both.” He hung up. At the same time, Mark finally got through to Gavin. “Gavin, man, you need to get back here,” Mark said urgently. “I think… I think your parents might really have been kidnapped.” The voice that answered wasn’t Gavin’s. It was the syrupy-sweet voice of Lily. “Oh, Mark! You’re playing along with Elara’s little game too? How sweet. Gavin’s just grilling some steaks, let me get him for you.” We heard her muffled voice relaying the message. Gavin never even took the phone. His reply was distant but clear. “Just hang up. That psycho will do anything for attention.” The call ended. Mark looked at me, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. I let out a bitter, shaky laugh. “I have no idea what to do,” I admitted to the officers, my gaze empty. “But they want the money at Westwood Plaza. It’s not the full amount, but I have to go. If I act as bait… does that increase your chances of catching them?” A female officer stepped forward. “Ma’am, let me go in your place.” I managed a weak smile. “What if they know what I look like? Your presence would blow the whole operation. I’ll be the one to deliver it. You can all provide cover from the outside.” With no other leads, they agreed to my plan. When the kidnapper called again, I lied, telling them I had the full amount. “Just tell me where to bring it. We can do the exchange. My money for my in-laws.” The man on the other end let out a cold laugh. “Sure,” he said, his tone making the hairs on my arm stand up. A wave of dread washed over me. “Wait,” I said quickly before he could hang up. “I want to hear their voices. I need to know they’re okay.” “Why the rush, Mrs. Thorne? You’ll be seeing them very soon.” He disconnected. My financial advisor delivered the cash. I dragged the heavy suitcase to the designated spot in the plaza. My phone rang again. A new location. “Go to the underground parking garage. They’re waiting for you there.” I didn’t care about the money anymore; I knew the police had it covered. I just ran. I sprinted toward the parking garage, my heart hammering against my ribs. I found my mother-in-law’s sedan. The driver’s side door was hanging open like a broken jaw. Their throats had been cut. Blood, so much blood, was still pooling on the leather seats, spilling onto the concrete floor. A choked sob escaped my lips as I stumbled forward, my legs threatening to give out. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat, and dialed 911. “Westwood Plaza… underground parking… two people… their throats…” I grabbed their hands. They were so cold. “Mom, Dad, hold on. Please, just hold on. The ambulance is coming.” My voice was a frantic whisper. “I’m calling Gavin. I’ll get him here right now.” They both looked at me, their eyes fading, and weakly shook their heads. “Elara…” Helen rasped, a bloody bubble forming on her lips. “After we’re gone… divorce him. Our shares… the house… the funds… it’s all yours… I’m so sorry…” “No,” I choked out, tears blurring my vision. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s my fault. I didn’t get the money fast enough…” “It’s not… your fault…” Richard whispered, his breath shallow. “They never… intended to let us live.” I kept dialing Gavin’s number, over and over. It rang and rang, unanswered. I sent him a text. Gavin, Mom and Dad are hurt. Badly. Get back here. Now. The message sat there, unread. Stone-cold silence. I kept calling. Kept texting. I didn’t stop until I watched the last spark of life leave their eyes. The paramedics arrived, but it was too late. There was nothing to save. I tried to stand, but the world spun violently and went black. I grabbed the car door to steady myself, and a firm hand took my arm. It was one of the officers. “Mrs. Thorne,” she said, her voice gentle but strained. “They didn’t take the money. We had a team move in on the pickup man, but he fell from a height during the pursuit. He’s in critical condition, unconscious.” She paused, her grip tightening slightly. “I am so, so sorry for your loss.” We spent the rest of the night at the station. Everyone was on edge. After I gave my statement, the forensics team began their work. They knew there was more than one kidnapper, and with only one in custody—and in a coma at that—the pressure was immense. This was a brutal, high-profile case, and they were determined to bring the killers to justice. As the first light of dawn broke, I finally left the station and called the funeral home.

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