1 I was a Special Ops Commander’s secret girlfriend for seven years. My mother, worried, had urged me to move on—this was her 99th try. She mentioned a former classmate asking about me, suggesting it was time to consider someone else. Gideon and I were to attend a military reunion the next day. I promised her I’d give him one last chance: if he still wouldn’t acknowledge us, I’d leave. At the reunion, a game called Blind Fate had single men blindly choose a woman’s hand from behind a curtain. When it was Gideon’s turn, I offered my left hand—the one with a jagged scar from taking a bullet for him years ago. He’d once vowed he’d always recognize my touch. But when the curtain lifted, he was holding Audrey’s hand—the academy’s former crush. The room cheered, calling it fate. Audrey blushed; Gideon smirked and didn’t pull away. I just looked at my scar. His promise lasted far less than a lifetime. … The room was heavy with single men and short on single women. After the game ended, a few couples were jokingly paired off, leaving a handful of us sitting alone. I was one of them. Jason, our old class monitor, finally noticed me sitting quietly by the wall. He raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “Sienna, you’re really still on the market? Hard to believe.” I ignored the sharp, warning look Gideon shot my way. I just smiled and shook my head. “I’m not single.” The loud chatter in the room died for a split second. Gideon’s hand froze halfway to his glass. For a fleeting moment, his eyes went completely blank. Right on cue, my phone buzzed against the table. I did not even need to look at the screen to know who it was. Over the last seven years, the only time he ever texted me with that kind of desperate urgency was when he was terrified I might speak out of turn. I kept my head up. I did not touch the phone. “Oh damn, since when?” Blake, our old sports captain, leaned in with a grin. “Who’s the lucky guy? You just played a singles game while secretly taken. You’re sneaky, Sienna.” I met Blake’s gossipy stare. “He’s a great guy. Steady. He treats me really well.” “How’d you guys meet?” Blake pushed, clearly invested. “You never post him on social media. You haven’t breathed a word about him.” Before I could answer, a soft cough echoed from across the table. Gideon picked up his whiskey glass, his tone dripping with casual annoyance. “Blake, are you running a background check? If she doesn’t want to talk about it, drop it.” Blake rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Alright, alright, my bad. Let’s drink.” Gideon threw his head back and drained his glass in one fluid motion. I picked up my teacup and took a slow sip. The tea had gone completely cold, making the bitter taste cling to the back of my throat. The spotlight quickly shifted off me and landed squarely on Gideon. Blake’s booming voice carried over the music. “Speaking of relationship statuses, Gideon is the one we should be interrogating. What’s the deal with our most eligible bachelor?” “Exactly!” someone chimed in. “Back at the academy, the line of girls chasing you stretched from the dorms to the main gates. How are you still flying solo?” Gideon leaned back in his chair. That familiar, careless smile rested on his lips. He stayed silent. Blake dragged out his words, his eyes darting back and forth between Gideon and Audrey. “Unless there’s someone who’s always owned your heart, making everyone else look invisible?” Audrey dropped her gaze, the tips of her ears burning a bright crimson. The room exploded into laughter and catcalls. “Holy shit, Blake, just say her name already!” “Like it’s a secret? We all remember how it was back then.” “Man, that blindfold game tonight really sealed the deal.” The cheering grew louder, crashing over the table in waves. Audrey’s face flushed deeper. She playfully shoved the guy sitting next to her, murmuring for them to stop talking nonsense. Gideon neither confirmed nor denied it. The smile on his lips simply deepened. After seven years in the shadows, I knew how to read every micro-expression on his face. I knew exactly what that smile meant. It meant he didn’t hate the rumors. It meant he welcomed their teasing. It meant Audrey’s blushing ears fed his ego perfectly. The coldness from my teacup seeped through my skin, traveling straight up my arm and settling in my chest until my fingertips went entirely numb. “Come on, Gideon, say something!” someone urged. Gideon finally spoke, his voice wrapped in a lazy drawl. “What do you want me to say?” “Tell us if it’s true!” 2 He let out a low chuckle and placed his empty glass on the table. “What answer are you guys fishing for?” That vague response sparked more wild imaginations than a straight confession ever could. The private room turned into a chaotic celebration. Audrey pressed her lips together to hide a smile, her eyes sparkling like they caught the light. I used to have that same light in my eyes. But I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started to fade. It just dimmed, day by day, until I ended up here. Standing in the middle of a crowded room like an absolute outsider, listening to old friends cheer for the man I loved and the woman he actually wanted. “Alright, alright, let’s calm down,” Jason intervened with perfect timing. “Stop putting the poor girl on the spot. Everyone, raise your glasses!” The clinking of glass rang out around the table. I lifted my cold tea along with them. Audrey choked a little on her cocktail, coughing until her face flushed. Gideon’s head snapped toward her immediately. Without missing a beat, he took her drink away, replaced it with a glass of warm honey water, and pulled a napkin from the dispenser to hand to her. I stared down at the soggy tea leaves resting at the bottom of my cup. This group got together once a year. Every year it was the same routine. The seating arrangements shifted, the gossip evolved, but one thing remained utterly unchanged for seven years. Gideon never once put food on my plate, poured my water, or even called me by my full first name in front of them. He always said he needed to maintain boundaries. He claimed the military rumor mill was vicious, that dating a fellow officer could complicate his promotion, that people would talk, that there were endless rules to navigate. I believed him. I waited. I waited for seven long years. I waited until I was completely used to sitting three chairs away from him. I got used to him walking past me without breaking his stride. I perfected the role of the polite, distant former classmate. It wasn’t until tonight, when Audrey finally returned from her overseas peacekeeping tour and walked into this room, that the truth hit me. The woman he desperately wanted to show off to the world was never me. I unlocked my phone. The screen lit up with the two glaring words he had just sent me: [Drop it.] I stared at those words until my eyes burned. My fingers unconsciously traced the scar on my wrist. It hadn’t hurt in seven years. But tonight, for some inexplicable reason, it itched terribly. It felt like something was clawing its way out from deep inside my bones, only to rot the second it hit the air. “Hey, speaking of which,” Sarah, our old social secretary, chimed in. “Audrey just got back stateside. We need to find her a man, fast.” “Her parents made it clear. If she doesn’t settle down soon, they’re sending her back overseas for good.” “We can’t let that happen!” Blake shouted. “We’ve got a room full of elite officers. No way we let them ship you out.” Audrey smiled shyly, keeping quiet while the back of her neck turned pink. “Well, the solution is sitting right here.” Blake shot a loaded look at Gideon. The table erupted all over again. “Hell yeah, Gideon, time to step up!” “Don’t make the lady wait any longer, man.” “Match made in heaven!” People nudged Audrey, practically pushing her into Gideon’s space. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t pull away either. Gideon just sat there, wearing that unreadable smirk. He didn’t say a word. But his silence was all the answer anyone needed. A sudden thought crossed my mind. I opened the chat with my mother and finally gave her the answer she had been begging for. [Okay. I’m fine with the wedding date. I’ve already filed my marriage paperwork with base admin.] The second I put my phone facedown, Harper leaned across the table toward me. “Wedding date? Paperwork? Sienna, are you getting married?” 3 Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but she asked right as the cheering for Gideon died down. Half a dozen pairs of eyes snapped toward me. I smiled, offering no denials. “Yeah. I’m not getting any younger. My parents picked out a date.” “Holy shit!” Blake was the first to lose his mind. “We literally just found out you were dating someone, and you’re skipping straight to the altar?” “Who is this mystery guy? Is it someone from the academy?” “When’s the reception?” The questions pelted me from all sides. I was just about to laugh it off and give a vague answer when Audrey suddenly spoke up. “Oh, stop crowding her, you’re going to make her uncomfortable,” Audrey said sweetly. “But if a date is set, you guys must have been together for a really long time, right, Sienna?” That question sucked the air out of the room. Every eye was locked on me. I let my lips curve up into a small smile. “We’ve known each other a month. He’s a good man. Steady. He’s an officer, too.” That dropped like a bomb. It hit so hard that the silent figure sitting diagonally across from me instantly stiffened, his spine snapping straight. “Wait, Sienna, are you serious?” “With your looks and credentials, you don’t need to do a one-month flash marriage!” “It’s not a flash marriage,” I replied, my voice perfectly level as I took another sip of my cold tea. “When you meet the right person and your values align, a month is plenty of time.” Gideon remained frozen in that rigid posture. Over the years, I had dropped countless hints that I wanted a family, that I wanted to be his actual partner in the light of day. Just a month ago, I had practically begged for his birth details so my mom could take our charts to an astrologer to pick a lucky date. He knew exactly what I was talking about. A layer of frost flickered across his face before melting back into his usual composed mask. He was probably relieved I said one month instead of seven years. “Congratulations,” Audrey said softly, her smile the picture of grace. “When’s the reception?” There was no dodging it now. I didn’t try to. “The end of this month. I hope all of you can make it.” Audrey’s smile grew sweeter. She rested her chin in her hands, looking right at me. “That’s wonderful. Honestly, though, I always thought…” Someone caught the bait. “Thought what?” “I thought,” Audrey giggled, her eyes flicking toward Gideon, “that you were waiting for a certain someone to come around.” “You chased him so hard back in the day, we all assumed you wouldn’t settle for anyone else.” As an awkward silence settled over the table, she quickly added, “But this is great. I’m glad you finally figured things out.” “Hey Gideon,” someone joked, trying to break the tension. “She’s getting married. Aren’t you going to say something?” Gideon leaned back, not even bothering to lift his eyes. “That’s all in the past.” A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. The past? If only they knew Gideon was the one who chased me first. Because we kept it a secret, everyone assumed all the care and devotion I poured into him was just a desperate, one-sided obsession. He could have easily said, ‘We used to date,’ and cleared my name. Instead, he let them believe my seven years of loyalty were nothing but a pathetic, unrequited joke. “Alright, alright, let’s drink to that!” Jason rallied the table. “Cheers to another one of us leaving the singles club!” Glasses clinked. I spent the next half hour in total peace. I chatted with a few of the girls about their deployments, listened to them complain about their kids, and offered polite nods. Audrey tried a few times to steer the conversation back to my ‘fiancé,’ but I smoothly redirected it every time. When the party finally broke up, people headed for the exit in small groups. “Gideon,” Audrey called out from behind me, her voice laced with timid hesitation. “It’s really late. Could you… give me a ride? The motel I’m at is on the outskirts of town. It’s pretty sketchy.” I was bending down to grab my purse. I didn’t even pause. The chorus of teasing started up immediately. “Ooh, look at that.” “Obviously he’s going to take you!” “Your time to shine, man!” I stood up and walked right past them. In my peripheral vision, I saw Gideon standing beside her. He smiled. “Let’s go.” Clean, decisive, without a fraction of hesitation. I pushed through the heavy doors. The freezing night wind slipped down my collar, carrying the sound of their laughter far into the distance. I stood in the elevator watching the digital numbers tick down. When it hit the number seven, I was dragged back to that sweltering summer seven years ago. He had been a wreck because Audrey was leaving the country. His mind was somewhere else during the raid, and he didn’t see the insurgent sneaking up behind him. I threw myself in front of him on pure instinct. While the medic stitched me up, Gideon held my hand against his face. He kept whispering, “I’ll never lose you in a crowd. This scar is my anchor. I’ll know it for the rest of my life.” A lifetime was painfully short. It was short enough that a stupid party game could make him drop my hand and grab someone else’s. The elevator doors chimed open. I stepped out. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Gideon. [You behaved yourself tonight. But saying you’re getting married at the end of the month is taking the joke too far. We’ll figure out how to do damage control when I get home.] I let out a soft laugh and closed our chat thread. There was no need for damage control anymore. 4 I woke up early the next morning from a shallow, restless sleep just as Gideon unlocked the front door. He paused in the entryway when he saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, folding my clothes. “You’re up early,” he said, shrugging off his jacket as if nothing was wrong. “What’s the occasion? You didn’t blow up my phone last night.” I finally looked up at him. He was right. Whenever he stayed out late before, I would sit by my phone until the early hours of the morning, worried sick. “Why didn’t you reply to my last message?” I asked. He walked over to the water dispenser, keeping his back to me as he filled a glass. He took a sip. “I drove Audrey back. Her motel was in a rough neighborhood. She was scared, so I stayed outside her door for a bit. It got too late to drive back, so I just crashed in the lobby for a few hours.” “I’ve already transferred her to the VIP guest quarters on base,” he added, his tone taking on a placating edge. “Security is tight. She’s safe now.” I smoothed out the crease on my uniform jacket and stayed quiet. There were so many questions I could have asked. When you say you stayed outside her door, did you really stay in the hall, or did you go inside? When you say you crashed for a few hours, was it on a lobby couch, or in her bed? But I didn’t want to ask. For the past seven years, he had been relatively good to me. Even though he kept me a secret, he was strict about maintaining boundaries with other women. I just never wanted to admit that those iron-clad boundaries completely dissolved the second Audrey was involved. If she posted at 2 A.M. about insomnia, he would text her until dawn. If she missed American food overseas, he’d drive out of his way to ship her care packages. On every single birthday, he calculated the time difference to ensure he was the first to text her. He did those things for me as a boyfriend. But he did them for her, too. I had questioned him about it countless times. Every time, he had a hundred logical reasons to shut me down. This time, the reasons didn’t matter anymore. He set his glass down, his eyes finally dropping to the open suitcase on the floor. His brow furrowed. “What are you doing?” “Going back home,” I said calmly, tucking the folded jacket into the luggage. “I’m heading back to stay with my parents before the wedding. It’s tradition.” He froze. Then he crossed the room, crouched down beside me, and clamped his hand over the shirt I was about to pack. “The joke is over, Sienna. Drop it.” I met his gaze head-on. “It’s not a joke.” “The astrologer checked our charts. We’re a perfect match.” I lowered my eyes and pulled the shirt out from under his grip. “If I don’t get married this year, I’ll have to wait two more years for a lucky date.” He stared at me, the casual laziness finally vanishing from his eyes. After a long silence, he spoke. “Two years is fine.” “Once I get through these next two years of deployments, I can give you a much better wedding.” My hands stopped moving. Two years? I remembered him saying the exact same thing two years ago. In his mind, my life was just an endless series of two-year extensions that he could spend however he pleased. “Just drop a message in the group chat later. Tell them you had too much to drink and the wedding talk was bullshit.” His voice softened, slipping into that coaxing tone he used when he wanted his way. “No one took it seriously anyway.” “I wasn’t drinking.” I stood up and zipped the suitcase closed. “Everyone knows I’m allergic to alcohol. I never touch it at reunions.” He blinked, thrown off balance. It was as if he suddenly realized how many basic facts about my life he had completely ignored. I checked my watch. It was time to go. “Are you done throwing a tantrum?” His voice dropped, growing harsh. “Is this because I didn’t claim you in front of everyone? Are you really using a fake marriage to punish me?” I looked at him, about to speak, when he suddenly pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Look, there’s something I haven’t told you. Actually…” Before he could finish, his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen, walked over to the window, and answered it. The call was brief. He hung up, stood in silence for a few seconds, and then turned back to me. “Audrey is having a panic attack at the guest quarters. I need to go check on her. We’ll finish this when I get back.” He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door. … Three hours later. Gideon’s truck pulled up outside our apartment building. Audrey was sitting in the passenger seat. “I’m so sorry,” she smiled, looking perfectly apologetic. “I’ve been out of the country so long, I just can’t handle sleeping in strange quarters alone. Thanks for letting me crash for a couple of days… It won’t cause any problems, right?” Gideon’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No.” He figured he’d just have to explain the situation to Sienna. A few soft words and she’d let it go. She was always reasonable. He pulled out his phone and started typing as they walked to the elevator: [Audrey is going to stay in the spare room for…] He stopped, deleted the text, and put the phone away. It was better to tell her face-to-face. Besides, it was about time everyone knew they were together anyway. He unlocked the front door. The apartment was dead silent. Audrey rolled her suitcase inside, looking around the spacious living room. “Wow, this place is gorgeous. Isn’t it lonely living in such a big place all by yourself?” Gideon trailed behind her, his eyes scanning the living room. His feet carried him automatically toward the master bedroom. He pushed the door open. What he saw made his blood run completely cold.

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When I stepped through the grand double doors of the Kensington estate, I had just watched the judge deny bail to the monsters who raised me. My biological parents paid zero attention to the blood daughter who had been switched at birth. All their energy was laser focused on the fragile, weeping impostor sitting on the velvet sofa. Officer Riley, the cop who drove me to the estate, had noticed my silence in the cruiser. She had patted my shoulder gently. “Don’t worry, Ivy. Blood is thicker than water. Give it time, and your parents will definitely see how wonderful you are.” I just nodded and gave her a perfectly innocent smile. The truth was, I didn’t care if they treated me well or not. I only had one bottom line. Do not mess with me. 1 Matt and Amy Kensington only realized their child had been swapped after seeing my face. I looked exactly like Amy did in her youth. They ordered a DNA test with extreme reluctance. Even with the undeniable proof in their hands, they seemed incapable of accepting that I was their real daughter. The whole family stared at the medical report with heavy expressions. There was no joy. There were no tears of reunion. They were too busy comforting Bella. She buried her face in Amy’s chest, sobbing like her world had ended. “Mom, Dad, I’m not yours. I belong to someone else.” “Are you going to send me away? Are you going to throw me out?” Amy immediately wrapped her arms around the crying girl. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. You will always be my precious baby. How could we ever throw you away?” Matt was quick to back his wife up. “Bella, we raised you for fifteen years. No one can ever replace that bond.” Even Jim, my biological older brother, leaned in to wipe away her tears. “Stop crying, Bells. I only acknowledge you as my sister. Some stranger popping up out of nowhere can never compare to you.” I stood by the doorway, watching the touching family drama unfold. Whatever tiny, pathetic spark of hope I had harbored on the car ride over completely fizzled out. But I wasn’t sad. For someone who spent her entire life just trying to figure out how to survive the next beating, being ignored was a luxury. The Kensington family was filthy rich. They could definitely afford an extra mouth to feed. As long as I had a warm bed and a full stomach, I was completely satisfied. After the family showered her with a dozen different promises, Bella finally cracked a tearful smile. The suffocating tension in the living room vanished instantly. Jim turned his head and shot me a nasty glare. “Even though we share blood, Bella has been here for fifteen years. You better learn to get along with her. She’s sensitive, so don’t do anything to upset her.” Matt finally shifted his gaze to me. “You’re the older sister now. You need to take good care of her.” Amy kept her arm tight around Bella, offering me a tight, practiced smile. “In my heart, you and Bella are exactly the same.” I didn’t say a word. I just nodded. This arrangement worked perfectly for me. A housekeeper led me upstairs to a guest room. She sneered at me before opening the door. “Miss Bella doesn’t like strangers wandering around the house. If you don’t have business downstairs, stay out of sight.” She rolled her eyes and walked away. I ignored her attitude, stepped inside, and threw myself onto the massive, cloud like mattress. This place was absolute heaven. I woke up a few hours later, lured out of sleep by the smell of roasting meat. The second I opened my bedroom door, Bella’s voice drifted up the sweeping staircase. “My real parents… where are they now?” Officer Riley had made it perfectly clear to them. The abusers who tortured me were currently rotting in a holding cell. Why was she even asking? A heavy silence fell over the living room. After a long pause, Matt’s grim voice echoed upward. “Bella, we didn’t want to burden you with this. Your biological parents… they were involved in some highly illegal activities. They are currently incarcerated.” “Criminals?” Bella’s voice pitched up, trembling with horror. “No… how is that possible? Everyone is going to know I’m the daughter of convicts! What am I going to do?” “Don’t be scared, baby, don’t be scared,” Amy cooed, her voice dripping with heartache. “We are here. We will never let this ruin your reputation.” “But…” Bella hiccuped. “What if she goes outside and tells people? What if she tells everyone she had a hard life? People will connect the dots to my background. Mom, Dad, I’m so scared.” Jim’s voice cut in, laced with impatience. “Then we make Ivy fix it. We make her put out a statement saying her adoptive parents were just strict disciplinarians, and she was just a rebellious kid who misunderstood them. As long as she changes her story and proves it was just normal parenting instead of abuse, you won’t be tied to any criminals.” “That…” Amy hesitated. “Making Ivy deny everything… isn’t that a bit cruel? The poor girl really did suffer a lot.” “Cruel? What’s cruel about it?” Jim snapped. “She gets to live in this mansion and steal your title as the eldest daughter. Isn’t making a tiny sacrifice the least she could do? Are we really going to let Bella carry the stigma of being a criminal’s daughter just to spare Ivy’s feelings?” “But…” Amy still sounded unsure. “We do exactly what Jim suggested,” Matt finalized, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We can just compensate Ivy with money later.” I didn’t expect anything from these people. But hearing those words still ignited a vicious, burning rage in my chest. If they really believed it wasn’t abuse… Then they needed to experience it firsthand. 2 I practically skipped down the stairs, a bright smile plastered on my face. Under their shocked stares, I walked straight up to the dining table, grabbed the porcelain plate of steak in front of Bella, and smashed it onto the hardwood floor. Before anyone could blink, I grabbed a fistful of Bella’s perfectly styled hair and slammed her face down toward the splattered food. “Ivy, are you insane!” Jim was the first to react. He shoved me hard, sending me stumbling backward. Bella let out a bloodcurdling shriek. Covered in gravy and mashed potatoes, she scrambled into Amy’s arms, sobbing hysterically. “This is unacceptable! Absolute madness!” Matt slammed his hand on the table, his face purple with rage. Amy clutched Bella tightly, glaring at me like I was a monster. “Ivy, how could you… how could you do something so barbaric to your sister?” I steadied myself against a chair. I looked at them with wide, terrified eyes, letting my lip tremble with perfect, manufactured grievance. “I… I just wanted to make sure she ate well. Bella’s mom and dad always taught me to eat like this. They said food tastes better off the floor, that it builds character. I was just worried my sister wouldn’t finish her dinner.” “Did I do something wrong?” I let my eyes wander over the ruined floor and the hysterical girl, my face the picture of genuine confusion. “Bella’s parents raised me exactly like this. They used to dump my food on the dirt and watch me eat it like a dog. They told me it was because they loved me. I just wanted to love my sister the exact same way they loved me. After all, if she hadn’t been swapped, she would be receiving all this wonderful love from her real parents right now.” A dead, suffocating silence choked the dining room. Every single one of them knew the truth. That wasn’t love. It was torture. The tight grip Amy had on Bella subconsciously loosened. All the color drained from her face. Jim opened his mouth, but the curses died in his throat. Matt’s facial muscles twitched violently. The inferno of rage in his eyes was instantly extinguished by a bucket of ice water, leaving behind nothing but raw shock. I calmly walked over to Bella. While she stared at me in horror, I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the cheek. “I really love my sister so much.” 3 The slap left Bella completely stunned. Matt finally snapped out of his trance. He stepped forward and delivered a stinging backhand across my face. I was ready for it. I turned my head at the last second, letting the momentum carry me so the blow wouldn’t do any real damage. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. Instead, I let out a bright, bubbling laugh. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number on speaker. “Officer Riley, you were totally right. My family really does love me.” The familiar, warm voice of the female cop echoed through the silent dining room. “I told you they would, Ivy. You’re never going to be alone again.” “Yeah, they love me to death,” I said, grinning widely at the horrified faces around me. “My dad just slapped me right across the face. Beating is a sign of affection, right? Just like you said.” I hung up the phone. The Kensingtons stared at me like I was possessed. “Who were you talking to?” Matt asked, his hand still shaking in the air. I blinked my innocent eyes. “The nice police lady who brought me home. She promised me you guys would love me, and she didn’t lie.” Matt’s chest heaved. He raised his hand again out of pure reflex. I eagerly leaned my face into his palm. “Hit me harder, Dad.” I pointed a finger at Bella. “Her mom always said the harder you hit, the deeper the love.” Matt’s hand froze mid air. He couldn’t bring it down. I frowned, letting my voice drop. “Dad, don’t you love me?” I reached down and yanked the hem of my oversized sweater all the way up. I exposed the canvas of my stomach and ribs. Burn marks from cigarette butts, jagged white scars from kitchen knives, and faded purple bruises mapped out a lifetime of agony. “Look. Her parents loved me so much. These are all marks of their devotion.” Amy began to tremble violently. Matt violently averted his eyes, unable to look. Jim stared at the mangled skin, his arrogant eyes widening in absolute horror. Only Bella looked at the scars with pure, selfish panic. “My poor Ivy… you suffered so much.” Amy choked out a sob and reached out, trying to pull me into a hug. I stepped right up to her and delivered a crisp, ringing slap across her perfectly powdered face. “I didn’t suffer at all, Mom! I have a mother now, and my mother loves me, and I love my mother.” Under Matt’s paralyzed gaze, I turned and gave him a heavy slap of “love” right on the cheek. Naturally, I made sure Jim and Bella got their fair share of affection too. I didn’t leave anyone out. A family should always match. Looking at the symmetrical red handprints blooming across all four of their faces, I nodded in deep satisfaction. “Mom, Dad, Jim, Bella. I really, really love you guys.” 4 The doorbell rang sharply. It was Officer Riley. The second she stepped inside and saw my swollen cheek, her protective instincts flared. She pulled me behind her. “Child abuse is a felony. As her legal guardians…” She trailed off when she finally looked up and saw the blazing red handprints on the faces of the entire Kensington family. Matt forced down his humiliation and quickly summarized the chaos that had just unfolded. Officer Riley listened, her eyes widening. She turned to look at me. I kept my head down, shrinking my shoulders like a terrified child who had just made a terrible mistake. “That’s really what Bella’s parents taught me.” I defended myself in a whisper. “They said hitting is caring, and cursing is loving. They treated me like that every single day.” I pulled up my sweater again, showing the horrific scars. “Look, Officer Riley. This is the proof of their love.” I kept ripping my own wounds open. I needed to do it over and over again. I needed to sear the reality of my torture into their brains. I wanted to see if they still had the guts to look me in the eye and call it “normal parenting.” Officer Riley had seen the scars at the station, but seeing them again made her eyes shine with angry tears. She pulled me into a tight, warm embrace. “Ivy, that is not love. Real love doesn’t leave scars. Everything they taught you was a sick lie. Promise me you won’t hit people anymore, okay?” I kept my head down, nervously twisting the hem of my shirt. “But Bella’s mom and dad swore it was love. They loved me like that for fifteen years.” “They are animals,” Riley spat without hesitation. “You are going to have a good life from now on. Your real parents are going to teach you what actual love looks like.” Before she left, Riley shot a freezing glare at the Kensingtons. “I will be checking in on Ivy regularly. I do not want to see her hurt ever again.” Once the door clicked shut, the massive house fell into a graveyard silence. Bella shrank back into the sofa, desperately trying to make herself invisible. Matt stared at me for a very long time. His eyes darted between my swollen cheek and the scars peeking out from my collar. Finally, he let out an exhausted sigh. “We will teach her how to behave properly. Take her upstairs to her room. Have the chef bring her dinner on a tray.” 5 For the next three days, the Kensingtons banned me from the dining room. All my meals were brought to my door. Even with me out of sight, Bella still couldn’t handle the reality of my existence. She spent her days weeping and throwing perfectly calculated pity parties. The family exhausted themselves trying to keep her happy. In a desperate bid to finally settle the tension, Matt and Amy knocked on my bedroom door. Amy sat on the edge of my bed, gently stroking my hair. “Ivy, it’s our fault for not finding you sooner. We let you suffer so much.” Her voice choked with emotion, real tears glimmering in her eyes. “Mom promises you, I will never let anyone hurt you ever again.” Matt’s imposing posture softened. He handed me a sleek, velvet jewelry box. “Dad bought this just for you. From now on, whatever you want, I’ll buy it for you.” I clutched the expensive box to my chest and flashed them a sickeningly sweet smile. Seeing my reaction, Amy eagerly pushed forward. “If there’s anything you want to do, just tell us. We will make it happen.” “Really?” My eyes sparkled with innocent hope. “Anything at all?” “Of course,” Matt chuckled, nodding indulgently. “You are our real daughter.” “I want to… go to the same private academy as Jim and Bella.” I watched their expressions carefully. “Can I?” They exchanged a brief, hesitant look. But seeing the desperate expectation in my eyes, they finally nodded. “Alright. We will make the arrangements.” In that exact moment, I was genuinely thrilled. Officer Riley told me that elite academy had an 85% acceptance rate into Ivy League universities. Even though my abusers kept me locked in a dirty basement, I used to scavenge old textbooks from the trash and teach myself in the dark. I used to watch kids walking to school with their backpacks and ache with envy. I never thought I would actually get to be one of them. I knew I wasn’t stupid. I knew I could make it into that 85%. As long as I got into a top college, I wouldn’t need a single cent from the Kensingtons. I could survive entirely on my own. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad,” I said, pouring real gratitude into my voice. Seeing my guard completely lowered, Amy exchanged another loaded glance with Matt. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ivy, actually… there’s something else we need to discuss with you.” Matt cleared his throat, choosing his words with agonizing care. “It’s about Bella’s biological parents. We know they treated you horribly. But if this goes to trial, and the kids at school find out Bella’s parents are felons, she’ll never be able to show her face in public again.” Amy squeezed my hand, her knuckles turning white. “I know it’s a terrible thing to ask, but could you… sign a formal letter of forgiveness for the court?” So that was it. The gentle strokes, the diamond necklace, the promise of the private school—it was all just bait. Everything they did was designed to protect the fragile reputation of the girl who stole my life. They wanted to protect her so badly they were willing to let the monsters who nearly beat their own flesh and blood to death walk free. I looked up at them and smiled like the perfect, obedient child. “Okay, Mom and Dad. I’ll do whatever you say.” If you want me to let those animals go, let’s see if you can handle the price. 6 Visible relief washed over both of their faces. Amy kissed my forehead. “Our Ivy is such an understanding girl.” As they let out their heavy sighs of relief and walked out of my room, I slipped out of bed and followed them like a shadow. Right as they walked into their massive master suite, I pushed past them and dropped straight to my knees on the imported Persian rug at the foot of their bed. “Ivy, what on earth—” Amy gasped. I looked up at them with wide, dead eyes. “Whenever I asked Bella’s dad for anything, he told me a worthless stray had to earn her keep. Before he would say yes to anything, he made me kneel by his bed all night.” “Dad promised to send me to the academy, so I have to repay Dad the right way.” Matt’s brow furrowed in deep confusion. He didn’t move. I lunged forward and grabbed Matt’s ankle, gripping it tightly with my small hands. “Bella’s dad made me scrub his feet and massage his legs until my fingers bled. He said it relieved his fatigue. He said if I stopped before the sun came up, I wouldn’t get to eat for three days, and he would take back whatever he promised me.” I dragged my hands up his calves, digging my nails in. “Dad, let me massage your legs. Let me earn my tuition. I really want to go to school with Jim and Bella.” “Stop this nonsense!” Matt violently jerked his leg back, his face turning an ashen white. Amy clamped a hand over her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks. “How… how could they? You were just a child.” I instantly let go of Matt and grabbed Amy’s trembling hands. I forced her palms against my collarbone, right over a cluster of ugly, circular burn scars. “Bella’s mom said I had to learn gratitude. If I cried while I was kneeling, they pressed lit cigarettes into my skin. Have you ever burned Bella to teach her gratitude?” “No… stop talking, please.” Amy tried to yank her hands away, but I locked my fingers over her wrists with terrifying strength. “They said as long as I scrubbed the floors on my bleeding knees and took the burns without screaming, they would treat me well.” I stared up at them, my voice cracking with desperate, manufactured pleading. “I want you to treat me well too! Let me kneel here all night! Punish me if I fall asleep! Please!” “Enough!” Matt roared, his voice cracking with horror. “Ivy, get off the floor!” I flinched dramatically and curled into a tight ball on the rug, my voice dropping to a terrified whisper. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know I was doing it wrong. Whenever I refused to kneel, they locked me in the closet without water. They told me this was how families showed love. If Bella hadn’t been switched, would they have loved her like this too?” “Bella would never—” Matt choked on his own words, looking like he was about to vomit. Amy broke down completely, sobbing hysterically into her hands. Were they crying because of the torture I endured? Or were they crying because they were picturing their precious Bella suffering the same fate? I didn’t care to guess. I offered them a bright, polite thank you for the school transfer, walked back to my room, and slept like the dead. No beatings. No cold floors. 7 After that night, Matt and Amy never mentioned the letter of forgiveness ever again. I guess there was still a shred of human conscience buried somewhere inside them. I still remembered the day I dragged myself out of that house and collapsed on the street in front of Officer Riley. She had kicked the abusive bastard to the ground when he chased after me. She screamed in his face, calling him an animal. She was the one who personally locked them in a cell. She was a total stranger. Yet my own flesh and blood had tried to trick me into setting them free. If I said it didn’t hurt a little, I’d be lying. But for someone whose only goal was survival, that kind of emotional pain was utterly insignificant. When my sophomore year started, I officially transferred into the elite prep school, walking the same halls as Bella and Jim. Jim and I were fraternal twins. People always say twins share a deep, telepathic bond. But out of everyone in the Kensington house, he hated me the most. Every time he saw me in the hallway, he backed me into a locker. “If I catch you talking shit about Bella to anyone at this school, I don’t care if we share DNA. I will destroy you.” Looking at him puffing out his chest and turning red in the face, he looked exactly like the aggressive geese I used to butcher for dinner back in the slums. Bella, on the other hand, had become surprisingly quiet. She must have noticed the heavy, guilt-ridden looks Matt and Amy directed my way after the bedroom incident. She stopped throwing tantrums and started acting like a terrified little rabbit every time I walked into a room, expertly farming sympathy from the rest of the family. I couldn’t care less. I knew my academic foundation was trash, so I poured every ounce of my energy into catching up. I woke up before dawn to memorize vocabulary. I stayed up past midnight burning through practice exams. The second I got home from school, I locked myself in my room, functioning like a tireless machine. I was running a marathon against kids who had a fifteen-year head start. Perhaps out of guilt, Matt and Amy started paying a lot more attention to me at dinner. That shift in focus made Bella incredibly anxious. A few days later, during passing period, a group of girls in designer uniforms cornered me in the girls’ bathroom. One of them held up her phone, the red recording light blinking. They laughed as they shoved me against the tiles. Someone grabbed a fistful of my hair and tried to force my face toward the toilet bowl. Open-handed slaps rained down on my face and shoulders. “Think you can turn into a swan just because you live in a mansion?” “Look at you. You reek of poverty. You really think you belong in the same school as us?” I didn’t fight back. I let them push me around, my body trembling slightly—not from fear, but from raw, electric excitement. The second the girl lowered her phone and stopped recording, I slowly lifted my head. I gave them a dark, blood-chilling smile. “Done filming? My turn.” These pampered princesses hit like they were swatting flies. Compared to the fifteen years of bone-breaking beatings I had survived, this was a gentle massage. By the time I straightened my collar and casually walked out of the bathroom stall, the only sounds left behind me were agonizing groans. Bella was waiting at the end of the hallway, expecting to see her little gang walk out victorious. Instead, she locked eyes with me. My face was bruised and my lip was bleeding. I smiled at her. “Better start thinking about how you’re going to clean up this mess.” The fallout was massive. The principal’s office was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with furious, wealthy parents. The room buzzed with outrage. A woman dripping in diamonds pointed a manicured finger right at my face. “You dared to lay a hand on my daughter? I’ll make sure you rot in juvenile detention!” “Mrs. Sterling is absolutely right,” a man in a tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses added, his voice like ice. “The bruise on my daughter’s neck is physical evidence. The Vance family will not let this slide!” The girl in the pink skirt, whose face was currently swollen to the size of a grapefruit, hid behind her mother and shrieked. “Mom, she’s a psycho! We just gave her some friendly advice, and she attacked us like a rabid dog!” Her mother pulled her into a protective hug and glared at the principal. “Mr. Davis, a student with this kind of violent psychosis needs to be expelled immediately. What if she brings a knife to school next time?” “Exactly,” another woman in a Chanel suit scoffed. “I heard she grew up in the slums. She’s carrying degenerate genes. We refuse to let our children breathe the same air as someone like her.” Bella leaned against Matt’s arm, weeping softly. “It’s all my fault… if it wasn’t for me, Ivy wouldn’t have lost her temper…” Matt’s face was livid. The homeroom teacher seized the moment to add fuel to the fire. “Mr. Kensington, your daughter has been causing friction since the day she transferred. Today, she brutally assaulted three honors students. We cannot allow one bad apple to ruin the academy’s prestige.” “Dad, look at her,” Jim sneered from the corner. “She just stands there looking like a serial killer. She’s damaged goods.” Surrounded by a firing squad of billionaires and academics, I suddenly let out a soft laugh.

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When the compliance notice from the Labor Board dropped, I agreed to it without a single second of hesitation. After all, nobody could have predicted that my highly progressive flex-time policy would end up with a Gen Z employee dragging my name to the top of the trending charts at three in the morning. The internet mob even reported me to the regulatory authorities. Their main argument was that I maliciously blurred the lines between working hours and personal time. But the truth was, I never forced anyone to adhere to a specific schedule. As long as their total required hours were met by the end of the month, I didn’t care when they clocked in. After agreeing to the mandated changes, I immediately sent a blast to the company group chat. From this moment on, we are strictly enforcing a nine-to-five schedule. If you are one minute late, your pay will be docked. After five o’clock, the company will automatically cut the power and the Wi-Fi. Less than a minute after I hit send, the entire chat absolutely exploded. 1 To accommodate the diverse lives and responsibilities of everyone in the company, I had introduced an extremely liberal flex-time system. No mandatory clock-in times. We simply tally the total hours at the end of the month. As long as you hit your quota, you are fine. When I first announced the new policy, the entire office cheered. Once the room quieted down, I added a few caveats. If a project is urgent, you can apply for overtime, and you will be compensated strictly according to the law. But if your monthly hours fall short, your salary will be docked proportionally. That completely wiped out any lingering doubts. The parents who needed to do school drop-offs, the veteran employees who despised the brutal morning rush hour, and the young night owls who struggled to wake up early were practically jumping out of their seats. “Sam is an absolute legend!” “Best CEO ever. This is a dream company!” “Thank God. I never have to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour again.” “Traffic is nothing. This is a lifesaver for us insomniacs. I can finally have a normal life.” Seeing them so thrilled made me genuinely happy. I understood that everyone had a life outside these walls. I never wanted work to turn their personal lives into a chaotic mess. As long as the job got done, creating a win-win situation for both the company and the staff was the best possible move. A few months into the new system, the mental health and general vibe of the office drastically improved. Company revenue went up significantly. The high-efficiency employees scored better performance reviews and took home fatter bonus checks. The staff juggling personal issues finally had the breathing room to get their lives in order. Everything was perfect. Until the end of this month, when Zoey, our youngest junior associate, posted an update on her social media at three in the morning. The photo showed the office brightly lit in the dead of night. The caption read: Flex-time is just a trap for capitalist exploitation. The company deliberately blurs the boundary between off-hours and work so we spend twenty-four hours a day stressing over our jobs. The post struck a massive nerve online. By the time the sun came up, I was public enemy number one. “Sam! You need to look at Twitter right now!” Brenda, our HR Director, practically screamed through the phone, dragging me out of a deep sleep at 4:17 AM. I opened the app. Sitting right at the number five trending spot was a glaring hashtag. #FlexTimeIsCorporateGaslighting. I clicked on it. Zoey’s 3:00 AM office photo had been quote-tweeted by a career influencer with three million followers. The influencer added their own commentary. Just another sweatshop hiding behind the mask of humanized management. The reality of flex-time is being on call twenty-four seven. The reply section was a complete warzone. “Bosses like this make me sick. They pretend not to track your hours, but they secretly force you to grind at 3 AM.” “Report them to the Labor Board immediately.” “Already reported.” I kept scrolling. Those two words were repeated hundreds of times in a dense, suffocating wall of text. Already reported. Already reported. Already reported. Brenda was still talking on the other end of the line. “Zoey also leaked screenshots from the company group chat. It’s the message you sent last week when you were dealing with that late-night client revision. But she cropped out all the context. She only left the half where you asked her to fix the proposal at two in the morning.” “What was the original text?” “She cropped out your opening line, ‘If you have time tomorrow,’ and your closing line, ‘No rush at all.’ All she left was ‘Take a look at this proposal for me.’ The timestamp clearly shows 2:03 AM.” I stayed silent for a few heavy seconds. “Have you pulled her timesheet for this month?” “I did.” Brenda’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “Up until today, Zoey’s actual logged hours are only at sixty percent of the standard requirement. She spent most of the month out of the office. She’s only pulling all-nighters right now to artificially inflate her hours before the payroll deadline.” “So the picture of the brightly lit office at 3 AM was just her sitting there running out the clock.” “Exactly.” I put the phone down and rubbed my temples. She slacked off all month. Now that she was about to get her pay docked for missing her hours, she camped out in the office to cheat the system. When she realized she still wouldn’t hit the quota, she played the victim online to farm sympathy. When daylight broke, the situation showed zero signs of improving. When I arrived at the lobby, Jenny the receptionist hurried over looking completely overwhelmed. “Sam, there are four different reporters waiting downstairs, and some guy with a selfie stick is live-streaming right outside our glass doors.” “Ignore them.” “Also… the Labor Board called. They said they received a massive influx of civilian complaints and are requiring our full cooperation for an audit.” I barely stepped into my office before my phone buzzed again. It was a text from Greg, one of my middle managers. “Sam, I really think you need to make a public statement. The narrative online is turning incredibly toxic.” “I’ve been in this industry for over a decade and never seen anything like this. If you need me to step in and do some damage control, just say the word.” Before I could even type a reply, another message popped up. This one was from Kyle. “Sam, the clients on my three active projects are definitely going to have concerns about this. Do you want me to ask my mentor to smooth things over? He has a solid relationship with their reps.” I stared at the two messages. Something felt incredibly off. Greg had been with the company for eight years. His absolute best skill was delegating all of his actual work to his subordinates. Kyle was the protege Greg had personally trained. Last year, Kyle’s mother was hospitalized with a severe illness. Because of our flex-time policy, he was able to spend every morning at the hospital and work in the afternoons. I clearly remembered him shaking my hand and telling me he would follow me to the end of the earth for giving him that flexibility. Now, the mentor and the student were perfectly coordinating their texts to me. It wasn’t normal. Half an hour later, I found out why. Brenda pushed my door open, her face completely pale. “Sam, you need to check Twitter again.” Greg and Kyle had both posted their own lengthy statements. Greg went first. “As a veteran employee who has been with this company for eight years, I feel the need to speak the truth. Flex-time sounds beautiful on paper, but the invisible pressure is very real. When the boss texts you in the middle of the night, do you ignore it? If you ignore it, you get put on a blacklist. If you reply, your personal time is destroyed. I don’t want to make enemies, but facts are facts.” Kyle’s post was right beneath it. “When my mom was hospitalized last year, the company did let me adjust my schedule, and I am grateful for that. But gratitude doesn’t mean the system isn’t broken. A lot of coworkers complain about this in private, but nobody has the guts to speak up. Zoey finally said what we were all thinking. She took a bullet for all of us.” Both essays were tagged with the same trending hashtag. #FlexTimeIsHiddenOvertime. “Sam, what are we going to do?” I placed my phone face down on my desk. “When is the Labor Board coming?” “They said tomorrow morning.” “Good.” I stood up. “Let them come.” “But what about Greg and Kyle…” “Ignore them. Let the bullets fly for a bit.” I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down. The livestreamers were still down on the sidewalk, pointing their cameras directly up at our corporate logo. My phone vibrated one more time. It was an email. Sender: Victor Blackwood. He was the lead investor currently finalizing a massive capital injection into our company. The email contained exactly one sentence. “Sam, I am closely monitoring this situation.” 2 “Sam, the inspectors are here.” The next morning at exactly nine o’clock, Brenda walked into my office followed by two men in official windbreakers. The man in the lead looked to be in his forties. His badge read Inspector Marcus Cole. “You must be the CEO. We received a significant volume of complaints stating that your company is using flexible working hours as a disguise to force uncompensated overtime.” “Please, have a seat.” I poured him a glass of water before speaking again. “I am aware of the allegations online. What materials do you need from me?” “No rush. Take a look at this first.” Marcus pulled a thick stack of printed screenshots from his briefcase. “These are the chat logs circulating online. They clearly show you demanding revisions from an employee at 2:00 AM. Furthermore, multiple staff members have publicly confirmed that invisible overtime is an ongoing issue here.” “Multiple staff members?” “Yes. Aside from the original poster, Zoey, a manager named Greg and an employee named Kyle have both issued public statements verifying the claims.” I nodded slowly. I pulled a thick, perfectly organized binder from my drawer and slid it across the desk. “This contains the comprehensive time logs, backend server attendance data, and signed overtime request forms for every single employee over the last six months.” “Every single hour of overtime is verified and signed by the employees themselves. The corresponding overtime pay stubs are attached to each file.” Marcus took the binder and flipped through a few pages. His brow furrowed. “This employee, Zoey… her actual logged hours for this month are this low?” “Correct. Our flex-time policy does not dictate when people arrive or leave, but we do require a baseline quota of hours by the end of the month.” “If they fall short, their salary is prorated. Every employee signed a contract agreeing to those terms.” “Then why was she in the office at three in the morning?” “Because she rarely showed up to work at the beginning of the month. Realizing she was going to face a massive pay cut, she tried to artificially inflate her hours at the last minute. She sat in the office until dawn just to run out the clock, took a photo, and claimed we force her to be on standby twenty-four hours a day.” The junior inspector sitting next to Marcus leaned over to look at the data. The two men exchanged a quiet glance. Marcus cleared his throat. “What about the chat log where you demanded revisions at two in the morning?” I flipped the binder to a specific tab and pointed at the page. “Here is the unedited server log of that conversation.” “She cropped out the beginning and the end of my message when she took the screenshot.” Marcus read the complete transcript. He sat in total silence for about fifteen seconds. “Sam, objectively speaking, based on the documentation you’ve provided, your company’s flex-time policy is entirely legal and strictly compliant.” “However.” He shifted in his chair. “The social impact has already occurred.” “We have over three hundred formal complaints lodged in our system. We cannot just walk away and do nothing. I strongly suggest your company implement some performative corrective measures to give the public a satisfactory narrative.” “What kind of performative measures?” “For example, abolish the flex-time policy. Revert to a standard, rigid attendance system. At the very least, you need to show the public that you are making drastic changes.” I leaned back in my chair and looked at him. “Inspector Cole, what you are saying is that my policies are flawless, but because the internet threw a tantrum, I have to punish my entire company?” Marcus let out a heavy sigh. “Sam, I’m just a guy doing his job. I completely sympathize with your position. But with the optics being this bad, if you don’t do something drastic, my hands are tied.” After the inspectors left, Brenda was fuming. Her face was flushed with pure frustration. “Sam, it’s so obvious Zoey manipulated the narrative. Why should we be the ones forced to change—” “Make the change.” Brenda froze. “Sam?” “He was right. The narrative is already set.” “How drastic do you want the changes to be?” I pulled my keyboard toward me and started typing. “The absolute strictest version possible.” Ten minutes later, an announcement popped up in the main company chat. “As mandated by the Labor Board, all flex-time policies are permanently abolished effective tomorrow. Every employee will strictly adhere to a 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM schedule. At exactly 5:00 PM, the building’s network and power will be cut, and the premises will be locked.” The chat went dead silent. Then, it erupted like a string of firecrackers. “What?! My son gets out of school at 4:30. I have to leave at 3:30 every day to pick him up. What am I supposed to do now?” “I live in the suburbs. If I have to badge in right at 9:00 AM, I have to leave my house at 6:30. That’s a four-hour daily commute.” “Cut the power and network? What if I’m in the middle of a deployment? If we delay a software patch, the clients are going to murder us.” The messages scrolled by at lightning speed. I placed my phone face down on the desk. A knock came at the door. Greg pushed his way into the office. “Sam, don’t you think this decision is… a little too impulsive?” I stared at him without saying a word. “Canceling flex-time is going to devastate morale. Can we at least discuss this? I really think I can represent the team and negotiate a better compromise with the Labor Board—” “Negotiate what?” “You know… find a middle ground.” “Greg, your little essay online made your stance perfectly clear, didn’t it?” The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Now that the strict rules you advocated for are here, you should be thrilled.” His lips parted, but no words came out. “Sam, Greg makes a fair point. Shouldn’t we reconsider?” Kyle had quietly slipped into the doorway. “My decision is final. Everyone badges in at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. If you are one minute late, you will be penalized according to the new company bylaws.” I walked toward the door, slipping past them. Greg’s face had turned completely green. 3 “Zoey, come here.” I was standing by the reception desk bright and early the next morning. Almost everyone walking through the glass doors wore the exhausted, resentful expressions of people who had fought through peak subway rush hour. Sarah’s eyes were red. As she swiped her badge, she was muttering to a coworker. “My kid was sobbing this morning begging me not to leave so early.” Dave dragged his heavy backpack through the doors, his hair completely windblown. He must have sprinted from a rental bike after getting off the train. Zoey strolled in casually at 8:59 AM. She even flashed me a smug little smile. “Morning, Boss.” “My office.” She followed me inside. I didn’t offer her a seat. “That post you made—” “Oh, that.” She slipped her designer bag off her shoulder. “I only posted the truth. The office was lit up at 3 AM, and I was sitting at my desk working.” “The server logs prove you barely set foot in the office for the first three weeks of the month.” “It was flex-time. You were the one who made the rule saying we didn’t have strict hours.” “Your total hours were drastically below the legal requirement.” “That’s just because nobody assigned me enough tasks. Isn’t that a failure of management?” I looked at her, and she stared right back. Her gaze was incredibly unsettling. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was saying. “You intentionally cropped out the beginning and the end of my text message in your screenshot.” “I just kept the relevant parts.” She tilted her head. “Sam, you can’t deny the fact that you texted an employee at 2:00 AM, right? It doesn’t matter how many times you say ‘no rush.’ Do you really think a low-level worker can just ignore a midnight text from the CEO?” Her talking points were entirely too polished. “Who fed you that script?” Her eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Nobody. I thought of it myself.” “Your post was immediately amplified by an influencer with three million followers. Do you know them?” “Never heard of them. Anyone can retweet anything on the internet.” I didn’t press the issue. “Get back to your desk.” She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Just a friendly reminder, Sam. The entire internet is on my side right now.” “If you try to retaliate against me in any way, the backlash will destroy you.” The door clicked shut. Brenda stormed out of the adjoining conference room, literally shaking with rage. “That arrogant little brat! Sam, are you just going to let her—” “We don’t touch her. Not yet.” “Why?” “Because she’s right. If I fire her today, it looks like illegal retaliation.” I sat back down and woke up my computer. There was an unread email waiting in my inbox. The second message from Victor Blackwood. “Sam, I have noted that your employees are publicly alleging toxic management practices. Concurrently, there are rumors that your major clients are reconsidering their contracts. As the lead investor conducting due diligence, we must evaluate this instability carefully. Please keep the lines of communication open.” I read the email three times. I had dealt with Victor twice before. He was ruthlessly pragmatic and never wasted a single syllable. Sending this specific email was his way of telling me: How you handle this crisis determines if you get my money. At 2:00 PM, a much larger disaster struck. Richard, the lead executive for our biggest corporate client, called my cell. “Sam, I’ve seen the news regarding your internal issues. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but our conglomerate has strict risk-assessment protocols for PR nightmares. With your company sitting on the trending list for labor exploitation, I can’t sign off on the new contract. We are pausing the deal until the dust settles.” “Richard—” “Sam, don’t put me in a bad spot. The board made the call. I can’t change it.” He hung up. That contract was worth ten million dollars. It was the cornerstone of our entire quarterly revenue. I sat alone in my office, watching the sky outside the window slowly turn dark. At exactly 5:00 PM, the main breakers tripped. The Wi-Fi routers died. A wave of chaotic footsteps and loud groans instantly filled the hallway outside my door. Coders screamed that they hadn’t pushed their commits. Account managers complained that their emails were trapped in the outbox. “Sam, Greg just pulled a bunch of people into the breakroom for a quick huddle.” Brenda whispered from the doorway. “What is he saying?” “He’s telling them that letting things burn is actually a good thing. He said it might finally force you to wake up and see reason.” I let out a soft laugh. “Sam, what’s so funny?” “I’m laughing because he forgot one very important detail.” “What’s that?” “He’s just an employee here.” 4 “Listen up. I know the last two days have been incredibly difficult.” On the third afternoon, I gathered every department head in the main conference room. “I called you here to announce two things.” “First, starting next Monday, your attendance records will be directly tied to your performance bonuses.” “Anyone who is late more than three times will automatically be downgraded one performance tier for the month.” Dave opened his mouth to object but quickly shut it. “Second—” Greg suddenly interrupted me. “Sam, let me just jump in here. Can we be a little flexible with this? Maybe implement a ten-minute grace period? A lot of people commute from the outer suburbs. Things happen on the train—” “Greg, when we had flex-time, you were the loudest voice complaining about it. Now that we have strict hours, you want to introduce a grace period to blur the lines again?” The conference room was dead silent for two seconds. “That was a totally different situation—” “Were you hitting your required monthly hours back then?” He didn’t answer. He just tapped his fingers nervously against the mahogany table. “The second item.” “I have handed the legal issues regarding Zoey over to corporate counsel. Her social media posts contained deliberate omissions and fabricated narratives that caused severe reputational damage and direct financial losses to this company. The lawyers are currently drafting the cease-and-desist and preparing a defamation suit.” Kyle looked up, shooting a panicked glance at Greg. “Sam, isn’t that going a little overboard? Zoey is just a fresh graduate. She probably just acted out of impulse—” “Kyle.” “When your mother was in the hospital last year, I let you work half-days without docking a single cent of your pay. You were the biggest beneficiary of the flex-time system. But in your little viral essay, you wrote—” “A lot of coworkers complain about this in private, but nobody has the guts to speak up.” “Kyle, who complained? Give me one name right now.” His face flushed a deep, humiliating red. “I… I wasn’t thinking straight when I typed that.” “When you typed that, you were thinking about internet clout.” “Your post has twenty thousand retweets. The entire comment section is a mob calling for my head. Do you think that mob helped anyone?” “Did it help you? Did it pay your mother’s medical bills? Did it help Zoey, who barely scraped together sixty percent of her required hours?” He hung his head. Greg finally stopped tapping the table. “Sam, people vent online. There’s no need to turn this into a witch hunt.” “Greg, when has a manager ever texted you in the middle of the night?” “When have you ever received a midnight text from me? Show me the screenshot.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was speaking generally…” “Generally about what? Do I need you to teach me how to run my company?” Nobody in the room dared to breathe. “That’s all for today.” “Starting tomorrow, the new rules are absolute. No grace periods. No exceptions. Meeting adjourned.” The room slowly emptied out. I stayed seated at the head of the table for another five minutes. Brenda walked in holding a freshly printed document. “Sam, Victor Blackwood just sent another email.” “Sam, my team and I have conducted a preliminary review of the current situation. Frankly, this PR crisis and the subsequent internal fallout have raised serious concerns about your management team’s resilience under pressure and overall cohesion. We are recalibrating the risk coefficient of this investment. Our final decision will be based entirely on your company’s performance over the next two weeks.” Brenda watched my face, asking tentatively, “Sam, how important is Victor’s capital injection?” “If his check doesn’t clear, half this company will be laid off by next year.” Brenda inhaled sharply. I folded the email and slipped it into my pocket. My phone buzzed. A WeChat message from Zoey. It was a screenshot of her latest tweet. “Just found out the company is sending me a legal threat. The capitalists have finally taken their masks off. If you want to frame someone, you can always find an excuse. Worker’s lives matter.” She added one word to the text message. “Scared?” Brenda saw the screen and literally trembled with anger. “This little girl is a completely different breed of toxic—” “She’s not a mastermind.” I shoved the phone into my pocket. “She just thinks that because she hijacked the sympathy of a few hundred thousand strangers, she earned a seat at the table with me.” “So what’s the plan?” I pushed the conference room doors open. “Let the storm get a little wilder. I’ll play her game.”

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I had been married twice before, and I told Oliver everything before we wed. My first marriage was to help my childhood friend Carter with an inheritance, the second to help Sebastian avoid a forced marriage. I made it clear both were purely transactional. Oliver, with teary eyes, swore he believed me and asked that I only have eyes for him. After marrying, he treated me like royalty but seemed to despise my ex-husbands. Everything changed when I came home early and overheard them laughing together. They joked about my “rich divorce experience” and planned for Oliver to hand me divorce papers on April Fools’ Day as a prank, then coax me back afterward. The three had made a pact in high school: to attend a party for Vanessa, the girl they all orbited, as single men. So when Oliver gave me the papers, sighing that my exes bet I wouldn’t sign, I calmly took the pen and signed. By the time he came looking for me, I was six months pregnant. I told him he was right about one thing—I do take things too seriously. I took his April Fools’ joke very, very seriously. … I sat in the coffee shop across from our gated community for a full hour. I waited until I saw Carter and Sebastian leave the premises before I finally dragged my suitcase toward home. Hearing the door open, Oliver put down his phone and hurried over to take my luggage. “Why didn’t you text me? I would have picked you up from the airport.” He took the suitcase with one hand and smoothly wrapped his other arm around my waist. He was the picture of a doting, gentle husband, exactly the same as always. “Did you grab something to eat?” he asked. “I ate.” He nodded, then acted as if a thought had just casually crossed his mind. “Right, honey, there’s something we need to talk about.” I put down my purse and turned to look at him. He let out a heavy sigh and pushed a thick folder across the kitchen island. “The company hit a bit of a rough patch recently. We need to do some asset protection. The lawyers suggested we file for a quick divorce, just as a formality.” I glanced down. It was a separation agreement. He had prepared it all so incredibly fast. “Once this storm blows over, we’ll get remarried immediately.” He reached out and squeezed my hand, his voice dripping with sincerity. “It’ll only be for a few months.” I stayed completely silent. “I know it’s sudden.” He rubbed the back of my hand, lowering his voice to sound defensive and slightly aggrieved. “But Carter and Sebastian called me today. They were making snide remarks, saying how you bent over backwards to help them with no questions asked, but when it comes to me, you wouldn’t dare.” “They even laughed and said a woman who has been divorced twice wouldn’t have the guts to do it a third time. They said you couldn’t handle the heat.” “So I figured it out. Tomorrow is April Fools’ Day. Let’s just go file the papers tomorrow… and then we’ll slap the certificates right in their arrogant faces. Let’s scare the hell out of them and see if they ever look down on you again.” “Besides, it’s April Fools. You can play anything off as a joke. Once the company’s financial heat dies down, we’ll legally tie the knot again. Nobody will bat an eye.” He stared into my eyes, his expression a perfect mix of grievance and hopeful anticipation. “Honey, you aren’t really going to let them look down on me, are you?” I looked into his eyes. I looked for a very long time. They were so incredibly affectionate, flawlessly devoted. Yet these were the exact same eyes that had just been crinkling with laughter as he clinked glasses with those two men, boasting, “She won’t make a fuss.” “No, I won’t,” I replied, giving him exactly what he wanted. A visible wave of relief washed over him, though he quickly masked it as pleasant surprise. “Then go get some rest. Tomorrow is the first of the month. After we sign, we’ll head straight to…” I picked up the pen, flipped directly to the last page, and signed my name with sharp, fluid strokes. “Give them a call,” I said, dropping the pen and offering him a soft smile. “Tell them to stop running their mouths.” Oliver froze for a second. He clearly had not expected me to be this agreeable. He recovered quickly, tucking the documents away with a grin, and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “You’re the best wife in the world.” I let him kiss me. Inside, my heart felt like a hollowed-out stone. He took the folder into the study to make his phone call. He kept his voice low, but through the heavy oak door, the words still bled through. “She signed it.” Carter’s voice drifted through the receiver, faint but unmistakable. “Told you so. Josie is the easiest person in the world to coax.” “Alright, keep Vanessa distracted for me. I’ll head over as soon as I wrap things up here.” I sat alone in our bedroom for a very long time. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Sebastian. [Long time no see. Want to grab a drink and catch up?] I stared at the glowing screen. In the past, I would have eagerly typed back “Yes.” I would have spent an hour agonizing over my outfit and makeup. I would have strategized on how to defend Oliver’s pride in front of them, wanting them to know how wonderfully he treated me. I would have begged them to stop picking fights with him. After all, on one side were the boys I grew up with, and on the other was my deeply loved husband. They were all so important to me. I hated the thought of them being enemies for the rest of our lives. But now, I could not even muster the energy to type a single letter. I tossed the phone face-down on the coffee table and walked out to the balcony to gather the laundry. Passing by the study, I heard Oliver still on the phone. His tone was hushed, but there was a distinct, relaxed drawl to his voice that I had never heard before. It was the sound of a man who no longer had to pretend, no longer had to act like the perfect husband. It suddenly hit me that in all our time together, he had never once spoken to me with that level of unfiltered ease. The wind on the balcony was biting. I took the clothes off the hangers one by one, folding them mechanically and dropping them into the wicker basket. As I pulled down the last shirt, my phone lit up again. This time, Carter. [Heard you’re getting divorced again? Oliver is absolute trash. He doesn’t deserve you, don’t let it get to you.] [Your grandfather’s 80th birthday gala is coming up. Sebastian and I will be there to celebrate. Let’s hang out properly then!] A dry laugh escaped my lips. He sounded so incredibly sweet. As if he had not literally been sitting in my living room hours ago, masterminding this exact scenario. I pressed the power button until the screen went black and slipped the phone into my pocket. For a fleeting second, I wondered what kind of woman Vanessa actually was. What was it about her that made these three men scheme so ruthlessly to keep a teenage promise? What made her worth treating me like a disposable pawn? But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. It didn’t matter anymore. I picked up the laundry basket and headed back inside. Walking past the study, my footsteps did not falter. Warm amber light spilled from the crack under the door. This light, this house, this man. Starting tomorrow, none of it would have anything to do with me. Just as I set the basket down, the doorbell chimed. I went to answer it, but Oliver beat me to it. The woman standing on the porch had flushed cheeks and reeked of sweet, stale liquor. The moment she saw Oliver, her face lit up. “I knew you’d still be awake.” Oliver instinctively glanced back at me before hissing in a panicked whisper, “What are you doing here?” She ignored him, stumbling past the threshold. She only paused when she noticed me standing in the center of the living room. “Oh, the missus is home.” Carter, hovering right behind her, grabbed her arm to steady her and quickly offered me an apologetic look. “Josie, she had way too much to drink. We were dropping her off, but she insisted on swinging by to see the place.” Sebastian stood stiffly in the doorway, shooting me an unnatural look. His gaze then shifted to Oliver, his tone turning sharp and defensive. “Oliver, your wife is standing right there. Don’t you know how to keep your distance?” Oliver bristled, his brow furrowing. “You get her blackout drunk, dump her at my house, and then tell me to keep my distance?” “I got her drunk? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you just posted about being a single man again!” Sebastian sneered, stepping aside with a look of utter disdain. “Fine, play the saint. The girl who drank herself silly crying over you has been delivered. Deal with it yourself.” The two men stood on opposite sides of the entryway. The air between them felt thick with frost. Caught in the middle, Carter let out an awkward cough. “Alright, cut the crap, both of you. Vanessa was just in the neighborhood…” I stood perfectly still, watching this theatrical masterpiece unfold from start to finish. Their chemistry was flawless. If I had not heard them clinking glasses and laughing earlier, I would have bet my life they hated each other. For the longest time, I genuinely believed my bond with Carter and Sebastian was impenetrable. Back when we were at our most loyal, I had literally married both of them just to bail them out of trouble. My parents died when I was young, and my grandfather was always busy running his empire. It was Carter and Sebastian who filled the gaps in my childhood and teenage years. Whenever I cried, Carter was the one making stupid faces to cheer me up. Sebastian once took a knife to the arm trying to protect me from a mugger. To me, they were closer than blood. When exactly did our ironclad trio rot into this? Probably during our freshman year of high school, the year Vanessa transferred in. Suddenly, a new inner circle formed. I was slowly pushed to the edges, becoming the forgotten leftover. They only ever remembered my worth when they needed a pawn to make someone else jealous. I pulled my gaze away from the doorway. Certain cracks do not just form overnight. Today was simply the day I finally chose to look at them. “You’re all here just in time. I need witnesses.” I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the separation agreement. “Two copies. I’ve already signed. Since everyone is gathered, you might as well take a good look.” Oliver’s expression shifted slightly, but a flicker of smug satisfaction quickly masked his surprise. In his mind, my pulling out the divorce papers in front of Carter and Sebastian was a declaration of love. It was me proving how far I was willing to go for him. “Josie,” he stepped forward, his voice taking on a soothing, patronizing tone. “We can handle this privately, you don’t need to…” “Well, since your wife brought it up,” Vanessa suddenly slurred, tilting her head, “do you mind if I ask… when exactly are you moving out?” The living room plunged into dead silence. Oliver winced. Vanessa did not even look at him. She stared straight at me, her face the picture of drunken innocence. “The deed to this house is in my name, you know. You can’t exactly squat here forever.” I froze. The house was in her name? My eyes darted to Oliver. He looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He did not say a word to deny it. In that split second, a tidal wave of memories crashed over me. The day we moved in, he held my hand and whispered, “This is our sanctuary.” When we bought it, he smiled and said, “I’ll handle all the boring legal paperwork, don’t stress yourself.” I had spent weeks happily picking out the velvet curtains, the linen sofa, the mahogany dining table. Every single piece of furniture was something I had personally hauled back from designer showrooms. Every corner of this house was meticulously decorated to suit his exact tastes. Coming from wealth, I never cared whose name was stamped on a piece of paper. But never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine that my marital home belonged to another woman. I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand and let out a soft, sharp laugh. “I’ll leave right now.” “Josie…” Oliver took a step toward me. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. City Hall.” I did not look back. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, walked to the door, swapped my slippers for heels, and walked out into the night. The hallway lights flickered on, then dimmed. As I waited for the elevator, muffled voices seeped through the heavy wooden door behind me. “Damn, you really pulled a fast one! She signed faster than when I begged her to marry me!” The bursts of laughter and clinking glass hit my back like shrapnel. I stood by the elevator, listening to the punchline of a joke I was never in on. I caught my reflection in the polished steel doors. I looked much calmer than I felt. It was only when I was sitting in the back of a taxi that my phone buzzed. A text from Oliver. [I will explain the house situation to you…] [Be good, just find a hotel for now. I’ll come pick you up in a few days.] I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then flipped the phone over on my lap. Outside the window, the streetlights blurred into streaks of yellow. Come pick me up in a few days? He talked as if I had just run to the grocery store and would be right back to cook him dinner. I leaned my head against the cold leather seat and closed my eyes. Save it, Oliver. You won’t be picking me up ever again. … At nine o’clock the next morning, I arrived at the county clerk’s office. Oliver was already waiting by the curb. He was leaning against his car, but the moment he saw my cab pull up, he dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his leather shoe, and walked over. “Where did you stay last night?” he asked. “My grandfather’s.” He nodded. His eyes lingered on my face for a second. He reached out, instinctively wanting to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, but I tilted my head away. His hand hung in the empty air for a moment before he slowly pulled it back. “Josie,” he murmured, his tone thick with an infuriatingly confident warmth. “I know you gave me face in front of Carter and Sebastian last night. I appreciate it.” “As for the house…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Vanessa needed to establish residency in the city, and she needed property under her name to do it. I figured it was just a name on a piece of paper. You come from old money, you’ve never cared about trivial things like that. I didn’t think it was worth bothering you over.” I looked him straight in the eyes. I did not speak. Trivial things? He gifted the home we built together to his first love. And he brushed it off with a casual “you’re rich, you wouldn’t care.” It wasn’t that he thought I wouldn’t care. It was that my feelings were completely irrelevant to him. “Anyway, you still have tenant rights!” he insisted, completely misreading my silence. “After we file the paperwork, just stay out of the house for a little bit. Once I sort out the corporate mess, I’ll bring you right back home.” I almost laughed out loud. Even now, he truly believed I was just playing my part in his little theatrical production. “Let’s go,” I said, ignoring his pathetic speech entirely and turning toward the imposing glass doors. “Let’s get this over with.” He hurried to keep up with me. The bureaucratic process was surprisingly fast. Signatures, thumbprints, submitting the IDs. The clerk brought down the heavy metal stamp with a sharp, resounding clack. The final decree of divorce was handed to me. It was just a few sheets of thick paper, not so different from our marriage license, just with a much colder weight to it. Oliver glanced down at his phone, his brow furrowing instantly. “I need to take this,” he told me, already stepping away. “Wait right here for a minute, I’ll drive you back.” He walked a few yards away and answered the call. His voice was hushed, but the wind carried a single name back to me. “Vanessa…” I stood rooted to the polished marble floor, quietly watching his broad shoulders retreat. He hung up and jogged back, looking stressed. “Something urgent came up. Take a cab home for now, I’ll call you later tonight.” I waited until he rushed out the front doors. Only then did I slowly turn around and walk in the opposite direction, straight toward the marriage license window. … By the time Oliver walked out of City Hall, the morning sun was glaring. He glanced at his divorce papers, then checked the date on his phone screen. April 1st. April Fools’ Day. Perfect. He had pulled it off. The tight coil of anxiety in his chest finally loosened. His phone rang again. It was a major client. He took the call, pacing the sidewalk for nearly ten minutes. When he finally hung up, he threw a glance back toward the towering doors of City Hall. Why hadn’t Josie come out yet? He hesitated, then started walking back toward the entrance. He figured he should at least go back in and give her a concrete timeline for when they would “remarry,” just so she wouldn’t start overthinking things. He had barely taken two steps when a man pushing his way out of the heavy doors collided squarely with his shoulder. The man’s folder slipped, papers fluttering toward the concrete. Oliver’s own divorce decree slipped from his fingers. “My apologies,” Oliver said out of habit, bending down to help. The two documents landed side by side. One was his fresh divorce decree. The other was a brand new marriage license. A gust of wind caught the cover of the marriage license, flipping it open just enough to reveal the corner of the couple’s photo inside. Oliver’s hand froze in mid-air. “No problem,” the stranger said smoothly, snatching up the marriage license before Oliver could react. His voice was cool, like ice water over glass. Oliver looked up. The man standing over him was tall and imposing, dressed in a sharp, slate-gray trench coat. His expression was completely unreadable. “Congratulations. Tying the knot today,” Oliver offered, a polite, empty platitude. The man briefly let his eyes drop to the divorce decree still in Oliver’s hand. “Congratulations to you too,” he replied flatly. Oliver blinked, the sarcasm flying entirely over his head. The man had already slipped the marriage license into the inner breast pocket of his coat. His gaze swept past Oliver, utterly dismissive, and he turned on his heel to walk away. Oliver stared at the man’s retreating back. A bizarre, nagging thought began clawing at his brain. It’s April Fools’ Day. Who in their right mind chooses to get married today? And that voice… the cut of his shoulders… Oliver felt an eerie sense of familiarity. “Hey, hold on!” Oliver called out. The man in the gray coat stopped and turned slightly, his face still an expressionless mask. “Do we—” Oliver’s phone violently vibrated in his palm. He glanced down. Sebastian. He hesitated for a split second, looking up to say “just a minute,” but the man in the gray coat had already vanished around the street corner. Oliver ignored the call. He was just about to head inside to find Josie when his phone buzzed again. Carter had sent a GPS pin, followed by a frantic text: [Hurry up! We need to reach the island before sunset.] Oliver stopped dead in his tracks. The island. He suddenly remembered the promise Vanessa made on the beach the night they graduated high school. She had sworn that before she ever got married, she would drag all of them to that specific private island to party for three days and three nights, cashing out the very last drops of their youth. Back then, everyone treated it like the most romantic, sacred vow in the world. Now, she was supposedly getting married. It was time to cash in. But the luxury resort on that island was notoriously exclusive. It didn’t take public reservations. You needed a heavy-hitting sponsor just to get past the dock. Among their little group, Oliver was the only one with enough corporate weight to hold a membership. If he was late, none of them were getting in. If he went back inside to find Josie, she might start crying or asking questions, and he would miss the ferry entirely. He shoved his phone into his pocket, turned his back on City Hall, and jogged toward the parking garage. When his car pulled up to the private marina, the whole crew was already standing by the pier with their weekend bags. Vanessa stood at the very front, wearing a fluttering white sundress. The sea breeze whipped her hair around her face. Oliver stared at that dress, his breath catching in his throat. It was the dress he had bought her for her seventeenth birthday, using three entire months of his saved-up lunch money. “Oliver!” Vanessa ran toward him, her skirt billowing, her eyes shining bright. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting forever!” She linked her arm through his. “You’re taking three penalty shots for this, no backing out!” The soft, warm press of her body against his arm sent a jolt through him. He looked down at her. She was tilting her head back, laughing, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. Exactly the same as she was in high school. “Fine. Pour ’em,” he grinned. The group erupted into cheers. “Oliver always spoils Vanessa rotten!” Vanessa laughed and playfully pushed one of the guys. “What, are you jealous?” …

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “418526”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the city’s elite circles, my brother Danny Sinclair was known for obsessively doting on me. Yet that night, he was holding another girl’s hand, his gaze soft as he guided her to cut the birthday cake meant for me. The girl looked exactly like me—even the burn scar on her wrist was identical. I was about to storm the stage when lines of glowing text suddenly appeared before my eyes: [Look at the adopted stand-in. She doesn’t even realize she’s fake, jealous of the real heiress.] [Spoiler: She’ll go insane trying to win his love. He’ll break her legs and lock her in a psych ward. Total karma.] My blood ran cold. Danny spotted me, immediately shielding the girl. His face hardened as he scolded me for making a scene. He declared Sylvia was his real sister and said he’d explain later. Sylvia. Same face, same scar. I was just a crafted replica. He’d spent millions on this lavish coming-of-age gala for me, yet earlier that day, he’d locked me in a dark room upstairs. I’d smashed the lock, bleeding, and raced into the hall—only to see this. Holding back tears, I gave him a hollow smile. Since the real one was back, the understudy could bow out. I pulled out the limitless black card he’d given me and waved it. “Consider this my final performance fee.” 1 Leaving Danny and the bewildered guests completely frozen in place, I turned on my heel and walked straight out of the grand banquet hall. The mirrored walls of the lobby caught my reflection. The exquisite silk of my designer gown was torn at the seam, the hem dragged with dirt, and my meticulously styled hair had mostly fallen out of its pins. I looked like an absolute wreck. [Wait, what? She’s just leaving?] [Yeah, I was totally waiting for her to throw a tantrum and get humiliated by the male lead!] [This is weird. The villainess isn’t supposed to act like this.] If I hadn’t seen those bizarre, floating comments, I probably would have stormed that stage. I would have stood in front of that towering, three-tiered cake and screamed at the top of my lungs in front of hundreds of aristocrats. I would have yelled that I was the real Sinclair heiress and that the girl beside him was an imposter. And then, just like the floating text predicted, Danny would have shattered my legs and locked me away in an asylum. I quickened my pace. Pushing through the revolving glass doors, a blast of cold, post-rain wind hit my face. I flagged down a passing taxi. “Take me to the nearest luxury shopping district.” As the car accelerated, the blurring city lights outside the window felt like the last eighteen years of my life being rapidly rewound and erased. I pulled out my phone and opened my email. Sitting at the very top of my inbox was an acceptance letter from the Paris Institute of Design. It had been sitting there for exactly seven days. A week ago, when I first received this email, I was ecstatic. I had sprinted straight into Danny’s private study. He was signing documents, not even bothering to look up. “Danny! I got accepted into the Institute in Paris!” The tip of his fountain pen paused. He finally raised his eyes, his gaze as tepid and clear as a glass of water. “Paris.” “Yes! They only accept thirty students globally…” “It’s too far.” He looked back down at his paperwork, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “I don’t feel safe letting you go abroad alone. I will arrange a prestigious academy for you here in the city.” I stood frozen on his Persian rug. “But…” “Sienna.” His voice was incredibly gentle, yet coated in an irresistible, crushing authority. “Be a good girl. Listen to me.” And I did. I listened to him. I shoved my wildest dreams into the deepest drawer of my desk, brainwashing myself into believing he had his reasons. He was only doing what was best for me. Only now did the ugly truth sink in. He wasn’t afraid of the distance. He was afraid I would escape. How could the perfect replica he spent eighteen years meticulously carving be allowed to leave the stage before the authentic masterpiece was safely brought home? I tapped the screen, hitting the “Accept Offer” button at the bottom of the email. Eighteen years of living as a caged songbird. Deleted with a single click. [Holy crap, she’s actually leaving?!] [Wait, isn’t she afraid her ID is going to be deactivated? Her entire legal identity belongs to the female lead!] [The villainess suddenly grew a brain. I can’t predict this plot anymore.] My fingers subconsciously brushed against the raised, jagged scar on my wrist. I couldn’t remember much of anything before the age of five, but one specific, horrifying memory constantly played on a loop in my nightmares. Danny tightly gripping my tiny, fragile wrist. A small, custom-made iron, glowing red-hot, being pressed directly into my skin. The sickening smell of burning flesh. The white smoke curling into the air. And that agonizing, soul-piercing pain. Every single time the nightmare reached that point, I would wake up screaming. I once asked him about it. “Danny, what is this scar?” He stayed silent for a very long time before pulling me into his chest, resting his chin heavily on the top of my head. “It’s a mark.” “It’s the absolute proof that you are my little sister.” What a beautiful, twisted lie. It wasn’t a special bond. It was a brand. Arriving at the shopping district, I quickly bought a change of clothes. A black oversized hoodie, loose jeans, and a pair of canvas sneakers. Stripping off the blood-stained couture gown, I gripped the handle of my newly purchased forty-eight-inch luggage and headed straight for the bank. Inside the VIP lounge, the branch manager took one look at my limitless black card and treated me with the reverence usually reserved for royalty. “Please withdraw two hundred thousand in cash for me.” The manager blinked in shock for a fraction of a second, but his intense professional training instantly kicked in. “Right away, Miss Sinclair. Please wait just a moment.” [Hahahaha is the villainess afraid the male lead is gonna freeze her accounts?!] [Honestly, you have to respect the hustle. Secure the bag before he cuts her off.] [What is two hundred grand gonna do? That card has a limit of at least a hundred million.] [Yeah, but anything over two hundred thousand requires a three-day advance notice. She’s smart.] I sat on the plush leather sofa, watching the manager disappear behind the vault doors. My phone screen lit up. A text message from Danny. “Where are you.” 2 Three words. No question mark. It was a direct order. I ignored it. Thirty seconds later, a second message appeared. “Come home. Don’t make me worry.” I swiped the notification away and opened my airline app, checking for the fastest flight out of the country. I typed in my ID number. When it came time to input my birth date, my fingers hesitated over the screen. That birthday didn’t belong to me. March 21st was the birth date of the biological Sinclair daughter. When was my actual birthday? I had no idea. Every single birthday cake I ever had was decorated with candles spelling out those numbers. I had closed my eyes and made a wish on those specific candles for eighteen years. And every single year, my wish was the exact same. I wished to be Danny’s little sister forever. The irony was suffocating. I pressed confirm and paid for the ticket. The electronic boarding pass popped up. Flight to Charles de Gaulle, departing tonight at nine-thirty. Direct. Now, I just had to make it onto that plane before my legal identity was completely wiped from the system. An hour later, the bank manager handed me a heavily weighted duffel bag. “Miss Sinclair, would you like me to arrange a security escort for you?” I offered a polite, hollow smile. “No thank you. I have my own security waiting.” Dragging my suitcase out of the bank’s glass doors, the biting autumn wind slipped down my collar. I hailed another cab. “To the international airport.” Once the car merged onto the highway, I powered my phone down entirely and shoved it deep into the hidden compartment of my luggage. [The villainess is leaving so decisively, it actually makes me a little sad.] [Obviously she has to leave now. Once her ID gets flagged, she won’t be able to step foot outside the city limits.] I leaned against the cold leather of the backseat, watching the metal guardrails of the highway blur into a continuous gray ribbon. The sky gradually darkened into pitch black. In the distance, a massive commercial jet drifted down the runway, its navigation lights blinking rhythmically against the night. Inside the terminal, the wait became agonizingly boring. Against my better judgment, I pulled my phone out and turned it back on. The second the screen illuminated, news notifications flooded my screen like an avalanche. #SinclairHeiressFound #StandInSisterKickedOut #HeartbreakForTheFakeSister #ColdBloodedSinclairGroup I tapped on the top trending hashtag. There was a high-resolution photo of me stumbling out of the hotel, wearing that torn, blood-stained dress, bending down to get into a taxi. The caption attached to the photo was pure, inflammatory gasoline. “The real heiress returns and instantly forces the innocent stand-in out onto the streets. Getting kicked out of the Sinclair mansion on the night of her 18th birthday, without even getting a slice of her own cake. The absolute cruelty of the wealthy.” The post had over three hundred million views. My pupils constricted. Who took that photo? Who wrote that incredibly specific caption? I clicked over to the official Sinclair Group corporate account. A freshly pinned PR statement sat at the top of their feed, its phrasing sterile and clinical. “Miss Sylvia Sinclair, who tragically went missing at the age of three, has been safely located. Due to his profound grief over the years, Mr. Danny Sinclair adopted an orphan bearing a physical resemblance to his sister. Now that the true Miss Sinclair has returned, the adopted individual has been appropriately relocated and compensated. We urge the public not to spread baseless rumors.” The comment section was a war zone of public outrage. “Appropriately relocated? You mean thrown out onto the street in a torn dress?” “The real heiress is ruthless. She couldn’t even tolerate a girl who kept her brother company for fifteen years?” “Danny Sinclair is a monster. He raised her like a pet and discarded her the second he didn’t need her anymore.” “My heart breaks for the stand-in. Brainwashed into thinking she was family, only to be kicked to the curb.” My fingers went completely numb. The holographic comments flared to life in front of my face, scrolling frantically. [Here we go! The villainess is making her move!] [Playing the ultimate victim to cyberbully the female lead. This is diabolical.] [I actually thought she changed her ways for a second. Guess a leopard never changes its spots.] [She’s just trying to use public pressure to force the male lead to beg her to come back. Classic manipulation.] I stared blankly at the glowing text. No. I didn’t do this. I didn’t have the time, the energy, or the vast network required to pull this off. A trending topic with three hundred million views doesn’t just spontaneously generate in twenty minutes without a professional, highly paid PR firm orchestrating it behind the scenes. My phone vibrated violently in my palm. A name flashed across the screen. Danny Sinclair. Staring at those letters, it felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart. I was terrified to answer. But I knew exactly what would happen if I didn’t. He would unleash his private security to lock down the entire city. And then, just like the floating text predicted, my legs would be broken and I would be thrown into a padded cell. I knew Danny better than anyone. To the outside world, he was a refined, elegant aristocrat. But beneath the tailored suits, he was a deeply obsessive, terrifyingly controlling megalomaniac. This PR disaster was currently roasting his entire corporate empire over an open flame. He was absolutely furious. The phone rang for the fourth time. Taking a shaky breath, I pressed accept and held the phone to my ear. “Sienna.” His voice was dead calm. Too calm. It was the eerie, suffocating stillness right before a hurricane makes landfall. “Where are you.” I didn’t speak. “I asked you where you are.” He repeated it, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a violin string stretched to its absolute breaking point. “The airport.” I didn’t bother lying. It was pointless. If he wanted to find me, his tech team could trace my GPS coordinates in under five minutes. Silence heavy with static filled the line. Then came the strike. “This circus online. You paid someone to orchestrate this?” It wasn’t a question. It was a guilty verdict. Every single syllable sounded like it was being ground between his teeth. My stomach plummeted. Just as I thought. He was entirely convinced I was the mastermind. 3 “It wasn’t me.” “Not you?” He let out a low, humorless scoff. “Then who else could it possibly be? Sylvia?” My heart skipped a beat. That actually wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. “I need you to come back here. Right now.” It was an absolute, unyielding command. “I just told you I didn’t do it.” “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” he cut me off. “Sienna, I know exactly how your mind works.” “You’ve been playing these games since you were a child. Whenever you felt slighted, you never threw a tantrum. You just quietly manipulated things in the dark so everyone else would fight your battles for you.” A bone-deep chill washed over me. So that was how he truly saw me. “This situation has spiraled entirely out of control.” His voice lowered again, thick with the effort of suppressing a violent outburst. “Do you have any idea how Sylvia feels right now? My actual, biological sister?” “She just finally made it home. She hasn’t done a single thing wrong, and the entire country is currently tearing her apart, calling her a jealous, vindictive monster.” “She is only eighteen years old.” Listening to the slow, measured sound of his breathing through the speaker, a bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. He was so deeply heartbroken because she was only eighteen. What about me? I was eighteen too. When he branded my flesh with red-hot iron, I was only five. I glanced up at the digital clock on the terminal wall. My flight was boarding in less than fifteen minutes. “Fine. I’ll come back.” [Wait, what?! Why is she caving so easily?] [Are you kidding me? She’s just going back to beg for forgiveness?] [Hold up, she keeps checking the departure screens. She’s just stalling for time!] There was a fraction of a second of stunned silence on his end of the line. “Are you truly willing to issue a public clarification?” A microscopic trace of hesitation had crept into his tone. He genuinely couldn’t believe I was complying this easily. “I didn’t buy the trending tags, but I will gladly stand in front of the press and clear Sylvia’s name for you.” He didn’t respond immediately. He was carefully calculating whether my promise held any weight. “Which terminal are you in? I will have my security team pick you up.” “That won’t be necessary.” “Sienna Sinclair.” He used my full, fake name. It was the ultimate warning sign. “If you dare try to run…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the sheer, paralyzing threat bled through the receiver, sliding into my brain like a silver needle. I knew exactly what the rest of that sentence entailed. [The male lead is terrifying. Is he raising a sister or a prisoner?] [Run, girl, run!] [She can’t! He’s already on his way. He’s stalling for time too!] [WARNING: System navigation indicates the male lead is less than fifteen minutes from the airport!] Less than fifteen minutes! I violently whipped my head toward the departure screens. Twelve minutes until the gate closed. I could make it. As long as I could drag this out for twelve more minutes, I could vanish into the sky. Suddenly, the overhead PA system chimed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you…” My heart stalled in my chest. “…that Flight AF1502 to Paris has been canceled due to severe weather conditions at the destination. Passengers are advised to proceed to the customer service desks for rebooking. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.” Canceled. [Canceled?! You have got to be kidding me!] [Even the universe is siding with the male lead. This is way too dramatic. RIP to the villainess.] I practically leaped out of my seat, grabbing my luggage handle and sprinting toward the premium customer service counter. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. Rebook. I just needed to rebook any flight. Anywhere. As long as the plane left the tarmac before Danny arrived. I slammed my passport and ID card onto the polished counter. “Rebook me. Any destination in the world. Whatever flight is leaving next.” The ticketing agent jumped slightly at my intensity but maintained her pristine, professional smile. “Right away, ma’am. Please give me one moment to check the system.” Every single keystroke felt like an eternity. “There is a flight to Seoul departing in ten minutes.” “I’ll take it.” The agent swiped my ID card through the reader. She frowned. “I apologize, ma’am. The system indicates your identification profile is currently undergoing a mandatory update. This card has been flagged as invalid.” Flagged as invalid. Those words crashed over me like an avalanche of ice. I stared down at the small plastic card on the counter. For eighteen years, my entire existence in the world was anchored to that piece of plastic. And now, the real Sienna Sinclair had returned. My borrowed life was being systematically deleted from the database. “Ma’am? Ma’am?” The agent looked at me with growing concern. “Your passport is also showing up as…” [It’s over. It’s so over. She literally can’t escape.] [I called it. Her entire identity belongs to the female lead. How was she supposed to run?] [The male lead is probably pulling up right now. Good luck, girl.] I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly pulled my passport and ID back across the counter. “Never mind. Thank you.” The second I turned around, gripping my luggage handle, my phone illuminated in my pocket. A text from Danny.

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Of all the contacts on my phone screen, nearly seventy percent were tagged “Vincent – Client.” My fingertip froze on the glass. Moments ago, in the parking garage of St. Jude’s Women’s Center, I had watched my husband, Vincent, carry a pink prenatal bag for another woman, the hospital’s logo burning into my vision. I called his name. He turned, showing no panic, still holding the woman’s hand, and only frowned as if I were an interruption. “Sophia,” he said, his tone more distant than with clients. “What are you doing here?” My eyes were fixed on their entwined hands, on the halo of diamonds glittering on her ring finger. “My annual check-up,” I replied, fighting to steady my voice. He nodded dismissively. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” Then he looked down at her and offered the same gentle smile he once gave me ten years ago. As they walked away, I heard her ask softly, “Who was that?” Vincent’s quiet reply echoed off the concrete walls: “She’s nobody.” He paused, then added, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” The engine started and faded. I stood alone, every ounce of strength gone. 1 A fluorescent light in the garage ceiling was failing, flickering on and off in a frantic, dying rhythm. I don’t know how long I stood there. Three minutes, maybe thirteen. It wasn’t until a black Audi, reversing, nearly clipped me and the driver honked twice that my feet finally moved. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t name the feeling. It wasn’t heartbreak; heartbreak was supposed to ache, but I was completely numb. It was like a machine humming along for a decade, and someone had just yanked the plug. Every gear seized at once. The silence was terrifying. I walked to my car, pulled the door open, sat down, and buckled my seatbelt. Then I opened my contacts again. Mr. Redmond – Dad’s Golf Buddy, Chairman of Redmond Properties. In the winter of 2016, after dinner with my dad at the country club, I had casually placed Vincent’s business card by Mr. Redmond’s hand. “My husband just started his own practice,” I’d said. “If you ever have any legal needs, maybe you could throw some work his way.” Mr. Redmond had smiled and pocketed the card. The following year, Redmond Properties moved its entire legal portfolio to Vincent’s firm. The annual retainer was $1.2 million. Arthur Cole – Mom’s College Friend’s Son, President of Apex Investments. In the summer of 2017, at my mother’s birthday party, I made a point of inviting Arthur and seating him next to Vincent. Six months later, Apex Investments tasked Vincent with the legal due diligence for three major acquisitions. The fee for the largest of those deals was $4.6 million. Mark Marston – Tech CEO I’d met at an industry conference. In 2019, I had dinner with him twice. On the third, I brought Vincent along. Later, when Mark’s company went public, Vincent’s team handled all the legal work. That one deal brought the firm $8 million. I scrolled down, one name after another. Franklyn Bell. David Shaw. Peter Quinn. Behind every name was a dinner, a round of golf, an evening where I had smiled until my face ached. Seventy percent. Seventy percent of his firm’s core clients were people I had brought to him. Today, Vincent Croft stood as a partner in one of L.A.’s top three commercial law firms. He wore $3,000 bespoke suits and spoke eloquently on legal talk shows. Every stepping stone beneath his feet was one that I had laid. And just a few minutes ago, he had told that woman, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” I put my phone away and started the car. As I drove out of the garage, the sunlight stabbed at my eyes, and I squinted. I was home. I put the key in the lock, turned it twice, and the door swung open. The living room was just as we’d left it that morning. His jacket was slung over the sofa, his half-finished coffee sitting on the table. I folded his jacket and hung it in the closet. I took the coffee cup to the kitchen and washed it. Then, I started making dinner. My hands were steady as I chopped the vegetables. Tomatoes into perfect, even cubes. Eggs whisked until frothy. Green onions sliced paper-thin. The oil sizzled in the pan. I poured in the eggs, stirring them with a spatula. Everything was exactly as it had been for the past ten years, on any given evening. At 8:40 p.m., Vincent came home. He’d changed his suit and his tie. “A frittata?” he asked offhandedly. “There was nothing else in the fridge,” I replied. “Get some steak tomorrow,” he said, sitting down and taking a bite. “Okay.” He glanced at me, detecting nothing unusual. Of course he didn’t. My expression hadn’t changed at all. After dinner, he went to his study to work. I cleared the dishes, wiped the table, and scrubbed the last water spot from the kitchen counter. Then I went to our bedroom and picked up my phone. There was a number in my contacts I’d saved six years ago but had never once dialed. Rebecca. My college roommate. After graduation, she’d moved to New York to become a trial lawyer. She had just moved back to L.A. last year to start her own firm. At a reunion last month, she’d complained about how hard it was to find clients, joking that the stress was turning her hair gray. I stared at her number for a long time. I didn’t call. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I wasn’t ready yet. Outside, a string of lights along the distant coastline blinked on. We bought this condo in 2018. The down payment was $480,000, paid for by my father. Vincent said he would handle the mortgage, but after the first year, I was the one making the payments. $3,200 a month. I turned off the lights and lay down in bed. In the darkness, I replayed the scene from the parking garage. He hadn’t said, “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t said, “I can explain.” He had said, “She can’t hold a candle to you.” In front of a total stranger, he had taken ten years of my life, my effort, my everything, and crushed it into dust with seven words. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I had to remember to buy steak. 2 The next day, I went to the law firm. It was my Thursday routine, helping Vincent organize client files and coordinate with the administrative staff. No one paid me a salary. Vincent called it being “partners in life and work.” I pushed open his office door. The young woman at the front desk greeted me with a bright, “Morning, Sophia.” I smiled back. Vincent wasn’t in. His assistant, Jenna, told me he was out meeting a client and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon. I sat down in his large leather chair and started sorting through the month’s case files. A stack of invoices sat on the corner of his desk. I picked them up and idly flipped through them. Most were for routine office expenses—printing, couriers, travel. But I stopped on the twelfth one. An invoice from a furniture store. Modern Living Furnishings. The total was $37,800 for one item: a three-seater leather sofa. The delivery address was listed as: The Pacific Crest, Unit 1204, Santa Monica. That wasn’t our address. I took a picture of the invoice with my phone, then placed it back exactly where I’d found it. Next, I opened his laptop and pulled up his email. He never changed his password. It was six digits, our wedding anniversary. In the search bar, I typed “The Pacific Crest.” Three seconds later, four emails appeared. The first: a notification for payment of HOA fees, billed to Vincent Croft. The second: a quote from an interior design company for a full furnishing package. Total price: $186,000. The third: confirmation of a new broadband internet installation. The fourth: a forwarded email. The original sender was a woman named Paige. The message was short. Vince, I went with the cream-colored curtains. Let me know if you like them. An image was attached. Sunlight streamed through the cream curtains, illuminating brand-new hardwood floors. The living room was spacious, with that $37,800 sofa sitting right in the middle. On the wall hung a large abstract painting. I recognized it instantly. It was a print I had helped him pick out at an art fair last year. He told me he loved it. Turns out, he was buying it for someone else. I closed the email client. The screen reverted to the login page. With a single click, I cleared the browsing history. Jenna came in with a cup of coffee. “Sophia, Mr. Croft said a client will be here at three. He asked if you could get the conference room ready.” “Which client?” “Mr. Wallace, from the Wallace Group.” Wallace. I pressed my lips together. “Of course. I’ll get it ready.” I wiped down the conference room table twice, set out eight bottles of mineral water, and calibrated the projector. At ten past three, a man in his fifties walked in. Michael Wallace, Chairman of the Wallace Group. He was a client I had introduced to Vincent at a Chamber of Commerce gala last year. When he saw me, he shook my hand warmly. “Sophia, good to see you. How has your father been?” “He’s doing well, thank you for asking, Michael.” Vincent walked in behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Michael, sorry to keep you waiting.” He glanced at me. “Sophia, could you get us some coffee?” Michael Wallace frowned for a split second. He knew exactly who I was. But Vincent had already started his presentation. I turned and walked to the kitchenette. As I was pouring the coffee, my phone buzzed. It was an alert from a real estate app linked to Vincent’s credit card. “The property you are tracking, The Pacific Crest, Unit 1204, Santa Monica, has completed its title registration.” Property Owner: Vincent Croft. Purchase Price: $1.8 million. One point eight million dollars. I was paying our $3,200 mortgage every month. And he had taken that money and bought another woman a house. The coffee was ready. I carried the tray back into the conference room and placed a cup in front of Mr. Wallace. “Michael, please.” Then I turned, walked out, and gently closed the door behind me. The moment the door clicked shut, I could hear Vincent’s voice, confident, steady, and professional. “Now, Michael, the risk factor in this clause is…” Ten years ago, he couldn’t even draft a simple contract properly. It was my father who had taught him, line by line, how to do it. I stood in the hallway, leaning against the cool wall. The faint sound of traffic drifted up from the street below. I took out my phone and stared at Rebecca’s number for three long seconds. Then I put it back in my pocket. It wasn’t time yet. 3 In the days that followed, I started to notice. It wasn’t that I was actively looking for clues; it was more that things I had been blind to before were now screamingly obvious. The collar of his shirt would occasionally carry the scent of a perfume that wasn’t mine. Nothing expensive, just the cloyingly sweet, fruity kind you smell at department store counters. His arrival time home shifted from 8:30 to 9:30, then from 9:30 to 10:00. The excuse was always the same: “Working late at the office.” On Saturday, he said he was going to play golf, but the clothes in his bag were bone dry when he returned. But the thing that stuck with me the most was small. The milk in the refrigerator. I only drink skim; he drinks whole. Last week, I found a carton of strawberry-flavored yogurt in the fridge. I don’t like strawberry. Neither does he. The next day, it was gone. I didn’t ask. Even if I did, he’d have a hundred plausible excuses. He was a lawyer. Making up stories was his profession. Life went on. On the surface, nothing had changed. I still went to the firm on Thursdays, cooked dinner every night, and paid the mortgage every month. Only one thing was different. At night, I started going through my contacts. Not Vincent’s. Mine. I went through every client’s name, reliving how we met, where we had dinner, what I had said to convince them to give their business to Vincent. On the fourth night, I had a final count. Of the firm’s twelve core clients, eight and a half were mine. Why half? Because one of them was a client Vincent had technically landed himself, but the introductory dinner had been hosted by my father. My father had no idea. He thought it was just a casual get-together with friends. For ten years, I had been his unpaid business development manager. I smiled, made small talk, remembered every client’s wife’s birthday, and knew what grade their children were in. Mr. Redmond’s wife loved a specific type of white tea, so every spring, I would send her a tin of the finest Silver Needle. When Arthur Cole’s mother was hospitalized, I visited her three times, each time bringing her favorite osmanthus cakes. When Mark Marston first moved to L.A., he didn’t know a soul. I was the one who helped him find an apartment, recommended a dentist, and even found the international school his son now attended. Did Vincent know about all this? Yes. And what did he say? “Sophia, you’re a natural at this stuff. You’re better than any business assistant I could ever hire.” Better than an assistant. That’s what I was to him. A useful tool. So useful that he didn’t even feel the need to hide his affair, because tools don’t have feelings. “She can’t hold a candle to you.” He wasn’t insulting me. He was stating what he believed to be a fact. In his world, I truly couldn’t compare. I wasn’t as young. I wasn’t as pretty. I didn’t fawn over him. And as for my network, my resources, my connections? He had long ago claimed them as his own. They were as natural and essential to him as the air he breathed, and who ever stops to thank the air? On Saturday afternoon, Vincent’s mother called. “Sophia, dear, has Vincent been busy lately?” “He has been, Mom.” “Well, you two have been married for ten years now. Isn’t it about time you had a child?” “We’re planning on it.” “You’re not getting any younger, you know. You should hurry up.” “I will.” “I heard a new maternity center opened up near your neighborhood. Do you want me to go take a look?” “That’s not necessary, Mom. We’ll see when the time comes.” After hanging up, I sat on the sofa. The TV was on, playing some legal talk show. On screen, Vincent was wearing a sharp gray suit, sitting on the expert panel. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Comments scrolled across the screen: “Vincent Croft is so handsome,” “So professional and charming,” “Where can I find a husband like that?” I turned off the TV. In the blank, dark screen, I saw my own reflection. Thirty-four years old. Fine lines at the corners of my eyes. Lips a little pale from years of not wearing lipstick. She can’t hold a candle to you. He was right. But do you even know whose ground you’re standing on? Vincent didn’t come home that night. He sent a text: Urgent case at the office. Pulling an all-nighter. I used to reply, Take care of yourself. This time, I sent back a single word. Okay. Then, I dialed Rebecca’s number. It rang three times before she picked up. “Sophia? Why are you calling so late?” “Rebecca,” I said, my voice even. “Your firm. Are you still looking for clients?” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “Always. What’s up?” “I might have a few to send your way.” “…How big are we talking?” “Big enough to set you up for the next three years.” Rebecca went quiet again. “Sophia,” she said, her voice now serious. “Are you sure about this?” I looked out the window at the glittering ribbon of the coastline highway. “Let’s meet next week and talk in person.” 4 I met Rebecca on Tuesday afternoon. We chose a private dining room in a small, out-of-the-way restaurant in Marina del Rey, a place where we were unlikely to run into anyone from our circle. Rebecca was thinner than I remembered from college, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail, wearing a tailored navy-blue suit. Her firm, Shoreline Law Group, currently employed six lawyers and mostly handled small-scale cases. “Were you serious on the phone?” she asked, her chopsticks hovering mid-air. “I was.” “How many clients?” “Let’s start with three.” I wrote three names on a piece of paper and slid it across the table. Redmond Properties. Apex Investments. Marston Technologies. Rebecca glanced at the list, and her expression changed completely. “Sophia, the combined annual legal spend for these three is at least twenty million dollars.” “I know.” “And you’re certain you can convince them to switch firms?” I took a sip of my tea. “I personally introduced every one of these clients to Vincent. Mr. Redmond is my father’s golf partner. Arthur Cole is the son of my mother’s best friend. Mark Marston is someone I cultivated a relationship with myself.” “What about their personal relationship with Vincent?” “It exists,” I said, setting my cup down. “But it’s not as strong as he thinks it is.” “Rebecca, do you understand the relationship between a lawyer and a client?” “Of course.” “Most of the time, the client isn’t loyal to the lawyer. They’re loyal to the person who made the introduction.” Rebecca stared at me, slowly lowering her chopsticks. “What’s your plan?” “We take our time. One by one.” I took out my phone and opened a document. “We start with Redmond. His daughter is getting married next month. I’ve already prepared a gift. I’ll deliver it in person and casually bring up the subject of consolidating family enterprise legal services.” “What kind of consolidation?” “I’ll tell him that my family’s trust is restructuring and requires an independent legal team, separate from Vincent’s firm, to avoid any potential conflicts of interest.” “Is that a solid reason?” “It is. Mr. Redmond is a businessman. The words ‘conflict of interest’ are more persuasive to him than any piece of gossip.” Rebecca was silent for a moment. “Sophia, what on earth happened between you and Vincent?” I didn’t answer her question. “Rebecca, all you need to do is be ready to take on these clients. Your team’s work has to be impeccable. No screw-ups.” “You can count on me for that.” “One more thing.” “What is it?” “Until this is done, no one can know that I’m involved. Not even the people at your firm.” “How long will this take?” “Two months.” By the time I left the restaurant, it was already dark. The streetlights stretched my shadow long and thin behind me. Before getting in my car, I glanced back to make sure I wasn’t being followed by any familiar vehicles. Then I drove away. With my hands on the steering wheel, I felt something I had never felt before. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t relief. It was clarity. Ten years of marriage had been like a veil over my eyes, and now, a hand had violently ripped it away. My entire world looked different. On the way home, I stopped at the supermarket and bought two pounds of steak. Vincent had mentioned he wanted some the other day. When I walked in, he was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. He looked up at me. “What’d you get?” “Steak.” “Good.” He went back to his phone. A notification popped up on his screen. I caught a glimpse of a pink profile picture. I went into the kitchen and put the steak in the fridge. Then I started making soup.

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It was a freezing Sunday morning, and I was lighting a fresh memorial candle at my daughter’s grave. My son-in-law, Oliver, suddenly broke the silence, asking if I knew where Sweetpea lived. He told me that before Lily died, she constantly talked about someone named Sweetpea, calling this person her savior. He said he wanted to pay them a visit to show his gratitude. My hand froze in midair. I almost dropped the lighter. Sweetpea wasn’t some stranger. It was the embarrassing childhood nickname I had given my daughter. When Lily grew up, she thought the name was incredibly childish and absolutely forbade me from ever saying it out loud. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Why on earth would she tell her husband that Sweetpea was her savior? 1 My daughter was brutally murdered in a dark alleyway three months ago. She was eight months pregnant at the time. The killer showed absolutely no mercy, taking her life and the life of her unborn baby in one horrific act of violence. When the police called and I rushed to the scene, the sheer trauma of seeing what was left of her made me pass out on the wet pavement. Oliver was completely destroyed. He sat by her body in the freezing rain, weeping until his voice gave out. The shock and grief were so profound that streaks of silver appeared in his hair overnight. The crime shocked the entire city. Everyone was disgusted by the killer’s cruelty and heartbroken over Lily’s fate. The police department immediately set up a special task force. But because Lily died in a blind spot without a single security camera, there were no witnesses. It was pouring rain that night, washing away any footprints or DNA. The killer vanished like a ghost. The task force worked around the clock for days but came up completely empty. Refusing to let the monster walk free, Oliver publicly offered a massive million-dollar reward. He went on every local news station, begging the public to help find the person who slaughtered his family. For a while, the whole country was obsessed with the case. But three agonizing months passed. Every lead turned into a dead end. Just yesterday, the department officially disbanded the special task force. The million-dollar reward sat unclaimed. The murder of my daughter was officially a cold case. I honestly thought the truth would stay buried forever. But right now, hearing Oliver’s question, a sharp tremor went through my heart. I looked up at him, studying his face. “When exactly did Lily say Sweetpea was her savior?” Oliver thought for a few seconds, his expression completely serious. “Just a few days before she was killed.” Something was wrong. Something was horribly, twistedly wrong. I kept my eyes locked on his face. “What were her exact words?” Oliver met my gaze, his eyes pooling with sadness. “She said if it wasn’t for Sweetpea, she wouldn’t have survived this long. She called Sweetpea the greatest blessing of her life and made me promise to repay the favor if we ever got the chance.” He took a shaky breath. “I kept asking her who this person was and where they lived. She just smiled and said she would introduce me after the baby was born. I never thought she wouldn’t make it to that day.” His voice cracked as he spoke, dropping into a devastated whisper. But down by my side, my fingers were digging into the cold wet dirt. I called her Sweetpea because she was such a tiny, chubby, sweet-smelling baby. Later, when she started dating, she specifically warned me. She told me if she ever got a boyfriend or got married, I was never allowed to utter that nickname around him. She was terrified of being teased. From that day on, Sweetpea became a banned word between us. Lily hated that nickname so much. There was absolutely zero chance she would willingly bring it up to Oliver. And there was definitely no way she would call Sweetpea her savior. So who was lying to me? 2 While my mind was spinning, Oliver spoke again. “Mom, it was just the two of you growing up. Do you have any idea who this Sweetpea is?” I chose not to tell him the truth. Instead, I looked at him, let two seconds of heavy silence pass, and calmly shook my head. “Never heard of them.” A flash of disappointment crossed Oliver’s eyes. “I really wanted to thank them. Just to fulfill Lily’s last wish. But if you don’t know them either, I guess I’ll have to let it go.” I didn’t say a word. I just looked down and fixed the flowers. But the suspicion in my chest was growing into a raging fire. My husband died when I was young, and I raised Lily all by myself. Working double shifts while being a single mom was hell, but Lily was an angel. She never caused trouble. She was so gentle that she had never even been in a shouting match with anyone, let alone made mortal enemies. That was exactly why the cops were so stumped. She had no enemies. Oliver and Lily met in college. They dated for five years and had been married for three. For eight whole years, Oliver treated her like royalty. Every time Lily called me, she was bragging about him. “Mom, Oliver just signed up for a culinary class so he can make me healthy meals every night.” “Mom, I coughed twice this morning and Oliver dragged me to the clinic for a full checkup. He’s such a worrywart.” “Mom, a huge stray dog charged at me today. Oliver threw himself right in front of me and fought it off barehanded. He was bleeding everywhere but didn’t even care. He just cried because I scraped my knee falling down.” “Mom, I’m pregnant! Oliver is over the moon. He just booked the most expensive maternity clinic in the city. He swore he would protect us with his life.” She was so incredibly happy. As a mother, I could see the glow radiating from her. And I genuinely believed Oliver loved her with everything he had. That was why he aged ten years overnight when she died. For the last three months, he hadn’t slept a full night. Once the million-dollar bounty went public, his phone rang off the hook. If a caller spotted someone suspicious across the state, he would drive there immediately. Once, at two in the morning, someone called saying a creepy drifter was following pregnant women in the next county. Oliver threw on a jacket, drove four hours in the pitch black, and found nothing. This happened every single day. People told him to rest. He would just grit his teeth and shake his head. “I am not missing a single chance to get justice for Lily.” When the task force shut down, he begged them on his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Please, keep looking. My wife and baby can’t die for nothing.” I was hospitalized for shock after the funeral. I refused to eat. I wanted to die. Oliver was the one who stayed by my bed day and night, talking me off the ledge. He held my hand and cried. “Mom, you are the most important person in Lily’s world. If she looks down from heaven and sees you like this, it would break her heart.” If it wasn’t for Oliver, I would probably be in a psychiatric ward right now. Because I knew exactly how good he was, I was losing my mind trying to figure out who was lying. If Oliver was lying, how did he find out about the nickname, and why spin this weird story? If Lily was lying to Oliver, what was the point of telling him that? Was she trying to send a message? Right when I felt my head was about to split open, my cell phone buzzed. It was Detective Garrett, the head of the disbanded task force. As soon as I answered, his voice came through completely breathless. “Sarah, someone just anonymously leaked a hidden camera video of the alley from the night your daughter died.” 3 My knees gave out. I had to grab the gravestone to keep from falling. Oliver, who had heard the voice through the speaker, went wide-eyed. He leaned in and yelled into the phone. “Detective! Are you serious?” Garrett cleared his throat, his tone dead serious. “Dead serious. How fast can you two get down to the precinct?” We both nodded aggressively, practically screaming into the receiver. “We are on our way!” Oliver drove like a maniac. His hands were physically shaking on the steering wheel, and he had the gas pedal slammed to the floor. He looked like a man desperate to rip the killer apart with his bare teeth. We burst into the station a few minutes later. Detective Garrett was waiting in the conference room with a laptop open on the table. He skipped the pleasantries. “Tech guys already verified it. The footage is raw. No deepfakes, no edits. I need you both to watch this closely and tell me if you recognize the guy.” He hit play. It was nighttime. The alley was dark, lacking streetlights, so the footage was incredibly grainy. But I instantly recognized the brick walls. It was the alley. On the screen, my pregnant daughter was walking slowly in the rain, holding an umbrella. Two seconds later, a man stepped into the frame. He was wearing a black hoodie pulled up tight, a baseball cap, and a medical mask. He kept a steady distance, about ten feet right behind Lily. You couldn’t see a single inch of his face. But you could see his build. He was short, almost skeletal. And he walked with a severe, heavy limp. A few seconds later, Lily turned the corner into the blind spot. The man paused at the mouth of the alley, looked left, looked right, and followed her into the dark. The video cut to black. Detective Garrett paused on the frame of the man, zooming in on his hunched, limping figure. “Have either of you ever seen this man in your lives?” I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. I shook my head. “Never.” Oliver’s face was completely drained of color. “I have no idea who that is.” Garrett played it again, this time at half speed. He pointed at the screen with a pen. “Based on the coroner’s timeline, your daughter was attacked the moment she entered that blind spot. This man is our prime suspect.” Knowing I was staring at the monster who butchered my baby made my blood boil. I leaned in, practically pressing my nose against the monitor, praying to recognize something. But he was completely covered. The only thing visible was his eyes, caught for a split second reflecting the distant streetlamp. For some inexplicable reason, those eyes gave me a weird, prickling sense of deja vu. But my mind was blank. I couldn’t place them. Garrett looped the video a dozen times. No matter how hard we looked, we had no names to give him. The room fell dead silent. Finally, I looked at Garrett. “Is that the only clip?” He nodded, looking exhausted. “I was packing up my desk yesterday. Then this morning, this file drops into my inbox. And it wasn’t just me. The sender mass-emailed it to every single officer in the building, plus three local news anchors.” He sighed heavily. “It’s all over the internet now. The public is out for blood. The mayor just called and forced the department to reopen the case. Everyone wants this guy’s head on a spike.” Something didn’t sit right with me. “Why did the sender wait three months? Why wait until the day after your team officially shut down to make a huge spectacle out of it?” It made zero sense. This was the golden ticket. If the person who filmed this had turned it in on day one, they would be a millionaire right now thanks to Oliver’s reward. Why hide, ignore the money, and wait until the cops gave up to drop a bomb? Garrett rubbed his temples. “We think they wanted to cause maximum panic. They want a media circus. We tried tracking the IP address, but it bounced through ten different countries. The sender is a ghost.” Oliver slammed his hands on the table. “Can’t you track him through other street cameras? He didn’t just teleport there! Pull the footage from every block in a five-mile radius!” Garrett looked over at Toby, the tech guy at the corner desk. Toby typed frantically. “We are pulling all commercial and traffic cameras from the night of the murder. We are through seventy percent of the footage, but there is no sign of…” Before Toby could finish, Garrett’s radio crackled loudly. “Boss, patrol unit three. We are doing a sweep of the lower east side. We just spotted a guy matching the suspect’s description. Same hoodie, same heavy limp.” Garrett shot out of his chair like a rocket. “Do not engage. Keep eyes on him. We are on our way right now!” 4 Oliver and I jumped into the back of Garrett’s unmarked cruiser. Twenty minutes later, tires screeching, we pulled up outside a decaying, rundown apartment complex on the edge of town. Several plainclothes officers were already waiting by the dumpsters. They jogged up to Garrett. “Boss, asked around. Neighborhood kids call him Limping Jack. He’s a drifter, collects cans for cash. Wanders the streets all day. He went into the ground floor unit right there and hasn’t come out.” Garrett drew his weapon and signaled the men to move quietly toward the peeling wooden door of the apartment. I stayed close behind Garrett, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Oliver was pacing behind me, aggressively twisting his wedding ring. “Lily… we are finally going to get him. We are finally going to make him pay.” His voice was vibrating with emotion. He had been waiting for this exact moment. Garrett knocked sharply on the door. “Gas company. We have a reported leak, open up.” Footsteps shuffled inside. A heavy deadbolt clicked. The door swung open. Standing there was a frail, hunched man. Half of his face was covered in horrific, melted burn scars. And his eyes… they were the exact same eyes from the grainy video. Seeing the badges instead of gas workers didn’t shock him. Limping Jack stared at the cops, paused for two seconds, and actually smiled. “Took you long enough.” His voice was calm. Unnervingly calm. Like a man waiting for a dinner guest. Garrett instantly sensed danger and tackled the man to the ground. Two other cops piled on, pinning his arms. Jack didn’t even try to fight back. With his face pressed against the dirty linoleum floor, he kept laughing. “I waited three whole months for you guys. Finally. Hahaha!” That laugh sent a block of ice sliding down my spine. Feeling sick, my eyes wandered past the scuffle and into his cramped apartment. What I saw made the breath leave my lungs. Every single inch of his four walls was plastered with photographs. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. And they were all of my daughter. There was a picture of her as a toddler in the park, wearing pigtails. There was her in middle school, carrying a heavy backpack. Her sitting in the college library, chewing on a pencil. Her in a wedding dress, holding Oliver’s arm. There was even a recent one, her heavily pregnant, watering plants on her balcony. The pictures documented her entire existence. From a little girl to a grown woman. A complete timeline of my baby’s life. I was paralyzed. Oliver froze in the doorway. A second later, a guttural scream ripped out of his throat. He lunged forward, grabbing Jack by the collar and hoisting him up. “You sick, twisted freak! You’ve been stalking her for years?!” Jack didn’t flinch. He let his head hang back and let out another raspy laugh. “That’s right.” “I killed her.” The moment the words left his mouth, Oliver’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw with a sickening crack. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!” It was the first time I had ever seen Oliver lose his mind. He was a wild animal, raining punches down on the frail man, his eyes bloodshot, fully ready to murder him right there on the floor. Garrett and another cop had to physically put Oliver in a chokehold to drag him off. Oliver was still thrashing wildly, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What did she ever do to you?! Why did you have to hurt her?!” Jack wiped the blood from his mouth. He completely ignored Oliver. Instead, his eyes found mine, locking onto me from across the room. He spoke softly. “I confess. Take me away.” Garrett holstered his weapon and gestured to his men. “Get him in the car.” They slapped the cuffs on him and hauled him up. Again, no struggling. Jack actually walked toward the police cruiser faster than the cops pulling him. He was desperate to be arrested. Watching his hunched back and heavy limp as he walked away, an overwhelming sense of wrongness washed over me. Nothing made sense. Who was this man? Why did he photograph my daughter for twenty years, only to brutally murder her right before she gave birth? Why would he pick a perfect blind spot to commit the murder, completely avoiding detection, but then leave his front door unlocked and practically beg the cops to arrest him? Why say he waited three months? And the video… if he filmed it himself, why wait? Why turn down a million dollars just to send an anonymous email to the news? And what about Oliver? Why did he lie about Lily mentioning Sweetpea? My brain felt like it was trapped in a blender. Everything was spinning out of control. I leaned against the wall to keep from collapsing. As I did, my gaze drifted to the dirty window of the apartment. Sitting on the windowsill was a small, potted sunflower. It was completely dead. Withered and black. The moment I saw it, my heart stopped. A terrifying, earth-shattering realization hit me like a freight train.

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I was terrified. Every time I thought about my ending in the book, I couldn’t stop shaking. It turned out I was the product of my mother’s affair. Such a soapy, twisted plot. According to the novel, my older sister, Abby, was abused by my mother her entire childhood, both physically and mentally. This trauma turned her into a twisted, ruthless, and cold-blooded villainess. The first thing she did after taking control of the family was expose my true parentage. She threw my mother and me out onto the street and spent the rest of her life torturing us. But after I transmigrated into this world, I realized something shocking: this older sister was actually the female lead of the story. My mother kept her locked in the attic, feeding her only once a day. My scumbag father, after bringing her home, completely ignored her existence. It wasn’t until I was five years old that I even knew I had an older half-sister. My playboy father only cared about his own pleasure; he never gave a damn about his kids. 1 My mother left the house right after finishing breakfast with me. At my age, I should have been in kindergarten, but because of my weak constitution, I was kept at home to rest. I sneaked into the kitchen and asked Mary, our cook, for another plate of soup dumplings and a glass of milk. Mary looked down at me, surprised. “Leo, are you still hungry?” I tilted my head back, my neck aching a bit from looking up at her. “I need to eat more to grow tall.” And just like that, I got my second breakfast. Holding the small tray, I refused Mary’s help and wobbled my way down to the end of the hallway. I struggled to turn the doorknob, pushed the door open, picked up the tray again, and walked in. Abby’s room wasn’t spacious—it was actually smaller than my walk-in closet—but it was clean and well-lit. She was sitting on the floor by the window, reading a book. She didn’t react at all when I walked in. I set the tray down. “Sister, eat.” I remembered the book saying that my mother starved her, giving her only one meal a day. This eventually caused the female lead to develop chronic stomach issues. Although her stomach pain later became a plot device to bring her and the male lead closer, I mentally apologized to him—he was the male lead, he could find another way to spark romance with her. But I was different. I was just a vicious male supporting character destined to die a horrible death. Abby stared at me blankly, her eyes ice-cold. I wiped my hands, picked up a dumpling, ate one myself, and then grabbed another and shoved it directly toward her mouth. The dumpling was honestly too big for me, and I nearly choked to death on the first one. Abby had no choice but to pat my back and feed me a sip of milk. Once I finally caught my breath, I looked at the glass—I had chugged more than half of the milk. I felt a pang of guilt. “Mom’s not home,” I explained softly. “I told Mary I was still hungry, so she gave me this.” Nobody else knew, but Abby was only seven years old. No matter how powerful she became later in the story, right now, she was just a starving child. She lowered her eyes and slowly, silently, finished the dumplings. At the very end, without any hesitation, she drank the rest of the milk I had started. Watching her, I felt a spark of hope for my future survival. I waited a while before taking the empty tray back. Mary just assumed I was a growing boy with a big appetite and didn’t suspect a thing. My mother didn’t come home for lunch either. Mary made me tomato noodles with a bunch of colorful, kid-friendly toppings. “Mary, can you make a little extra?” I asked. Mary smiled. “Leo is eating so well today.” I thought to myself, I’ll probably be eating this much every single day from now on. I actually had a very small appetite. Looking at the heavy tray, I thought for a second, then stood up wobbly. “Mary, Leo wants to eat in his room.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry that for you?” she asked. “Leo can do it himself,” I insisted. I had a playroom filled with Legos where I spent most of my time, so it wasn’t weird for me to walk in that direction. I walked right past my playroom, straight to the end of the hall. “Sister, open the door!” I called out. I was using every ounce of strength to hold the heavy tray. If I put it down, I probably wouldn’t be able to pick it back up. Thankfully, Abby opened the door just in time and took the tray from my shaking hands. I sighed in relief. But when I looked at the table, my expression froze. There was a bowl of plain noodles sitting there. Not a single vegetable, no meat, nothing. It was a miracle the female lead managed to grow tall eating such garbage. I walked over, pushed the plain noodles aside, and slid my tray into the center. “Sister, eat this.” Abby looked at the colorful, rich tomato noodles, then at me. “Did you eat?” My stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly. I yelled, “Sister, you eat first!” Keeping the female lead fed was my top priority. Plus, I remembered I had an entire cabinet of snacks in my room. Abby stayed silent for a moment. She picked up a pair of chopsticks, scooped a small bowl of noodles, sat in front of me, and held some up to my mouth. “I’m not hungry. You eat.” I shivered slightly and obediently opened my mouth. I always felt that she didn’t seem like a female lead at all; she felt more like the ultimate villain. She was only seven, but she was already terrifying. I took a few bites and was instantly full, just chewing without swallowing. Abby glanced at me. “Full?” I nodded rapidly. Only then did she begin to eat the rest of the noodles from the tray. This time, I didn’t take the tray back to the kitchen. I left it in my playroom, knocked it around to make it look messy, and then told my nanny to clean it up. That night, both my father and mother came home together. My eyelid twitched. When these two were in the same room, it was usually like Mars colliding with Earth. My mother patted my head and went straight upstairs. My father, however, knelt down and looked at me. “Did Leo have fun playing today?” I nodded. “Yes.” My father actually cared about his son at this point. He held me and talked to me for a good while. My heart skipped a beat. I just hoped that when this cheap dad found out I wasn’t his biological son, he would still speak to me this gently. Even Abby was called down for dinner that night. I quickly realized that when my father was around, my mother didn’t dare go too far. Our family sat around the dining table, putting on a fake show of harmony, eating in complete silence. My father cut the steak on my plate into tiny pieces and handed it back to me. “Does Leo want to go to kindergarten and make some new friends?” I completely froze. I blinked my big eyes at him. “Leo doesn’t want to go to school. Leo wants to stay home.” My father and mother exchanged a look. When it came to me, they were actually on the same page. “How about we invite your cousin from your uncle’s house to come play with you?” my mother suggested. It took me half a minute to remember who she was talking about. It was a minor bully character who tormented the female lead in the book. “I want that huge Lego set! I want to play by myself!” I quickly said, using my hands to gesture how big it was. After a lot of frantic hand waving, my mother finally understood. My father laughed. “Alright, Daddy will buy it for you.” It was obvious my father didn’t want me interacting too much with my mother’s side of the family either, so the conversation hit a dead end. After a while, my mother put down her silverware and went upstairs. My father wiped his mouth and said, “Leo, keep eating with your sister.” I nodded. “Okay.” Once my father was out of sight, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear. I grabbed a spoon, scooped up a massive piece of my favorite stir-fried meat, and stretched my little arm across the table. “Sister, this is really good.” Abby watched my shaking hand. Seeing that the meat was about to fall off the spoon, she sighed softly, picked up her plate, and caught it. I finished my dinner feeling incredibly satisfied. I firmly believed that the bond we were building, meal by meal, would eventually convince the female lead to spare my life. The childhood phase that passed by in a single blink in the novel, I had to survive day by day. My fake parents actually treated me really well. Even though they were rarely home, they never deprived me of anything material. This made it easy for me to secretly take care of Abby. But every time my mother came home, it was absolute torture for me. I wanted to be close to her, but I was also terrified of her. As the mother of my original character, I had thought about trying to pull her back from the edge—at least save her from her miserable fate in the book. But whenever she looked at Abby, she turned into a monster. She used every excuse to torment the girl, venting all her hatred for my father onto this innocent child. Once, I was so terrified by one of her cruel punishments that I developed a high fever in the middle of the night and started hallucinating. The next morning, when Abby and I saw each other, it was hard to tell who looked worse. I couldn’t change my mother’s mind, so I just focused on making Abby’s life a little more bearable. I even managed to skip grades so I could be in the same class as the female lead. From elementary to middle school, my father arranged for both of us to attend the same elite private academy. My mother threw a fit at first, but eventually, for some reason, she agreed. Having read the book, I knew exactly why. Because everyone knew Abby was an illegitimate child hated by her own family. The kids at the academy came from wealthy, powerful backgrounds, and they loved bullying her for entertainment. Although the novel only mentioned it briefly, I could imagine the absolute hell she went through at school. One Monday morning, I sat in the car, fighting back yawns. As soon as Abby got in, I hit the button to raise the privacy partition between us and the driver. Then, I pulled a bag of cookies and a carton of milk out of my backpack. “Breakfast. You have fifteen minutes.” In the original novel, my character inherited my mother’s nasty temper and kicked Abby out of the car on the very first day of school, forcing her to walk. Abby had to walk for an hour and obviously arrived late. After that, she woke up before dawn every single day to walk to school, until our elderly butler finally took pity on her and secretly lent her his son’s bicycle. But now? I was terrified of not treating her well enough. There was no way I’d let her walk. Abby ate quietly. Right as the car pulled up to the school gates, I grabbed the empty wrappers, shoved them into my bag, and hopped out of the car pretending nothing had happened. “Sister,” I whispered, “if anyone bullies you, tell me. I’ll beat them up.” At school, I always pretended not to know her well. That was, until the day I saw three kids cornering her, digging through her books, and shoving her shoulder. As I got closer, I heard their ugly laughter. I couldn’t take it. I had no idea how Abby managed to stay so expressionless through it all. I marched right up and kicked the lead kid’s desk as hard as I could. It flipped over with a massive crash, scattering textbooks everywhere. I sneered at them. “No matter what, her last name is still the same as mine. Who gave you the right to teach her a lesson?” Even though I was short, my cold voice and aggressive entrance terrified the entire classroom into dead silence. The boy leading the group started to get angry, but his friend pulled his sleeve. They muttered under their breath, flipped the desk back over, and slinked away. The kid’s last name was Vance. His family did a lot of business with my mother’s side, so he didn’t dare cross me. Abby quietly picked up her books from the floor without saying a single word. When I sat down, I realized my foot was throbbing in pain. Thinking about my fragile glass-doll body, I fell silent. Eventually, I begged my mother to let me take taekwondo classes. She agreed and hired a private coach to train me at home. Because of that, Abby heard me screaming in pain on a regular basis. She looked at me with very complicated eyes back then, but ultimately just patted my head. During lunch break, I sat on the school roof with the massive bento box delivered from home, waiting in absolute boredom. Just as I was starting to panic that she hadn’t seen the note I slipped her, she finally appeared. I scratched my head. “I thought you didn’t see the note.” She explained that she got held up by something. My internal alarms instantly went off. “Did they bully you again?” Ever since I kicked that desk, nobody had dared touch her. She shook her head. “No.” Then I noticed the apple in her hand, and my brain started spinning. Who else would give the female lead an apple at school besides the male lead? Before high school, their interactions were supposed to be minimal, but the plot always found a way to push them together. The male lead was smart, handsome, and incredibly kind. He stepped up to help her multiple times, acting as the single ray of light in her childhood outside of her mother. This was all laying the groundwork for them to meet, understand each other, and fall in love. I relaxed and opened the food container. Mary knew exactly how much I “ate.” Every single box had two massive layers—way more than both of us could finish. The school cafeteria had amazing food, but I remembered a scene from the book where someone dumped a tray of food all over Abby, leaving her starving after she had to change clothes. I was not letting her suffer that indignity. After we finished eating, Abby packed up the containers for me and left the apple behind. I stared at it. “This apple…” “What?” she asked. “You don’t want it?” “It’s not that I don’t want it,” I mumbled. Abby turned to leave, her face blank. “If you don’t want it, throw it away.” I stared at the apple in a daze. The novel spent so much time describing her intense control issues and possessiveness—especially when it came to the male lead and anything related to him. Did this apple really mean absolutely nothing to her? This was a gift from your childhood crush! I didn’t dare eat it. I just packed it in my bag, figuring that if she regretted it later, I could give it back. But days passed, the apple started to rot, and she never brought it up again. I chalked it up to the timeline. They were still kids. Their real romance didn’t blossom until high school. During my last year of middle school, my mother’s side of the family took a massive financial hit. Whenever my parents were home together, it was a warzone. Back when our family was struggling, my mother’s family helped a lot. Now that they were crashing, my father refused to lift a finger. Their screaming matches echoed from the second floor all the way down to the living room. I sat on the couch with my earbuds in, calmly doing my homework. Abby raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried?” I pulled out an earbud. “What?” She pointed toward the ceiling. I shrugged. “Adult problems. Kids shouldn’t get involved. Besides, I know her family will take a hit, but they won’t go bankrupt.” They were stepping stones for the female lead. Until she grew powerful enough to crush them, they couldn’t fall. As long as her family stayed afloat, my secret parentage wouldn’t be exposed, and everything was manageable. I smiled. “I need to finish this fast so I can watch TV.” I was obsessed with a new drama and needed to catch up on the latest episodes. That day, my father slammed the front door and left. My mother threw an absolute fit. That night, my mother claimed she lost an expensive necklace and “found” it in Abby’s room. She accused Abby of stealing and forced her to kneel outside in the snow for two hours. It was the dead of winter. Abby knelt in the snow wearing nothing but thin pajamas. I was so anxious I was on the verge of tears, but one sharp look from Abby forced me to stay calm. My mother did it on purpose. Whether a maid actually stole it and hid it, or my mother orchestrated the whole thing, she just needed an excuse to punish her. Abby’s existence was a thorn in her side, and my father’s refusal to help her family today had driven that thorn even deeper. I sat on the stairs, hugging my knees, looking out the window at the frail girl kneeling in the snow. I felt like I had tried so hard for years, but nothing had really changed. The next morning at school, I tracked down the male lead, Ethan, and asked him to help me buy some medicine. He looked confused. “Doesn’t the school clinic have that stuff?” I lowered my head, looking embarrassed. “I got frostbite playing in the snow, and I don’t want my mom to know. If I go to the clinic, they’ll log my name and call my parents.” Ethan immediately understood. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I sighed in relief. This was the safest way I could think of. I knew the male lead was a good guy, and it was a great excuse to earn some favor with him. That night, my mother thankfully wasn’t home. I breathed a sigh of relief and snuck into Abby’s room with my backpack. She was sitting up in bed, reading. Her face was frighteningly pale, but her expression was perfectly calm. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “I asked Ethan to buy some medicine,” I said softly. “Do you remember him? The guy in the white shirt who smiles with his eyes?” Abby gave a faint “Mm.” I reached out to roll up her pajama pants, but she grabbed my wrist. She looked a bit uncomfortable. “I can do it myself.” I obediently let go. “I’ll go check what’s for dinner.” When I came back with the tray, she had finished applying the ointment and was out of bed. Usually, I was the one keeping the conversation going, but I was in a terrible mood today, so we ate in silence. I pulled a test paper out of my bag. “They handed this out today. With your grades, it doesn’t matter if you don’t do it.” Abby was a master at hiding her true potential. She purposely kept her grades slightly above average—not terrible, but never standing out. She took the paper from me and coughed twice. I stared at her pale face, feeling my chest tighten. “Are you sick?” The moment I asked, I felt stupid. Who wouldn’t be sick after kneeling in the freezing snow for two hours? “I’m fine,” she said flatly. I didn’t believe her. I ran to my room and grabbed the first-aid kit. Unsurprisingly, she was running a high fever. Thank god we had the right medicine in the box. Looking at her miserable state, my nose started to sting. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. Fat tears started rolling down my face. For the first time, Abby looked panicked. “What’s wrong?” I shook my head. “Nothing. I just feel so useless.” In the beginning, I only took care of her to save my own skin. But after spending so many years together, I truly saw her as my family, my friend. Yet every time she suffered, I was powerless to stop it. I could only stand by and watch. Abby shifted on the bed. She reached out and placed her hand gently on my head. “I don’t blame you. Stop crying.” Hearing that made me want to cry even harder. I couldn’t help it—I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around her, and sobbed for a good ten minutes. She froze completely, her body rigid, but she didn’t push me away. When I finally stopped crying, I realized what I had just done and was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “Get some rest,” I mumbled, scrambling toward the door. “I’m going to do my homework.” The next day, her fever was worse. I woke up extra early to sneak her some breakfast and medicine, only to find I couldn’t even wake her up. My eyes got hot. I took a deep breath, blinked hard, and forced myself to act completely normal. I packed away the food and medicine, made sure my face wasn’t red, and walked out to the dining room for breakfast. I frowned, putting on my best annoyed brat act. “Is she not going to school again today?” Mary paused while serving porridge. “I think she’s still feeling unwell.” I scoffed loudly. “Get a doctor to look at her. If something happens to her, Dad is just going to come home and scream at Mom again.” Mary nodded quickly. “You’re right. I’ll let the butler know right away.” I let out a breath. If the butler knew, my father would find out, and there was no way he would let her die of a fever. I spent the entire day at school completely distracted. I kept staring at her empty desk, wondering if the doctor ever showed up. I prayed her brain didn’t get fried by the fever. It wasn’t until I rushed home and saw her sitting on the couch that my heart finally settled back into my chest. Thank god she was alive. I rushed over, worried. “Why are you out of bed?”

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This marriage was destined to be a business transaction from day one. My family’s company desperately needed a massive infusion of capital to stay afloat, and his family was drowning in a messy, high-stakes legal battle. We each had something the other needed. That was the only reason we walked down the aisle. From the moment we said our vows, we slept in separate bedrooms. I remember mustering up the courage shortly after the wedding to ask if I could move my things into the master suite. He rejected the idea without a second of hesitation. His reason was simple. Caroline would mind. Caroline. His first love. The girl he could never let go of. He looked at me with ice in his eyes and added that if it had not been for me, they would not have ended up like this. He told me to just leave things as they were. I stood there frozen. It took me a long time to force a single, pathetic “okay” past the lump in my throat. I never brought up sharing a bed again. For three years, no matter the occasion, the woman standing by his side was always Caroline. She was at his family dinners. She was on his arm at the corporate galas. Even at my own mother’s birthday party, she was the one hovering near him. Everyone whispered behind my back. They all gossiped about who the real mistress of the house actually was. But it didn’t matter anymore. The financial crisis was averted, and the lawsuits were settled. It was finally time for me to leave. 1 I sat in the study, reading the divorce settlement from top to bottom one last time. Black ink on white paper. Crystal clear. Under the asset division section, I asked for absolutely nothing. The sprawling estate belonged to him before we married, so he kept it. The luxury cars stayed with him. His company shares had nothing to do with me. I only needed the money I had in my own savings account. I picked up a pen and signed my name on the dotted line. Serena Kensington. Three years ago, I was stupid enough to think that even though this marriage started as a corporate deal, maybe we could build something real. I was such a fool. I slid the documents into a manila envelope and left it on the coffee table. Then I picked up my phone and opened my text thread with him. “Come home early tonight. There’s something we need to discuss.” About two minutes later, a single word popped up on the screen. “Okay.” I locked my phone and tossed it onto the sofa. Turning around, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. It was a massive, gorgeous kitchen. It featured a double-door smart fridge, built-in dual ovens, and imported German cookware, all arranged in pristine order. But I rarely used any of it. When we first got married, I tried cooking a few times. I wanted him to have a hot meal waiting for him after a long day at the office. The first time, I spent hours making a slow-roasted beef brisket. He took one bite and said it was decent. Then his phone rang. He grabbed his coat and walked out the door, saying Caroline had an emergency. The second time, I made pan-seared sea bass. He never came home at all. The third time, I prepared an entire feast. I stood over the stove from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening. He actually came home that night, but Caroline was trailing right behind him. They walked in laughing and joking. When he saw the dining table covered in food, he paused for a second before shaking his head. “We already made reservations. We’re eating out.” Caroline stood behind his shoulder, tilting her head to look at me. She offered a sickeningly sweet smile. “You worked so hard for nothing.” Just thinking about that smile makes my stomach churn with acid. I never cooked for him again. Seven o’clock rolled around. He wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. Still empty. At nine, my phone finally buzzed. I glanced at the screen. It was a text from him. “Caroline is dealing with some stuff. I’m going to be late. Go to sleep first, don’t wait up.” I stared at those words for a very long time. Go to sleep first. Don’t wait up. I had been reading those exact words for three years. It was always like this. It was always Caroline. She was a walking disaster zone, and he was her personal first responder. If she caught a cold, he had to be there. If she felt sad, he had to be there. He helped her move apartments. He even held her hand when she adopted a stray cat. Once, Caroline mentioned she was craving a specific slice of cake from a bakery across town. He drove forty minutes in gridlock traffic to buy it, delivered it to her condo, and waited until she finished eating before heading back. He walked through the front door at 1 AM. I asked him if he had eaten dinner. He said he already ate at Caroline’s place. Then he took a shower and went straight to sleep in the guest room. I should have woken up and smelled the coffee that night. But I didn’t. I kept tricking myself into believing that since we were legally bound, we owed it to each other to try. I thought that if enough time passed, he would realize I wasn’t a monster. I thought that if I played the perfect, understanding wife, he would eventually turn around and see me. Looking back, it was completely delusional. If someone doesn’t have a space for you in their heart, bending over backwards will only break your spine. He wasn’t going to fall in love with me just because I was a good wife. He just felt entitled to my goodness. I didn’t reply to his text. In the past, I would always send back a polite “Okay” to let him know I understood. Sometimes I would even add a pathetic “drive safe,” desperately trying to show him how graceful and mature I was. But tonight, I didn’t want to reply. It didn’t matter anyway. In a few days, I would never receive a text from him again. 2 I left my phone on the coffee table and grabbed the remote to change the channel. A reality show was playing. A bunch of celebrities were laughing hysterically at some pointless joke. I leaned back against the cushions. The contrast between the bright, noisy television and my dead, silent reality felt completely absurd. Here I was, sitting in a multi-million dollar mansion, chained to a ghost of a marriage, waiting for a man who would never prioritize me. And he was out keeping his first love company. He did it openly. He felt completely justified. Because on the day we got our marriage license, he made his stance crystal clear. If it weren’t for me, he and Caroline would be living happily ever after. In his eyes, I was the villain who tore them apart. I was the ruthless heiress who shoved her way into his life, using my family’s connections and his company’s lawsuit to force a ring onto his finger. But what was the actual truth? The truth was that my father’s business was bleeding cash and teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Meanwhile, Arthur’s corporation was drowning in a catastrophic lawsuit that only my family’s political network could make disappear. The patriarchs of both families sat down over an expensive dinner and finalized the merger. Nobody asked me if I wanted to be a bride. Nobody asked him if he wanted to be a groom. To the rest of the world, it was a perfectly balanced business deal. He provided the funding. My family provided the muscle. A clean exchange. Caroline was just the unfortunate collateral damage. Arthur firmly believed I had stolen her rightful place. I had forced her to step down from the role of the beloved girlfriend to the tragic, hidden ex. So he poured all his guilt into spoiling Caroline, and he saved all his freezing indifference for me. On our wedding night, he drank himself into a stupor. His groomsmen had to drag him into the house. I tried to help him take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie. He grabbed my wrist with a grip so tight it bruised. “Serena Kensington.” He spat my full name, his voice ragged and slurred. “You know exactly what this marriage is. I don’t love you, and I will never love you as long as I breathe. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll play the quiet little wife and stay out of my way. Do not expect me to ever touch you.” He let go of my wrist, stumbled down the hallway, and locked himself in the guest bedroom. We slept in separate rooms from that night forward. He took the guest room. I took the master suite. Thinking about it now, over the course of three years, he had only stepped foot in the master bedroom twice. The first time was on our wedding night to deliver that speech. The second time was last winter when I caught a nasty virus. My fever spiked to 103 degrees, and I was delirious. The housekeeper panicked and called him. He showed up two hours later, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, stared at me for ten seconds, and told the housekeeper to take me to the ER. Then he left. He said Caroline had an incredibly important social event, and he needed to be her plus-one. He didn’t come home at all that night. When I woke up at seven the next morning, I checked my phone. My screen was completely blank. Not a single text checking to see if I was alive. I washed my face and walked downstairs. The housekeeper, Martha, was already prepping breakfast. When she saw me walking down alone, she opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, and finally just asked gently what I wanted to eat. “Just some plain oatmeal, please.” I sat at the kitchen island. My phone screen finally lit up. It was a text from him. “Caroline drank too much last night. I stayed at her place to take care of her. I have a morning meeting, so I’m heading straight to the office.” I put the phone face down and took a spoonful of hot oatmeal. “Martha, could you do me a favor and buy some heavy-duty cardboard boxes today?” She froze, holding a spatula in mid-air. “Are you moving, ma’am?” “Yes. In a few days.” She parted her lips, clearly wanting to ask a million questions, but one look at my exhausted expression made her swallow her words. She had worked in this house for three years. She had eyes. She knew exactly what was going on. “Right away, ma’am.” 3 She nodded and turned back to the stove. I finished my breakfast, went upstairs, and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater. I had an appointment with a leasing agent today. I needed to secure a new place before walking out of this toxic mansion. I didn’t ask for a dime in the divorce settlement, but that didn’t mean I was destitute. I had a healthy amount of savings from before the marriage. Even though I hadn’t worked a corporate job for the past three years, Arthur’s family automatically deposited a hefty monthly allowance into my account. I barely touched it, so it had piled up into a small fortune. It was more than enough to rent a nice luxury apartment and live comfortably for a year or two without breaking a sweat. I would figure out the rest of my life later. The leasing agent was a bubbly young woman with a high ponytail who talked a mile a minute. She showed me a sleek two-bedroom apartment on the East Side, just outside the chaotic city center, surrounded by greenery. “Miss Kensington, the natural light in this unit is to die for. The landlord just completely renovated the place. All the appliances and furniture are brand new. It’s going for four thousand a month. What do you think?” I stood on the balcony. The view was entirely unobstructed, overlooking a beautiful public park. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was perfect for one person. More importantly, there were absolutely zero memories of Arthur Harrington polluting the space. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.” The girl blinked, clearly shocked that I was signing without haggling or hesitating. She broke into a massive grin. “Oh, wonderful! Let me get the paperwork ready and call the landlord right now!” I signed a one-year lease on the spot and wired the deposit and first month’s rent. When I walked out of the building with the keys in my hand, the afternoon sun felt incredibly warm against my skin. I stood on the sidewalk, tossing the keys in my palm, feeling a crushing weight finally lift off my chest. When I got back to the mansion later that afternoon, Martha had already stacked a dozen folded moving boxes in the living room. I was just about to carry a few upstairs to tackle my closet when the front door clicked open. I didn’t turn around, but my gut already told me who it was. Sure enough, a familiar, sickly-sweet voice echoed behind me. “Oh, you’re home.” I turned around. Caroline was standing in the foyer. She noticed the cardboard boxes in my hands. Her gaze flickered over my casual clothes before landing on my face. “Are you packing?” I completely ignored her question and asked one of my own in a flat tone. “Why are you here?” “Arthur brought me.” She stepped further into the house, looking around like she owned the place. “My lease expired, and I haven’t found a new condo yet. He told me to crash here. Said I could stay as long as I need.” I gave a curt nod and let out a flat “Oh.” Caroline clearly hadn’t anticipated such a deadpan reaction. Her smug smile faltered for a second. “You don’t mind, do you?” She tilted her head, giving me a look of fake innocence. “I mean, I told him it might be a little awkward, but Arthur absolutely insisted. He said…” “If he told you to stay, then stay.” I cut her off abruptly. “It’s a big house. There are plenty of rooms.” She tightened her lips, striding over to the plush living room sofa and sitting down like a queen on her throne. “You really are so generous.” “You were generous enough to force your way into this marriage, and now you’re generous enough to let me move in.” I looked at her, suddenly finding the whole situation incredibly amusing. I didn’t bother validating her petty bait. I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs. Feeling completely dismissed, Caroline raised her voice, her tone turning sharp. “Serena Kensington, I am talking to you.” I paused on the first step and looked over my shoulder. “I heard you.” “But you didn’t come here to make polite conversation with me, so why are we wasting each other’s time?” “I have packing to do.” Caroline shot up from the sofa. The fake, polite smile completely vanished from her face. “You’re leaving?” she blurted out, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Obviously.” “Did you think I was going to stick around to be the third wheel in my own house?” 4 Caroline stood completely paralyzed by the sofa. I turned back around and marched up the stairs, leaving her alone in the massive living room. I opened the doors to my walk-in closet and started pulling dresses off their hangers. After three years of marriage, I didn’t actually have that many clothes. Arthur had never taken me shopping. He had never bought me a single gift. No anniversary presents. No birthday surprises. Definitely no Valentine’s Day flowers. Thinking about it now, my dedication was truly pathetic. I folded my last cashmere coat, tucked it into the box, and was just reaching for the packing tape when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Arthur. “I have a business dinner tonight. I won’t be home to eat. Caroline just moved in, so be a good host and help her get settled in the guest suite.” I locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the bed, and kept taping my boxes. By the time the sun started setting, my closet and study were completely boxed up. When I walked downstairs, Caroline was sitting elegantly on the sofa, sipping an espresso. Hearing my footsteps, she glanced up. Her eyes instantly locked onto the manila envelope resting on the coffee table. “What’s that?” I didn’t answer. I just walked over, adjusted the envelope so it sat perfectly in the center of the table, and sat down in the armchair across from her. Caroline stared at the thick envelope for a few seconds before letting out a short, mocking laugh. “Divorce papers?” I stayed silent, letting my silence act as a confirmation. Her eyes immediately lit up. It wasn’t shock in her gaze—it was pure, unfiltered thrill. “Are you seriously divorcing him?” “Yes.” “When?” “Whenever he gets home. I’ll tell him tonight.” I crossed my legs and leaned back. “This marriage was just a business transaction to begin with. Now that the companies are stable, dragging this out doesn’t benefit anyone.” She stared at me for a long time, her eyes narrowing as she tried to read me. “Serena.” She dropped her voice into a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “Do you really not love him? Or is this just some desperate act to get his attention?” The question actually caught me off guard for a second. Did I not love him? Three years ago, when I first put on the white dress, I was full of hope. The man waiting at the altar was devastatingly handsome, fiercely intelligent, and commanded every room he walked into. I honestly believed that if I was just flawless enough, considerate enough, and patient enough, the ice around his heart would melt and he would finally look at me. But it didn’t take long for reality to crush that delusion into dust. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I looked Caroline dead in the eyes. “Whether I loved him or not, it’s over.” At nine o’clock sharp, the front door opened, and Arthur walked in. His eyes immediately found Caroline sitting on the sofa, and the hard lines of his face softened into something warm. “Caroline. Are you settling in okay?” Caroline beamed at him, her voice dripping with honey. “It’s been wonderful.” Only then did Arthur bother to acknowledge my existence. His gaze swept over me, drifted down to the manila envelope on the coffee table, and finally landed on the stack of moving boxes piled near the stairs. He frowned slightly. “What’s with the cardboard boxes?” I stood up from the armchair, picked up the envelope, and held it out to him. “Arthur. We need to talk.” He didn’t reach for the envelope right away. He just stared at me, a flicker of genuine confusion in his dark eyes. “What is this?” “Divorce papers.” 5 The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Caroline gripped the handle of her espresso cup so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn’t blink, her eyes glued to Arthur’s face. Arthur looked down at me. His expression barely shifted. There was no anger. No panic. Not even a trace of surprise. He just stayed quiet for a few agonizing seconds before finally reaching out and taking the envelope from my hand. “When did you draft this?” “Last week.” He pulled the thick stack of papers out and scanned the pages from top to bottom. When he reached the section detailing the division of assets, his frown deepened into a harsh crease. “You’re not asking for a single cent?” “No.” “You don’t even want the house?” “This estate is your pre-marital asset. It has nothing to do with me.” He slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. There was an emotion swirling in his gaze that I couldn’t quite decipher. “Serena, are you throwing a tantrum?” I almost laughed in his face. A tantrum? You only throw a tantrum when you still desperately care about someone and want them to prove they love you back. My heart was completely dead. What was there to throw a tantrum over? “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “I am dead serious. We got married because our families needed it. The crisis is over. There’s zero logical reason to keep pretending.” Arthur stared at me, the silence stretching out between us. He looked at me as if he was studying a stranger, trying to calculate my hidden angle. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” “Crystal clear.” He tossed the legal documents onto the coffee table, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sank heavily onto the sofa. “Fine,” he said. One word. Cold, sharp, and totally void of hesitation. Beside him, Caroline sucked in a sharp breath, immediately ducking her head to hide the triumphant smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. Watching her terrible acting, I realized my heart wasn’t reacting at all. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t heartbroken. I didn’t feel wronged. I just felt numb. “When are you going to sign it?” I asked. Arthur leaned back against the leather cushions and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tomorrow. I had drinks at the dinner tonight. I have a headache.” “Alright.” I turned to walk up the stairs when his voice stopped me. “Serena.” I paused on the bottom step but didn’t look back. “Where are you going to stay after you move out?” “I already signed a lease on an apartment.” Silence hung in the air behind me for a few seconds. “If you don’t have a place lined up right away, you can stay in one of the guest rooms.” He said it so casually, like he was offering a stray dog a blanket in the garage. I turned around and looked down at him. He was sitting on the sofa, his jacket still on, his tie loosened and crooked. He looked incredibly drained. Caroline pressed her lips together, clearly livid that he was offering me a place to stay under the same roof as her. “No need. Once I walk out that door, I’m never coming back.” I turned back around and walked up the stairs. Behind me, I could hear Caroline murmuring something in a hushed, placating voice. Arthur muttered a low reply, the words muffled by the distance. But right before I closed my bedroom door, I distinctly heard Caroline let out a soft, victorious laugh. The next morning, when I walked downstairs, Arthur was already sitting at the dining table. He was wearing a tailored navy loungewear set. His hair was messy, a few dark strands falling over his forehead, making his sharp features look even more striking. A cup of black coffee and an untouched sandwich sat in front of him, but his attention was entirely locked on his phone. Martha was bustling around the kitchen. Hearing my footsteps, she popped her head out. “Ma’am, what would you like for breakfast?” “Just the oatmeal, Martha. Thanks.” I pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the long dining table, leaving three empty seats between us. He glanced up from his screen, looked at me, and set his phone face down on the table. “I signed the papers.” I looked up from my bowl and saw the manila envelope sitting squarely on the center console. “You were right.” He picked up his mug and took a slow sip of black coffee. “Ending this quickly is the best move for both of us.” If anyone else had said that to me, I probably would have felt a sting of humiliation. But coming from him? It was exactly what I expected. “I’ll go file the paperwork at the courthouse today.” “Okay.” He set his mug down. His dark eyes locked onto my face and stayed there for two uncomfortable seconds. “Serena, did you ever regret these last three years?” 6 The question came completely out of left field. I froze for a second, then genuinely thought about it. “Regret isn’t the right word. It just feels like a massive waste of time.” His index finger twitched against the mahogany table. It was a microscopic movement, but I caught it. “A waste of time.” He repeated the four words slowly, testing the weight of them. “You think being married to me was a waste of time?” “What else would you call it?” I shot back. “Do you honestly think anything from the last three years is worth remembering?” He didn’t answer. “In three years of marriage, how many times did you sit down and eat dinner with me? How many nights did you actually come home? Do you know my favorite food? Do you even know my birthday?” I pushed the bowl of oatmeal away and stared him down. “You don’t. You don’t know a damn thing about me. Because for the last three years, every single ounce of your energy was dedicated to Caroline.” His mask finally cracked. A deep furrow appeared between his brows, and his jaw tightened. “When you agreed to this marriage, you knew exactly what the dynamic was going to be,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I know.” I nodded calmly. “That’s exactly why I never blamed you. Like I said, it was a transaction. We got what we needed. Now the deal is over, and we go our separate ways.” I stood up, walked over to the console, and picked up the envelope. I pulled the papers out to check. On the very last page, his signature—Arthur Harrington—was slashed across the line in bold, aggressive ink. He actually signed it. I suddenly felt like the last three years had been a suffocating fever dream. Now I was finally waking up, holding the only proof that it ever happened. “Let’s go. To the courthouse,” I said. He gave a curt nod, turned around, and went upstairs to change, leaving me alone in the dining room. Five minutes later, he came back down. He was wearing a charcoal wool overcoat and black trousers. He looked immaculate, sharp, and untouchable. He grabbed his car keys from the foyer tray and shot me a look. “Let’s go.” The drive to the courthouse was agonizingly silent. You could hear a pin drop in the luxury sedan. He drove with aggressive precision, both hands gripping the leather steering wheel, his eyes locked dead ahead. He didn’t say a single word. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline blur past the tinted window. As we drove past a familiar intersection, I spotted a specific French bakery. It was the exact bakery Caroline was obsessed with. The same bakery Arthur had spent two hours driving through gridlock traffic just to buy her a slice of cake. “In the last three years, was there anything you wanted to do but didn’t get the chance to?” he suddenly asked, shattering the silence. I blinked, completely thrown by the question. “Yes.” “What was it?” “I wanted to see the Northern Lights.” “I’ve always wanted to go, but taking a trip like that alone felt pathetic.” He fell silent for a long time. “You can go with friends now.” “Yeah.” We didn’t speak again. The courthouse wasn’t busy. The clerk took our IDs and the signed settlement, running through the mandatory checklist in a bored, bureaucratic drone. “Are both parties consenting to this divorce?” “Yes,” I said. “Yes,” he echoed. “Are there any disputes regarding the division of assets?” “No.” “No.” The clerk slammed a heavy stamp down on the papers and slid two pristine divorce decrees across the counter. Dark blue covers with gold foil lettering. I opened mine. The date of dissolution was stamped starkly across the page. Today. When we walked out of the courthouse, the midday sun was blinding. I had to squint against the glare. Arthur stood next to me on the concrete steps, holding his copy of the decree. He stared straight ahead at the bustling street, and suddenly, he spoke. “Serena, I’m sorry.”

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I was born fragile and spoiled rotten, the kind of heiress who threw a fit if the tea was a degree too cold. So, when night fell, I did what I always did. I ordered my handsome, fiercely loyal butler to my room to keep me company until I fell asleep. But suddenly, lines of bizarre, glowing text floated across my vision without any warning. The floating words claimed that a terrifying final boss was currently slaughtering players outside, and absolutely did not have the time to coax me to sleep or tuck me in. The text sneered that I was nothing more than a pet kept in this gothic manor by the monster, a fragile little toy for his amusement. It told me to stop acting like a high and mighty princess. Worse still, the words predicted that the moment this boss met the smart, resourceful heroine of the game, he would grow utterly disgusted by a whiny diva like me. The text said he would torture me using the most twisted methods imaginable before eating me alive, bite by bite. I trembled violently, yanking my velvet quilt all the way up over my head. A second later, a pair of ice-cold hands gently peeled the blankets back. A voice, incredibly soft but laced with a bone-deep, shadowy chill, hovered right above my face. “My lady, whatever is the matter?” 1 My whole body shook even harder. Those hands paused for a fraction of a second before moving to cradle the back of my head, touch impossibly tender. Just like he had done for countless nights before. His thumb stroked through my hair, the pressure absolutely perfect. “Are you feeling unwell tonight, my lady?” Silas sounded exactly the same as always. Deep, soothing, laced with genuine concern. He reached out to check my forehead for a fever. A floating comment slid past my eyes: “Can’t blame the spoiled brat for not suspecting a thing. If I hadn’t literally just watched the boss snap a player’s neck with a smile on his face, I’d fall for that gentle mask too.” Snap a neck? My spine locked up. I slapped his hand away the second it came near me. The brief contact with his palm was so freezing it sent a violent shiver straight through my bones. “Get away from me! Your hands are like ice. Are you trying to freeze me to death?” I forced myself to sit up, desperately putting on my usual arrogant, untouchable act. Silas wasn’t angry. He simply withdrew his hand, a look of indulgent amusement actually playing on his flawless lips. “My apologies, my lady. I was just dealing with some frozen goods. The cold must have lingered on my skin.” Frozen goods? My eyes darted to the crisp white cuff of his dress shirt. There was a faint, dark red smear on the fabric. A flurry of text rolled past: “LMAO frozen goods. You mean those players he dismembered and shoved into the meat locker?” “Good thing the diva is lazy and loves rotting in her room. If she actually took a walk around the manor, she’d realize how screwed she is.” “I read the leaks. This brat gets sliced into sashimi by the boss and eaten raw at the end.” “Well, the boss grew this ingredient himself. At least he knows she’s organic, haha!” Sashimi? Me? As the words kept scrolling, pure terror seized my chest. My body was already weak, and the sudden spike of adrenaline sent me into a violent coughing fit. Silas immediately sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing circles into my back while guiding a glass of warm water to my lips. It tasted faintly of honey. Sweet and soothing. The coughing finally subsided, and my racing heart began to settle. I looked up, really looking at the man in front of me for the first time. As the most attentive butler in Blackwood Manor, Silas always wore a pristine black tailcoat. His facial features were sculpted and deep, his skin carrying a sickly, vampiric pallor. Every move he made dripped with dark, aristocratic elegance. He didn’t look like a butler. He looked like the true master of the manor. Noticing my unblinking stare, Silas swallowed. I swore a flash of crimson cut through his silver-grey eyes. He raised his hands and began loosening his tie. I immediately realized what was happening and panicked. “Stop! Keep your clothes on!” His jacket was already off. His fingers paused right at his leather belt. He looked at me, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face before realization dawned. “How thoughtless of me. Allow me to shower first, my lady. I will change into that servant outfit you adore so much.” Before I could even open my mouth to protest, he vanished from the room like a ghost. 2 I had never regretted anything more in my life. The manor was massive and suffocatingly dark. Even though Silas had decorated my bedroom to look like a cozy haven, with warm tapestries on the walls, fluffy wool rugs, and beautiful porcelain dolls lined up on the shelves, I was still terrified of sleeping alone. Every single night, I commanded Silas to come in and coax me to sleep. The kind of coaxing that involved him getting into my bed. I always made him strip off that stiff, formal tailcoat, leaving only a thin, white undershirt. He would pull me against his chest and read me fairy tales. I never actually listened to a word of those stories. I only cared about the feeling of being pressed against his rock-hard abs and the sharp V-line of his hips. Floating text: “Damn it, the diva is making the boss strip and cuddle her again!” “Move over and let me tag in! The boss is so hot, I want to sleep on his chest and feel those abs!” “You guys are delusional. This monster is a bloodthirsty psycho. Everything you see is a trap. Humans are just bugs to him. Who falls in love with a bug?” “Only the brave, smart heroine gets his affection! This spoiled brat is a coward with a dirty mind. It’s a miracle she’s survived this long ordering him around.” Me, the walking miracle, was currently having a mental breakdown. I hadn’t even processed half of what the floating words were telling me. In the blink of an eye, I had gone from the pampered lady of the house to a literal snack. So, when Silas returned wearing my favorite unbuttoned shirt and pulled me into his arms to read, I felt absolutely nothing. Even with his firm chest pressed flush against mine, the mood was dead. He noticed. He stopped reading, casually popping open two more buttons on his shirt to expose more skin. In my mind, Silas was now a merciless, slaughtering demon. I was terrified of him. But old habits die hard, and my hand instinctively slipped inside his shirt. His body was just too perfect. My fingers traced his skin, slowly drifting downward. Silas let out a low, muffled groan. His breathing grew heavy, the rhythm ragged. A moment later, his large hand clamped gently over my wrist, stopping me. “My lady, you cannot go any lower.” Floating text: “Ahhh keep your hands off him! Let me do it!” “See? The boss only sees her as a pet. He’d never actually let her cross the line!” “He belongs to the heroine! Get your filthy hands off him, you brat!” I bit my lip. The comments were right. Silas let me get away with murder on a daily basis because I hadn’t pushed his actual boundaries yet. Normally, I would have thrown a tantrum and kept going. He was just a butler. He couldn’t refuse his master. But now, all I could think about was becoming his midnight sashimi. I squeezed my eyes shut and yanked my hand out of his shirt. Silas froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to actually back off. He lowered his gaze, his expression suddenly dark and utterly unreadable. “My lady, if you truly desire it, I could…” “I don’t. Get out of my room right now. I don’t want to hear any more stories. You don’t need to come at night anymore.” I scrambled out of his arms, wrapping myself tightly in the quilt and turning my back to him. The moment the words left my mouth, the temperature in the room plummeted. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel it. The heavy, suffocating weight of Silas staring unblinkingly at my back from the darkness. It felt like the cold, slimy coils of a viper slithering over every inch of my skin. “Are you dissatisfied with my performance tonight, my lady?” It was a trap. A deadly, literal trap. My heart hammered against my ribs as my brain desperately spun a lie. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re freezing! You’re so cold I can’t even get comfortable!” The comments mentioned that monsters ran colder than humans. I technically wasn’t lying. Silas didn’t say a word. The silence in the room was deafening. I swallowed hard, fully preparing myself to die right there in my bed. Suddenly, the warmth returned. That crushing, horrific pressure vanished completely, as if I had imagined the whole thing. The mattress shifted as he stood up. He even paused to tuck the edges of my blanket in. “I understand.” “Sleep well, my lady.” He walked out. It took hours for the tension to leave my muscles. That oppressive, murderous aura he had just leaked… it was terrifying. So that was the real Silas. 3 After that night, the floating text showed up all the time. I walked out into the grand corridor. Text: “The diva is so clueless. Has she never actually looked at the wallpaper?” I stiffly turned my head toward the walls. The elegant crimson floral patterns I had passed a hundred times suddenly snapped into horrifying focus. If I squinted, those flower petals weren’t flowers at all. They were bloody handprints, dragged downward in pure agony by people trying to escape. I slapped a hand over my mouth and practically ran to the main parlor. The parlor was a masterpiece of gothic luxury, brightly lit, with a massive crimson carpet covering the stone floor. Just as I let out a sigh of relief… Text: “The boss literally entertains the players here before massacring them. That carpet isn’t red fabric. It’s dyed with human blood.” “Those candles burning on the tables? Rendered from human fat.” “And the grand chandelier up there is sculpted from cracked skulls.” I had nowhere to hide. Through the lens of these floating words, the gorgeous manor I called home melted away into a blood-soaked slaughterhouse. The quiet, efficient maids and footmen? Flesh-eating monsters in disguise. The beautiful rose bushes in the garden? Carnivorous plants that drained humans dry. And Silas. The true lord of the manor. He was the most brutal anomaly in this entire horror dimension. He delighted in hunting players in the most agonizing ways possible. No one had ever survived more than three nights here. Except me. Not only had I lived in luxury for three years, but I had strutted around treating this psycho boss like my personal footstool. I was officially panicking. According to the text, the heroine was arriving in half a month. That would be my execution date. I had to find a way out of this game. I had to get away from Silas. 4 When I casually brought up the idea of taking a stroll outside the manor grounds, Silas gracefully lifted my hand and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles. “My lady, I have told you before. The outside world is far too dangerous.” I faked a bratty scowl. “I don’t care! I’m suffocating in this dusty old house. I want fresh air!” A thoughtful look crossed his pale features. “If you insist. I will accompany you.” I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t planning to run today anyway; I just needed to map out the escape routes. I spun around to head out the doors, but Silas’s arm shot out to block me. My stomach dropped, thinking he’d changed his mind. Instead, he took a thick velvet cloak from a terrified-looking maid and meticulously draped it over my shoulders. “It is bitterly cold outside, and your constitution is delicate. We must keep you warm.” His expression was so serious, so focused. He looked like a devoted caretaker genuinely terrified I might catch a cold. My spoiled, impossible personality was honestly entirely his fault for enabling me this much. Fully bundled up, we set off. The woods surrounding the estate were damp and pitch black, echoing with the distant, guttural shrieks of monsters. But with the ultimate boss walking right next to me, nothing dared to show its face. I barely walked a mile before I got tired. Out of pure habit, I ordered Silas to carry me. A split second later, I realized that acting like a diva was a fast track to the meat locker. I opened my mouth to take it back, but I was already swept off my feet into his arms. His signature scent—crushed pine and winter frost—filled my lungs. I pressed my face against his chest as he walked, his stride effortless. “Next time you wish to leave the house, simply tell me to carry you from the start. You needn’t tire your own feet.” I blinked in surprise. Mostly because he didn’t feel like a corpse anymore. “You’re… really warm today.” Silas looked down. “Does this mean I am permitted to return to your bed tonight, my lady?” Staring into those hypnotic silver eyes, my brain short-circuited. “Yes.” The corner of his mouth curved into a breathtaking smirk. He pressed his lips to my forehead. “It would be my absolute honor.” The forest was massive, and the manor sat at its dead center. We only mapped the inner perimeter before heading back. As soon as we returned, my coughing flared up again. Text: “She’s just a normal human. Staying inside a horror dimension this long is rotting her body from the inside out.” “Even if the boss doesn’t kill her, she’ll drop dead on her own pretty soon.” Silas walked in carrying a steaming bowl of medicine. He blew on every spoonful until the temperature was perfect before pressing it to my lips. When the bowl was empty, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dabbed the corners of my mouth. Then he left to prepare my afternoon tea. The truth was, Silas hadn’t known how to take care of a human when I first met him. I had trained him. Sometimes, I found myself drowning in the custom-built paradise he created for me. The comments were right. Monsters were natural-born manipulators. But I didn’t belong here. I snapped out of my daze. My resolve hardened. I had to escape. 5 That night, Silas showered and came to my room. Just like old times, he pulled me against his chest and started reading. His body heat was completely normal now. Out of sheer reflex, I snuggled deeper into his embrace. He stroked my hair. “Comfortable, my lady?” I nodded. Even while telling myself to stay sharp, the next morning I woke up sprawled all over him. My arms were locked around his neck, my leg thrown over his waist. It was muscle memory at this point. I opened my eyes to find him staring at me, those silver-grey eyes crinkling at the corners. I went completely rigid. “Good morning, Silas.” “Good morning, my lady.” His voice was naturally raspy and unfairly sexy in the morning. He sat up, dropping a lazy kiss on my forehead. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll go prepare breakfast.” Once he was gone, I jumped out of bed and started pacing the halls. If I was going to run, I needed cardio. Pacing a castle this huge was a solid workout. After a while, I noticed how eerily silent the manor was today. Text: “A fresh batch of human players is getting dropped into the meat grinder today.” “Shame the heroine isn’t in this batch. She could have met the boss early.” “Can the diva just die already? She’s living the dream up there and I’m jealous!” New players? Today? Thinking back, the manor did receive “guests” every now and then. I had just never cared. I stayed up in the penthouse suite living my best life. I had no idea what happened downstairs. Whenever I heard screaming, Silas just told me the staff was catching rats. … I assumed tonight would be like all the others. I went back to my room to stretch. Suddenly, my bedroom door burst open. A man covered in blood and dirt stumbled inside. He stared at the pink plushies and lace curtains in absolute shock. When he spotted me, he immediately leveled a rusted pipe at my head. But after a few seconds, realizing I was just a human girl in pajamas, his aggressive stance broke into frantic desperation. “How did you get up here? I didn’t see you downstairs!” I was just as stunned as he was. I couldn’t believe a player had actually survived the monsters, evaded Silas, and made it to the forbidden top floor. He clearly thought I was just another player trying to survive the game. The guy lowered his pipe and rushed over, sweating profusely. “You used an item to teleport up here, right? Listen to me, almost everyone downstairs is dead. The boss is going to realize we’re gone any second. We have to run!” My eyes lit up. “You know a way out?” His face fell. “I found the secret escape tunnel. But the door is locked, and the master key is on the boss. It’s impossible.” He gripped his hair in despair, his voice cracking. “We were so close. We’re going to die here…” Keys? I casually reached into my bedside drawer and pulled out a massive iron ring heavy with brass keys. “I’ve got all the keys right here.” His jaw hit the floor. “How the hell did you get those?!” Silas had personally handed them to me, of course. I needed them to access the locked conservatories for my walks. I lied through my teeth: “Found them under the bed.” He snatched the ring, tears of relief in his eyes. “Oh my god. We’re getting out. We’re actually going to escape!” I was thrilled. What a stroke of luck. Following the guy’s lead, we practically sprinted down the hidden servants’ stairs and found the iron door to the tunnel. The key turned with a heavy clack. We both let out a massive breath and slipped inside. The tunnel was damp and seemingly endless. A single candle flickered on the stone walls every fifty feet, providing terrible visibility. The deeper we went, the darker it got. After what felt like hours, a faint bluish light appeared in the distance. The guy choked back a sob. “The exit! We did it! We’re actually clearing an SSS-rank game!” The crushing weight on my chest finally lifted. I picked up my pace. “Careful, babe, the ground gets uneven here,” the guy called back. I nodded, but a second later my foot caught on a jagged rock. I pitched forward. Before I hit the dirt, a strong arm clamped around my waist, catching me effortlessly. “Thanks for the catch,” I breathed. Up ahead, the guy stopped. “What? I didn’t catch you. I’m over here.” My blood ran cold. The absolute worst premonition slammed into my gut. A second later, freezing breath brushed against the back of my neck. A dark, amused whisper slid directly into my ear. “You should be thanking me, my lady.” The moment the words left his lips, every single unlit candle in the mile-long tunnel violently erupted into dark red flames. The claustrophobic space was instantly illuminated in a hellish crimson glow. Silas’s terrifying aura completely swallowed me from behind, drowning me in his cold pine scent. The guy ahead of us slowly turned around. When he saw the man holding my waist, his pupils shrank to pinpricks. He stumbled backward, his legs giving out completely. “T-The Boss!” he screamed, dropping to his knees. Silas didn’t even look at him. He was staring down at me, the silver in his eyes rapidly bleeding into a predatory red. “I told you,” Silas murmured. “Next time you wish to leave the house, simply tell me to carry you. You needn’t tire your own feet.” “Walking this far… my lady must be exhausted.” My heart battered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The guy on the floor scrambled up, completely losing his mind to the terror. He bolted toward the exit light. “Sorry, babe! Better you than me!” His footsteps echoed wildly until they faded into nothing. Silas didn’t chase him. He just kept his glowing eyes locked onto mine. Text: “She’s dead. The brat finally played herself. Direct elimination.” “The boss hates disobedience more than anything. Prep the carving knives, she’s dinner.” My mind went completely blank. Silas scooped me up into his arms, turning his back on the exit, and started walking us all the way back to the manor. The flickering red flames cast sharp, demonic shadows across his perfect face. The light of the exit grew smaller and smaller until it vanished completely. I spent the entire walk trying to formulate an excuse, but my throat was closed tight. When we entered the manor and walked past the kitchens, I squeezed my eyes shut and played dead, waiting for the butcher’s knife. It never came. I was gently lowered into my own plush, feather-soft bed. I opened my eyes, utterly confused. Silas stood over me. The gentle butler act was gone. His expression was dangerously dark. This was it. He was going to kill me. He leaned over me. I flinched, trying to pull away, but he pinned my shoulders to the mattress. His face stopped inches from mine. Somehow, during the stumble in the tunnel, I had scraped my temple. A tiny bead of blood welled up on the skin. Silas leaned in, and the rough heat of his tongue swiped across the scratch. Wet. Slow. Agonizingly deliberate. My heart skipped a beat. A bizarre, electric shiver shot down my spine, making my toes curl. I let out a tiny, involuntary whimper. The mix of absolute terror and undeniable attraction was making me lose my mind. I stared at the sharp line of his throat, the dark hunger in his eyes, and before I could stop myself, I tilted my chin up to kiss him. He pulled back instantly. “My apologies, my lady. I overstepped.” His voice was perfectly controlled again. “You were out in the damp for too long. I will fetch you some hot milk so you do not catch a chill.” He turned and walked out. He didn’t ask a single question. He didn’t ask why I was in the tunnel, he didn’t ask about the player, and he definitely didn’t say the word ‘escape’. When he returned with the glass of milk, I stared at it, half-convinced it was laced with cyanide. But if Silas wanted me dead, he could just snap my neck. I chugged the whole glass. Silas stood perfectly still, watching me. As I swallowed, his own throat bobbed in tandem. “Drink slowly, my lady. Do not choke.” I gripped the empty glass, desperately trying to do damage control. “Silas, that weird man burst into my room spouting absolute nonsense about games and escaping. I didn’t understand a word of it.” I paused, forcing my tone to pitch into its usual bratty annoyance. “He dragged me out of my room! I was terrified, so I just followed him! He was totally insane.” Silas took the glass from my white-knuckled grip and placed it on the nightstand. He reached out and gently smoothed my hair back. “Outsiders are always spouting nonsense,” he agreed softly. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a dark, intimate purr meant only for me. “They only want to trick you into leaving this safe place.” “But I am the only one in this world who truly cares for you.” He smiled, his long fingers hooking under my chin, forcing me to look directly into his eyes. “Isn’t that right, my lady?” Text: “Holy crap the tension. The butler dominating the master. This is spicy.” “The boss isn’t playing along anymore.” “The power dynamic just flipped. Let’s see the diva act tough now.” I was genuinely terrified of the look in his eyes. I nodded quickly. Satisfied, he released my chin. “Good girl.” “It is late. Time to coax you to sleep.” He stood up. “I will shower first.” The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, I let out a massive breath I didn’t know I was holding. My brain scrambled to figure out how to get back to that tunnel. Text: “Lmao she doesn’t even know the tunnel was fake.” “The boss rigged that passage a long time ago. The real exit looks nothing like that.” “Haha that poor bastard ran all night only to realize the ‘exit’ led directly into the manor’s torture chambers. The monsters down there are having a field day with him right now.” “Honestly, out of all the players, he got the worst death.” My blood turned to ice. I clutched the sheets, horrified. The exit was a trap. The comments kept rolling: “For the record, the real exit is the dried-up well in the back gardens.” “If you jump in, you leave the dimension. But no one’s ever made it. Those man-eating roses turn players into fertilizer before they even get close.” “Plus, the boss is always home. Who’d risk it?” The well. The back gardens. I burned the words into my brain. 6 For the next few days, I played the part flawlessly. On the surface, I was the same demanding, insufferable heiress. I ate the extravagant meals, complained about the tea, and let Silas pamper me. He was even more attentive than before, testing the temperature of my water against his own wrist before handing it to me. But I noticed the changes. A massive antique mirror suddenly appeared in the hallway. When I walked past it, my reflection smiled a fraction of a second too late. A little porcelain cat statue was placed on the staircase railing. No matter what angle I walked from, its black glass eyes followed me. Even the ghost-like servants who usually hid in the shadows started mopping floors and arranging flowers right outside my doors. They were watching me. Every single pair of eyes was a silent reminder: Silas hadn’t forgotten my little field trip. He just chose not to speak of it. My skin crawled constantly. At night, I lay against his chest, listening to his deep voice narrate a story about a cursed village’s blood sacrifice. I watched the text float above us. It mentioned that Blair, the legendary heroine he was destined to fall for, would arrive in exactly one week. I shifted, burying my face into his shirt. He stopped reading, looking down. “My lady?” “Keep reading,” I muttered into his chest. “As you wish.” His hand patted my back in a slow, rhythmic motion, like he was soothing a temperamental cat. I closed my eyes, running the garden route through my head. I knew the path. But with the monster patrols and my own pathetic stamina, there was zero chance I could sneak past them alive. Then, a crucial line of text caught my eye: “On the night of the full moon, the boss falls into a forced slumber. All the monsters in the manor become sluggish and blind. It’s the only weakness in the system, but no player has ever lived long enough to see the full moon.” The full moon. I opened my eyes and stared out the heavy glass window. The moon hanging in the dark sky was almost completely round. Three days. I just had to wait three days.

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