For our daughter, I’d reconciled with my husband, Adrian. He started coming home on time. On weekends, he would even sit on the floor with Lily, patiently building LEGO castles. He was playing the part of the repentant husband, and he was playing it well. I almost allowed myself to believe we could make it work, that this fragile peace could last. Until I was cleaning the bookshelf and found the mug. It was pink, with a cartoon rabbit printed on the side. In the secret blog I’d stumbled upon by accident, the one he never knew I’d seen, he called her his “Bunny.” I held the garish mug in my hand and asked him, my voice perfectly level, what he wanted me to do with it. Adrian lowered his newspaper, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was laced with an all-too-familiar impatience. “Evelyn,” he sighed, “I ended things with her—for you. What more do you want?” 1 The pink cartoon rabbit mug felt like a brand on my hand. The ceramic was smooth, the rabbit’s mouth stretched into a wide, red grin, its two buck teeth sticking out in a goofy, innocent smile. It was a jarring splash of childishness amidst the rows of leather-bound, gilt-spined classics that smelled of old paper and ink. It was like a toddler who had wandered into a boardroom—oblivious, yet defiant in its sheer, out-of-place visibility. I carried it over to the man behind the mahogany desk. Adrian looked up from the financial pages, a flicker of something—alarm? guilt?—darting through his eyes before being swallowed by his usual cool indifference. He set the paper down and rubbed his temples, a gesture of carefully measured exhaustion. “Evelyn, I already told you, I broke it off with her for you. What else are you trying to get out of me?” His voice was a low rumble, worn smooth with a practiced weariness, as if he were the true martyr in this drama, and I, the insatiable, unforgiving shrew. For me. The words were a needle of ice to the heart, a tiny, sharp pain. That familiar, cloying suffocation churned in my stomach, rising to clog my throat. I looked at him, at this face I had loved for a decade, a face that now felt as cold and alien as a stranger’s. Those long, elegant fingers had once traced my brow with such tenderness; they had also danced across a keyboard, typing out blistering, explicit confessions of love for another woman. But I didn’t lose control like I had three months ago. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hurl the mug against his expensive, polished desk. I simply held it up, my gaze calm, almost gentle. “I don’t want anything,” I said, my voice unnervingly steady. “I was just cleaning the bookshelf and found this. I was wondering if you still wanted it.” I paused, adding with the practical air of any frugal housewife, “Otherwise, it’s just collecting dust.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes scanned my face for a few seconds, searching for the tell-tale cracks before the storm. He found only a profound, unnerving stillness. “It’s just a mug.” He waved a dismissive hand, picking up his paper again. The pages rustled, a crisp sound like he was shooing away an annoying fly. “If you don’t like it, throw it out. You don’t need to ask me about every little thing.” A little thing. Yes, a mug is a little thing. But I remembered the encrypted blog. The one he thought I’d never find, hidden behind two-factor authentication. Post after post, he called her “my Bunny.” He wrote about her pout when she gave him this mug, about how the water she drank from it tasted sweet. He wrote about how he treasured it, just as he treasured their “pure and passionate” connection. His love for her had never been a little thing. My fingers tightened on the handle, knuckles turning white, but my expression remained placid. “Alright,” I said, my tone flat. That single, simple word made him look up from his paper again. His gaze was probing now, laced with uncertainty. He had likely braced himself for tears, for accusations, for the hysterics he knew how to manage. That was the Evelyn he understood, the one he could control. Not this woman, this stranger who was so calm it was unnerving. Without another glance at him, I turned and walked out of the study, mug in hand. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, heavy with suspicion. I didn’t toss it in the hallway trash can. I took it to the kitchen. The faucet roared to life as water hammered against the ceramic. The cartoon rabbit seemed to gleam under the deluge. I squeezed a generous amount of dish soap onto a new sponge and began to scrub, scouring its every surface, inside and out, as if to wash away every trace of a presence that didn’t belong in my home. My fingertips brushed the rim, and I imagined another woman’s lips touching that same spot. A wave of nausea washed over me. I washed it until it shone, polished so brightly I could almost see my own reflection in it. Then, I found an empty cardboard box. I lined it with soft foam and shredded paper, carefully placing the thoroughly cleansed mug inside before sealing the lid. The shriek of the packing tape was piercing in the quiet kitchen. The next day, while Adrian was at the office, I found an old shipping box of his, one that still had his corporate address on the return label. I mimicked his handwriting, carefully penning the name and address I had long since committed to memory. Chloe Jensen. His “Bunny.” There was no note, no sender’s name on the package. Just a single, impeccably clean mug. When the courier arrived, he glanced at the box. “Fragile?” “Yes, a mug,” I said with a bright, easy smile. “Please be careful with it.” It wasn’t just a mug I was sending away. It was the last, ridiculous, lingering shred of hope I had for him. The next three days passed in unnerving silence. Adrian maintained his routine—leaving early, coming home late, the very picture of a successful, hardworking man. The space between us grew cavernous, filled with a silence so thick it felt hard to breathe. He made a few clumsy attempts at conversation—about our daughter, about the household—all of which I deflected with the shortest possible answers. On the fourth night, he was in the shower. The rhythmic hiss of water filled the house. His phone, left carelessly on the coffee table, lit up. It was an unsaved number, but I recognized the sequence of digits. I’d seen it once, tucked away in a corner of a password-protected photo gallery on his blog. The phone rang a few times, then stopped. A moment later, a text message preview flashed across the screen: I got the mug. What does this mean? Did she find out? I thought we agreed to cool things off… The rest of the message was hidden. My heartbeat was terrifyingly steady. Just as I expected. The water shut off. Adrian emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. He picked up his phone. A single glance at the screen and his entire body went rigid. His head snapped up, his eyes locking on me. They were wide with shock and a panic he couldn’t conceal. I was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a cookbook, my head tilted as if completely absorbed in the profound question of how much wine to use in a coq au vin. His fingers, trembling slightly, unlocked the phone. He frantically deleted the text and the call log. Then he just stood there, frozen, like a machine that had been abruptly unplugged. The air in the living room grew thick, so heavy it could have crushed bone. “Evelyn,” he finally said, his voice raw and tentative. I turned a page, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. “Hmm?” I looked up, my expression one of mild confusion, perfectly conveying the annoyance of being interrupted. “What’s wrong?” He stared at me, his gaze intense, trying to peel back my placid exterior to find the lie beneath. But all he found was a calm so absolute it bordered on numbness. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just a work thing. A complication.” “Oh.” I lowered my gaze back to the page. “You should get some rest.” I knew. This was just the beginning. That mug was a stone dropped into a deep, dark pool, and the ripples were just starting to spread. His panic, and Chloe’s desperate message, proved that their so-called “breakup” was as fragile as a spider’s web. 2 Two days later, on Saturday, Adrian was home, a rare occasion. He was on the living room floor with our daughter, Lily, building a sprawling LEGO city while I prepared a fruit platter in the open-plan kitchen. The doorbell rang. I dried my hands and went to answer it. A courier stood on the doorstep, holding an enormous bouquet of lush, crimson roses. Each blossom was a perfect, velvety red, their arrangement radiating a calculated, dramatic beauty. Tucked among the flowers was a stark, black envelope. “Delivery for Adrian Blackwood,” the courier said. I signed for them and took the heavy bouquet. The color was blinding. He had written in his blog that she loved red roses. They were, in her words, like her “fierce, fearless love.” “Wow! They’re so pretty!” Lily cried, running over. “Did Daddy get those for you, Mommy?” Adrian looked up from his LEGOs. The moment he saw the flowers in my arms, his face changed. He practically lunged across the room, snatching the bouquet from me with such force that a shower of petals rained down on the floor. “Who sent these?” he demanded, his voice tight, a tremor running through it. “A courier dropped them off. They’re for you,” I replied coolly, watching every muscle in his face twitch. He ripped the black card from the bouquet. After a single glance, his face turned ashen. He crushed the card in his fist and forced a stiff, unnatural smile for our daughter. “Lily, sweetie, can you go play in your room for a little bit? Mommy and Daddy need to talk.” Lily’s face fell. She looked from his strained face to my calm one, but she obeyed, shuffling back to her room. The second her door clicked shut, the strained warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a storm of barely contained fury. He lowered his voice to a feral hiss. “Evelyn! This was you, wasn’t it? What the hell did you send her?” I met his blazing eyes, a cold, mocking smile touching my lips. “What did I send her? I simply returned something that was left in my house to its rightful owner. What’s the matter? Was she so moved by your ‘old keepsake’ that she felt compelled to return the favor so quickly?” “You—!” The veins in his temple pulsed. He took a step forward, his hands clenched as if to grab me, but he stopped himself. “Why would you do that? I told you, it’s over between us! This just confuses things! It makes her think—” “Think what?” I let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “That you’re still pining for her? That you sent her a secret message? Adrian, you know it’s not over, and so does she. Otherwise, why would a single mug send her into a tailspin? Why would she send you these… what was it? Fierce, fearless red roses?” I used the exact phrase from his blog. His pupils contracted, his eyes widening as if he were seeing me for the first time. In that gaze, beneath the rage, a new emotion was dawning: pure, unadulterated fear. He was finally realizing that the woman standing before him was no longer the emotional, predictable wife he thought he could placate and control. “Evelyn, we need to talk about this,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to reclaim his authority. His voice was ragged with a desperate, suppressed anxiety. “Talk about what?” I tilted my head, my tone a cruel mix of innocence and malice. “Should we talk about how your relationship was ‘all emotion, no physical contact’? Or about how she’s such a sweet, innocent girl who only wanted you to return to your family? Or perhaps we should talk about how I’m supposed to gratefully accept these flowers, arrange them in a crystal vase, and admire them every day as a monument to your great, tragic love story?” Every word was a shard of ice, expertly aimed to shatter his fragile composure.

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1 At Travis White’s twenty-eighth birthday gala, someone presented him with another woman, right in front of me. In that moment, I shed my years of gentle compliance, shattered my wineglass, and brought his birthday party crashing down around us. Then I packed my bags and walked out of our home, alone. Everyone said the powerless Mrs. White wouldn’t last three days before she came crawling back, tail between her legs. Travis was unconcerned. “She’s an orphan. Without the White family, where could she possibly go?” But countless sets of three days passed. People began to wonder if I had died somewhere, forgotten. That was when Travis finally called. The number was disconnected. Later, at a renowned artist’s gallery opening, a portrait of a woman in profile stopped Travis White in his tracks. He offered a fortune to buy the painting. The artist, Leo Baker, simply smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best portrait I’ve ever painted of my wife. I can’t part with it.” … It was Travis White’s twenty-eighth birthday party. I wore my most exquisite gown, my arm linked through his as we made our grand entrance. The moment we reached the bottom of the staircase, he released me, leaving me standing there as the tide of the party flowed past. Every eye in the room followed Travis. I was forgotten in a corner. Guests presented him with gifts, one after another. He would give a detached nod, signaling for the butler to take them away. This continued until one guest stepped forward with a beautiful young woman. Suddenly, all eyes were on me again. Pity. Amusement. Scorn. I had grown accustomed to the weight of those gazes over the years. Travis’s normally stoic face flickered with a brief, unguarded expression. The woman was a dead ringer for his first love, Lydia, the one he’d lost. “Presenting me with a woman in front of my wife,” Travis said, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “You’ve got some nerve.” The gift-giver chuckled obsequiously. “Mrs. White is a generous woman. I’m sure she won’t mind.” It wasn’t that I wouldn’t mind. It was that they knew I didn’t dare to mind. An orphan raised by the White family fortune—how could I possibly say “no” to its new master? Travis toyed with the wedding band on his finger, his eyes glinting. “Well, since my wife has no objections, take her…” Before he could finish, I strode to his side. I looked at the woman’s face. The man had done his homework; he knew exactly what Travis desired. And in that instant, a profound weariness washed over me, bone-deep and final. I realized I no longer had the strength to play the part of the dignified Mrs. White, to honor the promise I made to his grandmother. With a gentle push, I sent the champagne tower behind me to its doom. The beautiful crystal pyramid swayed, then collapsed with a deafening crash. Glass and champagne sprayed across the marble floor, throwing the elegant party into chaos. “Mrs. White has lost her mind!” someone shrieked. I had ruined Travis’s birthday. He didn’t seem to care. The butler was already escorting the guests out, and the staff was quietly cleaning up the mess. The beautiful woman, however, remained. She stood silently by Travis’s side, her serene demeanor a perfect echo of Lydia’s. The contrast made me look even more unhinged. Travis idly played with the woman’s fingers, his gaze drifting to me. “Why so angry?” he asked, his tone maddeningly casual. “If you don’t want to see her, I’ll have her stay somewhere else. Don’t worry,” he added, “I swore to my grandmother that I would never take away your position as Mrs. White.” The woman beside him chimed in, her voice soft and placating. “Mrs. White, there’s no need to be upset. A man like Mr. White is bound to have more than one woman. I only admire him; I have no intention of threatening your status.” I slipped the ring from my finger and placed it on the table in front of Travis. He raised an eyebrow. “Here’s your ring back.” He plucked the ring from the table, tossing it casually into the air. The diamond caught the light in a brilliant arc before falling back into his palm. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw it to the woman behind him. “It’s yours. A million-dollar ring, and Mrs. White doesn’t want it.” Travis stood, a cold sneer on his face, and addressed the butler. “Find the madam some tutors. Teach her some etiquette. I don’t want to witness such a disgraceful display ever again.” He walked a few steps, then paused and turned back. He pulled his own wedding band from his finger and tossed it onto the floor. It rolled across the marble, coming to a stop at my feet. “If you don’t want the rings, then let’s get rid of them both.” Travis left with the woman. The roar of his car’s engine was sharp and final in the night air. The butler, Mr. Hobbs, sighed beside me. “Madam, why must you provoke him? You know he holds a grudge against you.” I picked up the ring at my feet and dropped it into a nearby trash can. “You should get back to your duties, Mr. Hobbs. You don’t need to worry about me.” He sighed again and left. I went upstairs alone and changed out of the elaborate gown, pulling on a simple white t-shirt. I found my suitcase and methodically packed my half of the closet, the clear line between his clothes and mine making it an easy task. When other couples fought, they had to consider divorce settlements and lawyers. But the connection between Travis and me was so thin, it amounted to nothing more than a pair of matching rings. No one would ever believe that the bride and groom of the city’s most sensational wedding of the century never even signed a marriage license. I still remembered what Travis had said to me on our wedding day. “The only name that belongs on that line next to mine is Lydia’s. Charlotte, you never should have married me.” But what could I do? I married him anyway. I married the man I had loved for seven years, through all my girlhood dreams, believing that one day I could win his heart. Instead, I became the hollow figure everyone knew as Mrs. White, a wife in name only. The mansion was silent as I dragged my suitcase to the door. It felt just like the rainy night his grandmother had first brought me here. A thirteen-year-old Travis had stood on the grand staircase, looking down at me with cold, indifferent eyes. Then he had turned, gone to the kitchen, and returned with a glass of warm milk. I booked a flight. Six hours in the air, three more in a car, and I was back in the small, remote southern town of my childhood. They say the old yearn to return to their roots. But a person with no home yearns for them even more, even if there’s no family left to welcome you. I rented a small cottage with a little yard. The local dialect felt both familiar and foreign. I was young when I left, and my years in Northwood City had scrubbed the accent from my tongue. Fortunately, the man in the cottage next door was an outsider too, though he’d arrived before me. He’d helped me at the market one day when I couldn’t understand the old woman selling vegetables. The next day, I made him a sweet corn cake to thank him. That’s when I learned he was an artist, here to paint the local scenery. He had the easy, vibrant energy of a recent college graduate. Away from the people and pressures of Northwood, in this simple, rustic place, it hit me: I was only twenty-five years old. But living in the White mansion, constantly upholding the posture of “Mrs. White,” had made me feel ancient and weary. I bought flowers from the street and filled my small yard with climbing roses. I put a little rocking chair next to the flowerbed. It was modest, but it was all mine. The gardens at the White estate were filled with yellow roses, Lydia’s favorite. The glass conservatory housed an expensive grand piano that Travis had designed for her. No one was allowed to touch it. His grandmother had once threatened to rip out the roses. Travis had exploded in a rare fit of rage. “If the roses go, I go with them.” No one ever mentioned it again. Lydia and her roses became sacred, untouchable ground. That afternoon, there was a knock on my gate. It was Leo Baker, dressed in a hoodie with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He grinned when he saw me. “Hey, Charlotte! I’m heading up the mountain to paint the sunrise tomorrow. Want to come along? Get some fresh air?” He pointed to the peak rising behind our cottages. I knew the mountain was something of a local landmark, the main draw for tourists. I was tempted. “Don’t worry! I go camping all the time. I’m an expert, it’s totally safe.” His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself nodding. Leo was true to his word. He immediately went back to his cottage and returned with another large pack. He carried both sets of camping gear himself, along with his easel and art supplies. I tried to help, but he flatly refused. “I’m strong. This is nothing.” On the way up the trail, we talked about our pasts and our futures. My past felt dull and predictable, a story that revolved entirely around the White family and Travis, culminating in my empty title as his wife. But Leo was different. He was a wellspring of fresh stories and boundless dreams for the future. “Life is all about the experience, right? My dream right now is to be a famous painter, so I have to give it my all,” he said. “And, between you and me, I kind of ran away from home. So if you wake up one day and my cottage is empty, it probably means my family finally caught me.” I laughed. It turned out we were both fugitives. The only difference was that he had a family who would come looking for him. My disappearance would probably be a cause for celebration for Travis. We reached the summit just as the sun was beginning to set. The warm, golden light bathed everything in an ethereal glow. I looked down at the small town below, nestled in the valley, peaceful and serene under the blanket of light. Leo was already busy setting up the tents. “The sunset is beautiful too,” I said. “Aren’t you going to paint it?” “I prefer the sunrise,” he replied. “Every day is a new beginning. It represents infinite possibility, new life.” I sat on the camp stool he’d set out, watching him work, his words echoing in my mind. A new beginning. Leaving the White estate was the bravest thing I had ever done. But afterward, I had acted like a coward, running back to this remote town and hiding myself away in my little cottage. I hadn’t given a single thought to what came next. Was I just going to wither away here for the rest of my life? I was only twenty-five. My future was still full of infinite possibilities. Leo finished with the tents and handed me some food and water. He plopped down on a mat beside me, hands behind his head, and stared up at the newly-starred sky. “You should try looking at the stars like this, Charlotte. It’s a totally different feeling.” At the White mansion, I was bound by a thousand rules of etiquette. Everything I did had to befit the status of Mrs. White. The phrase I heard most often was, “Madam, you cannot do that.” Lying on the ground to watch the stars was something I had never even considered. Leo didn’t give me time to think about it. He reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled. In a second, I was off the stool and on the mat beside him. “Lie down!” he urged. I let go of my inhibitions and did as he said. Lying on my back, the sky seemed to press down, so close I felt I could reach out and touch the stars. We lay there for hours, talking about everything and nothing. And as we talked, I made a decision. I had to be brave. I had to step out into the world. Running away was just another form of hiding. I needed to meet new people, see the vast world outside my gilded cage, until the day came when I could stand face-to-face with Travis and feel nothing at all. Sometime in the night, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Curled up in a simple tent on a mountainside, I felt more secure than I ever had in my life. When I stumbled out of the tent in the morning, groggy with sleep, Leo was already at his easel, his expression focused and serious. The sun climbed slowly over the horizon, its gentle rays warming my skin. I watched it rise, feeling like I was witnessing my own new beginning. “Charlotte! Don’t move!” Leo’s excited voice startled me. I froze, only able to watch him out of the corner of my eye. He was using me as his model. When he was finished, I rubbed my stiff neck. Being a muse was harder than it looked. “Let me get that for you. A thank you for being my model.” His hands were strong, and his massage was firm. I closed my eyes, melting under his touch. All the way down the mountain, Leo chattered excitedly about the inspiration that had struck him. I’d seen the painting; I thought it was nice, but I couldn’t appreciate the finer points. The moment we got back, he disappeared into his cottage. I turned on the TV. The sudden appearance of Travis’s face on the screen made me jump back. I almost changed the channel, but my hand froze. I was glad for the decision I’d made last night. Travis was a public figure. I couldn’t avoid him forever. He looked the same. During the interview, when asked about the recent rumors of a marital rift, his expression remained cool. “My wife is just throwing a bit of a tantrum. She’ll come back after she’s had her fun.” Everyone envied me. An orphan, taken in by the venerable White family and then married to the heir—I was the luckiest woman alive. Only I knew the truth: to be ignored by everyone, resented by my own husband, to hold the title of Mrs. White but still feel like a piece of driftwood in that house, utterly rootless. Every year, when the yellow roses were in bloom, Travis would have the staff cut them and fill every vase in the mansion. The piano in the conservatory was polished daily. Lydia was dead, but Travis made sure her presence was everywhere, a constant reminder of my place. “We hear the argument between you and Mrs. White was over the new assistant you’ve been seen with?” the reporter pressed. Travis’s brow furrowed in annoyance. He instinctively reached to touch the wedding band on his finger. But there was nothing there. He remembered then. Charlotte had been surprisingly defiant this time. She’d returned his ring and had the audacity to run off. He thought back to the call from Mr. Hobbs, his panicked voice reporting that the madam was gone. When Travis had returned home, he’d found Charlotte’s side of the closet completely empty. Only his suits remained, hanging in the vast, silent space. It was just another one of her tactics, a way to pressure him into getting rid of the woman who looked like Lydia. He knew how much she hated anything related to Lydia, let alone a living replica. But so what? His grandmother was gone. Charlotte had no other family, no one else to depend on. He was all she had. When she was a child, she would always hide when she was upset. His grandmother used to indulge her. He didn’t have the patience for that. Once she’d had a taste of the real world, she’d realize how good she had it at the White estate. She’d come back. “She’s an orphan,” he’d told the butler. “Without the White family, where could she possibly go? No one is to look for her. Just let me know when she returns.” Under Travis’s glare, the interviewer quickly shifted the topic from his personal life to business. Talking about work, Travis visibly relaxed. It seemed the mere mention of his wife was enough to sour his mood. I poured myself a glass of ice water and started writing my resume. This little town was a place for the old to retire, not for the young to find work. I had to leave. I worked until dusk, finally stretching and getting up to make dinner. As I sat down to my simple meal of three dishes and a soup, I wondered if Leo was still working. Did he forget to eat when he was painting, the way Travis did when he was working? When his grandmother was still alive, Travis often worked through meals, getting terrible stomach cramps. After that, whenever I could, I would bring his dinner to the office. At first, his secretary would make me wait outside for an hour or two. But eventually, he got used to it and would let me interrupt him. He’d eat, then go back to work. I sighed, put on a jacket, and knocked on the gate next door. There was no answer. Just as I was about to turn away, the gate swung open. Leo’s annoyed expression immediately brightened into a wide smile when he saw me. “Charlotte! I was just painting you, and then you appeared, like magic.” He was still holding a paintbrush. There were streaks of paint on his clothes and a smudge on his cheek. He looked a mess, but his smile was so dazzling that the paint splatters seemed like charming accessories, making him look even more alive. “Have you eaten? Want to come over for dinner?” At my invitation, he clutched his stomach and let out a dramatic groan. “I’m starving! You’re a lifesaver, Charlotte! Let me just put my brushes away.” Over the next few days, we fell into a comfortable routine. He would come over for dinner every evening, and in return, he’d help with the cleaning, and he took over all the gardening work in my yard. It was nice. I’d never had a younger brother, but I imagined it would be something like this. I sent out my resume and got a few interview requests. On the morning I was set to leave, I went to say goodbye to Leo. When I opened my gate, I saw several black sedans parked in front of his cottage. Men in suits, looking like bodyguards, stood by the cars. I hesitated for a moment before walking over. As I approached, one of the men moved to block my path. “Don’t touch her!” Leo strode out of his cottage. The sunny, cheerful boy was gone, replaced by a man with a cold, serious expression. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into his yard, slamming the gate shut behind us. “Don’t follow me in,” he ordered the men. They exchanged glances but obeyed. “Hey, Charlotte,” he said, his bright smile returning as if by magic. “Did you come to call me for dinner?” “No. I came to say goodbye.” His voice immediately jumped several octaves. “Where are you going?” I told him about the interviews. “This place is wonderful, but like you said on the mountain—every day is a new beginning, full of infinite possibilities. I want a new beginning for myself, a life without regrets.” “So, Charlotte… are you over him?” I looked at him, surprised. He just winked. “Don’t treat me like a kid. An artist’s eye is very sharp.” His directness made me blush. “Yes,” I said softly. “I think I am.” “So where are you going to work?” “Northwood City.” I had considered moving somewhere far away from Travis, but Northwood was the only home I’d known since I was a child. I grew up there, went to school there, my friends were there. Why should I force myself to start over in a strange new city, just because of him? “Then I’ll go with you,” he said. “Perfect timing, since my family found me anyway.” In the end, I hitched a ride with Leo. The nervousness I felt about returning to Northwood, about the possibility of facing Travis again, slowly faded as Leo chattered on and on about his plans for us. Life back in Northwood was surprisingly smooth. The interview went well, and I was told to start the following week. I found an apartment near the office. Two days later, Leo became my next-door neighbor again. I was taking out the trash when I saw movers carrying furniture into the apartment next to mine. I glanced over and saw the tall, lanky figure of Leo Baker, directing the workers. “What are you doing here?” “I was hoping to surprise you, but you caught me,” he said, casually taking the trash bag from my hands. “I missed your cooking, so I decided to be your neighbor again.” I was actually happy to see him. In a strange new place, having him next door made me feel safer. “Well, I’ll make a few special dishes tonight to celebrate your move.” For convenience, we decided on hot pot. The spicy broth bubbled, and Leo fished out a piece of tripe, placing it in my bowl. The first bite set my mouth on fire, and I grabbed my drink, gulping it down. “Oh, you can’t handle spicy food? I heard you loved hot pot, so I assumed…” “It’s fine. It’s just been a while.” How long had it been? I couldn’t even remember. I used to love hot pot more than anything. My grandmother would eat it with me, she’d have the mild broth, and I’d have the spicy. One time, Travis was working late, and the dinner I’d brought him had gone cold. It had started to snow outside, so I suggested we go out to eat. I took him for hot pot. Travis preferred bland food, so I ordered the half-and-half pot. But he frowned through the entire meal. “Don’t eat this again,” he said in the car on the way home. “The smell clings to you.” I never ate spicy hot pot again. It’s strange how, when you avoid something for long enough, even your own body forgets how to handle it. But soon enough, I was sweating and happily devouring my meal, rediscovering the simple joy of it. After dinner, Leo cleared the table, cleaned the kitchen, and opened the windows to air the place out. He took the trash with him when he left. Life in Northwood was calmer than I had expected. The media had forgotten about the long-absent Mrs. White, and no one from the White family came looking for me. My existence was, as always, insignificant. The media was, however, very curious about the new assistant Travis was never seen without. I idly scrolled through the paparazzi photos. It was almost comical. Did Travis truly love Lydia that much? In the photos, he bent down so the woman could adjust his tie. He carefully shielded her head as she got into the car. When it rained, he held the umbrella almost entirely over her. It seemed his love could be so easily transferred to anyone with a similar face. Travis had always been fiercely protective of Lydia’s privacy; no photos of her had ever been leaked. So now, everyone was speculating that I had been completely cast aside. If I were still in the mansion, I would probably be waiting up for a husband who never came home. But now, I was busy preparing presentations, attending meetings, dealing with… “Leo, I told you, you can’t be so clingy!” I pushed his head off my shoulder. He just pushed my laptop away. “You have a handsome man right here in front of you, and you’re staring at some old guy on a screen?” It was the first time I had ever heard anyone call Travis White an “old guy.” The thought of his reaction made me burst out laughing. When I finally caught my breath and looked up, Leo’s expression was serious. “Is he the one? The one who hurt you? Travis White of the White Corporation. I know him.” I looked at him, stunned. I had no memory of ever seeing Leo at the White mansion. “When I was a kid, my mom made me call him Uncle Travis.” “…” I lost it again, collapsing onto the sofa in a fit of laughter. “Hahaha… he’s only four years older than you, and you called him uncle… haha…” Leo pinched my cheek. “He looks old.” Travis had been involved in the family business from a young age, which had always made him seem more mature than his peers. So, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “So,” Leo said, his face suddenly very close to mine. “You’re the missing Mrs. White?” I realized that in my laughter, I had ended up with my head in his lap. I tried to sit up, but for the first time, he didn’t let me. His eyes were fixed on mine, demanding an answer. “Yes.” “So does that make me your boy toy on the side?” The thought made him laugh. I playfully slapped his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous! Besides, I’ve already left the White family. I gave him the ring back.” “Then I’ll get a lawyer. You two can be divorced by tomorrow.” “We don’t need to… we don’t have a marriage license.” I gave a bitter smile. No license, no divorce. The only thing that had ever bound us was a ring. Maybe I had played the part of Mrs. White for so long that even Travis had forgotten we weren’t legally married. “Perfect,” Leo said, his eyes gleaming. “In that case, why don’t you get a marriage license with me?”

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Over Memorial Day weekend, I discovered an old, unfamiliar photo in our attic. It showed a strange boy with his arm around my younger self, both smiling. The back read in faded ink: With cousin Adam, Memorial Day 2010. But I had no memory of any “cousin Adam.” “Mom, who is this?” I asked, bringing the photo downstairs. She glanced at it, frowning. “What do you mean, honey? That’s just a picture of you.” I grabbed it back—the boy had vanished. Stranger still, at dinner that night, my father asked, “When is Dana’s cousin Adam arriving? We should make sure he stays longer this time.” Everyone nodded in agreement, as if this unknown cousin were perfectly familiar. I froze, fork in mid-air. “Cousin Adam?” I repeated, searching my memory and finding nothing. My mother felt my forehead. “Dana, are you feeling okay?” “I… don’t remember a cousin named Adam,” I said carefully. The table went silent. My parents and my aunt exchanged a strange look. “Oh, you,” my aunt chuckled. “What kind of joke is that? Adam practically grew up with you. You two were inseparable, thick as thieves.” “Exactly,” my father added, tapping his bowl with his chopsticks. “He comes to stay for a couple of weeks every summer. Last year he taught you how to make those amazing sweet and sour ribs, remember?” A wave of confusion washed over me. I had no memory of any of this, but they described it all so vividly, as if it were undeniable fact. “I really don’t remember,” I insisted. “So… which side of the family is he from?” Another strange silence descended. “He’s…” my mother started, then paused, her brow knitting in thought. Her voice became uncertain. “He’s from your aunt’s side, isn’t he?” “No, that’s not right,” my aunt immediately countered, waving her hand. “He’s not one of mine. Adam is from your uncle’s family.” “I thought he was your brother’s kid,” my father chimed in, though he didn’t sound sure of himself. “Tall kid, taller than his own dad. Must be six-three, at least.” The three of them looked at each other, the atmosphere growing tense and awkward. “So none of you are sure whose relative he is?” I asked, a sliver of unease creeping up my spine. “We’re just getting old, I guess,” my mother said with a strained laugh, quickly changing the subject. “Right, for the family reunion tomorrow, make sure you get that new dress ready.” After dinner, I went to my room and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my photo library. If Adam was as close to me as they claimed, there had to be pictures of us together. But after searching through years of photos, I found nothing. Not a single image that included anyone who could possibly be “Adam.” I opened my contacts and searched for his name. No results. This was too weird. A cousin who supposedly grew up with me was a complete ghost in both my memory and my digital life. Puzzled, I decided to ask more of the family. I called my cousin on my uncle’s side first. “Dana! What’s up?” she answered cheerfully. I got straight to the point. “Hey, can I ask you about someone? Do you know a cousin named Adam?” “Adam?” she repeated. “Of course, I know Adam. Isn’t he always over at your house?” “Can you tell me whose kid he is?” The line was silent for a few seconds. “He’s…” Her voice suddenly lost its certainty. “Hang on, let me think…” A few more seconds of silence. “That’s so weird, I can’t seem to place him,” she finally said. “But he’s definitely one of ours. Why are you asking all of a sudden?” “No reason, just popped into my head,” I said evasively. “Can you describe what he looks like?” She laughed. “Oh, Adam’s a little butterball! Short, round face, the kind of guy who’s always smiling. Super cheerful!” A chill went down my spine. My father had just described Adam as a tall guy, over six feet. My aunt had described him as a cheerful, short, and stout kid. After hanging up, I called a few more relatives. The answers were all disturbingly similar—everyone “remembered” cousin Adam, but no one could confirm his exact identity. And when it came to his appearance, every single description was different. The next morning, I rummaged through my grandfather’s old study, hoping to find a family tree or some record of a Adam. The heavy, leather-bound book chronicled generations of our family, but after flipping through every page, I found no mention of his name. “Dana, what are you looking for?” My aunt’s voice behind me made me jump. “Just looking at the family tree,” I said, closing the heavy book. “Auntie, do you remember what Adam was like as a kid?” She smiled. “Of course! He was such a little rascal. Always following your dad around, trying to copy everything he did. Never sat still for a second.” “Do you have any pictures of him?” Her smile froze. “Pictures? I… I probably do somewhere…” She pulled out her phone and swiped through it quickly. After a moment, it became clear she wasn’t finding anything. “There are just too many pictures on here,” she said with a weak laugh. “I can’t find one right now.” “Where is he now?” I pressed. “Why haven’t we seen him in so many years?” Her expression grew even more confused. “What are you talking about? We see him all the time. He was just here this past summer, wasn’t he?” “But I have no memory of it,” I insisted. “And I’ve looked through every photo I have. He’s not in a single one.” My aunt was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Dana, have you been working too hard? How could you suddenly forget someone so close to you?” I didn’t say anything else. Clearly, everyone was convinced that cousin Adam existed. I was the only one with no memory of him. That afternoon, the whole family went to the cemetery for our annual visit to the family plot. On the way home, my little niece suddenly piped up, “Mommy, when is Uncle Adam coming? He promised he’d teach me how to make paper airplanes.” My sister stroked her daughter’s head. “Soon, sweetie. He’ll be here in a few days.” “He called me yesterday,” my niece said matter-of-factly. “He said he’s bringing me a present.” My sister and I exchanged a look. Her expression told me she knew nothing about any such phone call. “When did you talk to him?” my sister asked. “Last night, when you and Daddy went out,” my niece replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Uncle Adam said he misses us a lot and he’s coming home soon.” That night, back at the old family house, the place was packed with relatives for the reunion. There were eleven adults and three small children. During dinner, I asked casually, “Does anyone know what Adam is doing for work these days?” My uncle-in-law took a sip of his wine. “Isn’t he a long-haul trucker out west? I heard he was about to finish his training and go independent.” My third uncle looked confused. “No, Adam’s a programmer in the city.” My great-aunt put down her chopsticks. “Eh? I thought he was working in a factory down south.” Everyone looked at each other, bewildered. I pressed my advantage. “Why don’t you just ask him? Someone give him a call.” Everyone pulled out their phones and started scrolling through their contacts. After a moment, a chorus of confused murmurs filled the room. “I know I had his number. I can’t find it.” “Mine’s gone too.” “That’s not right, I’m sure I talked to him just last week…” Eleven relatives, and not a single one had Adam’s phone number. At that point, even the least perceptive person in the room could tell something was deeply wrong. My uncle-in-law put down his glass. “Alright,” he said gravely. “Let’s all sit down and figure this out. Who, exactly, is Adam?” The room fell silent. My great-aunt and my aunt took the three little ones upstairs to bed. The men cleared the dining table and set out eleven cups of tea on the coffee table. Half an hour later, we were all gathered in the living room. My uncle-in-law took a sip of tea, assuming the air of a seasoned expert. “I’ll start. I’m positive about this. Adam is thirty-five, a tall guy, drives a truck. Last year, at the reunion, he was asking me all about the northwestern routes, complaining about the road conditions and how much fuel he was burning.” My third uncle pushed his glasses up his nose, frowning. “That can’t be right. Adam is definitely not thirty yet. He’s a programmer, wears black-framed glasses, very thin. He was complaining to me a few months ago about working too much overtime.” My great-aunt shook her head, her expression certain. “Good heavens, you must have it all wrong. Adam is thirty-two, a line supervisor at an electronics factory in Austin. He’s fair-skinned, a bit chubby, and a real smooth talker.” I silently jotted down the contradictory descriptions, my heart pounding. How could one person have so many different ages, jobs, and appearances? It was my aunt’s turn. She thought for a moment before speaking. “I remember Adam being very shy as a child. He was always quiet, reading a book by himself. Never caused any trouble.” My father immediately objected. “No way! Adam was a little terror as a kid. Always climbing trees and raiding birds’ nests. There wasn’t a place in this town he didn’t get into mischief.” “I remember him being an only child,” my cousin chimed in. My great-uncle waved his hand dismissively. “No, he has a sister.” My third aunt corrected him. “A brother.” The atmosphere grew thicker with strangeness. I looked around the room. Every face was etched with confusion and unease. “Who are his parents?” I asked, hitting the crucial question. “They’re…” my aunt began, then stopped, her brow furrowed. “They’re related to your third aunt.” My third aunt immediately shot back, “No, he’s not from our side of the family.” No one could answer. Eleven relatives stared at each other, the air thick with tension. I broke the silence. “When was the last time you saw Adam, and where?” My father recalled, “It was this past summer. He came over and taught Dana how to make those ribs. We were in the kitchen together all afternoon.” “Impossible,” I countered immediately. “I was in Europe all summer. I wasn’t even home.” My father stared at me, the memory clearly conflicting with the fact. My great-uncle spoke up. “He was at my house last weekend. Fixed my computer. We had a few beers.” I looked at my great-aunt. “Is that right?” She shook her head, confused. “We were at my mother’s all last weekend. We weren’t home.” My great-uncle’s face went pale. “That’s not right… I distinctly remember…” “Let’s try drawing him,” I interrupted. “Everyone, draw the Adam you remember.” Eleven pieces of paper were soon filled with eleven completely different portraits. Some were tall and brawny, others short and wiry. Some wore glasses, one was bald. Some had beards, others were clean-shaven. The drawings had absolutely nothing in common, as if they depicted eleven different men. “This is impossible,” my uncle-in-law muttered, staring at the disparate sketches. “How can we all have completely different memories of the same person?” Suddenly, my great-uncle’s eyes lit up. “I remember! Adam knows magic tricks! Every year at the reunion, he’d always put on a little magic show for everyone.” “Yes! He does do magic!” several people exclaimed in unison. It seemed to be the only detail everyone could agree on. As the eleven of us fell back into a stunned silence, we heard a noise from the staircase. My cousin’s daughter was tiptoeing down the stairs, clutching a bag of chips. My cousin stood up immediately. “Sweetie, I thought you were asleep.” The little girl held up the bag. “Uncle Adam woke me up and gave me some chips. Do you want one, Mommy?” Adam was here? Upstairs? We were all stunned. I looked around at the others. “We need to check on the kids.” My great-aunt and my cousin nodded, quietly following me up the stairs. As we rounded the landing, we could hear laughter coming from the children’s room. We pushed open the door to find two of the children sitting on the floor, playing with toys that didn’t belong to them, toys that shouldn’t have been in this house. “Where’s Adam?” my great-aunt asked, scooping up her grandson. “He went to the bathroom,” the boy said, refusing to let go of his new toy. My cousin and I exchanged a look and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. The door was open. No one was inside. We checked every room upstairs. There was no sign of Adam. The three of us went back downstairs with the children. The other relatives were still in the living room, deep in discussion about Adam. “Did you find him?” my father asked, looking up. My cousin shook her head. “He’s not up there. Just some new toys we’ve never seen before.” It was then that I noticed the cups on the coffee table. I counted them once. Then again. My voice trembled. “There are twelve. There are twelve cups. There are only eleven of us.” Even more unsettling, every cup showed signs of use, including the extra one. I looked at the sofa and saw twelve distinct impressions in the cushions, arranged in a circle, just as we had been sitting. “Was he… was he here with us the whole time?” my aunt whispered, her voice shaking. No one answered, because no one remembered. Panic began to spread. We split up and searched the old house, trying to find any trace of Adam. In the study, we found a book left open, with fresh, unfamiliar handwriting in the margins. In the kitchen, there was a recently washed coffee mug in the sink, but no one in our family drinks coffee. In the backyard, a clear set of footprints led across the lawn to the fence, where they simply stopped. The most chilling discovery came when we returned to the living room. The extra cup was gone. And there were only eleven impressions on the sofa cushions. “What in God’s name is happening?!” my great-uncle cried, on the verge of hysteria. In the thick, fearful silence, there came a soft knock at the front door. “Who is it?!” my third aunt shrieked. A voice answered from outside. “It’s me… Adam.” My uncle-in-law and my great-uncle walked slowly to the door. They exchanged a look, took a deep breath, and each grabbed one of the heavy wooden handles. They pulled the doors open together. There was no one there. “But how…” my great-uncle stammered. “I heard him…” “I heard him too,” my father said, peering out into the darkness. Everyone had heard the knock, and everyone had heard Adam’s voice. But the doorway was empty. My great-uncle shut and bolted the doors, then sank back onto the sofa, running his hands through his hair. In the eerie quiet, more memories of Adam began to surface. “Oh my God,” my aunt whispered. “One time, I woke up in the middle of the night, and Adam was standing by my bed. Just… watching me. When I asked what he was doing, he said he just wanted to make sure we all still remembered him. I nearly had a heart attack!” “I’ve had experiences like that too,” my great-uncle said, his voice low. “Sometimes I can feel him right behind me, feel his breath on my neck, but when I turn around, there’s nothing there.” My third uncle was trembling. “Last year he gave me a clock,” he said, speaking quickly. “It keeps strange time. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it even runs backward.” “The book he gave me,” my father added. “The words change. Every time I open it, the story is different.” As the night deepened, so did the fear. No one dared to be alone. We huddled together in the living room with every light in the house turned on. The only ones unaffected were the children. They played with the toys Adam had brought, occasionally talking to the empty air as if he were right there beside them. We decided to stay awake until morning and then go to the police together. No one slept. We took turns keeping watch, making sure everyone was accounted for. Every gust of wind that rattled a window sent a jolt of terror through the room. Trips to the bathroom were made in pairs. It was the longest night of our lives. Just as the first light of dawn broke, we began to gather our things, ready to leave. And then, the doorbell rang again. Everyone froze.

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My brother gave me away to Michael Moy, a titan of the city’s elite. By day, I was his pet snake. By night, I would crawl into his bed and desperately siphon the vitality he radiated, all to fuel my transformation. It was then that I started seeing the comments. Text, floating in my vision. [Where is this pathetic snake even coiling? Does she have any idea what she’s doing? Move over, I’ll show you how it’s done.] [It’s fine. The male lead gives her to the female lead at her birthday party anyway. The nasty snake gets dropped and dies by accident. Serves her right.] [And her brother tries to get revenge on the female lead, but the male lead just has him barbecued and feeds him to the dogs.] A shudder of pure terror made my body constrict. On the bed, the sleeping Michael Moy let out a sudden, muffled groan. 1. After my brother, Silas, successfully took human form, he brought me—still a simple snake—to the heart of the city. “I’ve found you a man with pure life force, a perfect vessel,” he told me. “Stick with him for a while, and I guarantee you’ll have your human form in no time.” “Once you’ve transformed,” he added, “sneak out during the night. I’ll be waiting for you at the gates of his estate.” And just like that, I was gifted to Michael Moy. The problem was, he was almost never home. I had to wait for the housekeeper to be distracted before I could slip out of my enclosure. I’d slither into his walk-in closet and absorb the lingering traces of his vitality from his clothes. But most of them were laundered, the potent energy washed out until only a faint whisper remained. It was barely enough to be considered a snack, leaving me feeling hollow and unsatisfied. A week later, I’d drained nearly every garment in his closet dry. I managed to shed my skin once—a meager step forward. To achieve human form, I needed to shed my skin a hundred times over. Just as I was sinking into despair, Michael Moy returned. He wore a tailored suit that sharpened the already severe lines of his face, giving him an aura of untouchable authority. An invisible wall of ice seemed to emanate from him, warning everyone to keep their distance. But to me? He was a walking feast. His entire being radiated a raw, intoxicating vitality that made my mouth water. His cold gaze fell upon me. His brow furrowed slightly as he spoke to a nearby maid, his voice a blade of ice. “Is this snake an idiot? It’s drooling.” I wasn’t even listening. I was completely captivated. I flicked my tongue out in a gesture of what I hoped was charming subservience. He barely glanced at me before striding away to his study. 2. His time at home was precious. I couldn’t afford to waste a single opportunity. The moment the housekeeper’s back was turned, I expertly slipped out of my glass tank. I followed the magnetic pull of Michael’s life force to the door of his study. He was at his desk, engrossed in his work, completely oblivious to my presence. His discarded suit jacket lay on the floor. I darted towards it, greedily drinking in the energy clinging to the fabric. An unwashed garment, fresh off his body, was a hundred times more potent than the sterile clothes in his closet. His scent filled my senses, a heady mix of expensive cologne and pure, masculine warmth. I was so overwhelmed with pleasure that I began to roll around on the jacket. Suddenly, the jacket was yanked away. Michael was staring down at me, his expression unreadable. “How did you get out?” I coiled into a tight, small ball, tucking my head beneath my body in a futile attempt to become invisible. He watched me with the kind of look one gives a particularly stupid animal, then pinched me between two fingers and lifted me from the floor. As he carried me back downstairs to my tank, the warmth of his skin against mine was electrifying. I took the chance to draw in as much of his energy as I could, gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls. When he placed me back inside the glass enclosure, I couldn’t resist a final, lingering lick of his fingers. Michael stared at the spot I had touched. His brow furrowed in disgust as he pulled a silk pocket square from his jacket and meticulously wiped his hand clean. I was so infuriated by the gesture that I spun around in my tank three times. What was that supposed to mean? Was I… repulsive to him? 3. Late that night, I escaped again and slithered into Michael’s bedroom. To my surprise, he was still awake, shrugging off his shirt to reveal a landscape of hard, sculpted muscle. I froze in the doorway, a wave of heat washing over me. The primal urge to surge forward, to wrap myself around him and drink my fill, was nearly overwhelming. But I restrained myself. For the long game, for a steady supply of his vitality, I had to be patient. He padded toward the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, I scurried into the room, making a beeline for his discarded underwear. The energy here was explosive, several times more powerful than his suit jacket. I lost myself in it, drunk on the sheer potency, completely forgetting that I was supposed to be hiding. “What are you doing?!” I snapped back to reality and looked up. Michael was standing there, fresh from the shower, his voice a cocktail of shock and fury. Panicked, I clamped his underwear on my head and made a run for it. He chased right after me, relentless. The fabric blinded me, and I slammed headfirst into a wall, dazed and confused. He snatched his underwear back and held me up. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking into my room to steal my briefs?” I went limp, playing dead. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Dead? Perfect. I could use a little midnight snack. Ever tried grilled snake?” I immediately sprang back to life, flicking my tongue at him twice and nudging my head against his hand in a plea for forgiveness. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before another, softer laugh escaped him. “I haven’t given you a name yet, have I? How about… Cleo?” As he spoke, he carried me back to my tank, this time placing a heavy vase on the lid to seal my fate. Before he left, he leaned down. “Be a good girl, Cleo. Stay put.” 4. Michael stayed home for a single day before leaving on another business trip. This time, he was gone for a month. In that month, I managed to shed my skin four times. By the time he returned, I was starving, desperate for another taste of his vitality. The moment he walked through the door, I threw all caution to the wind and launched myself at him. He froze for a fraction of a second, stunned. It was all the time I needed. I had already coiled around his ankle, my body a living vine scaling his leg, frantically absorbing his energy. His entire body went rigid. When he finally snapped out of his shock, he pried me off his leg, his voice tight with annoyance. “Cleo! What has gotten into you?!” Ignoring him, I used the momentum to wrap myself around his wrist, my tongue darting out to lick the back of his hand. His jaw tightened. The housekeeper rushed over, gently but firmly removing me from his arm and placing me back in my tank. The brief contact had restored some of my strength, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. Even with the heavy vase weighing down the lid, I rammed my head against it again and again until it shifted, creating a gap just wide enough for me to squeeze through. After a moment’s rest, I made a beeline for his room. He was soaking in the bathtub, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Emboldened, I crept closer to the hand he had draped over the edge of the tub. His fingers were long and elegant, the knuckles well-defined. Tentatively, I licked one. No reaction. I coiled around his finger and began to climb his arm. Still nothing. I pressed on, slithering up to his shoulder. The steam rising from the hot water was uncomfortable, a suffocating blanket of heat, but the prize was too close to abandon. I navigated the column of his neck, my gaze fixed on his lips. That intoxicating heat flared inside me again. I began to lick them, a frantic, desperate tasting. I no longer cared if he woke up. The simple touch wasn’t enough. I wanted to bite him. After a moment of deliberation, I did. I sank my fangs into his lower lip. Michael’s eyes fluttered open. He captured my head in his hand, his gaze hazy with sleep. “Licking is one thing,” he murmured, his voice thick and drowsy, “but biting? That’s new.” I saw the two tiny red dots on his lip and felt a strange pang of guilt. It wasn’t my fault he was so delicious. “You little deviant,” he scolded softly. “Aren’t you afraid of being boiled alive in here just for a taste?” I nudged his hand with my head. He watched me for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Wrap around my hand.” Michael rose from the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist, and carried me downstairs. Back in the tank I went. This time, I didn’t fight it. I was full, content, and I drifted into a deep, satisfying sleep. 5. Michael was gone for another month. But that last encounter had been so potent that I shed my skin a full fourteen times while he was away. When he returned, I was so deep in slumber I didn’t even notice him approach my tank. He tapped on the glass, jolting me from a pleasant dream. I blinked my eyes open, disoriented. He reached in and lifted me out. “What’s this?” he asked, a note of displeasure in his voice. “Forgotten all about me after just a month? Last time you practically threw yourself at me. Now you can’t even be bothered to wake up.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Instinct took over. I wrapped myself around his wrist and began to lap at the back of his hand. He stroked my head with his other hand. “Did you miss me this month?” I ignored the question, focusing on the slow, steady intake of his intoxicating energy. He carried me upstairs with him, but paused at the bathroom door, placing me on the bed. “You are not allowed in here,” he warned, his voice firm. “That water will cook you alive. You wait here, understand?” I nodded my head fearfully. But the moment he stepped inside, I followed him, peeking my head around the doorframe. He turned and fixed me with a stern look. “Cleo. Out.” I pretended to retreat, then waited a moment before poking my head back through the gap. Michael tilted his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I knew you’d try again.” Feeling guilty, I withdrew and slithered back to the bed. When he emerged from the bathroom, he lay down beside me. I immediately crawled onto the hard plane of his abdomen. He closed his eyes, allowing me to lick the taut skin. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a raw, husky whisper. “Cleo… a little lower.” I obeyed, moving downward. I coiled around him. The fire inside me roared to life. 6. Michael’s frantic schedule seemed to ease. He started coming home every night, sometimes even working from the mansion during the day. After that first night, I shed ten skins in a single day. So it became our routine. Every night, after he fell asleep, I would slip into his room, crawl onto his bed, and drink my fill of his vitality. Until the day the comments appeared again. [Is this not supposed to be a PG story? Where the hell did this scene come from?] [A snake… oh god, I can’t handle this!] [When did the male lead develop this… particular fetish?!] [Suddenly I want to buy a snake.] [I can’t watch anymore. Thank god he gives her to the female lead at the birthday party. The evil snake gets dropped and dies. Finally.] [And her brother comes for revenge, only to be grilled by the male lead and fed to the dogs.] My body tightened involuntarily. The sleeping Michael let out a sharp hiss of breath. I froze, terrified. But he seemed to settle again, his breathing evening out, though a flush had crept up his cheeks. I started to pull away, my mind still reeling from the prophetic text. Suddenly, Michael’s eyes opened. He looked straight at me. “Why’d you stop?” The thought of him giving me away, of him cooking my brother, erased every other thought from my mind. In a surge of pure fury, I lunged forward and bit his finger. He hissed in pain but didn’t shake me off. Instead, his voice was surprisingly gentle. “Who upset you?” He stroked my head with his thumb. “Let go when you’re tired of biting, Cleo.” And I was tired. I released his finger. According to my count, I only needed to shed my skin about twenty more times to achieve my human form. The comments said the female lead’s birthday was in two days. If I could complete my transformation in that time, I could escape. I wouldn’t be given away. My brother wouldn’t be harmed. Fueled by a new, desperate anger, I slithered back to my original position and coiled around him once more. Michael just smiled and settled back against the pillows. 7. The next day, the doorbell rang. A young woman with her hair in a messy bun bounced into the house. She linked her arm through Michael’s, her voice a sugary pout. “Uncle Michael, my birthday is coming up! What are you getting me?” Michael’s eyes never left the document in his hand. “You’ll find out when the time comes.” She beamed. “Your gift is always the one I look forward to the most.” He finally set the file aside and offered her a faint smile. “Lily, if you have nothing better to do, you should probably head home. I’m quite busy.” I watched them from my tank, my head raised. Lily just huffed playfully and began to wander around the room. Her gaze landed on me. “Uncle, what a beautiful snake! Is she my birthday present?” Michael walked over, moving her hand away from my enclosure. His voice was cold. “No.” [He’s such a terrible liar. This was obviously the gift he got for her.] [He probably wanted it to be a surprise, and now that she’s found out, he’s playing coy.] [It fits his character perfectly. He’s cold and aloof on the outside, but madly in love on the inside.] [Totally. He tells her to go home, but he’s secretly thrilled she’s here.] [And when she actually leaves, he’ll be miserable. I live for this trope.] So this was her. The one who would kill me. I stared at her, my gaze hardening. Murderer. Lily frowned, clearly annoyed. “Can I at least pet her?” “No,” Michael said flatly. “She bites.” She crossed her arms. “Well, if you don’t let me, I’m just going to stay here all day!” Michael’s brow twitched in irritation. After a moment’s thought, he reached into the tank and lifted me out. There was no way I was letting my killer touch me. I shot up Michael’s arm and burrowed under his shirt. His muscles clenched. He reached into his shirt, pulled me out, and carried me back to his room. He tapped my head lightly. “Next time, you are not to crawl into my clothes in front of other people. Understood?” He then added, “And you are not to crawl into anyone else’s clothes but mine. Ever. Got it?” I went limp, playing dead. Sorry, no speak English. He scooped me up. “Cleo, if you don’t behave, you won’t be sleeping with me tonight.” But I needed to shed my skin, and time was running out. I instantly perked up, nudging his hand affectionately. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s more like it.” A knock came from the bedroom door. It was Lily. “Uncle Michael? Are you okay in there? That snake is so disobedient. Maybe you should just get rid of it.” Michael, still holding me, opened the door. “Are you ready to leave now? Or should I call your father to come pick you up?” Lily glared at him, then spun on her heel and stormed out. [Classic male lead. Pushing away the woman he loves. He’s going to spend ages trying to win her back after this.] [It’s okay, he’ll show up at her birthday party with the snake as a peace offering.] 8. That night, I resumed my usual position, coiled around him. The silence of the room amplified every sound, every shift, every soft breath. Michael’s voice was a low growl in the darkness. “Tighter, Cleo.” I constricted, my cool body slowly heating until it felt like I was burning from the inside out. It was a strange agony, both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. Two hours later, I couldn’t take the intensity anymore. I uncoiled and slithered away, collapsing in a corner of the room. I felt like I was melting. My skin began to peel away, layer after layer. I don’t know when he moved, but suddenly Michael was there, crouching in front of me. He reached out a hand, his touch gentle. “Cleo, why are you so hot?” He watched me, his thumb stroking my new skin. “Shedding again,” he murmured. “It seems you’re getting close.” He placed me back in my tank. I fell into a hazy, disoriented sleep. When I awoke, I felt… different. Bigger. I pushed my way out of the tank. And there they were. Four limbs. After another period of strange, rapid metamorphosis, I was finally, fully human. I stumbled to a full-length mirror and stared at the reflection. A woman with pale, delicate skin stared back, though patches of iridescent blue scales still clung to her body like jewels. 9. As I was examining my new form, I heard footsteps from upstairs. Panicked, I shifted back into my snake form and scrambled into the glass tank just as Michael appeared. He walked over to the tank and reached inside, stroking my body. “Your fever’s gone down.” He lifted me out and carried me toward the bedroom. He placed me on his abdomen and rested his hand over me. I waited until his breathing was deep and even, then carefully wriggled free and made my way to the window. It was only then that I realized it was shut. Taking a deep breath, I transformed back into a human. As my fingers touched the latch, a cold voice sliced through the silence from behind me. “And where do you think you’re going, Cleo?”

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The merman I’d raised from a pup betrayed me for a scholarship student. As punishment, I had 99 of his scales torn from his tail. The live comments exploded. They were all cursing me out. 【His tail is so beautiful! How could that evil bitch do that to him?】 【I can’t take it anymore! Run away, Caspian! Go find our sweet, kind-hearted Lily!】 A small, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I had the merman packaged up and delivered directly to the scholarship student’s doorstep. Then I got myself a handsome lop-eared rabbit boy. Two months later, my doorbell rang. It was the merman, awkwardly mumbling something about how he missed me. But from inside my room, the wet, sticky sound of a deep kiss could be heard, followed by a boy’s breathless whisper. “Mistress… is my kissing not good enough? Why are you distracted?” “Hush, darling. Pay him no mind.” 1 Two workers hoisted the tank containing Caspian onto the back of a truck. The old driver stood beside me, wringing his hands. “Miss… are you sure about this? Maybe you should reconsider.” My face was a mask of stone. “Do you reconsider when you take out the trash?” “That’s not what I meant. It’s just… that place is so poor and run-down. They’re lucky if they have running water, let alone a proper filtration system. Mermen are incredibly delicate. Will he even survive out there?” I stared at the familiar blue tank. I had decorated it myself, painstakingly applying each of the tiny, crushed diamonds that glittered on its surface. I could still remember the blisters on my fingers, the sharp sting of the glue. The memory was now just a bitter irony. Caspian was my bonded beastkin, my familiar. He had sworn an oath of eternal loyalty to me. But yesterday, when the school auditorium caught fire, he had shoved me aside without a second thought, scooping up that scholarship student and carrying her to safety. In the chaos, I had fallen. A nail had pierced my calf, and blood had gushed from the wound. In that moment, the chill in my heart was far more painful than the injury. Caspian knew he had done wrong. He had knelt before me that night, his head bowed. He admitted his guilt, but not his error. I had laughed, a raw, ugly sound from my wheelchair. I ordered my guards to pluck the scales from his tail. The iridescent, jewel-like scales, stained with his blood, fell one by one to the floor. His face was pale, his lips bloodless. But he kept repeating the same words, over and over. “If I had to do it again, I would still choose to save her.” “She’s not like you. She doesn’t have a powerful family, but she’s gentle and kind. She’s like a ray of sunshine in my life.” I gave a sarcastic twist of my lips. “So, you’re saying I’m a cruel, manipulative bitch. Is that it?” Caspian looked away. His silence was his answer. The night wind was cold. It made my fingers tremble. I am the eldest daughter of the main branch of the family. Everyone with a claim to the inheritance is watching me, waiting for me to fail. They would kill me if they could. There was a time when I was so paranoid, I even had cameras installed inside my refrigerator. If I hadn’t learned to be cunning, to play their games, I would never have survived. All these years, I had raised Caspian, given him the best of everything. And this was the thanks I got. I closed my eyes. The last flicker of sadness in my heart died out. “Fine,” I said. “I’m done with you, Caspian. Since you’re so fond of that scholarship student, go to her.” The truck’s engine roared to life. The sound seemed to jolt Caspian from his stupor. He struggled to sit up, his eyes finding mine. The driver, a kind old man, took pity on him. “You still have a chance, son. Just apologize to the young miss!” A faint, mocking smile touched Caspian’s pale lips. “I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet filled with a proud, cutting sarcasm. “My only mistake was choosing such a selfish mistress.” 2 The moment Caspian was gone, I gave the order. I wanted a new bonded beastkin. I was rich, I was beautiful. Why should I waste my time grieving over a single beastkin? He wasn’t worth it. I was just about to head to the beastkin auction when I received a tip from a journalist I knew. My father’s illegitimate son, my dear half-brother, was in trouble. My heart soared. I immediately changed course. The scene in front of the filthy, dilapidated warehouse was pure chaos. It turned out my brother had been exposed for using beastkin in illegal drug trials. A group of pitiful, scarred creatures were being rescued. Without a second thought, I rolled up my sleeves and joined the volunteers. The reporters, seeing me, immediately turned their cameras in my direction. “Look, it’s the eldest daughter of the Morris family! So compassionate!” “And look at her brother… what a monster.” My brother’s glare could have set me on fire. I ducked my head to hide my triumphant smirk. Just then, a pale, slender hand reached out from a rusty cage and tugged on my sleeve. I froze and looked down. I was met by a pair of slate-gray eyes. Two long, floppy rabbit ears drooped in fear. The boy looked up at me, his voice a soft whisper. “Will… will you save me?” Lop-eared rabbits were notoriously timid. I crouched down, my voice gentle. “Yes. I will.” At my words, a shy smile lit up his face. The next moment, his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed. It was only then that I noticed the dense cluster of needle marks on his neck. 3 Of all the beastkin rescued that day, the lop-eared rabbit was the most severely injured. Rabbits were ideal test subjects, and my dear brother had injected him with countless experimental drugs. The cost of his treatment would be far beyond what the volunteer organization could afford. Without hesitation, I announced that I would cover all his expenses. “Miss, the auction catalog has arrived,” my bodyguard said, opening the brochure. “Tonight’s main event is a fierce lion beastkin. There’s also a keen-witted wolf and a powerful bear that are highly rated…” “That won’t be necessary,” I interrupted. “Miss?” he asked, surprised. “The lop-eared rabbit we rescued today. He’ll do.” I looked towards the intensive care unit, my voice surprisingly calm. “The Morris heiress’s bonded beastkin is a creature she personally rescued. Think of the publicity. I’ll take him to the charity gala this year.” The bodyguard stared at me for a moment, then bowed his head. “Yes, Miss.” Inside the ICU, the lop-eared rabbit boy, as if sensing my gaze, suddenly looked up towards the glass window. The moment he saw me, his little rabbit ears shot up in excitement, then quickly drooped back down in a show of demureness. He gave me a shy, tentative wave. 4 I didn’t return his enthusiastic smile. I simply instructed the nurse to use the best medicine available and left. I had taken him in for the sake of my reputation. As long as he was by my side, everyone would be reminded of my brother’s atrocities. I had no illusions about him protecting me. Lop-eared rabbits were too timid. They could barely protect themselves, let alone anyone else. Because of my leg injury, I was confined to a wheelchair. In my spare time, I began physical therapy. The pain was excruciating, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through. I had a bright future ahead of me. I refused to be an invalid. Days turned into weeks, and I gradually forgot about the rabbit. One day, returning from the hospital, the door to my car slid open. Instead of my bodyguard, a pair of slender hands reached in and gently lifted me out. The sudden feeling of weightlessness startled me, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck. I was met with the pleasant, unfamiliar scent of fresh grass. I looked up, confused, and saw a familiar face. At my stare, the two soft rabbit ears peeking out from his hair twitched, the tips turning a shy shade of pink. He carried me into the living room, gently placing me back in my wheelchair. He then knelt before me, adjusting the footrests. I looked down at him, my voice cool. “What are you doing here?” “The doctor said I’m all better. I’ve been discharged,” he said, looking up at me, his voice bright and eager. “I’m your beastkin. Of course, I’m here to take care of you. To protect you.” I was silent for a moment, trying to recall his name. Leo, I think. Leo Starr. A fitting name, for someone who was clearly a daydreamer. I shook my head. “My life is dangerous. I need a powerful beastkin to protect me. You’re just a rabbit. You’re not strong enough. All you need to do is be my arm candy at the gala. A pretty face.” “No!” he interrupted, his gray eyes wide. “I am strong! I know your last beastkin was a powerful merman, but trust me, I’m no less than him!” The mention of Caspian made my expression harden. I had no patience for this. I steered my wheelchair towards the elevator. Just before the doors closed, I tossed a careless challenge over my shoulder. “Then prove it.” 5 The next day at school, I ran into the scholarship student and the merman who had betrayed me. Lily was wearing a faded school uniform, a white jasmine clip in her hair. She was smiling up at Caspian as he walked beside her, silently carrying her pink teddy bear backpack. The look on his face was one of gentle affection. Until he saw me. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a glacial coldness. I sighed. How sad. He wasn’t dead yet. “Um… Jade Morris.” Lily’s voice, though soft, carried across the crowded school entrance. “Thank you… for letting Caspian go.” She peeked out from behind him, clutching his sleeve, and gave me a timid smile. Instantly, all eyes were on me. The live comments went wild. 【Our heroine is so brave! Talking to the evil bitch directly! This is the strong female lead content I signed up for!】 【Aww, the male lead looks so surprised! He probably didn’t expect our sweet Lily to stand up for him like that.】 【Daily prayer for the evil bitch to just die already.】 【Am I the only one who thinks that sounded a little passive-aggressive? Can I even say that?】 The comments scrolled past in a blur. The students around me whispered and giggled, their eyes darting towards me in my wheelchair. It was a humiliating situation. But I remained unfazed. I looked up at Lily and said, my voice clear and confident, “I was just throwing out the trash. If you want to pick it up, be my guest.” I turned to leave, but Lily rushed forward, blocking my path. “Jade, you’re angry, aren’t you?” “I just wanted to tell you, Caspian is so much happier now that he’s away from you. He smiles so much more.” She gave me a self-deprecating little laugh. “I’m just a simple person, I speak my mind. Don’t take it personally…” The saccharine sweetness was nauseating. I frowned and tried to push past her. Lily stumbled backward, landing perfectly in Caspian’s arms. He held her close, his eyes glaring at me with suspicion. “Jade, if you have a problem, take it up with me. Don’t you dare hurt Lily.” I was speechless. “Caspian, you really need to lay off the bad romance novels. Has Lily not been aerating your tank properly? Is your brain oxygen-deprived? In what universe did I just bully her?” “Jade, why do you always have to be so aggressive?” Caspian scowled. But then his gaze fell on my legs, uselessly curled in the wheelchair, and his voice softened. “That day… I ran to save Lily because the beam above her was about to fall. I couldn’t just watch her get hurt.” He lowered his voice. “I… I haven’t broken our bond. I… I’ve missed you.” I bit my lip. A flicker of something stirred in my chest. We had grown up together, after all. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, the roar of an engine cut through the air. A man in black on a motorcycle was speeding towards me, a dagger glinting in his hand. In my stunned silence, I heard Caspian’s frantic shout. “Mistress! Move!” Move? I almost laughed. I was in a wheelchair. How was I supposed to move? The dagger was inches from my face. The next second, a figure blurred in front of me. A swift, powerful kick. Bang! The heavy motorcycle crashed to the ground, its wheels still spinning. The assailant was thrown, his helmet scraping against the pavement with a shower of sparks. The man, now unmasked, scrambled backward on the ground, his eyes wide with terror. But there was no escape. The tall, broad-shouldered rabbit boy stalked towards him, bent down, and pressed the dagger to the man’s throat, drawing a single, crimson drop of blood. The boy’s eyes were cold, his expression grim. But his voice was soft, polite. “Sir. You shouldn’t have touched her.” I stared at Leo. I remembered his defiant words: “I am strong!” He hadn’t been lying. But I still felt a strange sense of being deceived. What had happened to my sweet, shy, easily flustered little rabbit? Why had he suddenly turned into Godzilla? 6 【On the surface, he’s a sweet, shy boy who blushes easily, but in reality, he’s a total badass with off-the-charts combat skills! Aww, why can’t a man like that be in love with our heroine?!】 【Sweet bunny, don’t help that evil psycho! Come to our Lily!】 【Um, isn’t the merman supposed to be the main love interest? Why is everyone going crazy over this rabbit?】 The comments were a chaotic mess. It was giving me a headache. The assailant was staring at Leo in terror, his hands raised in surrender. “Don’t… don’t kill me…” “You should have thought of the consequences when you decided to attack my mistress,” Leo said coolly. The man’s face went blank, then twisted in a snarl of frustration. “Impossible! I had everything planned! How was I supposed to know you’d show up out of nowhere? What’s your relationship with Jade Morris? I thought her beastkin was a merman! Since when is it a fucking rabbit?!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “It seems my brother’s intelligence is a bit outdated. I have a new bonded beastkin now.” Leo looked up at me, his eyes shining. He knew what those words meant. I had acknowledged him. He could finally, officially, be by my side. His ears perked up, and he puffed out his chest. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging like a helicopter blade. Well, the rabbit had turned into a puppy. I looked at him and sighed softly. Then I caught my reflection in a car window. My lips were curved into a small smile. I was… smiling at him? I quickly schooled my features back into a neutral expression. But I couldn’t stop replaying the moment he had rushed to protect me. My bodyguards finally arrived, surrounding me. “Our apologies, Miss. We were negligent. Please, let us escort you to safety.” Leo restrained the attacker, handing him over to my men. I prepared to leave. But a hand shot out and grabbed my sleeve. I looked up, annoyed. It was Caspian. The usually proud, aloof merman was now hunched over, his expression a mixture of shock and devastation. “You…” he stammered, his voice trembling. “How could you take a new beastkin? I haven’t broken our bond. I haven’t agreed to it…” I frowned, my voice as cold as ice. “I am your mistress. Since when do I need your permission to break our bond?” “But you promised! You promised I would be the only one!” “He’s a rabbit! He’s not as strong, or as fast, or as rare as I am…” Caspian’s eyes grew red, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t choose him…” The live comments were in an uproar. 【What is happening? Why is the male lead begging the evil bitch? Is he jealous?】 【No way. After everything she did to him, he still has feelings for her?】 【Look at the heroine’s face… she looks so pitiful…】 Following the comments’ direction, I glanced at Lily. Yeah, no. I didn’t see pitiful. I saw a look so venomous, it could kill.

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1 My mother-in-law was rushed to the hospital, fighting for her life. My husband Sean, head of thoracic surgery at Mercy General, was her only hope. Yet he let his clumsy, doe-eyed intern, Lana, lead the operation. She stood trembling, unable to even identify basic instruments. Pouting, she tapped her head: “Oh, Seeean… I forgot agaaaain~” He chuckled adoringly, ignoring his open, bleeding patient on the table, and spent ten minutes coaching her before the surgery began. Disaster struck. Lana’s hand slipped, puncturing the tumor. She shrieked and threw herself into Sean’s arms, sobbing. While he consoled her, my mother-in-law’s last chance slipped away. She died on the table. Sean emerged cradling the traumatized intern and shot me a cold glance. “Before you take your mother’s body,” he said flatly, “sign this liability waiver.” He sighed, as if burdened by my grief. “Your mother was a lost cause. Lana is young—we can’t ruin her career.” I stared, the world tilting. It took a moment to process: he thought the woman on that table… was my mother. A cold smile spread across my face. “That waiver,” I said, calmly, “isn’t mine to sign.” … Sean let out an exasperated sigh. “Are you refusing to sign it?!” he snapped. “Don’t be difficult, Ava. What else are you going to do? Sue for malpractice?” Lana peeked out from the safety of Sean’s arms. “Sean, honey, don’t be angry with Ava,” she whimpered. “She just lost her mother, after all. It’s natural for her to be upset…” Her voice broke into a sob. “It’s all my fault. I failed to save the patient. I’m so useless. If only my skills were better, she wouldn’t have died…” Sean’s expression softened into a tenderness I had never seen him direct at me. “Lana, you’re too kind,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Don’t take all of this on yourself. A patient that sick… no one could have saved her. It’s not your fault.” Then, his gaze hardened as he turned back to me. “Ava, are you happy now that you’ve made the poor girl cry? Just sign the waiver. And while you’re at it, write a glowing five-star review for her. Something about her being a ‘compassionate caregiver’ with a ‘healing touch.’ Got it?” I almost burst out laughing. It was beyond absurd. When Sean had heard I was bringing my mother-in-law to the hospital, he had rushed over with Lana in tow. I’d assumed he was coming to perform the surgery himself. Instead, he’d handed the scalpel to an intern who’d been at the hospital for all of two months. And now, after she’d killed the patient, the family was expected to thank her? But if Sean himself thought his own mother deserved to die, who was I to argue? I forced my lips into a compliant smile and nodded. “Of course, I agree to sign. But it’s not just my decision to make, you know.” I held up my phone. “How about this? I’ll record you stating that you also consent. It’ll just make the hospital paperwork go smoother.” Sean looked at me like I was an idiot. “Are you out of your mind? That’s your mother, not mine. Why would her death have anything to do with me?” His expression… it was so familiar. I remembered finding my mother-in-law’s medical file in her room, the one detailing her diagnosis of a malignant tumor. She had begged me not to tell Sean, not to distract him during a crucial time in his career. But Sean had found the file anyway. Faced with his mother’s pleading eyes, I’d lied and told him it was my mother’s diagnosis. Now, I finally understood the look on his face back then. It wasn’t concern. It was morbid glee. Seeing me just stand there, phone still raised, he grumbled impatiently. “Fine, fine! I, Sean Caldwell, also consent to the waiver. Happy now?” He shoved past me. “Now get out of the way. Can’t you see Lana is completely exhausted from the surgery?” Lana, still nestled in his arms, shot me a look over his shoulder. Her eyes, so clear and deceptively innocent, held a flicker of pure triumph. As he brushed past, Sean sneered, “Stop wallowing. With her condition, if it wasn’t this year, it would’ve been the next.” He was right. I only hoped he could maintain that same detached attitude when he finally discovered whose mother had really died. While the body was being moved to the morgue, someone from the hospital’s risk management department came to speak with me. They were in an awkward position; Sean was both the attending surgeon and the victim’s next of kin. Before they could even start their carefully worded speech, I handed them the signed waiver and the recording of Sean’s consent. They stared at me, their jaws slack. Leaving their office, I headed for the morgue. Halfway there, I ran into Sean and Lana, strolling hand in hand. Seeing where I was going, Sean blocked my path and thrust a piece of paper in my face. “Sign it.” 2 I took the paper. It was an organ and body donation form. Even though the woman lying in the morgue wasn’t my biological mother, a chill ran down my spine. “You know she was religious, Sean. She believed in entering this world whole and leaving it the same way.” My voice was ice. “I won’t agree to this.” Lana let out a derisive giggle. “Oh, please. It’s the twenty-first century. Who still believes in that superstitious nonsense?” She smirked. “If you ask me, your mom must have done some pretty terrible things in her life to get cancer. I mean, why her and not someone else?” Sean chuckled in agreement, not a hint of shame on his face. “Ava, think of it this way. At least now your mother can be useful for something. Do a little good, and maybe she’ll get a better roll of the dice in her next life.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s like butchering a pig. The fresher the kill, the better the meat. We can’t wait too long.” Have respect for the dead. Even if the woman lying on that slab wasn’t his mother, how could a doctor speak like that? A fire ignited in my gut. “She’s your mother too!” I screamed. “Have you no conscience?! I will never agree to this!” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I thought the bones would snap. He raised his other hand, his face a mask of menace. “You ungrateful bitch. I tried to be nice about this, but you just won’t listen, will you?” I met his gaze, my eyes like chips of ice. “Sean, you dare lay a hand on me? If my parents find out, they’ll destroy you.” The words were barely out of my mouth before his palm connected with my cheek. A flash of white-hot light exploded behind my eyes. “So you finally married up, and now you’re better than me?” he spat. “You think you can hold your parents over my head forever? You think I’m some pushover?” He wrenched my hand forward and forced me to sign the donation form, then shoved me to the ground. I pushed myself up, staring at him in disbelief. This was the man who once couldn’t even bear to speak a harsh word to me. Now he could hit me? Lana immediately rushed to his side, clutching his arm. “Sean, honey, don’t be angry! Don’t hurt your hands!” Instantly, the rage vanished from Sean’s face, replaced by a look of concern for his precious intern. “I’m not angry, baby. Not for a worthless bitch like her.” He turned to go. “Come on, let’s go prep the body.” Lana’s eyes darted around. “But honey, you have another surgery soon, remember?” she cooed. “Why don’t you go rest? Leave the body prep to me. It’ll be a great learning experience!” As soon as Sean was gone, Lana strode over to the gurney and casually yanked back the white sheet. She picked up a cranial saw and, with a sickening buzz, cut open my mother-in-law’s skull. “Ugh, brain atrophy,” she said with disgust. “Can’t use this for a specimen.” Next, she scooped out the eyeballs. “Old bat was half-blind anyway. Corneas are useless.” In seconds, my mother-in-law’s face was an unrecognizable horror. Lana then proceeded to disembowel the body, tossing the organs onto a tray with careless disdain. As she worked, she took photos with her phone and sent them to Sean. His voice messages came back, filled with praise. “My Lana is so talented. Not scared at all.” “That’s the way to do it. Just dive right in. It’s not like Ava’s mom had anything worth harvesting anyway. At least this way, her death has some value. Good practice for you!” I clamped a hand over my mouth, fighting back a wave of nausea. Lana looked up at me, a sweet, sickly smile on her face. “Your mom was just too old. Not a single salvageable part on her.” She shrugged. “But how would I know without taking a look, right, Ava? It’s just standard procedure. Don’t take it personally.” I took a deep, shuddering breath. Of course I didn’t take it personally. If her own son was cheering this on, what right did I have to object? But now that I had seen Sean for who he truly was, I couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened. I couldn’t stay married to this monster. What if he decided to “practice” on my parents next? I snatched the phone from Lana’s hand and spoke into it, my voice clear and unwavering. “Sean, I want a divorce.” 3 Sean stormed back from the on-call room. “Ava, have you lost your mind?!” he bellowed. “Doctors aren’t gods! Are you going to blame me because your mother died?” “I’m not blaming you,” I replied, my voice eerily calm. “I just don’t want to be married to you anymore.” Sean’s brow furrowed as he struggled to control his anger. “Lana and I did everything we could in that surgery. I know you’re grieving, but don’t use divorce as a weapon.” Lana let out a little gasp, pointing a trembling finger at herself. “Ava,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears, “you don’t blame Sean… does that mean you blame me?” She crumpled to the floor, burying her face in her hands. “It’s all my fault. I couldn’t save her. It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “Ava, hit me, scream at me, do whatever you want! Just don’t divorce Sean! He’s innocent!” Sean rushed to her side, pulling her to her feet. “Ava, that’s enough!” he snarled. “Lana is already under immense pressure after what happened. Are you trying to push her over the edge?” He rounded on me, his face a mask of contempt. “Divorce me? Get a grip. Your mother’s gone, your father’s old. You think you’re still that little girl with mommy and daddy to back you up?! You need to understand something right now. The only person you can rely on from now on is me! Not your parents, who already have one foot in the grave!” I just stared at him, my eyes reflecting the ugly, twisted man he had become. “Finally,” I said softly. “The truth comes out.” “You’ve been living off my parents’ money for years, haven’t you, Sean? And all the while, your pathetic pride has been eating you alive.” I shook my head. “This version of you… it’s truly pathetic.” Sean’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. Lana just looked confused, her gaze darting between us. “Fine! You want a divorce? You’ve got it!” Sean wiped a hand across his face, his eyes bloodshot. “You and your money! You think you’re so much better than me!” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You’d better pray your precious father never gets sick. Because if he ever needs me, the answer will be no!” As he left, he glanced at the mutilated remains of his mother on the gurney and snorted in disgust. He pulled out his phone and called the crematorium. “I’ve got a useless pile of rotting meat here,” he said. “Come get it. It’s taking up valuable space.” I had thought about letting him see his mother one last time. Now, I realized there was no point. A few hours later, the crematorium called. I picked up the ashes, set up a small memorial hall, and notified Sean and his family. I had been his mother’s daughter-in-law; this was the last kindness I could show her. But when I returned to the hall after making the arrangements, I stopped dead in my tracks. My mother-in-law’s memorial portrait had been splattered with what looked like animal blood. A crude, violent ‘X’ was carved across her face, the black ink running from her forehead to her chin. The table meant for offerings was covered in beer cans and potato chip bags. The solemn chanting from the speakers had been replaced by a grim, discordant dirge. “There! Much more festive, don’t you think?” Lana grinned as she kicked the urn, sending a cloud of gray ash billowing across the floor. She took a marker and scribbled graffiti all over the memorial tablet. I just stood there, speechless, a knot of ice forming in my throat. Just then, the door opened and Sean strode in. His eyes swept over the scene of chaos without a flicker of anger. In fact, I saw a hint of a cold, satisfied smile playing on his lips. Lana winked at him and scampered over. “Sean, honey! You said we shouldn’t make the funeral too depressing. What do you think? Creative, right?” Sean walked over to the portrait and straightened the defaced frame. He nodded, a look of approval on his face. His voice was calm, but every word was a hammer blow. “Excellent work. What’s the point of everyone sitting around crying?” “This is much better. Get the party started. Make it a real send-off. That way, her death won’t be a complete waste.” 4 Even if the deceased wasn’t my own flesh and blood, she deserved respect. No one, absolutely no one, deserved to be desecrated like this. I stared at Sean, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “How… how can you be smiling?” He just shrugged, a smirk on his face. “It’s a celebration of life. Does a room full of crying people really show more respect?” “Your mother loved a good party when she was alive,” he said. “We’re just honoring her wishes.” “A celebration of life?” I took a step closer, my voice rising. “This is a memorial hall! It’s a place for mourning, for remembrance! And you’ve turned it into a circus! You’ve defaced her portrait so badly you can’t even tell who it is! Is that what you call respect?!” My voice was a raw, ragged shout. “This isn’t honoring the dead! It’s insulting them!” Lana, momentarily taken aback by my outburst, quickly recovered and pouted. “Oh, don’t be so old-fashioned. It’s just a dead person. Why make such a big deal out of it?” Seeing Sean’s completely unconcerned expression, I suddenly started to laugh. “You know what?” I said, my voice dropping to a calm, measured tone. “If you don’t care, why should I?” “Let’s do it your way. Let’s have a celebration.” Sean paused, a slight frown creasing his brow, as if he couldn’t quite decipher the chill in my voice. He chose to take my words at face value. “See, Ava?” he said with a smile. “This is the obedient, understanding wife I married. Don’t worry. From now on, I’ll take good care of you.” Seeing my surrender, Lana cheered and ushered in a group of her rowdy friends. The memorial hall was quickly turning into a nightclub. I sat down, my face a mask of indifference, and watched as they danced, their shoes grinding my mother-in-law’s ashes into the carpet. The funeral director arrived on schedule and stopped in the doorway, his mouth agape, the program clutched in his hand. “What are you waiting for?” Sean commanded. “Let’s get this show on the road.” The poor man cleared his throat and began, his voice shaking. “Friends, family… we are gathered here today to conduct… uh… a celebration of life for the deceased.” A few snickers rippled through the crowd. “I’ve been to a wild wedding, but never a wild funeral!” “If the deceased knew her funeral was this much of a party, she’d be rolling in her grave!” “She must have really pissed some people off to not even get any peace in death!” Lana, beaming with pride, leaned over to me. “See? Even the funeral director called it a celebration! And you were shouting like a banshee. So uncultured. This is how they do it in other countries, you know.” Sean shot me a dismissive look. “Some people are just so stuck in the past. The person’s dead. Why put on such a sad face for everyone to see?” he grumbled to Lana. “We go to all this trouble to create a thoughtful, personalized service for her mother, and she’s still not grateful.” I didn’t react. I just said, slowly and deliberately, “I can tell you for a fact that my mother would not have appreciated this kind of ‘thoughtful’ service. As for your mother… well, I can’t speak for her.” Sean’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I just smiled and said nothing. He snorted. “You think a few clever words will bring your mother back from the dead? Pathetic.” Lana immediately wrapped her arm around his. “Don’t listen to her, Sean. She’s just jealous and trying to ruin your mood.” Just then, the funeral director’s voice changed, signaling the next part of the service. “And now, we invite friends and family of the deceased to come forward and pay their final respects.” As he spoke, the large double doors at the back of the hall swung open. An older couple walked in. Sean’s face froze. I stood up and walked over to them. “Dad, Mom,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “You’re here.” I gestured to the chaotic scene. “This was all Sean’s idea. He said this is exactly how his mother would have wanted it.”

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Every woman in Port Sterling saw Jim Caldwell as a man hopelessly in love, who had spoiled me into the enviable Mrs. Caldwell. Only I knew the truth—the agony behind that facade. Day after day, I watched numbly as he brought home one woman after another. His latest obsession was Pathy, a sharp-tongued housekeeper he allowed to turn our home upside down with bizarre rules, even for me. She canceled my credit cards, threw away my designer clothes, and limited my grocery allowance to ten dollars a day. I was forbidden from leaving after 8 PM. So when the hospital called at 8:01 PM, saying my mother’s life was hanging by a thread, Pathy’s bodyguards blocked the door without emotion. “My mother had a heart attack. I need to go now,” I pleaded, voice trembling. Pathy didn’t even look up from her nails. “The rules say no one leaves after eight. Even if she’s dying—or dead.” Shaking with rage, I begged Jim to let me go. He looked at me, cold and distant. “As long as you’re Mrs. Caldwell, you will follow Pathy’s rules.” Staring at the man I loved for ten years, I felt like I was seeing a stranger. If this was the price of being Mrs. Caldwell, I no longer wanted the title. 1 The main entrance was sealed tight by the bodyguards, two unmoving statues of muscle and indifference. My legs felt weak, ready to buckle beneath me as I shakily dialed the hospital’s number again. “Please,” I sobbed into the phone, “please start the treatment for my mother. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “But, ma’am—” Before I could hear the rest, a sharp smack sent my phone flying from my hand. “Another rule of the Caldwell house,” Pathy’s voice dripped with condescension, “no shouting!” The phone hit the marble floor with a sickening crack, the screen spiderwebbing into a black, lifeless void. I sank to my knees, cradling the shattered device as hot tears streamed down my face. “Who’s that miserable face for?” Pathy sneered, pouting as she turned to Jim. “If your wife can’t stand the sight of me, then I suppose I should just leave.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jim murmured, pulling her into his arms and peppering her face with kisses. “My darling little tyrant. Who in this house would dare disobey you?” His words were for her, but his actions were for me. He tightened his grip on my chin, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Eliza. Smile.” My mother’s life was on the line; I couldn’t afford to provoke him. I forced my lips into a grotesque imitation of a smile, a grimace that felt more painful than tears. “My mom… she’s in critical condition, Jim. Please, let me go see her.” My voice was a desperate plea. “She was in that car accident last year to save you. You can’t just let her die alone…” For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, perhaps. He looked at Pathy, his tone softening. “My love, just this once?” “No!” Pathy wrenched herself from his grasp, crossing her arms as she plopped onto the sofa. “It’s just a heart attack, not a death sentence. She’s being dramatic.” She glared at him. “You promised me when you brought me here that everyone in this house would listen to me! Everyone!” “If you let her go, you’re not touching me tonight!” “Alright, alright,” Jim sighed, shaking his head in mock defeat. He scooped her up and settled her onto his lap, tickling her until she erupted into giggles. Pathy’s laughter was a sharp, piercing sound, and her triumphant gaze sliced right through me. Parading his mistress in front of me, grinding my dignity into the dust—this scene had played out in our home more times than I could count. The pitying stares from the household staff were like tiny needles pricking my skin. A wave of hopeless despair washed over me. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, and drew a shaky breath. “Jim Caldwell,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, “let’s get a divorce.” If I wasn’t Mrs. Caldwell, I could walk out that door. 2 The air in the room went ice-cold. A heavy silence fell over the living room, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Jim’s expression hardened, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Eliza Vance, are you serious? You’re threatening me with divorce?” He leaned in closer, his voice a low growl. “You seem to have forgotten how you got here. Remember when your father begged my family to take you in? You weren’t so bold then, were you?” His words were like invisible hands, closing tightly around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs. The past flooded my mind in a series of sharp, painful flashes. My father had been the Caldwell family’s driver. Ten years ago, when old Mr. Caldwell was ambushed by rivals, my father threw himself in front of him, taking the bullet meant for his boss. On his deathbed, Mr. Caldwell asked him what he wanted. With his last, shallow breaths, my father whispered, “Please… take care of my daughter.” Back then, Jim and I were inseparable, childhood sweethearts. When he heard my father had died, he held me in his arms as I cried, his own tears mixing with mine. “Don’t worry, Eliza,” he had promised. “I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. As long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you.” That promise, once my sanctuary, was now just a bitter echo, scattered to the wind. Jim, I thought, a silent scream trapped in my chest, you’re the one hurting me the most. My gaze drifted to the two of them, so comfortable and intimate on the couch. A pain like a physical blow struck my heart. I fought back the lump rising in my throat. Seeing my silence, Jim reached out and stroked my hair, the way one might soothe a pet. “Until the divorce papers are signed, you are my wife. And you will always be my wife.” I knew what that meant. As long as he refused, no one in Port Sterling would dare grant us a divorce. I was trapped. With no other choice, I made a break for the door. Crack! The sound echoed through the room as Pathy’s hand connected with my cheek. My face exploded with pain, instantly swelling. “I told you,” she hissed, her eyes blazing with fury, “no one breaks the rules in this house!” Her smug, triumphant smile was the final straw. I lunged at her, my hands finding her hair, yanking with all my might. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I shrieked. “If anything happens to my mother, I swear I will end you!” My fingers closed around her throat, but before I could tighten my grip, a brutal kick from Jim sent me flying. My head slammed against the sharp corner of a coffee table, and the world dissolved into a dizzying vortex of pain and darkness. “Lock her in the cellar,” Jim’s voice was devoid of all emotion. “Let her think about what she’s done.” Two guards dragged me away like a carcass and threw me into the damp, musty cellar. I pounded on the heavy oak door until my knuckles were raw and bloody, but no one came. Defeated, I slid down the door, my body wracked with sobs. The image of my mother, frail and struggling for breath in that hospital bed, shattered what little composure I had left. Knock. Knock. Knock. A gentle rapping on the door. I looked up to see a small window slide open. A wrinkled hand reached through, holding a piece of bread and a bottle of water. “Ma’am,” a soft voice whispered. “You need to eat something.” It was Anna, our old housekeeper. She’d been with my family since I was a little girl, and had always treated me like her own daughter. “Anna, please,” I begged, scrambling to my feet. “Please, just let me out. I need to get to the hospital…” “I can’t, ma’am. I’m so sorry, but I can’t.” There was a deep helplessness in her voice. She pulled back her sleeve, revealing a latticework of thin, angry red marks on her arm. Punishment. “…Thank you, Anna,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. I didn’t want to cause her any more trouble. I sank back to the cold, concrete floor, staring at the stale bread and water in my hands. Ever since Pathy had arrived, this had been my reality. She had set my daily food budget at ten dollars. Bread and water were my new staples. Meanwhile, she had Jim wrapped around her finger, taking her to Michelin-starred restaurants every night, showering her with extravagant gifts. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. The wife of Port Sterling’s wealthiest man, living worse than a stray dog on the street. 3 I didn’t sleep a wink. The moment the cellar door was unlocked the next morning, I raced to the hospital, my heart pounding with a frantic, desperate rhythm. My mother was lying in the hospital bed, her breaths shallow and labored. Tears blurred my vision as I rushed to her side, gripping her cold, fragile hand. “Mom, I’m here… I’m so sorry.” “Ms. Vance, you’re finally here.” The attending physician entered the room, his face etched with concern. “We managed to stabilize your mother’s condition last night, but she’s taken a turn for the worse. She needs surgery, immediately.” “Then do it! Whatever it takes, just do the surgery!” The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “The problem is, the funds in your account have been frozen. We can’t proceed without payment, and the surgery requires a deposit of at least two hundred thousand dollars.” His words hit me like a physical blow. The world tilted on its axis, and a cold sweat slicked my skin. I couldn’t believe it. To indulge Pathy in this twisted “housekeeper” game, Jim had actually cut off my mother’s medical funds. He had left her to die. My mother must have seen the despair on my face. She tugged weakly at my sleeve. “My darling girl,” she whispered, her voice raspy, “don’t… don’t go begging him for my sake…” “No,” I sobbed, shaking my head frantically. “You’re all I have left, Mom. I’m going to get you that surgery. I promise.” Through the curtain of my tears, I didn’t see the anguish in her eyes, the way they followed my retreating form with a look of profound, heart-wrenching love. I drove back to the mansion like a woman possessed. When I burst in, Jim was in the dining room, patiently coaxing Pathy to eat her breakfast. The table was laden with an obscene amount of food, a feast for a queen. There was everything from simple toast and fresh-squeezed juice to imported caviar and filet mignon. The stark, brutal contrast between this scene and the image of my dying mother sent a surge of white-hot fury through me. “Jim Caldwell!” I screamed, my voice raw with rage. “How could you? How could you cut off my mother’s medical payments?” Jim looked up, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. “What are you talking about? I never—” “I did,” Pathy interrupted, daintily wiping her mouth with a napkin. She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with smug superiority. “Mrs. Caldwell, your daily allowance is ten dollars. If your mother needs money for her treatment, I suggest you go out and earn it yourself.” I was trembling from head to toe, my entire body vibrating with a rage so intense I thought I might shatter. I turned to Jim, my voice a desperate whisper. “You’re just going to let her do this? You’re just going to stand by and watch?” “Pathy,” Jim began, a hint of unease in his voice. “Maybe we should—” “Maybe you should what?” Pathy shot back, cutting him off. “Indulge her again?” She slammed her hands on the table and stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You promised me! You promised that everyone in this house would listen to me! If one word from your wife can undermine all my rules, then what’s the point of me being here? I’ll just leave!” “No, no, of course not,” Jim said quickly, pulling her back into his arms. “You know I’ll always listen to you.” I stood there, frozen, watching this grotesque performance. My heart felt like it was being methodically ripped to shreds. This was the man I had loved for a decade. My mother and I were nothing more than props in his game, tools he used to appease his new favorite toy. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips as I gestured to the lavish spread before them. “You preach frugality to us, Pathy, but look at you. Isn’t that dress you’re wearing a runway piece that costs hundreds of thousands of dollars?” Pathy just pouted, completely unfazed. “The rules are for the Caldwell family. I’m not a Caldwell.” “Do you have any idea how hard people struggle just to survive?” I pressed on, my voice rising with every word. “The coffee you’re sipping, the food on your plate—that’s probably more than what some people make in a month!” The sight of her, draped in couture while my mother wasted away, finally broke me. I lunged at her, my hands outstretched, aiming for her throat. The next thing I knew, a searing pain exploded across my cheek. Jim had struck me with the full force of his strength, sending me sprawling to the floor. He didn’t even glance at me, his attention solely on Pathy, his hands gently rubbing the skin on her neck where my fingers had been. He turned to me, his eyes dark and menacing. “I told you, Eliza. No one is allowed to hurt Pathy.” Pathy, ever the victim, glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “You want money? Fine. Go earn it.” She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and dragged me out of the house and into one of their luxury cars. “Tonight,” she said with a cruel smile, “you have special permission to come home after eight.” 4 She took me to a place I recognized instantly—an exclusive, high-end club, the preferred playground for Port Sterling’s elite trust-fund kids. Pathy saw the color drain from my face and her smile widened. “A person should earn their keep, don’t you think? Go on. Serve some drinks, pour some tea, maybe polish a few shoes. You might even earn some tips.” She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. “When you’ve scraped together enough cash, then you can go save your dear old mom.” Before I could protest, her bodyguards shoved me into the club’s main lounge. For my mother, I swallowed my pride. I did what I had to do. I knelt on the cold, hard floor, my hands trembling as I polished the expensive leather shoes of men who looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. One of them nudged my chin up with the toe of his shoe, while another mockingly fanned my face with a wad of cash, the crisp bills stinging my already swollen cheek. “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Mrs. Caldwell. How the mighty have fallen.” “What a waste. Can’t even keep her own husband interested. I guess you can put feathers on a crow, but it’ll never be a phoenix.” “You guys haven’t seen Jim’s new flame, have you? I heard last week he went on a ten-billion-dollar shopping spree at an auction, bought out the entire catalog just to make her smile. Didn’t even bat an eye…” Every word was a poisoned dagger, twisting in the raw, gaping wound of my heart. So that’s what my mother’s life was worth to him. Nothing. I moved from one spoiled heir to the next, a hollowed-out shell of a woman, but no matter how much I debased myself, the two hundred thousand dollars remained an impossible dream. The world began to swim before my eyes; I was on the verge of collapsing. Then, a familiar pair of stilettos stopped right in front of me. “Oh, look at you,” Pathy cooed, crouching down to my level. She patted my cheek, her touch condescending. “Still working so hard for your short-lived mother?” “You know, for being such a good, diligent girl, I think you deserve a little show. I’m sure you’ll love it.” I didn’t understand what she meant, but a cold dread began to seep into my bones. She produced a small, ornate box from her purse. Opening it, she scooped up a handful of grayish-white powder. Then, with a theatrical flourish, she tossed the powder into the air. “Let’s call this show… confetti,” she chirped. A terrible premonition tightened its icy grip around my heart. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it felt like a physical blow. “Pathy,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “What is that?” She feigned a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise, though her eyes danced with malicious glee. “Oh, darling, I thought you two were so close. Don’t tell me you can’t even recognize your own mother’s ashes!” “Look how pretty it is,” she giggled, “just like confetti.” She grabbed another handful and flung it in my face. The fine dust filled my nose and mouth, and I choked, coughing violently. “You should thank me, really,” she said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “I’m helping you and your mother have a reunion.” My mind went blank. My hands, acting on their own, fumbled for my broken phone. It wouldn’t turn on. I snatched a phone from a nearby table and dialed the hospital, my fingers numb and clumsy. Every second of the ringing felt like an eternity, a slow, torturous crawl through a nightmare. My vision blurred, tears forming a thick veil over the world. When the nurse finally answered, my voice was a distorted, trembling wreck. “The doctor… my mother… where is she?” There was a moment of hesitation on the other end. “Mrs. Caldwell? Your mother was cremated this morning.” The nurse’s voice continued, distant and muffled, as if coming from the other side of a long tunnel. “She passed away from cardiac arrest last night. We tried calling you and Mr. Caldwell, but no one answered. Finally, Mr. Caldwell’s secretary picked up. She told us to… to proceed with the cremation as quickly as possible.” My gaze snapped to the box in Pathy’s hand, to the fine gray powder clinging to her fingers. A wave of unimaginable grief and rage crashed over me, so powerful it brought the bitter taste of blood to my mouth. That box… it really was… my mother. Pathy met my horrified stare, and then she threw her head back and laughed, a shrill, ugly sound. “You and your mother are both such idiots! All I did was show her a little video of you on your knees, polishing shoes for these men. The old hag got so worked up, her heart just gave out. Pathetic.” She leaned in close, her voice a triumphant hiss. “Honestly, you two belong together. In the ground.” A primal scream tore from my throat, a sound of pure, animalistic agony. “PATHY! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” The grief, the rage—it all converged into a singular, blinding focus. I lunged at her, my hands closing around her neck, my only thought to extinguish the cruel, mocking light in her eyes. If what she said was true… I couldn’t bear to imagine it. My mother, the person who loved me more than anyone in the world, seeing that video… the shame, the heartbreak… it would have shattered her. “Jim! Help me! She’s trying to kill me!” Pathy shrieked, her hands clawing at mine. The next instant, a powerful force slammed into my side. I was thrown backward, tumbling across the floor until my head cracked against the leg of a table. The world spun violently, stars exploding behind my eyes. “Eliza, have you lost your mind?” Jim’s voice thundered above me.

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1 On our fifth anniversary, I found an old phone in Tim’s safe. The password was his first love’s birthday. Inside, it chronicled every sweet moment of their past. Meanwhile, his current photo album didn’t contain a single picture of me. “Find anything interesting, Kate? Prying into other people’s privacy?” I turned to face the man standing in the doorway. I didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene. I just said, calmly, “Let’s get a divorce.” Tim formatted the phone right in front of me, his expression so detached it was impossible to read. “Is that better?” he asked. “Still want a divorce?” I nodded, my resolve firm. “Yes.” … “Alright, that’s enough. Don’t be dramatic.” Tim’s brow furrowed with a familiar impatience. “Be good,” he said, his voice softening into a practiced, placating tone. “Once the year-end project is done, I’ll make time to take you to Aspen to see the snow, okay?” When I didn’t respond, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. With his usual careless grace, he tapped a finger against my forehead. “I’m not kidding this time. I mean it.” I almost laughed. I’m not kidding this time. So he knew. He knew he’d been kidding all the other times. The trip to Aspen had been a promise he’d postponed year after year. The movie dates where I’d wait alone at the theater entrance until the film started without him. The times he’d sworn he was on his way to pick me up, only to leave me stranded in a downpour, his car never appearing. Tim always broke his promises to me. And now, he thought dangling this one again was some grand gesture, a reward. “No, thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath and repeating myself with unwavering clarity. “Tim, I want a divorce.” This time, the warmth vanished from his eyes, his patience finally snapping. “Kate, you’re being completely unreasonable.” “Go to Aspen or don’t. I’ve given you a way out.” “Just don’t come crying to me later, saying I didn’t keep my word.” With that, he grabbed his coat from the sofa and turned to leave, not even glancing at the dinner I had so carefully prepared to his tastes. I remained silent. For the first time, I didn’t try to make him stay, not even for another minute. He paused at the door, his footsteps faltering for a fraction of a second as he looked back. I had already sat down at the table, picked up my chopsticks, and begun to eat alone. He slammed the door on his way out, the sound echoing with an unvented rage. My heart didn’t ache anymore. There was nothing left but a barren wasteland. I used to think that a man like Tim, so far above it all, would never be touched by ordinary, domestic things. But the phone had shown me otherwise. It showed him cooking for the girl he loved. How a single word of her praise made the cuts on his hands and the blisters from the hot pan feel like badges of honor. He had even whispered such childish, sweet things: “Cooking for the person you love is true happiness.” “I’m going to cook for Isabelle for the rest of our lives. Keep her so happy and well-fed that she’ll never want to leave me.” Reading those entries was the first time I truly understood what a complete and utter joke I was. The next day, I met my best friend, a lawyer, at a coffee shop and asked her to draft the divorce papers. “What happened between you two? Is it really that serious this time?” she asked, her face etched with surprise. She knew better than anyone how much I loved Tim. In the past, our fights never went beyond a few days of cold silence. “I’m just so tired,” I said, gazing out at the traffic. “And… she’s back.” That one pronoun was enough. My friend understood immediately. Isabelle. Tim’s unforgettable first love. Her name was like a tiny needle embedded in my heart. It drew no blood, but it never stopped pricking me with pain. I had never even met her, yet her ghost had haunted my marriage for five years. Tim insisted on his privacy, yet he and Isabelle had shared a music streaming account. Tim hated exposing his life online, yet his old social media was a shrine to her. The art exhibits he took me to were always by her favorite painters. He claimed shopping with me was a waste of time, yet he had once spent weeks exploring every antique market in the city with her. Two years of dating, three years of marriage, and Tim had never once removed her from his heart. I was nothing more than a placeholder, a comfortable habit to fill the empty space she’d left behind. A second choice. “Okay. I’ll handle the papers. I’ll make sure you don’t get screwed over,” my friend promised, her expression worried. “But Kate… are you absolutely sure?” “I told you from the start, he wasn’t right for you. He never cleared out his heart before letting you in. You’ve been torturing yourself by being with him.” “But you just dove in headfirst and wouldn’t listen to anyone.” I stirred my coffee, my eyes downcast. “Some walls you just have to smash your head against until you’re bloody before you’re willing to turn around.” 2 The sky was a dreary gray, and the rain started without warning. My friend’s husband showed up to get her. “I told you not to come,” she chided gently. “And let my queen get wet? Not a chance,” he grinned. “Hey Kate, you want a ride? We can drop you off.” I smiled and shook my head. “You two go ahead. I’ll just sit for a bit longer.” I used to be so envious of their easy affection, the genuine care that flowed between them. Why was it that Tim and I, also husband and wife, always had an invisible wall between us? Why? The answer was simple. He didn’t love me enough. And I had been lying to myself for so long, pretending it was just his nature, that he didn’t know how to love. When the rain lessened, I stepped outside. Just then, a familiar Audi pulled up to the curb. In the passenger seat was a woman in a cream-colored dress, her hair in soft waves, exuding an air of gentle elegance. Tim got out from the driver’s side and started walking toward the coffee shop, likely just passing through. When he saw me, his expression didn’t change, save for a slight arch of his eyebrow. He probably expected me to greet him, but I just looked down at my phone, checking my rideshare app. Distracted, I missed a step and my ankle twisted beneath me. Tim shot me another indifferent glance, his brow furrowing slightly before he disappeared inside. He didn’t help me. I gritted my teeth against the shooting pain in my ankle and continued to wait by the curb. A few minutes later, Tim emerged with two coffees. “Let’s go,” he said, his tone cool and impatient. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to give you a ride?” “…I didn’t.” He didn’t bother arguing, simply pulling me toward the car and pushing me into the back seat. He placed one of the coffees beside me. I didn’t take it. The drive was silent, the atmosphere thick with tension. Suddenly, Isabelle pressed a hand to her forehead. “Tim, I think my blood sugar is dropping. Do you have any candy?” Without missing a beat, Tim reached into the glove compartment and handed her a piece of chocolate. “How many times do I have to remind you? You never learn.” Isabelle took it with a small, sweet smile. “I always forget when I get busy. Good thing I have you.” They fell into easy conversation, talking about old times, mutual friends, and shared memories. Their words were woven with an effortless intimacy. I sat in the back, an invisible, unwelcome audience. The scenery blurred past the window. We passed the city park, where the giant Ferris wheel turned slowly. It was where Tim and I had our first date. Legend has it that couples who kiss at the very top will be happy forever. I had stolen a kiss from him then. He had stared at me for a long moment, stunned. I thought it was one of our few shared, sweet memories. Only later did I learn that Tim’s greatest regret was never having brought Isabelle to ride that same Ferris wheel. Flashes of the past flickered through my weary mind—mostly my one-sided hopes and his dismissive responses. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me. When I woke, we were parked in front of our apartment building. Isabelle was gone. Tim unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at my swollen ankle, his brow deeply creased. “Kate,” his voice was low, “do you really have to do this?” I looked up, confused. “If you wanted me to pick you up, you could have just said so. Did you have to resort to such a stupid trick to get my attention?” His tone was steady, but it was threaded with an irritation he couldn’t hide. I didn’t know what he was so annoyed about. Maybe I had interrupted his precious time alone with his first love. “You’re overthinking it, Tim.” “I didn’t ask you for a ride.” He probably thought I was just being stubborn. He scoffed. “Oh? And what were you planning to do? Crawl home?” “I could have taken a cab,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not helpless without you, Tim. I clung to you because I loved you. It doesn’t mean I’m useless on my own.” “Useless? Kate, you’re welcome to try leaving. Let’s see if I come crawling back to you.” The man’s eyes darkened again. I had no desire to argue with him. Soon enough, the divorce papers would be on his desk. Then he would know. This time, I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I was serious. 3 I pushed open the car door, trying to get out on my own. But he was faster. He got out, came around, and swept me into his arms. It wasn’t gentle, but he didn’t let me fall. Inside, he found the first-aid kit and inexpertly sprayed my ankle with a cooling spray, his expression still cold. “Don’t do this again.” I watched him in silence. This was Tim’s way. A slap, then a piece of candy. Hot and cold, leaving me in a state of perpetual confusion. Did he have any genuine feelings for me at all? Worrying about whether someone loves you is a fool’s game, and I had been a fool for five years. It was time to wake up. Done trying to read his mind, I simply said, “Thank you.” He stood by the sofa, unmoving. “Is there anything else?” I asked. Tim’s lips thinned. “Don’t you have anything you want to ask me?” I shook my head calmly. The truth was, I’d already seen Isabelle’s social media. The day before, she had posted a photo from the airport. The caption was a single word: “Waiting.” I had scoured the comments. There was no like or reply from Tim. But I knew he would go. And he did. “I’m tired. I want to sleep,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll take the guest room tonight.” He grabbed my wrist. “Kate!” For the first time ever, he actually tried to explain himself. “It’s not what you think with Isabelle. I only picked her up because she just got back to the country and doesn’t know her way around. I was just helping out.” “Mm-hmm,” I said. “You should.” He studied my face, searching for any sign that I was faking my indifference. “Kate, it was over between us a long time ago. We’re just friends now.” I nodded, my disinterest genuine. “I know.” He pulled me into his arms, a rare, unprompted attempt at a kiss. His warmth seeped through my clothes, a sensation I had once craved more than anything. He knew I loved physical affection. He thought a simple kiss would fix everything. But I turned my head, and his lips met the air. Tim froze, clearly stunned by my rejection. His face hardened. “Kate, my patience has its limits. You’d better not push it too far.” We slept in separate rooms that night. He left the master bedroom for me. When I woke the next morning, the house was silent. He was already gone. I felt nothing. I went to the office and handed in my resignation. If I was leaving, I was leaving completely. I had only taken this job to be with him, to have more time together. But at the office, he insisted we keep our marriage a secret, saying it would be “unprofessional.” He deliberately kept his distance. Whenever he needed a subordinate to accompany him on a business trip, he never chose me. During meetings, he treated me like I was invisible. Even when I single-handedly closed a major project, I never received a word of praise from him. His coldness was so pronounced that our colleagues whispered, wondering if he had a personal grudge against me. The HR manager was one of the few people who knew about us. “You’re leaving?” she asked, surprised. “But Mr. Sinclair only said you were being demoted, not let go…” I stared at her. “Demoted?” She nodded, her eyes full of pity. “Your position was filled by a new hire, someone from overseas. Mr. Sinclair arranged it himself.” A chill spread through my chest. My voice trembled as I asked, “Is her name… Isabelle?” “Yes, that’s her.” I had to grip the desk to keep from falling. Even though I was already leaving, the news hit me like an earthquake, a crushing wave of defeat. Tim had never given me any special treatment at this company. I had earned my way to the director position through my own hard work and talent. And just like that, he gave it all away to her.

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For Valentine’s Day, the company booked out a small private theater. The official story? A reward for us single employees: an all-night slasher movie marathon. As a fan of thrillers and, conveniently, unattached, I signed up immediately. But when the twelve of us settled into our seats, the projector flickered to life with a black-and-white film none of us had ever seen. Onscreen, a man in a top hat and a smiling mask was methodically laying out an array of knives and a chainsaw. “What is this garbage? Who watches this old-timey crap anymore?” someone muttered. Bored, I retreated to the back row, slipped on my noise-canceling headphones, and drifted off to the sound of my own playlist. The next morning, the smell is what dragged me from my sleep—a thick, metallic stench that seemed to coat the inside of my throat. When I finally forced my eyes open, I saw police officers stringing up yellow tape, piecing together the eleven bodies scattered across the scene. A pale-faced theater employee told me, his voice trembling, that they hadn’t played any movie in this theater last night. The man with the smiling mask… He wasn’t on the screen. He was right here, in front of us. 1 I didn’t wake up naturally. I was ripped from my sleep by the smell. It was a foul mix, like rust and the cloying sweetness of an old butcher shop, so thick it felt solid, choking the air from my lungs. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. Clamping a hand over my mouth and nose, I blinked, my vision taking a moment to focus. The theater was dark, save for the ghostly green glow of the emergency exit signs. But it was enough. It was enough to see the hellscape before me. Dark red splashes coated the backs of the seats in front of me. The floor was smeared with dark, sticky trails, already blackening as they dried. Figures in police uniforms moved with quiet precision, carefully assembling the dismembered remains scattered across the aisles and chairs. Black body bags lay open nearby, disturbingly lumpy and misshapen. My stomach seized, and I nearly threw up. I bit down hard, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. A young officer canvassing the area noticed me. In the eerie green light, his face was unnaturally pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and suspicion. He quickly motioned to his partner. Soon, two officers were standing over me. Their expressions were professionally stoic, but I could see the disbelief churning behind their eyes. One of them gestured for me to remove my headphones. “Ma’am, are you alright? Can you speak?” the older officer asked, his voice low, as if afraid of disturbing the dead. I managed a weak nod, my throat as raw as sandpaper. “What’s your name? What company are you with? We were told you were here for a corporate event?” Again, I nodded, forcing out the words. “Lily… Nova Media…” “What happened last night? Do you remember anything?” I nodded, the memory replaying in slow, horrifying motion. “I remember… it was Valentine’s Day. The company arranged this ‘perk’ for us singles. The twelve of us were supposed to have an all-nighter, but the theater started with this weird black-and-white movie…” My voice was a ragged whisper. “It looked really old… vintage. There was a man on screen in a top hat and a smiling mask. He was sharpening knives, getting a saw ready…” The two officers exchanged a loaded glance. The younger one instinctively looked toward the massive, dark screen. The older cop pressed on. “And then?” “And then… I got bored, so I put on my headphones to listen to music… and I must have fallen asleep.” I hugged myself, a deep, penetrating cold seeping into my bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the theater’s air conditioning. Just then, a man in a theater manager’s uniform was escorted over. He stayed at a distance, clearly terrified of getting any closer to the scene. “Officers, we—we checked!” he stammered, his voice shaking. “There was no film scheduled for this theater last night! No playback record in the server! And… and our old film projector has been broken for years. It’s impossible for it to have run!” His words were like daggers of ice piercing my heart. No movie? A broken projector? Then what did I see? The manager’s next words sent me spiraling into an abyss. “And… that man with the smiling mask… we checked our old promotional materials. That was a scrapped mascot from a horror-themed event we ran ten years ago. Nobody’s thought about him in years! How could he possibly be in a movie?!” A wave of goosebumps erupted across my skin. What did he mean, not in a movie? Could it be… Last night, he wasn’t on the screen. He was standing right in front of it, putting on a live performance for all of us. 2 I was taken downtown. The interrogation room at the precinct felt even more suffocating than the theater. The cold, sterile light of the fluorescent bulbs illuminated every corner of the room, and every flicker of expression on my face. The officers questioning me now were from the Homicide Division. One was a middle-aged man, Detective Miller, with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s and an unshakeable calm. Next to him, a young female officer, Davis, took notes. “Ms. Brooks,” Miller began, his voice even but carrying an undeniable weight. “Walk me through what happened last night again. Don’t leave out a single detail, no matter how insignificant you think it is.” I took a deep breath, fighting to control the tremors running through me, and started from the moment we entered the theater, recounting everything up to the bizarre black-and-white film. I described every detail I could remember: the grainy, low-resolution quality of the picture, the lack of a soundtrack—only ambient noise—and the soft shhhk, shhhk of the masked man sharpening his blade. I even remembered how he’d looked up at one point, straight into the camera, his smiling mask seeming to pierce through the screen and stare right into the audience… “You said he looked at the camera?” Miller seized on the detail. I nodded, my throat tight. “Yes… it felt like he was looking right at us…” “When did you fall asleep?” “Maybe twenty minutes after the movie started? I’m not sure…” “And after you fell asleep? You were completely out? You didn’t hear any unusual sounds? Feel any vibrations? Smell anything strange?” I searched my memory. “I think… I think I had a short dream. I heard this heavy, rhythmic thudding? Like something banging against a wall… but I fell back into a deep sleep.” “As for smells… right before I drifted off, I think I smelled something faintly sweet, kind of like almond brittle…” At that, Miller’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. He nodded at Officer Davis. She held up a clear evidence bag containing my noise-canceling headphones. “Ms. Brooks, your headphones are the XN-5 model. They feature active noise cancellation and a 30-hour battery life. We checked—they still have over 60% charge.” Miller’s gaze returned to me. “Our tech department ran a test,” he said slowly. “At that power level, the noise-cancellation is more than capable of blocking out the operational hum of a vintage film projector.” My heart clenched. “However,” he continued, his tone shifting, “it can’t completely block out strong, low-frequency physical vibrations. For instance, a heavy object striking a wall.” I stared at him, confused. What was he saying? That the thudding in my dream was real? His gaze pinned me in place. “According to the preliminary M.E. report, most of the victims suffered multiple blunt-force trauma wounds to the head. The weapon is believed to be a vintage fire axe that was mounted as a decoration in the back of the theater.” He paused. “The old fingerprints on the handle had been wiped clean, but the blade itself showed clear, fresh marks of recent use.” A cold sweat drenched my back. A fire axe? In the back of the theater? That was right near where I was sitting. “As for the almond brittle smell…” Miller leaned forward slightly. “That’s a common scent for a high-concentration inhalant anesthetic mixed with a cyanide derivative.” “It induces rapid unconsciousness and, eventually, asphyxiation.” “Interestingly, we found the remains of a dispersal device inside the air conditioning vent. It could have been triggered by a simple timer. Or… a remote control.” A remote? “Ms. Brooks, besides your phone, did you have any other electronic devices with you last night?” “No… nothing!” I said quickly. “Oh?” Miller slid a crime scene photo across the table. It showed a small, black, matchbox-sized device, like a tiny power bank or Bluetooth receiver. “We found this wedged deep in the cushions of your seat. It’s a modified, high-powered micro-transmitter. One of its frequency channels is a perfect match for the receiver on the dispersal device in the vent.” My mind went completely blank. “That’s not mine! I’ve never seen that before in my life!” “But it was under your seat, Ms. Brooks,” Miller’s voice turned to ice. “And it had only one person’s fingerprints on it. Yours.” 3 Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room opened again. Two more detectives walked in. The one in the lead was younger, maybe in his thirties, tall and imposing with a sharp, steady gaze that radiated authority. I recognized him from local news reports—Detective Chen, head of the Homicide Division, famous for cracking a string of bizarre, high-profile cases. He was followed by a junior officer carrying a file. Chen’s eyes landed on me. Without a word of greeting, he gestured to the officer, who pulled out a tablet and swiped through several photos, pushing it in front of me. They were crime scene photos, enhanced to show details on the floor and chairs. “Ms. Brooks, we found a significant amount of blood and physical evidence at the scene,” Chen began, his voice calm but crushing. “But what’s strange is that nearly all of the directional evidence—the drag marks, the drip patterns, the arterial spray—all of it either originates from, or terminates at, the exact seat where you were found.” The accusation was so monstrous I almost leaped out of my chair. “It wasn’t me!” my voice was a shrill shriek. “It really wasn’t me!” “I don’t know anything! I woke up and saw… I saw that! They were my colleagues! Why would I kill them?!” Chen remained unmoved by my outburst. He simply watched me, his expression unreadable, until my energy was spent and I collapsed back into my chair, gasping for breath. “We’ve reviewed the security footage from the theater’s exterior and lobby,” he said, changing tactics. “It shows the twelve of you entering last night. Between that moment and when the staff found you this morning, no one else entered or exited that theater.” A locked-room massacre. The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through me. “However,” Chen continued, “we did lift a single, clear fingerprint from the interior handle of an emergency exit. It doesn’t belong to you or any of the victims. And from the outside, there were no signs of forced entry.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “That proves it! Someone else was in there! Right? The man in the mask! He must have been hiding inside, or someone let him in!” Chen didn’t answer directly. He just nodded to the junior officer, who laid out several printed documents. “Lily Brooks,” Chen said, his voice devoid of emotion, “we ran a background check. It seems you have a rather… unusual interest in the ‘smiling mask’ motif.” A printout was pushed in front of me. It was a piece of artwork I’d re-posted to my Twitter six months ago: a man in a top hat and a smiling mask. My caption read: “Mysterious and so cool. The perfect aesthetic for a crime.” Below it was a thread of replies, discussions with other users about perfect crimes, locked-room mysteries… The blood rushed to my head. “That—that was just a random post! It doesn’t mean anything!” “Oh?” Chen arched an eyebrow. “And this?” He pushed another document forward. It was a log from an anonymous psychology forum. The department’s tech unit had apparently traced the IP address back to my home network. The post, dated three months ago, was titled: How to stage the perfect mass disappearance? I stared at the paper, a paralyzing cold seeping through me. That wasn’t me. I never wrote anything like that. “I… I don’t know anything about this… I didn’t post that!” My defense sounded pathetic and weak even to my own ears. “But the account was registered with your personal email, which you still use,” Chen stated coolly. “The password, while complex, contains the name of your pet and your birthday. That wouldn’t be too hard for you to remember, would it?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, frozen in place. The email was mine. The pet’s name and my birthday were correct. But how was that possible? “Ms. Brooks,” Chen’s gaze became intensely focused, a look that seemed to see right through me. “A locked room. Eleven victims, incapacitated by a chemical agent. A crime scene that perfectly matches your ‘aesthetic’ interests. And a single survivor who conveniently slept through the whole thing after seeing a ‘movie’ that never existed. And now, all the evidence seems to be pointing in one direction…” He paused, each word a hammer blow against my sanity. “So tell me,” his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl. “That smiling mask…” “…was it you who was wearing it?”

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In the year our love was at its purest, she took three cuts for me. One across her eyebrow, one on her ankle, one down her back. Everyone said Scarlett loved me more than life itself. Until another man showed up, bold and brazen. “You’re Nick Waner, right?” he sneered, throwing a stack of photos in my face. “Scarlett doesn’t love you anymore. I’d advise you to be smart about this and get lost.” In the photos, Scarlett’s eyes were soft, her expression tender. I watched the rain begin to fall harder, and with a flick of my wrist, the man’s scream was swallowed by the storm as he was thrown out, his final words hanging in the air. “Scarlett won’t let you get away with this!” But I just sat there, my gaze cold, as I faced Scarlett across the table. She was here to demand justice for him. “Sign it,” I said, pushing the papers toward her. “I find you… repulsive.” 1 “Nick!” Scarlett sat across from me, flanked by the lieutenants she had spent the last two years promoting. A dozen of her men surrounded us in my spacious living room. It felt less like a negotiation and more like an ambush. I watched her tap a finger on the table, her anger barely contained. “He’s still in the ICU.” She raised an eyebrow. The light caught the scar there, making it stand out in sharp relief. “He’s innocent,” she said, her voice low and menacing. “He’s only twenty, Nick. Twenty years old, and you nearly killed him. Do you know what the doctors told me?” “They said he might never walk like a normal person again.” Her voice blended with the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the window. I remembered the man, gasping for breath but still managing to shout, “Scarlett won’t let you get away with this!” “So,” I said, meeting her furious gaze as I handed my teacup to a servant, “you’ve brought your whole army here to, what, get revenge for him?” I chuckled, amused. “What’s it going to be? Half my life? Or are you going to break one of my legs to make up for the fact that he can’t walk?” I smiled and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The butler immediately adjusted the room’s temperature. I looked at Scarlett. “Who the hell is he, anyway, that you would come here to confront me? Scarlett, have you forgotten who’s been by your side all these years? It was me, not him. Are you planning to turn on me for him, or are you here to take my life today?” My voice was calm, unhurried. The butler, ever-vigilant, instantly drew a pistol and aimed it at her head. Her men tensed, but Scarlett just laughed along with me. “Nick, the days of bloodshed are over. I don’t want to fight you,” she said, pushing aside the divorce papers I had prepared. “A divorce would be messy and painful. I won’t do it. But you will go to him and apologize. Personally. Or don’t blame me for what happens next.” She rose from the sofa, walked over to the butler, and grabbed his wrist, pressing the barrel of the gun to her own forehead. “Shoot me?” she challenged. “Are you even worthy?” With a sharp twist, she dislocated his wrist. A sickening crack echoed through the room. At the same moment, a loud bang erupted from one of her men. My hand shot out, and the fruit knife from the table embedded itself in the man’s thigh. I met Scarlett’s incredulous stare and smiled. “Scarlett, my people don’t fight back against you out of respect for me. But that doesn’t mean,” I said, walking over and taking her hand, slowly prying her fingers from my butler’s, “that you can touch them.” I knew then. This was the end for us. As the doctor was setting the butler’s wrist, he was still fuming. “Sir, after everything you went through for that girl, are you just going to let this… this upstart walk all over you?” 2 I didn’t answer. A new friend request had popped up on my phone. The profile picture was of the man, Leo, kissing Scarlett. I accepted. A voice message came through immediately. “Nick, I told you Scarlett wouldn’t let you get away with this. Dislocating your butler’s wrist was just a warning. Scarlett said you have to apologize to me in person. I’ll be waiting.” “Everyone says Scarlett loves you more than life itself. I’m curious to see just how much,” he sent, along with several more photos. “Which bed do you think would be most comfortable?” “Scarlett said the most dangerous place is the safest. As soon as I’m out of the hospital tomorrow, I’m moving into your house.” “That room no one is allowed to enter? I’m coming for it.” I listened to his taunts, then looked up at the giant wedding portrait hanging in the hall. It was a mockery. The dagger I was toying with flew from my hand, embedding itself in the smiling face of Scarlett in the photograph. “Filthy,” I muttered. I walked out of the hall and saw Scarlett directing her men as they unloaded a bed from a truck. She was ordering them to carry it into the house. We came face to face. For a rare moment, she looked flustered. I leaned against the doorframe, listening to Leo’s cheerful voice. “Scarlett, why aren’t you going in?” Then, he turned and saw me. “Oh, it’s Brother Nick,” he said, linking his arm through Scarlett’s, his tone dripping with provocation. “Are you here to welcome me? Decided to apologize?” I watched his arrogance, and the undisguised affection in Scarlett’s eyes. A thousand tiny needles pricked at my heart. Before I could respond, Scarlett spoke for him. “The doctor said Leo needs to rest,” she said, her voice softening as she said his name. “You have your own staff to cook for you. It’s just one extra plate. Nick, don’t throw away the chance I’m giving you.” I couldn’t understand it. How could Scarlett be so certain that I would just take this? That I would abandon all my principles for her? I listened to her self-righteous tone and laughed. My laughter was joined by the sound of the butler ordering the defaced wedding portrait to be taken down. “Sir, where should we put this?” he asked. I saw the color drain from Scarlett’s face. I pointed to a large trash bin. “Have it shredded. And throw it out.” The butler nodded and sent someone for shears. “Stop!” Scarlett shouted, striding toward me. “What is this, another one of your tantrums?” “Nick,” her voice turned cold. “I’ve told you, you were the one in the wrong here. I’m helping Leo recover as a way of atoning for your sins. Don’t be ungrateful.” “That’s right, Brother Nick,” Leo chimed in. “Scarlett told me everything. You were the one who caused the death of your child. A mystic told her that if you ever want another child, you have to accumulate good karma. You don’t appreciate her kindness, and you just keep causing trouble. You’re forcing her to look elsewhere.” Leo’s words were a dagger to the heart, reopening a wound I thought had scarred over, leaving it to fester and rot. I looked at his smug face, then at Scarlett, who was just about to silence him. I grabbed Leo by the hair and laughed. “Who gave you the nerve to speak to me like that?” Before he could beg for mercy, I slammed his head against the solid wood of the front door. There was a sickening thud. Leo screamed. Scarlett grabbed my arm. “That’s enough,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine. “Leo is young, he doesn’t know what he’s saying! But he’s not wrong. How long are you going to keep this up?” 3 I stared at her in disbelief. It was her reckless business dealings that had gotten them targeted. She had dragged our child into her mess. I had risked everything to save her, storming the enemy’s stronghold to take down their leader. I had saved her, but I had lost our child. Afterward, she had knelt before me, slapping herself ninety-nine times, her forehead bloody as she kowtowed and wept. “Nick!” Her face was swollen, blood and tears streaming down her face, her voice choked. “If I, Scarlett, ever betray you in this life, may I be struck down by lightning!” “I, Scarlett!” she had vowed. “For the rest of my life, I am Nick Waner’s dog!” Her words still echoed in my ears. She had ordered a complete blackout on the news, forbidding anyone from speaking about the child, knowing it was a wound that would never heal. We never spoke of it, but we prayed for our child together. Now, I looked at her face and let go of Leo. Scarlett visibly relaxed, her tone softening. “Nick, your temper—” I plunged the dagger into her eyebrow and smiled. “Scarlett, those who betray a true heart must swallow a thousand needles. This is the first.” The blade pierced flesh, then was withdrawn. Blood splattered on my face. I watched the scar that had once been a badge of honor for her disappear, replaced by a mangled, bloody wound. I gave a mocking smile, but Leo shoved me hard. I stumbled back. When I looked up, his eyes were burning with hatred. “What gives you the right to hurt her?” I walked toward him and punched him in the face. “If you had any real strength, you wouldn’t just be a kept man.” “Either do something that impresses me,” I said, grabbing his hair and kicking the back of his knee, forcing him to the ground, “and make Scarlett divorce me so you can be her next husband.” “Or,” I leaned in close, smiling, “you can just wait for me to play you to death.” Leo’s eyes were red with tears, his trembling body like a cornered deer, but his gaze was defiant. “Go ahead and kill me! If you don’t, I will never leave Scarlett!” Tears streamed down his face, catching the light of the setting sun. “I will be with her forever.” I froze. I remembered when I was sixteen. My father had been ambushed, his body lost to the sea. My mother had given her life to get me to shore. The sunset was stained with blood. And Scarlett was there, waiting for me, her youthful courage defying death itself as she carved a path for me to live. It was Scarlett, the scar on her eyebrow a medal, the brutal wounds on her back a testament to her loyalty, who had crashed into my heart, shouting, “Young master! Run!” I was terrified, but I had plunged back into the fray, and together, we had fought our way to this day. Scarlett shoved me away, blood still streaming from her eyebrow, dripping from her eyelashes like tears of blood onto my heart. “Nick,” she said, one eye squeezed shut in pain, “you have truly disappointed me.” “I’m not divorcing you, but it’s not because of love.” She pulled Leo into her arms. “It’s because your parents were good to me, and we have a bond forged in blood. Don’t push my patience any further, or you will regret it.” Leo sobbed in her arms. “Scarlett! I don’t want to live here! I don’t!” “I’m scared!” he cried, clutching her collar, hysterical. “I don’t want to live with this madman! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me!” 4 The air grew still. I saw myself at sixteen, pushing Scarlett away in a fit of madness, only to be held tight as she whispered, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” Now, she held Leo, gently stroking his back. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m here.” “I’m here,” she repeated, her eyes locking with mine, full of warning. “I won’t let you hurt Leo. Since you’re unwilling to cooperate, you have no one to blame but yourself.” The day she moved out, she took Leo to the Seychelles. He’d said he wanted his own private island, so she bought him one. She took him to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. He posted photos of the sapphire she bought him, and a picture of a star he had named, with the caption: [From now on, whenever I look up, I’ll see my star. Scarlett and Leo, a romance for the ages.] Her love was a whirlwind, loud and proud, for all the world to see. I admired her devotion to him. I looked around the half-empty mansion, at the simple silver ring on my finger that she had bought for me years ago for a few hundred dollars, and I smiled. “Mr. Abernathy,” I said to my butler. He refilled my tea. “As I recall,” I said softly, “the largest supplier to the Thorne Corporation does business with us out of respect for my parents.” The butler immediately placed a contract in front of me. “Sir,” he said, pointing to a clause. “Your parents worked tirelessly to secure your future. This is the path they paved for you.” I read the contract, thinking of the sunsets in the Seychelles, the Northern Lights in Iceland, and that star. I dialed Scarlett’s number. It went to voicemail. I tried a video call. Leo answered, his upper body covered in fresh love bites. “What is it?” he asked. “Scarlett’s in the shower.” He panned the camera to the bathroom, the steamy glass hinting at intimacy. “I thought you would have gotten the message by now. Why are you still clinging to her?” He sat on the bed, biting his lip provocatively. “Actually, there’s something I probably shouldn’t tell you, but I don’t think keeping it a secret is a good idea either.” “Nick,” he said. “Do you know why Scarlett loves me and not you?” The video call ended. I sat in the living room, the air thick and suffocating. My heart began to pound erratically. I made a second call. Scarlett and Leo’s grand banquet made local headlines. Everyone was saying that Leo had finally won, that he was no longer just some boy toy, but a man of status. People now greeted him with a respectful, “Mr. Thorne.” The more sycophantic ones would add, with a smile, “You and Miss Scarlett make a perfect couple.” In the ballroom, Leo stood with his arm around Scarlett, bathed in the glow of the spotlights. They looked like a real-life fairy tale prince and princess. Their mere presence commanded applause. “Tonight,” Scarlett said, her voice soft as she looked at Leo, “I want to introduce someone to all of you.” “He is Leo Thorne—” The doors burst open. A flood of men in black suits stormed the ballroom. The man in the lead slapped a stack of IOUs on Scarlett’s face. “You’re Scarlett Thorne, right?” She was furious, about to call for security, when she realized there wasn’t a single one of her own men in the room. “The debt you owe,” the man said, pressing the barrel of a gun to the still-healing scar on her eyebrow, “is due.”

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