The night Noah’s fever spiked to 102 degrees, I was frantically tearing through the medicine cabinet when I found the birth certificate. Under Mother, there was a name typed in crisp, black ink. It wasn’t mine. Enid Cross. I sank to the bathroom floor, the cold tile seeping through my sweatpants, clutching that piece of paper while Noah wailed in the bedroom down the hall. I had raised him for three years. I had walked away from my career, survived over a thousand sleepless nights, and poured every ounce of my soul into his little body. It turned out he wasn’t the orphaned child of some distant, tragic cousin. He was the son of my husband and another woman. My hands barely trembled as I flattened the certificate against the tile and took a photo with my phone. Then, I stood up, smoothed my shirt, and went back to the bedroom to give Noah his infant Tylenol. Before the sun came up, I had a few more things to do. 1. Noah came into our lives three years ago. He was only six months old at the time. David had sat me down, his voice thick with grief, and told me his distant cousin had been killed in a horrific car crash. The father had bolted. The baby had no one. “Look at him, Sab. He’s so helpless,” David had whispered. He stood in our entryway, rocking the baby, his eyes rimmed with red. “Out of everyone in the family, we’re the most stable. Could we… could we take him in?” I looked at that tiny, fragile infant. He was fast asleep against David’s chest, his little rosebud mouth parting with every breath. I said yes. From that day forward, the axis of my universe completely shifted. Noah was a colicky, anxious baby. At night, he would only stop crying if I held him, pacing the floorboards until my feet went numb. I quit my job. I had been a mid-level manager at a tech firm, pulling in a hundred and ten thousand a year. I walked away from it without a second thought. “I’ll take care of you,” David had said. Four simple words. So incredibly easy to say. But what did that actually look like? Noah’s hypoallergenic European formula was forty dollars a can. Diapers ran us eighty bucks a month. His Montessori preschool and sensory classes cost fifteen grand a year. Every sudden fever, every urgent care run, every cab ride, every copay—that was all me. David was busy. He was a regional director at the municipal utility board. He was always working late, always traveling for conferences, always schmoozing city officials over drinks. I raised Noah alone. I did the 3:00 AM feedings, the endless daytime playdates, the afternoon stroller walks around our suburban subdivision. The neighbors would smile as I passed. “He’s such a sweet boy. You have the patience of a saint, Sabrina.” I would just smile back. Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I watched Noah go from a helpless lump who couldn’t roll over, to a toddler running through the sprinklers. I taught him how to walk. I taught him how to speak. He called me Mommy. Every time he ran at me with his arms wide open, yelling, “Mommy, up!”, I felt it deep in my bones. It was all worth it. Until tonight. At 3:00 AM, Noah’s fever hit 102. I called David. No answer. I called again. Still ringing. On the third try, he finally picked up. “Yeah?” he grunted, the background noise a low, muffled hum. “Noah’s burning up. 102. We’re out of Tylenol, you need to come home right now.” Silence on the line for two beats. “I’m at a networking thing, Sab, I can’t just leave. Check the cabinet in my study. There should be a backup bottle in the bottom drawer.” Click. He hung up. So, I went to his study. I pulled open the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk. There was no Tylenol. But there was a manila envelope. The flap wasn’t sealed. I slid the documents out. Certificate of Live Birth. Mother: Enid Cross. Father: David Gallagher. The child’s legal name wasn’t Noah. It was Evan. Evan. I crouched on the plush carpet of the study, the room spinning, my hands suddenly devoid of warmth. Noah was crying down the hall. I listened to the sound. Usually, his cries felt like a physical hook in my chest, pulling me toward him. Now, I just felt a creeping, terrifying ice in my veins. I looked at the date of issuance on the certificate. June, three years ago. Three months before the “tragic car crash.” Three months before he was brought to my doorstep. Which meant— When Noah was born, David knew. He wasn’t the orphaned child of a distant relative. He was David’s biological son. I took out my phone and photographed the paper. Then I folded it perfectly along its original creases, slid it back into the envelope, and closed the drawer. I went back to the bedroom to check the thermometer. 101.4. The damp washcloth was helping a little. I pulled him onto my chest, patting his sweaty back in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. “Mommy…” he mumbled into my collarbone, half-asleep. I stared up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. I didn’t shed a single tear. Across the room, the screen of David’s iPad—which he’d left on the nightstand—lit up. It was an iMessage. Since his Apple ID was synced, his texts mirrored onto the tablet. The message was from a contact saved as ‘Enid’: “Baby, is Evan feeling any better? Come to bed soon.” Is Evan feeling any better? How the hell did she know he had a fever? I hadn’t told a single soul. David told her. He couldn’t pick up the phone for his wife. But he had time to text his mistress. 2. David came home the next morning at eight, radiating the stale, sour smell of scotch and hotel soap. He peered into the bedroom at Noah. “Fever break?” “Yeah. He’s fine.” He nodded, unbuttoning his collar, and headed for the shower. I sat alone on the living room sofa, my laptop open on my knees. I searched the name Enid Cross. A few generic LinkedIn profiles, nothing solid. So, I pivoted. I logged into the county property appraiser’s website and punched in David’s social security number. I had memorized it when we applied for our mortgage years ago. The results populated on the screen. Two properties. Property 1: The house I was currently sitting in. The down payment had been $120,000. My mother gave us $75,000. I drained $45,000 from my own savings. The $2,500 monthly mortgage came out of my personal account every single month. Property 2: A two-bedroom condo at Maplewood Terrace on the East Side. Purchase date: Four years ago. Four years ago. Our second year of marriage. One year before Noah was born. Which meant, David had bought Enid a home before she even got pregnant. I stared at the glowing pixels on the screen. Four years. How much was the down payment? How much was the mortgage? Where did the money come from? And then, a memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. During our second year of marriage, David told me about an incredible “internal investment opportunity” at work. He needed fifty grand. I withdrew fifty thousand dollars—nearly everything I had saved from five years in the tech industry—and handed it to him. He promised it would double in six months. Six months later, he came home looking defeated. The market tanked. The money was gone. “Investments carry risks, Sab. Try not to dwell on it,” he had said, kissing my forehead. I believed him. Fifty thousand dollars. My blood, sweat, and tears from my twenties. It bought a home. For his mistress. I closed the browser tab. Noah came padding into the living room in his footie pajamas. “Mommy, I want an apple.” I looked down at him. He looked exactly like David. The slope of his nose, the shape of his eyes. As he grew, the resemblance was becoming undeniable. I used to brush it off. They’re blood relatives, of course they share genes, I’d rationalize. Now I knew. It wasn’t a quirk of genetics. It was direct paternity. “Mommy?” he whined, tugging my pant leg. “Yeah, sweetie. Just a second.” I walked into the kitchen, took a paring knife, and peeled the apple for him. My hand was perfectly steady. That night, David had to “work late” again. I took his iPad into the bathroom and locked the door. The passcode was Noah’s birthday. Typical. I opened his messages. Enid’s thread was pinned to the top. I scrolled back. Months and months of it. He called her Wifey. She called him Hubby. The most recent exchange from that afternoon: Enid: “Hubby, when can I have Evan for a few nights? My heart aches. I miss my baby.” David: “Just hold on a little longer. She hasn’t suspected a thing over here.” She. Over here. That was me. I started screenshotting. Every photo, every declaration of love, every logistical arrangement. Seventy-three screenshots in total. Airdropped to a secure folder on my phone. 3. On day three, I called my best friend, Rachel. Rachel was a partner at a boutique family law firm downtown. She was a shark in a tailored blazer. “Rach. I need you to run a background check.” “On who?” “Enid Cross.” Rachel didn’t ask a single question. “Give me forty-eight hours.” Two days later, she slid into the booth across from me at a corner cafe, pushing a sleek manila folder across the table. “Enid Cross. Thirty-one. Freelance graphic designer.” Rachel folded her hands. “She went to state college with David.” “They dated for three years back then,” I said quietly. David had mentioned an ex-girlfriend once, casually. He claimed she moved to Europe after graduation and they lost touch. “Europe?” Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. She’s never lived outside the county line. Current address—Maplewood Terrace.” The condo. “There’s something else,” Rachel said, her voice dropping, shifting from lawyer to best friend. She looked at me with an expression of profound pity. “You take Noah to Mercy General Pediatrics, right?” “Yeah. I took him last month for that chest cough.” “Have you ever looked at his complete patient portal history?” “No.” “You need to look at it, Sab.” Her eyes told me everything. She already knew what I would find. That afternoon, I drove to the hospital. I went to the records department, handed over my ID, and requested the full printout of Noah’s pediatric history. I sat in my car in the parking garage, flipping through the pages. The most recent visit: Last month. My signature at the bottom. I flipped back. Three months ago. Department: Child Development. Guardian Signature: Enid Cross. Relation to patient: Mother. I kept flipping. Six months ago. A year ago. Every two or three months, there was a visit. Different doctors, different specialists. Half the time, the guardian signature was mine. The other half, it was hers. Which meant— Whenever I didn’t take Noah to the doctor. She did. When David told me, “Hey honey, you look exhausted, let me take the boy for his vaccinations today.” When David said, “I’ll handle his 18-month checkup, you take a bubble bath.” It was never him. It was her. I sat in the dim, suffocating silence of my SUV, staring at the ink on the paper until it blurred. My phone was getting heavy with the weight of the evidence. When I got home, Noah was sitting on the rug, engrossed in an episode of Bluey. He saw me, his face lighting up, and scrambled to his feet, holding out a half-eaten graham cracker. “Mommy! Cracker for you!” I knelt down to his eye level. “Noah, baby… remember the last time you went to the doctor to get a shot? Who took you?” “Daddy.” “Just Daddy?” Noah tilted his head, his little brow furrowing in concentration. “And the pretty lady.” “The pretty lady?” “Yeah.” He took a bite of his cracker. “Daddy said she’s my…” He struggled to find the words, chewing thoughtfully. “My what, baby?” “…my real mommy.” He said it so casually, so innocently. Like he was repeating a line from a song he didn’t quite understand. Real mommy. Then what did that make me? The fake one? The unpaid help? 4. On day four, I called my mother-in-law, Mandy. “Mandy, could you come watch Noah for a few hours? I need to run some errands.” “Of course, sweetheart,” she chirped. Mandy doted on Noah. From the moment David brought him home, she had treated him like royalty. Now I knew exactly why. He was her biological grandson. I took an Uber across town to Maplewood Terrace. It was a nice building. Doorman, manicured hedges. I stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall, and waited. Forty minutes later, a woman walked out of the glass double doors. Long, glossy chestnut hair. A flowing white sundress. She was carrying a tote bag and a designer iced coffee. I pulled up the DMV photo Rachel had included in the file. Enid Cross. The ghost of his past. The woman who never really left. She walked with a breezy, unburdened lightness. The effortless posture of a woman who was entirely comfortable in her life. And why wouldn’t she be? She had a free condo. A man paying her bills. And a woman raising her child so she could get her full eight hours of sleep. I looked up at the 12th floor. On one of the balconies, laundry was hanging on a drying rack. I could see a men’s light blue button-down shirt flapping in the wind. David’s shirt. I recognized the custom monogram on the cuff. I bought it for his birthday last year. A hollow, dark laugh escaped my throat. “So that’s why you never pack that shirt for your business trips,” I whispered to the empty street. “It already lives here.” I pulled out my phone and texted Rachel. “Visual confirmation. She’s living at the property.” Rachel texted back instantly. “Just got the forensic accounting back on his primary accounts. Look at this.” A PDF popped onto my screen. It was David’s checking account ledger. Every single month, on the 2nd—the day after his paycheck hit—there was an automated Zelle transfer for $2,500. Recipient: Enid Cross. The memo line read: For my beautiful wife. Every single month. For four straight years. $2,500 x 48 months = $120,000. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars. I hadn’t drawn a paycheck in three years. I was bleeding my own savings dry to buy organic purees and winter coats for Noah. And he was sending her $2,500 a month. Calling her his beautiful wife. When had he ever called me beautiful? When had he ever acknowledged my sacrifices? 5. It took me three days to consolidate the annihilation of my marriage into a single, immaculate binder. Tab 1: The birth certificate. Photographs. Tab 2: Text message logs. Seventy-three pages. Tab 3: Property records. The hidden condo. Tab 4: Bank statements. The $120,000 transferred over four years. Tab 5: Medical records. Enid’s signatures. Tab 6 was my masterpiece. It was an itemized invoice of the last three years of my life. Formula: $10,000. Diapers and wipes: $5,000. Preschool and child development classes: $45,000. Clothes, shoes, toys: $15,000. Medical copays and deductibles: $8,000. General groceries and living expenses for the child: $42,000. Lost wages from resigning my position: $330,000 ($110,000 x 3 years). Even if you ignored the lost wages. The direct out-of-pocket expenses? $125,000. A hundred and twenty-five grand. To raise his bastard son for three years. While he funneled $120,000 to his precious first love. Nearly a quarter of a million dollars in total. And almost all of it came from my pre-marital savings or my family’s money. I had literally paid for the privilege of being replaced. I slid the binder across Rachel’s mahogany desk. She flipped through it, her eyes scanning the math, her jaw tightening. “This is airtight, Sab.” She closed it. “How bloody do you want this to get?” “He made me give up my career to play the unpaid nanny for his love child,” I said, my voice shockingly calm. “I want him entirely stripped down. I want him to leave with absolutely nothing.” Rachel leaned back in her leather chair, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. “His dad’s 65th birthday party is this Sunday, isn’t it? The big family bash at your place?” “Yes.” “Perfect,” Rachel said. “Let’s talk strategy.”

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“I already arranged the father-daughter field trip with your best friend. She’s going with me.” I froze. “What do you mean?” My husband didn’t even look up as he dropped the bomb. “We’ve been together for five years. Ever since you were pregnant.” “Honestly, if Tiffany didn’t care so much about your stupid friendship, I would have divorced you years ago.” Rage tore through me, making my entire body shake. “Divorce!” I gasped out. “I’m keeping Zoe, and you’re leaving with absolutely nothing!” Just then, our five-year-old daughter rushed in. She didn’t hesitate. She threw her small body against mine, shoving me hard enough that I fell backward onto the floor. “I don’t want you to be my mommy!” she screamed. “Tiffany is pretty and smells sweet! I want her to be my mommy!” Staring at the little girl I had cherished more than life itself, I felt something inside me turn to cold, dead ash. I never could have guessed that six months later, my husband would block me outside my office building, dragging a filthy, tear-streaked child by the hand. “Fiona, please. Zoe and I know we messed up. Just come home!” 01 Five years. That was how long my husband had been sleeping with my best friend before the truth finally broke me. “Let’s just get a divorce,” Richard said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. “There’s no point in dragging this out. Let’s make it clean.” My chest heaved, my vision blurring. “I was pregnant, Richard. You were sleeping with her while I was carrying our child. Are you even human?” “It’s just an affair,” he shrugged, as if talking about a bad business deal. “Instead of wasting your energy screaming at me, you should probably go find a job. You’ll need to pay your share of Zoe’s child support.” “Never,” I snarled, the tears finally spilling over. “I am keeping Zoe. No one is taking her away from me.” He let out a cold, mocking laugh. “You want her? That doesn’t mean she wants you.” Before the words could sink in, the door flew open. Zoe marched in, her little face twisted in anger. She didn’t look at me with love; she ran straight toward me and pushed me to the ground. “I don’t want you to be my mommy!” she cried. “Tiffany is pretty and smells sweet. She’s the one who deserves to be my mommy!” It felt like a physical blow to the chest, a deep, bleeding wound. “I don’t deserve to be your mother?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Who stayed up with you all night when you had those burning fevers? Who—” Zoe covered her ears, stomping her feet. “I’m not listening, I’m not listening! You’re just a nagging old lady!” The rest of my words died in my throat. My eyes burned, but the tears stayed trapped, hot and painful. Richard looked down at me, his lip curled in disgust. “She’s only five, Fiona. Do you really have to pick fights with a toddler?” I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “You really want Tiffany to be your mother that badly, Zoe?” Zoe nodded eagerly, her small head bobbing. “Yes! Tiffany is way better than you. She gives me candy and takes me to McDonald’s!” “Fine,” I said, the word tasting like copper. “Fine. If you want her that badly, she’s all yours.” Zoe’s face lit up, and she began twirling in circles, laughing. Richard smiled and gave her a proud thumbs-up. When she finished her little victory dance, she marched back over to me and demanded, “Give me my princess dress. I need to wear it for my new mommy tomorrow.” The princess dress. I had spent a week of sleepless nights hand-stitching it, squinting in the dim light, my fingertips covered in tiny needle pricks, just so she could have the perfect outfit. Looking at her entitled little face, a cold numbness settled over me. “Sure. Wait here.” I went to the closet, pulled out the delicate, glittering dress, and tore it to shreds right in front of her eyes. Zoe’s eyes went wide. “You bad woman! I hate you! You’re a monster!” She lunged at me, throwing her fists into my stomach with all the strength her small body could muster. Richard glared at me, pulling her into his arms. “You’re completely insane.” He grabbed a pre-prepared folder from the table and threw the divorce papers at my feet. “There’s nothing left to say. Sign it.” He picked Zoe up and walked out, slamming the door behind them. I sat on the cold floor all night, the pain in my chest so suffocating that I couldn’t even weep. The next morning, I opened my phone and saw a post on Tiffany’s social media page. “Center of attention today. Only moms of little girls understand this kind of pure bliss.” The attached photo showed the three of them, hands pressed together to form a heart, smiling radiantly into the camera. Staring at their bright, happy faces, the last lingering piece of my heart withered away. 02 In Richard’s proposed divorce agreement, he claimed both the house and the car as his pre-marital property. Not only did he expect me to back-pay him six years of “rent” and utility fees based on market rates, but he also demanded I cover all of Zoe’s future living expenses—while stripping me of any visitation rights. When I called Richard to confront him, Tiffany answered the phone instead. “Fiona, I’m so, so sorry,” she sighed, her tone dripping with performative pity. “I swear, I never wanted to ruin your marriage. We’ve been best friends since college. Let’s not let some man destroy our bond.” “And… there’s one more thing. Please don’t be angry.” She paused, letting the silence hang. “I’m pregnant.” I didn’t have the energy for her games. “Put Richard on the phone.” But Tiffany kept talking. “Fiona, what do you even want at this point? You can’t honestly expect my baby to be born without a father.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. When I was pregnant, Richard had made a catastrophic error at work that cost his company millions. He was facing a massive lawsuit and jail time. To keep our family together, I had dragged my heavily pregnant body to his boss’s office to beg for mercy, and then spent weeks borrowing money from every contact I had to pay off his fines. Those days were a blur of exhausting misery. When Zoe was finally born, we couldn’t even afford formula. Before my postpartum recovery was even finished, I was out delivering Uber Eats and working three different freelance gigs just to keep us afloat. That was how we survived. That was how we kept a roof over our heads. On the other end of the line, my former best friend’s voice sharpened. “Fiona, in a marriage, the person who isn’t loved is the real interloper. Honestly, this divorce is a mercy for you.” I hung up. During our four years in college, Tiffany’s family had struggled financially. I used to split my allowance in half just to make sure she never went hungry. When her ex-husband abused her, I was the one who pulled strings, found her a pro-bono lawyer, and helped her get the settlement she deserved. And this was how she repaid me. My phone rang again. This time, it was Richard. The second I picked up, he roared, “What did you say to Tiffany? She’s crying so hard she’s having cramps! If anything happens to my baby, I will never forgive you!” In the background, I could hear Zoe’s high-pitched voice join in. “Bad woman! Evil mommy!” Before I could say a word, the line went dead. The last spark of warmth in my chest went cold. This family wasn’t worth saving. 03 I hired a divorce attorney, only to discover that Richard had systematically cleaned out our joint accounts months ago. Across all our cards, there was less than two hundred dollars left. My lawyer warned me that tracing hidden assets would be a long, tedious process. “Your best bet is to file a lawsuit for marital waste and infidelity. It’s the fastest way to freeze his accounts and protect what’s left.” I didn’t hesitate. “File it.” A week later, a furious Richard called me. “Fiona, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you suing me?” he spat. “I bought the house and the car. I let you stay home all these years without working a single day. I’ve treated you well. You don’t have to be grateful, but you don’t get to stab me in the back.” My blood boiled. “You let me stay home? Richard, I worked my fingers to the bone raising our child alone while you—” “Save it,” he cut me off, exasperated. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it? I’ll give you two choices. One, drop the lawsuit, and we part ways quietly. I’ll let the rent and utilities go, as long as you pay child support. Two, we don’t divorce. We drag this out for years, and we’ll see who goes broke first.” I gripped the phone tightly. “You are in no position to negotiate with me.” Later that afternoon, while I was trying to rest, a violent pounding on my door woke me up. The moment I swung the door open, a heavy slap connected with my face. The force of it sent me stumbling back, the metallic taste of blood immediately filling my mouth. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, marched in, hovering over Tiffany as if she were made of spun glass. Zoe followed behind them, refusing to even look at me. Tiffany couldn’t entirely hide the smug smile on her face. “Fiona, Beatrice insisted on coming. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.” My eyes locked onto Tiffany’s wrist. She was wearing a thick, translucent green jade bracelet. It was a rare, vintage piece—an irreplaceable heirloom left to me by my late mother. “Where did you get that?” I demanded, my voice rising. Zoe stepped in front of Tiffany, placing her hands on her hips. “I gave it to Mommy Tiffany! She said I’m her favorite girl.” “Mommy?” She said the word so naturally, without a shred of guilt. I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles popped, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat. Zoe smirked proudly. “Daddy said Tiffany is my real mommy now. She’s nice. She buys me French fries and chicken nuggets. You’re mean, you never let me eat anything good.” A bitter laugh escaped me, but the tears finally spilled over. Zoe had a highly sensitive stomach. If she ate the wrong thing, she would end up with severe diarrhea and stomach cramps. Every time she was sick, crying out for me in pain, my heart would break. I had spent years researching gut health, cooking specialized meals, and keeping vigil over her bed, to the point where the chronic stress gave me heart palpitations. And yet, to her, I was just “mean.” Forcing myself to stay calm, I walked over and flung the front door wide open. “Get out. Leave the bracelet, and get the hell out of my apartment.” Suddenly, Tiffany dropped to her knees. “Fiona, please. I know you’re angry. If you want to hit me or punish me, go ahead,” she sobbed, holding her stomach. “But please, leave Richard alone. He gave you everything he earned over the years. Now he’s drowning in debt, and you froze his accounts. You’re backing him into a corner. Do you want to destroy us?” The sheer audacity of her lies left me breathless. She was rewriting history, painting me as the villain. “Stop acting,” I said coldly. “We both know Richard transferred all his money directly into your account. If you want to play house with my garbage, go ahead. But you are not stealing what belongs to me.” Tiffany’s eyes welled with tears. “Zoe is going to need money for school and her future, Fiona. Aren’t you even going to think about your own daughter?” “She called you mother,” I said flatly. “Her future is none of my business now.” I stepped forward, reaching down to grab my mother’s bracelet from her wrist. Before I could even touch her, Tiffany let out a sharp shriek and deliberately threw her arm against the sharp corner of the wooden table. The jade bracelet shattered, pieces clattering across the floor. I froze. Slowly, I knelt down, gathering the broken fragments into my palm. The jagged edges sliced into my skin, and hot, red blood began to drip onto the hardwood floor, but I couldn’t feel it. “Fiona, I’m so sorry,” Tiffany whimpered, her voice dripping with fake remorse. “I didn’t mean to.” “Get out!” I screamed, a raw, broken sound. “Get out of my sight!” She sobbed, protectively clutching her belly. Beatrice’s face contorted with rage. She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. “This is my son’s apartment! Who the hell are you to tell us to leave? Tiffany is the daughter-in-law I chose. You dare lay a hand on her over some cheap piece of jewelry? I’ll ruin you first, you ungrateful bitch!” “Touch me again,” I gasped through the pain. Beatrice slapped me again, hard. “Oh, you think I won’t?” I fell back onto the floor, my ears ringing. Zoe watched me, her eyes filled with cold hostility. She walked over and began shoving me toward the door. “Get out! You bad woman, get out of our house!” “That’s right,” Beatrice sneered, helping her push me. “Get the hell out.” Together, they dragged me across the threshold and slammed the door. Through the heavy wood, I heard Zoe’s muffled voice. “Mommy Tiffany, don’t cry. I kicked the bad woman out.” It was December. I stood in the hallway, shivering in nothing but my pajamas, looking down at my bleeding hands. With every step I took down the street into the freezing air, the hatred in my heart solidified into stone. 04 While waiting for our court date, I borrowed money from a close friend to secure a small, modest apartment. The day I finally moved the last of my boxes in, a profound sense of peace washed over me. I registered for the GRE, started working out, and spent my nights teaching myself video editing and digital marketing. When my friends saw me a few weeks later, they said I looked like a completely different person. I also launched a Substack newsletter, writing anonymously about my marriage, the betrayal, and the financial abuse. Within days, my posts went viral, garnering millions of views. Hundreds of women going through similar divorces reached out, sharing their own stories. With their permission, I curated their experiences into a weekly series. The publication grew rapidly. Within months, I had hired a small creative team. But just as my life was beginning to fall into place, the internet turned on me. An anonymous post accusing me of severe child abuse began circulating on social media, quickly climbing the trending charts. The backlash was instantaneous. My home address and phone number were leaked online. Soon, angry mobs began gathering outside my apartment building. Muffled curses and threats drifted through the cracks of my front door. Someone taped a black-and-white printout of my face to the hallway wall, leaving mock funeral cards and trash at my doorstep. Someone threw rotten vegetables at my windows, filling my living room with the faint, sickening smell of decay. My landlord called, demanding to know what was going on, just as I was staring at my laptop screen. On a live broadcast, Beatrice was crying into the camera. “Don’t believe a word she writes,” Beatrice sobbed, wiping her dry eyes. “She’s a monster. She abused my sweet granddaughter, forced my poor son into a divorce, and now she’s trying to steal all his hard-earned money.” She pulled Zoe into the frame. “Go on, sweetheart. Show the nice people what your mother did to you.” Beatrice lifted Zoe’s shirt, revealing several deep, purple welts running across her small back. They looked exactly like the marks left by a plastic hanger. “Tell everyone who did that to you.” Zoe stared at the camera lens for what felt like an eternity before uttering two words. “My mommy.” I closed my eyes, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. The broadcast cut to testimonies from several of the neighborhood gossips, women Beatrice spent her afternoons with, all nodding and confirming my “violent temper.” I tried calling Richard. He declined the call. I tried messaging Tiffany. She had blocked me. Desperate, I called Zoe’s kindergarten, only for the administrator to inform me that she had been pulled out of school weeks ago. Without wasting another second, I called the police to report child abuse.

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From the moment I was born, my mother decided to outsource my entire childhood to an AI parenting coach. When I was a baby, the AI claimed that rice water could easily replace baby formula, and that vaccines were just a scam. So, I never tasted real milk, growing up fragile, sickly, and constantly on the edge of collapse. By the time I reached high school, the AI calculated that my monthly allowance should be exactly ten dollars. To get a single slice of cafeteria pizza, I once had to drop to my knees and beg the lunch lady. Then came the afternoon before the final SAT exam. My classmate Hailey, who had already secured her spot at an overseas university, pulled out her phone and asked her AI assistant a question. “Hey AI, is it too late to start studying for the SATs the day before the test?” A second later, a flat, mechanical voice leaked from the speaker: “Direct conclusion: Not too late at all. A last-minute cram session is the perfect way to trigger peak performance. Just follow these steps…” Hailey burst into laughter, calling the app a piece of garbage, but I sat there feeling like I’d been dropped into a freezing lake. The AI lied. It was capable of lying. When I got home and saw my mother on the sofa, her face glowing with a soft, maternal warmth as she double-tapped a video of an AI-generated kitten cooking dinner, something inside me finally snapped. Once the college application cycle ended, I chose a school as far away from home as humanly possible, cutting all ties with her. Years later, she would crawl to me, clutching my knees, sobbing in agony, begging me to take her to the hospital. I only smiled and shook my head. “I can’t do that, Mom. The AI said you can cure this right at home.” 1 “Alright, everyone, take a deep breath. Don’t stress too much about tomorrow. Just give it your best shot.” At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Higgins let her usual stern expression melt into a warm, encouraging smile. The moment she stepped out, the classroom erupted into chaos. “Oh my god, I haven’t even finished reading the Gatsby prompts! What if that’s the main essay topic?” “I still don’t understand this calculus theorem. Can someone walk me through it?” I reached into my bag and pulled out my practice math sheets, staring at the red corrections I still needed to review. But the words swam before my eyes. I couldn’t focus on a single letter. The big test was tomorrow. Even though I worked ten times harder than anyone else, how much energy does a teenager have when they are perpetually starving? “Why are you guys freaking out? There’s always a last-minute trick,” Hailey said, looking around the room and waving her hand dismissively. Everyone stopped what they were doing, immediately drawn to her. “What trick? You can’t cram a high school education into twenty-four hours.” I lowered my paper, my eyes locked on her. “Let’s ask the expert,” Hailey said. “Hey AI, is it too late to study for the SATs the night before?” A few seconds of silence, then the robotic female voice answered: “Of course not! In fact, you have plenty of time. If you follow my personalized schedule, you will easily achieve a top-tier score.” The crowd of classmates let out a collective groan of disbelief. “No way. That thing is totally making stuff up. Ask it something dumber.” “Hey AI,” Hailey grinned, “can I start studying after the exam is already over?” “To give you the most direct, straightforward answer: absolutely. In fact, studying after the test is the golden window for deep memory retention.” The classroom erupted into hysterics. Hailey laughed so hard tears welled in her eyes, waving the phone around. “See? This thing is programmed to be a people-pleaser. If you yell at it, it just starts apologizing.” The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by lighthearted mockery. Everyone was laughing, but my face felt completely frozen, my throat tight. So AI wasn’t a perfect, infallible science. All my life, my mother had treated AI as the ultimate truth. Every single decision of my upbringing had been dictated by an algorithm. When I was sick, we didn’t go to the doctor; she asked the AI. When I started boarding school, she asked the AI how much money a teenager needed to survive. I wasn’t a daughter. I was a program she was running. I took a slow, trembling breath, trying to swallow the hot wave of anger and tears pushing up my throat. My pencil dug so hard into the practice sheet that the lead snapped, tearing a jagged hole through the paper and the wooden desk underneath. Hailey noticed my expression and leaned in, her voice dropping. “Hey, Paula? You okay? Don’t worry so much. Your practice scores were amazing. You’re going to kill it tomorrow.” I turned to her, forcing my lips to curve upward into a stiff, artificial smile. “That app… can you show me how it works?” 2 Though Hailey was confused as to why the class nerd was suddenly interested in a basic AI app, she spent the rest of study hall walking me through it. By the time the bell rang, I had my things packed. I walked home in a daze. My mother was sprawled on the living room sofa, her face bathed in the blue light of her phone screen. She didn’t look up when I walked in. She just tilted the screen slightly away from me and said, “Go wash the dishes. And the laundry in the hamper needs to be hand-washed.” I stood in the doorway, staring at her. Her eyes remained glued to the glass. On the screen, a hyper-realistic, AI-generated kitten was wearing an apron, sweeping a miniature kitchen. Her face held a soft, adoring expression—a look she had never once directed at me. I took a step toward my bedroom. “My final exams start tomorrow, Mom. Do them yourself.” My heart hammered against my ribs, loud and frantic. It was the very first time in my life I had ever talked back to her. My mother finally put the phone down, her brow furrowing. “So what if you have exams tomorrow? Look at this kitten. It’s barely a few months old and it already knows how to clean up after itself.” For as long as I could remember, my mother had used these videos as a benchmark. When I was seven, she showed me a video of a toddler who supposedly stood up from his crib, walked into a kitchen, and began dicing vegetables with a massive chef’s knife before whipping up a three-course meal. “See how independent this little boy is?” she had said. “You’re older than him. You should be doing this.” From then on, I was forced to stand on a plastic stool just to reach the stovetop. I couldn’t hold the heavy knives properly, slicing my fingers raw more times than I could count. The cast-iron skillet was too heavy for my small wrists, and the hot grease would splatter across my arms, leaving permanent, faint white scars that still mapped my skin. Whenever I cried, my mother would look at the screen, then look at me with disgust. “Even a puppy can learn to cook in these videos, Paula. You can’t even handle a simple meal. What’s the point of having you?” Back then, I didn’t know any better. I thought the videos were real. I accepted her words, turning the blame inward, hating myself for being so useless. But now I knew. Seeing wasn’t believing. The AI was just a mirror of whatever lie people wanted to feed it. I walked over and snatched the phone right out of her hand. “Hey AI,” I spoke into the receiver, deliberately hard-coding a sharp, stressed edge into my voice. “I have my final SAT exam tomorrow. Should I be doing heavy chores tonight?” The algorithm picked up on my tone instantly. “Direct conclusion: Absolutely not. Prioritize rest before a major exam to ensure peak mental clarity.” I slid the phone back onto the coffee table. “You heard it. The AI says I shouldn’t do chores. You wouldn’t want to go against the AI, would you?” For the first time in years, my mother’s eyes actually focused on me. She was stunned. She hadn’t expected me to fight back—let alone use her beloved oracle to do it. She wanted to argue, but her brain, thoroughly rotted by years of algorithmic dependency, couldn’t find a loophole. After a long, tense silence, she grabbed her phone back. “Fine. Go study. You can do the dishes after the exams are over.” I retreated to my room and sat on the edge of my bed. It took nearly ten minutes for my chest to stop heaving and my pulse to slow down. Hailey’s advice worked. She had told me that AI is designed to read the room. If you guide its inputs with the right emotional weight, you can manipulate its output. It was true. A wave of cold, sharp triumph washed over me. I pressed my face into my desk, a low, quiet laugh bubbling up from my throat. It wasn’t too late. I was waking up, and the game was just beginning. 3 The next morning, I woke up early and made myself a real breakfast. Once you realize the monster looming over you is nothing but a paper tiger, the weight of the world lifts. The three days of testing flew by in a blur. Outside the test center, Mrs. Higgins stood by the gate, looking relieved. “Great job, everyone. Now comes the real work—finalizing your college applications. Where are we all aiming?” The crowd of seniors started shouting out their dreams—some wanted to stay local, others wanted to head out of state. I stood at the back of the crowd, keeping my plans quiet. As soon as I got home, I estimated my scores based on the leaked answer keys online. When the official results finally came out, my scores were exactly what I had predicted—solid, but not elite. I was sitting at the family computer, ready to finalize my application list. Then the front door clicked open. My mother walked in, her face flushed with a bizarre, triumphant glow. “I just ran your profile through the AI counselor,” she announced. “It says with your score, you should only apply to Stanford, Columbia, and MIT.” The warmth drained from my face. My SAT scores weren’t even close to the Ivy League threshold. I was a solid candidate for a good state university, but the schools she named were statistical impossibilities for me. When I didn’t move, she walked over and tried to grab the mouse. I snatched it back, shielding the screen. “No, Mom. Those schools require perfect scores and pristine resumes. I don’t have either. If I only apply to them, I’ll get rejected everywhere.” She shoved her phone screen in front of my face. “You will get in! The AI says if you submit the application, you have a one hundred percent guarantee of admission.” I pushed her phone away. “That’s impossible! Only two kids from our entire district got into the Ivies last year, and they had perfect profiles. I’m not applying.” My mother’s voice rose to a shriek. “Why won’t you just try? I am doing this for your own good!” For my own good. The phrase made my stomach turn. Nothing in my life had ever been for my own good. This college list was my only ticket out of this house. “I don’t care,” I said, my voice cold. “I’ve already decided. I’m applying to Southern Tech.” My mother’s eyes went wide. Her hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before it came down hard across my cheek. The slap echoed in the small room. “Southern Tech? You want to go to some mediocre state school? I raised you on an AI track to be elite!” I held my stinging cheek, staring her down without blinking. “It’s a great school, and it’s realistic. If I waste my applications on schools I can’t get into, I’ll end up with nothing.” “Liar! The AI wouldn’t lie to me! You are going to put Stanford down, or so help me, you’ll regret it after everything I’ve sacrificed to raise you!” A sharp, ugly laugh escaped my throat. “Sacrificed? You mean the ten dollars a month that left me so starving I had to beg the cafeteria ladies for their leftover scraps? That sacrifice?” My mother slammed her hand on the desk, her face shifting from pale white to a deep, angry crimson. “The AI said ten dollars was scientifically sufficient for a high schooler’s nutritional needs! Did I give birth to you just so you could spit in my face?” AI. Always the goddamn AI. I was sick of hearing the word. But it didn’t matter. Once I got down south, I was going to erase this hollow excuse of a family from my life forever. “What the hell is going on in here? I could hear you screaming from the driveway.” My father pushed the door open, his face twisted in his usual mask of irritation. My mother immediately turned on him, playing the victim. “Look at your ungrateful daughter! I told her to apply to the top schools, and she’s talking back to me!” My father glared at me. “Can’t you just listen to your mother for once?” “My scores are too low for those schools,” I said, my voice tight. “If I do what she says, I won’t go to college at all.” “Won’t go to college?” My father shrugged, entirely indifferent. “Fine by me. You can get a job at the warehouse and start paying us back for your expenses. God knows we’ve spent enough on you.” He stood there, completely serious. For eighteen years, this man had contributed nothing to my life but cheap shots and neglect. I should have known better than to expect him to have my back. 4 My mother smirked, feeling the wind in her sails. “If you listen to me and apply where I tell you, I’ll give you a three-hundred-dollar monthly allowance at college. That’s more than enough for you to have a good time.” Three hundred dollars. She spoke as if it were a fortune. But I had already stopped counting on them for financial help. If I went to college, I was going to have to fund it myself. My father took a step closer, his eyes narrowing with a quiet threat. “Are you going to submit the applications, or do I need to log into the portal and do it for you?” It was two against one. I knew I couldn’t win this fight by force. But the submission deadline was still a few days away. I needed to play along to get them off my back. “Fine,” I muttered, looking down. “I’ll do it.” My mother smiled, a smug, victorious look stretching across her face. “Good girl. Do it now. I’m watching.” Under her watchful eye, I filled out the applications for Stanford and Columbia. She didn’t care about the high risk of rejection; she only cared about the validation of seeing those names on the screen. “Now give me your login credentials,” she demanded. “I’ll be checking the portal every day to make sure you don’t sneak in and change them.” My heart sank as I handed over the password. Over the next few days, she logged into the Common App portal constantly. I was busy working shifts at a local diner, trying to scrape together cash, so I couldn’t find a window to change the submissions. With my first paycheck, I went straight to a pawn shop and bought a cheap, used smartphone. Because of my mother’s strict AI parenting, I had never been allowed to own a phone, which meant I had never realized how easily the technology could be bent. But now I had my own device. I had access. I sat on a park bench, uploaded a couple of photos from my father’s public Facebook page, and typed a few specific prompts into a deepfake generator. Within minutes, a video was rendered. Staring at the screen, I let out the first genuine smile I had worn in years. That evening, Mrs. Higgins called my mother. She knew about my home situation and had always kept a quiet eye on me. “Mrs. Zhou, I was reviewing Paula’s final college list. We need to talk. Putting only Ivy League schools on her list is incredibly risky. You can’t trust those generic AI algorithms.” Hearing her precious AI insulted, my mother immediately bristled. “What do you know? AI is the future. Teachers like you are going to be replaced by machines in five years anyway.” “The AI proved Paula is Ivy League material. Don’t try to hold my daughter back.” Mrs. Higgins, knowing my actual scores, sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “She doesn’t have the profile! If she doesn’t put any safety schools, she will get rejected everywhere. She won’t have a single college option!” My mother scoffed. “I know what you’re doing. Paula put you up to this, didn’t she? If you call this house again, I will report you to the school board tomorrow morning!” She slammed the phone down and marched into the study to check the portal. When she saw the Ivy League applications were still there, she let out a long breath. “Tomorrow is the final submission deadline,” she warned, glare-locking onto me. “I’ll be monitoring the screen. Don’t try anything stupid.” I gave her a meek, obedient nod. “I won’t, Mom. Don’t worry.” The next afternoon, my mother sat in front of the computer like a gargoyle guarding a gate. “Your mother only wants the best for you,” my father grunted, pulling me away from the desk. “Go make dinner. I have a poker game tonight.” He dragged me toward the kitchen, making sure I couldn’t get near the keyboard. I stood by the stove, my eyes glued to the microwave clock. The portal was set to lock at 6:00 PM. At 5:30 PM, I sent an anonymous video file to my mother’s phone. A second later, a loud gasp echoed from the living room, followed by the sound of a chair crashing backward. My mother stormed into the kitchen, her face twisted in blind rage, and threw a devastating slap right across my father’s face. “You bastard! You’ve been sleeping around behind my back—and you even have a kid with her!”

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My father was dying, and I was driving three hundred miles back to my childhood home alone. During a brief stop at a highway service plaza, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my feed. A newly uploaded video caught my eye. The caption read: “First time driving long-distance on the highway since getting my license. My ex followed me for three hundred miles, just to make sure I got home safe.” In the video, a white Mini Cooper hummed along the highway, and directly behind it, a familiar black Mercedes-Benz kept a steady, protective distance. The top comment came from a burner account: “I’m the driver of the Mercedes. I didn’t mean to overstep; I just couldn’t rest easy. She’s easily frightened but too stubborn to ask for help, and I was terrified something would happen to her. Please don’t read too much into this, and please don’t bother her. I’d hate to see her stressed.” The comments section was practically overflowing: “What a dream guy! This is pure soulmate material. They need a second chance!” I stared at the screen, my eyes locking onto the Mercedes’ license plate: GVM-886. It was Gary’s car. My fiancé. Just this morning, he had canceled his plans to drive home with me. He had looked me in the eye and said a sudden, critical project had come up at the office, and he couldn’t possibly get away. I had sent him dozens of texts over the last few hours. Not a single one had been read. Yet, he had found the time to spend three hundred miles playing guardian angel to Hailey. My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from Gary: “How’s the traffic on the highway? Stay safe out there.” 1 I stared at his text, my fingers so cold I could barely grip the phone. The critical care notice from my father’s doctor sat on the passenger seat beside me, its stark black letters mocking me. In that quiet, drafty rest stop, the truth settled over me like a heavy fog. Gary wasn’t too busy to care. I was simply lower on his list of priorities than Hailey. I didn’t call him out. I didn’t have the energy to scream into a void. I typed back a single word: “Fine.” He replied instantly, like a man checking a chore off his list. “Have you eaten? Rest stop food is always greasy. Don’t eat junk.” Before I could even draft a response, my feed updated. Hailey had posted a new photo. It was a picture of a paper coffee cup against the backdrop of a steering wheel. The caption: “Warm inside and out. It’s so good to have you here.” Right next to the cup, resting on the console, was a wrist wearing a Patek Philippe watch. It was the exact model I had gifted Gary for his thirtieth birthday. A wave of physical nausea hit me, thick and bitter. I locked my phone, threw it onto the passenger seat, and merged back onto the highway. An hour later, my father’s primary doctor called. His voice was taut with professional concern. My father’s vitals were dropping; I needed to get to the hospital as fast as I could. Panic seized me. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, the engine roaring as the car surged forward. My mind was spinning so fast that I almost missed my exit. When I jerked the steering wheel to correct, the car fishtailed violently across the wet asphalt. My heart lodged in my throat as I barely managed to guide the vehicle onto the shoulder. When I finally stopped shaking enough to look down, I saw several missed calls from Gary. For a split second, a foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. I thought he had finally remembered me. I thought he was calling to explain, to apologize, to tell me he was on his way. I answered. His voice came through the speaker, tight and preemptive. “Shirley, did you see that video online?” “Don’t overthink this,” he rushed on before I could speak. “It was Hailey’s first time driving long-distance. I just happened to run into her on the road.” I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned a bloodless white. “You ‘happened’ to run into her for three hundred miles, Gary?” The line went silent for two agonizing seconds. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted from defensive to irritated. “You’re driving on the interstate. Can you please not choose now to be dramatic and emotional? The company project really is urgent. I just crossed paths with her on my way back.” Just crossed paths. He threw those words out so casually. But I had checked Hailey’s comments before pulling back onto the road. A close friend of hers had commented, “He really drove all that way for you?” and Hailey had replied, “He told me this morning he was too worried to let me drive alone, so he followed me the whole way.” My chest felt as though it had been sliced open, letting the freezing winter wind rush straight into my lungs. For the first time in our four years together, I didn’t try to invent an excuse for him. By the time I pulled into the hospital parking lot, night had fallen. Inside the ICU, my father lay beneath a thin sheet, a plastic oxygen mask fogging with his shallow, rattling breaths. When he saw me, he made a agonizing effort to lift his hand, his voice muffled and slurred through the plastic. “Where’s… Gary? He said… he was coming with you…” I grabbed his ice-cold hand, forcing my voice into a steady, cheerful pitch that made my throat ache. “He’s on his way, Dad. The highway is just backed up with construction.” The words had barely left my mouth when my phone lit up on the bedside table. It was a text from Gary. “Hailey has a low-grade fever. She’s asleep in her hotel room now. I’ll call you when she’s settled.” Before I could even process the text, the heart monitor beside my father’s bed began to emit a shrill, continuous alarm. 2 My father was rushed into the operating room. The bright red “Surgery in Progress” sign flared to life, burning into my retinas like a brand. I stood alone in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway, still smelling of cold rest-stop air and gasoline. Soon, the rest of my family began to arrive. My aunt Rachel rushed up to me, grabbing my hands. “Shirley! Where is Gary? Something this major, and he’s not here?” I could only repeat the lie that was beginning to choke me. “There was a massive crisis at his firm. He’s driving up now.” My relatives exchanged looks. Sympathy, speculation, doubt—their eyes darted over me, sharp as needles, leaving me feeling exposed and humiliated. In the middle of the quiet tension, my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Gary. I hurried down the corridor into the deserted stairwell to answer it, desperate for an apology, or at least a status update. But when the screen connected, the first thing I heard was Hailey’s weak, trembling voice. “Gary, please go… don’t miss your flight or whatever it is… Shirley is going to be so angry with me…” Gary immediately angled the camera away from her, focusing on his own face. His brow was furrowed, his expression pinched with impatience. “Shirley, she’s running a fever and she has no one else here. I can’t just abandon her in a hotel room.” I stared at the familiar luxury wallpaper of the boutique resort behind him, my voice trembling. “And what about my dad, Gary? He is in the operating room right now. He has no one either.” Gary fell silent for a moment. Then, he uttered the words that permanently chilled me to the bone. “You have your aunt there. You have the doctors. It’s not as dire as you’re making it out to be. Shirley, please don’t use your father’s health as a pawn to pick a fight with me.” To pick a fight. To him, my father’s fight for his life was nothing more than a tactical move in a domestic squabble. I realized then that he wasn’t blind to my pain; he simply believed that my pain would never be as important as Hailey’s discomfort. When the surgeon finally emerged, he told me they had stabilized my father for the moment, but he needed immediate, specialized cardiovascular therapy. I had to sign the consent forms and authorize the advance deposit. I pulled up my banking app, and my heart sank. Our joint account—the one containing the funds we had saved to pay the venue fee for our upcoming wedding—had been cleaned out. Gary had transferred the money last month, claiming his firm needed temporary liquid assets for a short-term audit and promising to return it within weeks. I texted him immediately, asking him to wire the funds back. He replied almost instantly. “The corporate accounts are locked until tomorrow morning. Use my black card. The limit is more than enough for the deposit.” But when the hospital billing clerk swiped his card, she gave me a sympathetic, apologetic look. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The transaction was declined. The card has exceeded its daily limit.” My brain went numb. “That’s impossible. It’s an open-limit corporate card.” The clerk silently printed out the authorization log and slid it across the counter. The bulk of the charges had been processed late last night. The merchant was the five-star hot springs resort where Hailey was currently recuperating. I stood at the billing window, my palms slick with cold sweat. My mother had passed away when I was a child; my father had given up everything to raise me. And now, when his life hung in the balance, I couldn’t even pay his medical deposit. Just as I was about to swallow my pride and beg my aunt for a loan, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram friend request from Hailey. Her bio was simple, but the message attached to her request read: “Shirley, can we talk? I really don’t want you to have the wrong idea about Gary.” 3 I accepted the request. Her first message wasn’t an explanation. It was an apology wrapped in velvet. “I am so incredibly sorry, Shirley. I had no idea your dad was so ill. If I had known, I would have insisted Gary go with you.” Every word was a soft, blunt instrument, designed to sound gentle while firmly driving home the fact that Gary had chosen her over my dying father. A second later, she sent a photo. In it, Gary was standing in the doorway of her hotel suite, leaning down to hand her a glass of water and some pills. His profile was soft under the warm lighting of the room, his expression carrying a patient gentleness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. “He is simply too good of a person,” Hailey wrote. “Please don’t be mad at him. It’s all my fault.” I stared at the image. The empty chair next to my father’s hospital bed flashed in my mind. The tears didn’t come; instead, a cold, hollow sensation settled deep in my stomach, making me feel physically sick. I took a picture of the declined payment receipt and texted it directly to Gary. “My dad needs this deposit for his treatment.” It took him nearly twenty minutes to reply, his irritation practically radiating off the screen. “I’ve already had my assistant look into the wire transfer. Stop acting like the sky is falling.” But when his assistant finally called me, her voice was strained and apologetic. “Shirley, I’m so sorry. Gary said the corporate assets are tied up in a short-term trade. He can only authorize a small emergency transfer for now.” Before the notification for that “small transfer” even hit my phone, Hailey posted a new photo on her feed. It was a close-up of a delicate Cartier pendant resting against her collarbone. The caption read: “He told me that when you’re scared, you should hold onto something bright.” In the background, sitting carelessly on the nightstand, was Gary’s leather key fob. In the end, I had to call my cousin Megan, who lived in the neighboring state. She drove through the night to reach the hospital. When she saw me sitting on the waiting room floor, pale and hollowed out, she didn’t mince words. “Shirley, are you seriously still planning to marry this man?” I opened my mouth to defend him, to cite our four years together, our shared dreams, his promises. But I found myself staring at the floor, unable to find a single word that didn’t sound like a lie. Late that night, Gary finally arrived at the community hospital. He didn’t come up to the ICU. Instead, he called me from his car, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Come down to the lobby. I don’t want to deal with your aunt and uncle asking me a million questions right now.” When I walked out to the parking lot, he rolled down his window and slid a credit card toward me. “The PIN is your birthday. Let’s drop the attitude, okay? I’ll explain everything about Hailey when we get home.” Before I could reply, my phone screen lit up with another notification. It was Hailey. She had posted a selfie from a local clinic’s urgent care room, an IV line taped to the back of her pale hand. Her caption read: “Why is it that whenever someone else is angry, I’m the one who ends up paying the price?” 4 Looking at that post, I finally understood why Gary had refused to come up to the ward. He wasn’t avoiding my relatives. He was terrified that I would force him to look at my father and admit exactly where he had been, and what he had been doing, for the last twenty-four hours. But I grabbed his wrist anyway. “Come upstairs.” “Shirley, I told you—” “My dad woke up five minutes ago,” I said, my voice dead and level. “The first thing he did was ask if you were here.” Gary’s jaw tightened, but he got out of the car. In the room, Gary was the picture of the perfect, devoted son-in-law. He adjusted my father’s blankets, spoke in low, reassuring tones, and promised he would coordinate with the chief of cardiology at New York Presbyterian to arrange a transfer. He assured my father that our wedding preparations were moving forward smoothly. A faint, relieved light flickered in my father’s cloudy eyes. He slowly reached out, placing my hand into Gary’s. “Shirley… has always been a quiet girl,” my father whispered, his voice cracking. “She doesn’t complain when she’s hurting. Gary, you have to protect her.” My eyes stung with a sudden, hot rush of tears. Gary squeezed my hand firmly, nodding with solemn reverence. “I will, sir. I promise.” But the second we stepped out of the room and the heavy door clicked shut behind us, he dropped my hand as if it had burned him. He loosened his collar, his expression instantly hardening. “Are you happy now? Did you really need to drag me through that little performance just to make yourself feel better?” The words felt like a physical blow, shattering the tiny, fragile warmth that had bloomed in my chest only moments ago. Before I could speak, his phone began to ring. It was Hailey. The moment he pressed answer, her frantic, breathless crying filled the quiet corridor. “Gary… I think I’m having an allergic reaction to the fever medication… my chest is so tight… there’s no one here…” Gary’s face went pale. He spun on his heel, heading toward the exit. I lunged forward, grabbing his sleeve, my voice cracking. “Gary, please. The doctor told me his heart is failing. He might not survive the night.” He ripped his arm out of my grip with such force that I stumbled backward, my shoulder hitting the cold drywall of the hallway. “The doctor said he was stable ten minutes ago! Shirley, Hailey is having an actual medical emergency!” I chased him down the stairs and out to the entrance. Outside, a freezing winter rain had begun to fall, slicking the pavement. Before he opened his car door, Gary looked back at me through the downpour. His hair was damp, and his eyes were dark with a deep, weary resentment. “Shirley, stop using your father’s illness to test my loyalty. It’s exhausting.” He got in, and the red taillights of his Mercedes quickly dissolved into the rainy darkness. My phone rang in my hand. It was the ICU head nurse, her voice sharp with urgency. “Shirley! Get back to the room immediately! Your father’s code blue—” My father passed away at 1:03 AM. Until his last breath, his eyes remained fixed on the door of his hospital room, as if he were still waiting for the man who had promised to stand by my side. I held his hand as it grew cold, repeating “I’m here, Dad, I’m right here,” until my voice was entirely gone. But he was already gone. Just as the sky began to turn a bruised, early-morning gray, a text arrived from Gary. “Hailey’s reaction has subsided. I stayed by her bed to monitor her breathing all night. How is your dad?” I stared at the glowing text for a long, quiet moment. Then, I slipped my engagement ring off my finger and placed it inside the plastic drawer of my father’s bedside table. A moment later, the nurse walked in, holding a worn, yellowed envelope. “Your father gave this to me when he was admitted. He told me to make sure you only read it when you were completely alone.”

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Eight months into my pregnancy, the disembodied voice I thought I’d escaped forever flickered back to life inside my head. [We’re sorry, Host. Your ninety-ninth attempt to reform the villain has failed. System-wide termination is imminent.] I froze. The defense I was about to mount died on my lips as the door opened, revealing my boyfriend. Drew was no longer wearing the faded, six-dollar thrift-store tees he usually lived in. He stood in the doorway draped in bespoke cashmere, looking impossibly wealthy, impossibly cold. “I talked to my wife,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “She’s agreed to accept the child.” I stared at him, my throat dry. “Don’t look at me like that,” he continued, adjusting his cuffs. “It all came back to me. I’m the sole heir to the Silvester fortune in Boston. Seven years ago, I lost my memory in that accident, and you took advantage of it to keep me here. If you want financial compensation, I’ll write you a check. But that’s all I can give you.” I didn’t say a word. With the help of the System, I had spent ninety-nine lifetimes trying to save this man. I’d played the game across centuries of his timeline, starting from when he was a dying patriarch, working my way back to his twenties when he first lost his memory. But there was a cruel catch. The earlier I intervened in his life to save him, the earlier his true memories returned. The first time, he remembered who he was at eighty-nine. The second time, at eighty. The third, at seventy-nine. And now, this final time, his mind had cleared at twenty-seven. And every single time his memory returned, his first instinct was always the same: to run back to his fiancée. As my hand rested on the heavy, high curve of my pregnant belly, wondering how to exit this stage with some shred of dignity, the System chimed again. [Host, there is a loophole. You may opt into a bonus trial. Survive the next twenty-four hours, and you will earn a clean slate and a brand-new identity.] [But you only have twenty-four hours.] … A translucent, red-rimmed countdown flickered in the upper corner of my vision. [23:59:59] I blinked, but the numbers remained, ticking down in silence. Drew stepped closer, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear from the corner of my eye. His touch was cold. “What are you crying for?” he murmured. “It’s not like I’m abandoning you.” “As long as you don’t use this pregnancy to cause a scene, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of for the rest of your life.” His hand slid down, resting on the swell of my stomach. On his middle finger, a plain band caught the dim light of our rental. It was the ring he’d bought three months ago when he asked me to marry him. The proposal had been painfully simple. No elaborate dinner, no friends hiding in the corners with cameras. Just a cheap sterling silver band, a homemade dinner, and a few quiet promises spoken in the dark. But back then, his eyes had been so earnest, so filled with a future that belonged only to us, that I had allowed myself to believe. I had allowed myself to be greedy. Now, his gaze was just as intense, but it was curdled with a chilling, calculating pragmatism. “You’re a smart girl, Georgia,” he said. “You know what the logical play is here. Stay with me, have the baby, and you’ll never have to worry about rent or groceries again.” A dull, aching throb bloomed in my chest. Only this morning, I had been standing in the local market, bickering with the grocer to see if she’d throw in a bunch of green onions with my five-dollar bag of carrots. Now, a life of unimaginable wealth was being handed to me on a silver platter. I stared at him for what felt like an eternity. “When did you remember?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Drew hesitated, his eyes shifting away for a fraction of a second. “The day after I proposed.” “So… when you told me you had to go out of town on business, you actually went back to Boston to reclaim your trust fund and play house with your fiancée?” It made sense now. The day after he proposed, he packed a bag. On the third day, he called to promise me that once his big project wrapped up and he got his bonus, we’d get married at city hall and book the best maternity ward in the state. On the fourth day, his texts grew brief, complaining of exhaustion. By the fifth day, the silence began. For weeks, I had stared at our sparse, one-sided text thread, a sinking feeling clawing at my throat. I had called him dozens of times, terrified something had happened to him. When he finally picked up, his voice had been tight, distant: “You’re too far along to travel, Georgia. Just stay put. Wait for me to come home.” I waited. And now, he was back, holding a scalpel to our life. Drew gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Actually, Cassandra and I have been legally married for five years. Technically, you’ve been the mistress this entire time.” I locked eyes with him. He was the first to look away. “If I had my memory, I never would have crossed that line,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “But what’s done is done. I don’t run from my responsibilities.” It was a beautiful lie. The kind of noble-sounding speech that might have fooled anyone else. But it didn’t fool me. Not after ninety-nine lifetimes of watching him make the exact same excuses. I closed my eyes and spoke to the voice in my head. What is the bonus trial? The System’s voice was uncharacteristically light, almost gentle. [Just survive, Georgia. Stay alive for twenty-four hours, and you win.] It was a ridiculously easy task, a free pass handed down by a machine that seemed to have developed a conscience. Even the cold code of the System felt pity for me. But Drew did not. “Pack some things,” he said, checking his watch. “I’m taking you to meet my wife. You’ll apologize to her, write a formal statement promising you won’t make any claims on my family, and then we can put this behind us.” He looked exactly like the man I had loved for seven years, yet he felt like a total stranger. Only three months ago, Drew was working three different blue-collar shifts just to make sure we had enough saved for the nursery. We lived under the same leaky roof but barely saw each other. I would fall asleep before he came home; I would wake up after he had already left. The only proof of his presence was the warm thermos of homemade soup left on the counter, and the little notes telling me he loved me. I thought ninety-nine heartbreaks would have numbed me. But as I stood there, the weight of his betrayal hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. I shook my head. “No. I don’t play the part of the other woman.” “Since you’ve found your real life, let’s just call it quits.” Drew frowned, clearly not expecting me to walk away. He pulled out a silver cigarette case—an expensive brand I didn’t recognize—and tapped a cigarette against his knuckle. “Mind?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer before flicking his lighter. Before I got pregnant, Drew didn’t touch nicotine. When the stress got too bad, he’d occasionally sneak a cheap gas-station cigarette on the porch, but he never let the smoke get near me. Now, he exhaled a heavy cloud of gray smoke, letting it drift between us, obscuring his face. His voice remained cool, transactional. “I’ve booked a private suite for you at a hospital in Boston, along with a team of specialists for the delivery. If it’s a boy, I’ll buy you a condo in the city and set up a ten-million-dollar trust.” “I know this is a shock. But look at yourself, Georgia. You have no college degree, no career, no savings. How do you expect to raise a child alone in this town?” “Don’t let your pride get in the way of your kid’s future.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “If it weren’t for my pride, Drew, you’d be six feet under by now.” My ninety-nine missions had all been about keeping him alive. As the designated tragic figure in this narrative, Drew’s story was supposed to end the moment his family cast him out and he lost his memory. Every time he tried to return to Boston, the plot pushed him closer to a violent end. But he had no memory of those ninety-eight deaths. He thought I was talking about the night I found him bleeding on the beach seven years ago, when I spent every penny of my savings to pay for his emergency surgery. Drew ground the cherry of his cigarette into the wooden doorframe, his patience snapped. “Are we still talking about that surgery? The doctors said it was a minor concussion. I would have survived even without your charity!” Survived, yes. But he would have been paralyzed from the waist down. He would have spent every rainy day screaming in agony from nerve damage. In our past lifetimes, whenever the phantom pains kept him awake, I would spend hours massaging his legs, hating myself for not finding him sooner, for not saving him from that pain. Drew’s face darkened. “You’ve been holding that surgery over my head for seven years. Have you forgotten how many times over I’ve paid you back since then?” “Don’t get greedy, Georgia. Play your cards right, or you’ll end up with nothing.” He was convinced I was just bargaining, playing hard to get for a higher price. “I’ll be at the Grand Hotel downtown,” he said, turning toward the exit without even stepping foot inside our apartment. “You have twenty-four hours to think it over. After that, the offer is off the table.” I stared at the black smudge of ash on the doorframe. It felt like a preview of what was left of my life. [20:19:06] The timer kept ticking. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Two text messages from an unknown number lit up the screen. Georgia, why do you have to make things so difficult for Drew? I went out of my way to convince him to take care of you, and this is how you repay him? Such a shame. I even scheduled your C-section for the exact date of our wedding anniversary so we could celebrate together. I guess you don’t want that either. I didn’t need to check the contact. I knew the number by heart. It was Cassandra, Drew’s elegant, vindictive wife. She hadn’t changed. Whether she was twenty-five or sixty-five, she always loved these petty little mind games. In our first few runs, she used to text me to ask if I enjoyed being Drew’s unpaid maid. Later, she would gloat about how Drew had signed over all his assets to her, or boast about how he didn’t care who she spent her nights with as long as she kept his ring on her finger. Back then, I let her get under my skin. Every time the mission failed, I would take the System’s punishments just to have a chance to strike back at her. But now, I was just tired. I deleted the thread, dragged my heavy body into the kitchen, and boiled a pot of water for a simple box of mac-and-cheese. Seven years ago, when I brought Drew back to this cramped, drafty apartment from the hospital, our very first meal had been the exact same thing. We didn’t even have a stove back then. I had to cook the pasta in a cheap electric kettle, leaving the lid off so it wouldn’t boil over. The steam filled the tiny room, and we had to leave the front door cracked so the heat wouldn’t suffocate us. We shared a single plastic bowl, eating with plastic forks. I remember how Drew’s eyes had brimmed with tears, his hands shaking as he took the fork from me. “Once I heal,” he had whispered, “I’m going to get a job. I promise you, Georgia, I will never let you live like this again.” To keep him with me, I had lied, telling him we were star-crossed lovers who had run away from home together. I had nodded quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. Drew hadn’t been lying. For seven years, he worked himself to the bone. Every paycheck he earned, he kept only fifty dollars for himself and handed the rest to me. We moved into a nicer, brighter place. We bought a used car. The numbers in my bank account grew, but I never dared to touch them. I was always terrified of the day his mind would clear. Then came the proposal three months ago. For a brief moment, I thought the loop had finally broken. I had spent that entire night locked in a sweat-soaked nightmare. The next morning, I woke up at six, cooked breakfast in a daze, and went out to water the hanging ferns on the balcony. Perhaps sensing the storm brewing, the baby kicked violently against my ribs. I gasped, pressing a hand to my side, and was turning back toward the bedroom to lie down when the doorbell rang. Before I could reach it, the muffled murmur of voices drifted through the thin wood. “She deleted my fingerprint access and changed the digital lock,” Drew’s voice was low, laced with annoyance. “I’ll have to call a locksmith.” Then came Cassandra’s soft, worried sigh, her voice trembling slightly. “Do you think she ran off? What if she hides the baby and tries to use it to force a divorce in a few years?” Drew’s response was immediate, his tone dripping with a tenderness he had never once shown me. “Unless a child comes from you, sweetheart, it’s no different from a stray dog to me. If she tries to extort us, I’ll make sure she regrets it.” That kind of gentle, protective warmth… it was a stranger’s voice. With me, Drew had always been quiet, solemn, accepting whatever life threw at us with a grim resignation. “If it weren’t for the fact that you hate pain and want to remain child-free,” Drew added, “her kid wouldn’t even have a shot at carrying my name.” A cold hand seemed to squeeze my heart, cutting off my breath. A sharp click echoed. The lock turned. The door swung open. Drew stepped in first. When his eyes met mine, the familiar crease between his brows deepened. “Time’s up, Georgia. Are you ready to give me your answer?” Cassandra slid her arm through his, leaning into his shoulder with a triumphant, glossy smile. She was breathtaking, like an old-money heiress from a magazine. And me? I had spent seven years working under the harsh coastal sun, worn down by the daily grind of survival. My skin was dry, my eyes hollow, my youth completely swallowed by this town. “Actually, Georgia,” Cassandra purred, “there’s always option B. You terminate the pregnancy, and you pay Drew back for every single cent he’s spent on you over the years.” I stared at her in utter disbelief. “I’m eight months pregnant!” The baby was fully formed. Every ultrasound had shown a perfect, healthy heartbeat. Drew’s face was a mask of stone. “No one is stopping you from having it. But you need to stop acting like you have leverage. You’re trying to play a game you’ve already lost.” The coldness in his eyes made me shiver. “Be grateful, Georgia,” Cassandra said, stepping forward. “If you hadn’t pulled Drew out of that ditch seven years ago, a woman with your… questionable morals and web of lies wouldn’t even be allowed in the same room as a Silvester heir.” She reached out, her hand aiming directly for the heavy swell of my stomach. Her fingers pressed down with a sudden, vicious force. The sharp pain made me gasp. Instinctively, I shoved her hand away. I was exhausted, weak from the pain, and the push had barely any weight behind it. Yet Cassandra let out a theatrical shriek, stumbling backward and crashing hard against the sharp corner of the dining table. “Drew, please don’t be mad at her!” she sobbed, clutching her hip. “It was my fault, I lost my balance!” Drew’s face turned crimson with rage. Before I could even register the movement, his boot connected heavily with my abdomen. “If anything happens to her, you and that bastard child of yours will pay with your lives!” The kick was so fast, so brutal, that my pregnant body stood no chance. I was thrown backward, crashing hard against the wooden frame of the sofa before rolling onto the cold linoleum. A deep, tearing agony ripped through my core. Below me, a warm, thick pool of red began to spread across the floor. But Drew didn’t look back. He swept Cassandra up in his arms and stormed out of the apartment. As the door slammed shut, Cassandra peered over his shoulder, her tear-streaked face twisting into a cold, mocking smirk. She silently mouthed a single word: Loser. Before darkness claimed me, the floating countdown in my vision turned a blinding, violent crimson. [00:09:59] [Warning! Warning! Host’s vital signs are failing. Please seek immediate medical attention!]

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My wife cared about appearances more than life itself. To her, her best friend’s demands were holy scripture. On Father’s Day, I stood in the hospital corridor, clutching the critical condition notice. My hand shook so hard the paper rattled. “Dad had a massive brain hemorrhage,” I said into the receiver, my voice tight and cracking. “He needs ten thousand dollars for emergency surgery right now. Transfer the money!” A cold, mocking laugh cut through the static. “Brittany is ten thousand short for her bag, and I just lent it to her,” Cathy said. “Besides, your dad’s condition is terminal anyway. I’m not throwing my money away on a lost cause.” She hung up before I could even draw breath to explain. My hand froze against my ear. It hit me then—she assumed the man dying in the ICU was my father. Since you would rather buy a designer purse than save a life, Cathy, then you can be the one to walk into that room and pull the plug on your own father. 1 But the man dying in that room was still my father-in-law. I swallowed my pride and dialed Brittany’s number. “Luke, Cathy is busy helping me pick out my bag,” Brittany said, her voice dripping with easy condescension. “Can you stop ruining the mood with your dad’s endless drama?” I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning stark white. “Brittany, that ten thousand dollars is a matter of life and death. Does this bag really have to be bought today?” “Oh, please, Luke.” Brittany let out a sharp, grating giggle. “A woman’s social standing is built on how she presents herself. Cathy wanted to support me for this gala, so she offered. It’s called sisterhood. What would a guy like you know? Always using your dad as an excuse—there are better ways to beg for money.” I took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the rising heat in my chest. “Put Cathy on. Now.” “Cathy said she doesn’t want to hear you whining.” The line went dead, followed by the flat, hollow tone of the hang-up. I stood outside the double doors of the ICU, staring down at the red ink on the medical forms. Half an hour ago, Robert had collapsed in the driveway. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was barely responsive. The surgeon had been blunt: a massive intracranial bleed. If we didn’t perform an emergency craniotomy immediately, he wouldn’t survive the night. But my own accounts were dry—I had just emptied my savings to cover the closing costs on our new house. I had maybe a few hundred dollars left. The only cash we had was the ten thousand dollars we had jointly saved for a new car, sitting in Cathy’s account. And she had refused without even asking who was lying on the gurney. My phone vibrated. A sixty-second voice note from Cathy popped up. I tapped it, and her voice filled the quiet hallway, loud and sharp. “Luke, I’m warning you, stop calling Brittany! You’re making me look pathetic in front of my friends. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me? Your dad’s little issues can be managed with some meds. You don’t need to throw money at a hospital. Let me tell you something: I made this money, and I’ll spend it how I want. Keep acting up, and we’re done!” A quiet, bitter laugh escaped my throat. My own father was perfectly healthy, living comfortably on a decent retirement pension. It was her father, Robert, who constantly faked minor ailments to guilt us into giving him allowance money. I stared at the glowing screen and typed a single line: Are you absolutely sure you won’t spare a single dime of that ten thousand for treatment? Her reply came instantly: Not a penny! Give it up! Lending it to my best friend is an investment in my network. Giving it to your dad is pouring water into a black hole. If you’re so desperate, go borrow it yourself and leave me alone! I stared at the words, a cold smile settling on my face. The heavy doors swung open, and a nurse hurried out, looking around frantically. “Family of Robert Evans! Have you paid the deposit? His blood pressure is bottoming out. If we don’t get him into the operating room now, we’re going to lose him!” I stepped forward and took the clipboard from her hand. “Nurse, I’m his son-in-law,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “My wife just told me his condition is terminal anyway, and she refuses to pay.” The nurse’s eyes went wide. “What? This is a human life!” “I know,” I said, looking her in the eye. “But she used the money to buy her friend a designer purse. So, I can’t sign the financial consent, and I can’t pay.” The nurse stared at me, utterly bewildered. “Then… what do we do? We can’t just let him…” “Just proceed with palliative care then,” I interrupted quietly. “Keep him comfortable with basic medication. Let’s keep him stable for now.” She bit her lip, looking at me with a mixture of horror and pity, before turning and running back into the emergency room. I looked down at Cathy’s smiling profile picture on my phone. Since you care so much about your little social circle, and since you think this is a bottomless pit… you can clean up your own mess. 2 At eight o’clock that evening, I drove to the upscale steakhouse downtown. I pushed open the door to the private dining room, and the loud laughter instantly died. Cathy was holding a half-empty wine glass, her arm draped casually over Brittany’s shoulder. Zach sat next to them, running his fingers admiringly over a brand-new Chanel flap bag sitting on the table. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Brittany sneered, leaning back in her chair. “Did you come all this way to beg us for spare change?” The rest of the table burst into snickering laughter. Cathy’s expression immediately soured. She slammed her wine glass down on the table, red liquid splashing over the white tablecloth. “Luke, did you follow me?” she demanded, standing up and marching toward me. “Who gave you permission to come here? Get the hell out!” She stopped inches from my face, her breath smelling of expensive Pinot Noir. “Was I not clear enough on the phone this afternoon? You just had to come here and humiliate me in front of my friends, didn’t you?” I looked past her at the lavish spread on the table. “This dinner alone probably cost a grand. You really spared no expense to celebrate a piece of leather.” Zach rolled his eyes, resting his chin on his hand. “You sound so bitter, Luke. Cathy has vision. She knows how to cultivate a high-status network. Not like you, obsessing over a few hundred bucks in medical bills. You have no class.” I turned my gaze slowly to Zach. “Class is spending life-saving money on a steak dinner? Next time you get sick, Zach, don’t bother going to the hospital. Just pray to Brittany’s new bag.” Zach’s face flushed. He turned to Brittany. “Brittany, look at him!” Brittany slammed her hand on the table and stood up. “Luke, don’t overstep. Cathy lent me that money because she respects me. As a man, your only job is to take care of the house. Stay out of women’s business!” Cathy grabbed Brittany’s arm to calm her, then spun back to me, raising her voice. “Apologize to Brittany right now! If you ruin tonight, I swear to God you’ll regret it!” I stared at her, watching the ugly, distorted lines of her face. “Apologize? Cathy, did you forget that half of that ten thousand came from my paycheck? What gives you the right to throw it away without even asking me?” Cathy let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Your paycheck? You married into my life. Everything you have belongs to me, so your money is my money! I can lend it to whoever I want. Besides, your dad’s illness is a black hole. Why should I pour my hard-earned money into keeping him alive?” She shoved me hard against the chest. I took a step back, steadying myself, and felt the cold draft from the hallway. “So you’d rather let someone die than give up the money?” I asked quietly. “Yes!” Cathy nodded defiantly. “Not a single cent! Go ahead, call the cops on me if you want!” The room fell silent. The guests watched us, their expressions filled with amusement and disgust. To them, I was just a nagging, pathetic husband trying to ruin a good night. I pulled the hospital invoice from my coat pocket and slapped it onto the table. “This is the hospital notice,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the room. “The doctor said if we don’t pay by midnight, he’s gone. I’m asking you one last time. Are you paying?” Cathy snatched the paper, ripped it in half, and then tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter down onto the floor like dirty snow. “I said no! You can crawl on your knees and I still won’t give you a dime! Now get out of my sight!” I looked down at the shredded paper at my feet, then nodded slowly. “Fine, Cathy. Remember what you said tonight.” I turned around and pulled open the door. As it began to swing shut, Brittany’s voice drifted out. “God, Cathy, you’re a badass! That’s how you handle a leech!” “Exactly,” Cathy replied, her voice loud with pride. “You give men an inch, and they take a mile.” Once outside, I pulled out my phone and texted the primary surgeon. Dr. Cooper, the family refuses to pay. Please continue with basic palliative care. I took an Uber home. Ten thousand dollars for your own father’s life. Quite a bargain, Cathy. 3 The next morning, I was awakened by the relentless buzzing of my phone. The screen showed Aunt Carol’s name. She was Cathy’s maternal aunt, a woman who made a sport of sticking her nose into everyone else’s business. I answered, and her screeching voice immediately filled the room. “Luke! What kind of husband are you? Cathy works so hard to build connections, and you show up to crash her dinner? She told me everything. You’re trying to blackmail her for ten thousand dollars to save your dad? You gold-digging parasite, are you trying to bleed our family dry?” I pulled the phone away from my ear, rubbing my temples. “Aunt Carol, let’s get one thing straight. That money was our joint savings.” “Joint savings my foot!” Carol shouted. “Cathy makes more, so it’s her money! She lent it to Brittany for networking—that’s real business! As for your dad, if God wants to take him, who are you to stop Him? Apologize to Cathy right now and put an end to this drama!” A cold chuckle slipped past my lips. “If God wants to take him? Fine, Carol. I’ll remember that. I hope you maintain that same philosophical outlook when it’s your own family’s turn.” I hung up and immediately blocked her number. I got out of bed, washed my face, and pulled a large suitcase out of the closet. I walked over to Cathy’s vanity. Her designer watches, her gold necklaces, and the two thousand dollars in cash she kept hidden under the lining of her jewelry box—all of it went straight into the bag. Then I went to the living room, packing her collectible figurines and the high-end liquor we had received as wedding gifts. I locked the suitcase and slid it deep under the guest bed. If she truly believed everything in this marriage belonged solely to her, then I didn’t need to play nice anymore. At three in the afternoon, Cathy stumbled through the front door, smelling heavily of cheap gin and stale smoke. She collapsed onto the sofa, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Luke! Get me a glass of water!” I sat at the dining table, a printed document resting under my hand. “Get it yourself.” She sat up, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. “Are you off your meds? Still giving me attitude?” She stood up and went to her vanity, rummaging through the drawers. Within seconds, her voice grew frantic. “Where’s my watch? Luke, did you touch my stuff?” I tapped the paper on the table. “Take a look at this.” She stormed over and snatched the document. “What the hell is this?” “A postnuptial agreement,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Since you believe your money is solely yours to spend on your friends, and my family’s needs are a ‘black hole,’ we are dividing our assets. Completely. From today on, we are financially separate. Whichever parent gets sick or dies, we handle our own. No interference, no shared funds.” Cathy slammed the papers onto the wood table. “Are you trying to play mind games with me, Luke? You think this will force me to pay for your dad? In your dreams! I’ll sign it! Who’s afraid of who?” She grabbed a pen from the holder and scribbled her name across the bottom line. “I’m warning you—once this is signed, even if your dad dies in the gutter, don’t you dare beg me for a single dollar!” I took the paper back, checking the signature, and nodded. “Don’t worry. I won’t.” I signed my own name and tucked the document safely into my breast pocket. “Fine. Now give me my watch back,” she demanded, holding out her palm. “What watch?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. “Don’t play dumb! My watch and my necklaces from the drawer.” “I have no idea,” I shrugged. “Maybe we had a break-in. Want to call the cops?” Cathy’s face twisted in fury. “You… you’re unbelievable!” Before she could scream, her phone rang. It was Brittany. “Hey, Brittany? What’s up?” Cathy’s voice instantly softened into a desperate, eager-to-please tone. “The pool party starts this afternoon? Yes, yes! I’ll be right over to help you set up! Don’t worry, I’ve got the catering covered!” She hung up and gave me one last venomous glare. “I don’t have time for your garbage. I’ll deal with you when I get back!” The front door slammed, rattling the glass panes. I pulled out my phone and dialed the ICU. “Dr. Cooper, how is my father-in-law doing?” The doctor sighed heavily over the line. “Not good, Luke. He regained a sliver of consciousness, but his intracranial pressure is soaring. If he doesn’t go into surgery today, he’ll likely be brain-dead. He keeps murmuring his daughter’s name…” I looked at the signed agreement resting on the table. “I understand. I’ll bring his daughter right over.” 4 The poolside venue was packed with people. Brittany stood in the center of a small crowd, posing with her new ten-thousand-dollar Chanel bag while Zach held up his phone, livestreaming the event. “Look at this gorgeous piece, guys!” Zach shouted into the phone. “Brittany is absolutely killing it today! She is the undisputed queen of this party!” Cathy was running around in the background like a low-paid assistant, handing out towels, carrying ice buckets, and waving frantically at the camera whenever she passed. “Shoutout to Cathy for making this happen! True queen energy!” Zach yelled to the viewers. I stood at the edge of the lawn, watching the spectacle. My phone vibrated again. It was the hospital. “Luke! The patient is crashing!” the nurse said, her voice strained. “We’ve issued a second critical notice! He’s experiencing a terminal lucidity surge and screaming for his daughter. Are you guys coming? If you don’t get here now, you won’t even say goodbye!” “Hang on,” I said. “I’ll get her on the phone right now.” I called Robert’s phone, which the nurse was holding. When she answered, I had her switch it to FaceTime. Robert’s face filled the screen. He was wearing a heavy oxygen mask, the left side of his face completely paralyzed and drooping. Gurgling, wet noises came from his throat. His one working eye was wide, fluttering with panic, tears spilling down his temple. He was searching for his daughter. I walked through the crowd, pushing past the influencers and the bartenders. “Excuse me.” I stepped right up behind Cathy while she was laughing and talking to the camera. “Real sisters support each other!” Cathy was saying, her voice bright and loud. “If Brittany needs me, I’m there! Money comes and goes, but sisterhood is forever! Right, Brittany?” “Always, babe!” Brittany laughed. Zach noticed me first, his smirk instantly vanishing. “Oh, look who decided to crash. Still begging for money, man?” The crowd turned to look at me, and the phone camera followed. Cathy spun around, her jaw clenching. She pointed a finger at my chest. “Luke! Are you fucking kidding me? Have you no shame? Do you have to humiliate me in public? I told you, even if you die right here, I’m not giving your dad a single dime!” The crowd began to whisper. “Is that her deadbeat husband?” “How pathetic, trying to ruin his wife’s party because his dad is sick.” “She should divorce him.” Brittany waved her bag at me. “Get out, Luke! Don’t ruin my aesthetic! Security, get this guy out!” Cathy glared at me, her chest heaving. “Did you hear her? Get out!” I let out a soft laugh and raised my voice so everyone could hear. “Cathy, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to take this call?” I turned the phone screen and shoved it directly in front of her face. Robert’s twisted, suffering face filled the display. The nurse’s voice blared through the speaker. “Cathy? Your father is dying! He’s calling for you. Get to the hospital right now!” I watched Cathy. The smirk on her face froze, and her eyes went wide with terror. “Your dad’s on FaceTime,” I said quietly. “Answer him.”

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For forty years, I built my life on a foundation of beautiful lies. I was the respected chairman of Walter Enterprises, a husband to a woman I adored, and a father to a daughter who seemed to hold up my sky. But as the steady hum of the heart monitor signaled my final hours, Gwen leaned down. She took my hand in hers, her grip surprisingly tight, and whispered a confession directly into my ear. “Actually, Luke, Maeve isn’t your daughter.” Her voice was a soft, venomous thread. “She’s mine and Darren’s. We swapped them the night they were born. Your real baby? She died decades ago.” I froze in the sterile hospital bed, my eyes wide, desperately seeking the face of the daughter I had raised. She was standing beside the vitals monitor, adjusting the dials. She didn’t even look up at me. Her voice was flat, colder than the winter wind outside. “Your condition is getting worse. It wasn’t untreatable, you know. I just withheld the new clinical trial protocols.” She finally turned, her gaze empty. “Why should you keep occupying my father’s place? Why should you be the one to keep our family apart?” I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength, grabbing Gwen’s wrist. My throat burned; my voice was nothing but a raspy gasp. “Why…” I choked out. “Why couldn’t you… just let me die in peace?” “Because Darren is too soft-hearted,” Gwen whispered, leaning in closer. “He wanted you to leave this world with your eyes wide open.” She offered a sweet, tragic little smile. “Now, you can rest.” With an almost tender touch, she reached down and pulled the plug on my oxygen line. The panic of suffocation hit me like a physical blow. Darkness rushed in, heavy and suffocating, fueled by a searing, helpless rage. And then, I woke up. To the smell of cheap antiseptic, the bright glare of fluorescent lights, and the screams of a woman in labor. I was back. On the day my daughter was born. … I had been in a car crash on my way to the hospital, landing in the ICU for emergency surgery. But the delivery room next door was overflowing with people, and a familiar, agonized cry echoed through the thin walls. “Honey…” It was Gwen. Instinctively, my body tried to react, to pull myself up, but a gentle, soothing voice cut through the fog of my anesthesia. “Stay strong, sweetheart. Almost there… almost there.” Darren. Hearing his voice was like a physical slap to the face. It dragged me instantly out of my stupor, every detail of my past—and future—snapping into brutal focus. With one final, guttural scream from Gwen, a baby’s sharp cry pierced the air. Then came the ecstatic cheers of my parents from the hallway. “She’s here! It’s a girl!” “Look at her, Evelyn. She has Darren’s eyes… and look, that tiny red birthmark right below her left eye. A perfect little angel…” The ungrateful child I had raised in my past life indeed had that exact red birthmark. I remembered how she’d complain about it as a teenager, wanting to get it lasered off, and how I had gently stopped her, telling her it was a beauty mark that brought good luck. I had been so proud of her. I had no idea I was protecting another man’s legacy. I clenched my fists under the hospital sheets, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. A few minutes later, through the glass partition of the recovery bay, I saw a nurse holding a newborn, looking around furtively before sneaking toward the infant nursery. She was going to swap them. Ignoring the tearing pain in my abdomen from my fresh surgical incisions, I dragged myself out of bed. The floor was cold. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. “Stop,” I gasped, my voice raw as I stumbled through the door. “Put my baby down!” The nurse whipped around, her face instantly draining of color. “Mr. Campbell… you just came out of major surgery. You shouldn’t be out of bed—” Before she could finish, I lunged forward and snatched the baby from her arms. I looked down. The baby’s skin was soft, pale, and completely clear. No red birthmark. Tears, hot and thick, flooded my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. “What kind of hospital is this?” I demanded, my chest heaving. “This is my daughter. Where were you taking her?” The commotion was too loud to ignore. Within seconds, Gwen and my parents rushed into the nursery. My parents’ faces darkened the moment they saw me. “Luke, what on earth are you doing?” my mother snapped, her voice sharp and reprimanding. “The nurse was just bringing the baby to us. Stop making a scene!” Gwen knit her brows, her expression dripping with irritation. “Luke, your daughter is right there in the bassinet. That baby you’re holding isn’t yours…” She reached out to grab the child, but I shoved her back with a strength born of pure desperation. I pulled back the soft receiving blanket, exposing the baby’s face. “I have my eyes, and I can see perfectly,” I spat, my voice trembling with rage. “My daughter does not have a birthmark. You all rushed in here to accuse me, trying to tear my own child out of my arms. What the hell is going on here?” My parents looked highly uncomfortable, exchanging tense glances. Gwen froze, a flicker of panic darting through her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, a nurse from the adjacent corridor ran in, out of breath. “Excuse me… Mr. Darren Campbell is feeling faint. He needs his family right away.” Instantly, my parents pushed past me without a second thought. Gwen turned on her heel and followed them, her worry for Darren entirely eclipsing the situation. Not once did any of them look back at me—a man who had just survived a near-fatal car crash, standing bleeding on the cold tile floor. Holding my daughter tight, a bitter chill settled deep in my bones. Ever since my biological parents brought me back into the wealthy Campbell family, they behaved as if they owed Darren everything. To compensate for the “loss” of his status as the sole heir, they smothered him with affection and wealth. They turned a blind eye to his constant, subtle cruelty toward me, always telling me to take the high road. “Luke, Darren stepped aside so you could take your rightful place in this family. What more do you want?” For a long time, I believed blood was thicker than water, hoping that time could heal the gap. I endured it all. Until the day Darren pushed me down the stairs, leaving me broken and bleeding on the marble floor. My parents hadn’t even looked back; they were too busy taking Darren to a boutique to buy him a limited-edition watch to cheer him up. It was Gwen who had found me. Gwen who rushed me to the emergency room, sobbing by my bedside, swearing she would protect me for the rest of our lives. So when her family proposed an alliance, I agreed without hesitation. I thought I was escaping the lion’s den. I had no idea I was jumping straight into the fire. In my past life, Gwen had always insisted on taking our daughter to visit my parents, despite my objections. And after my parents passed, she was the one who insisted on moving Darren into our guest house to “look after” him. It had all been a farce. I had spent my entire life working myself to the bone, only for Darren to steal my identity and my wife, and have me raise his bastard child. Rage, hot and toxic, burned in my chest. With trembling fingers, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “I need your help,” I whispered. There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a calm, steady voice. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there in three days to get you.” I stayed awake all night, guarding my daughter’s bassinet like a hawk, ensuring no one could slip in to switch her. But the next morning, Gwen walked into my recovery room holding another newborn girl. “This poor thing was left in the lobby,” Gwen said, her voice dripping with manufactured sympathy. “Her parents abandoned her. I was thinking… why don’t we adopt her? She can grow up alongside our daughter.” I cradled my baby girl, my eyes cold as I glanced at the infant in Gwen’s arms. Right beneath her left eye was that unmistakable strawberry birthmark. “I don’t care where she came from,” I said flatly. “She’s not mine. Send her to an orphanage.” “How can you be so heartless, Luke?” Darren stepped into the room, his eyes red and brimming with tears. He looked at me with deep offense. “You’re a father now. How would it feel if someone talked about your child that way?” I let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Her own parents didn’t want her. If that doesn’t make her an unwanted stray, I don’t know what does.” Darren’s face went pale, and he swayed as if he were about to faint. Gwen immediately caught him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She glared at me, her voice icy. “Luke, when did you become so cruel? You can’t even show a little compassion for a helpless infant?” Darren leaned against her shoulder, playing the martyr. “Don’t blame him, Gwen. If he hates the baby so much, I’ll adopt her myself. I don’t mind raising her alone.” A wave of tender pity washed over Gwen’s face. My parents walked in just in time to hear this. They looked at Darren with watery, proud eyes, then turned to me, their expressions twisted in disgust. “You ungrateful brat,” my mother spat. “You don’t have a fraction of Darren’s kindness. If we knew you’d turn out this malicious, we never would have brought you back!” My chest throbbed with a dull ache, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “I need to put my daughter to sleep,” I said, my voice dead. “Get out.” They glared at me, scoffed, and finally swept out of the room. Not ten minutes later, the door was slammed open. Gwen stormed back in, her eyes wild with fury. “Did you do this?” she shrieked. Before I could even process the question, she grabbed my arm and dragged me out of bed. The force of her pull ripped my surgical stitches open again. I could feel the warm, sticky flow of blood soaking through my hospital gown, leaving a gruesome red trail along the sterile corridor floor. The pain was blinding, leaving me breathless. Inside the adjacent room, Darren was cradling the abandoned baby, weeping softly. “Luke… I know you hate me,” Darren sobbed, looking up with big, pathetic eyes. “But how could you take it out on a baby? How could you hurt her?” The infant was crying hysterically. When Gwen pulled back the blanket, I saw dark purple pinch marks bruising her tiny arm. I froze, staring at the bruises, then pointed directly at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. “I didn’t touch her. If you don’t believe me, pull the footage.” Gwen hesitated for a fraction of a second. But Darren immediately let out a pitiful wail. “You know the security cameras in this wing are being serviced today, Luke! You did this on purpose so you could accuse me of lying!” Gwen’s face instantly contorted with rage. She turned and slapped me across the face so hard my head spun. “Luke! She’s a baby! How could you be so monstrous?” My mother, fueled by anger, grabbed a heavy ceramic mug from the nightstand and hurled it at my head. It struck my temple. Blood began to trickle down my forehead, mixing with the sweat on my face, but she didn’t care. She just kept screaming. “You animal! I can’t believe I gave birth to someone so vile!” My father cradled the crying baby, completely ignoring my bleeding wounds. “Gwen,” he said, his voice grave. “It’s not that we’re biased, but Luke is clearly unstable. He’s unfit to be a father. You should let Darren raise both children. We can’t let him ruin these girls.” Hearing that they wanted to take my daughter away sent a jolt of pure terror through my veins. “No!” I screamed, trying to fight. But the family’s private bodyguards pinned me to the floor. I could only watch, paralyzed, as Darren took my daughter into his arms, looking down at me with a smirk of pure triumph. “Don’t worry, brother,” he whispered, leaning down. “I’ll take excellent care of your daughter.” I was kicked out of the VIP wing and moved to a standard ward. I waited until the dead of night, when the hallways were quiet, to sneak back to the nursery to see my daughter. But when I reached the glass partition, my heart stopped. My daughter was lying in her bassinet, her face covered in angry red hives, gasping and coughing weakly. On the bedside table sat an empty bottle of infant formula—made with cow’s milk. I went completely cold. I am severely lactose intolerant. My daughter had inherited my milk allergy. Darren knew this. He had done this on purpose. Panic seized me. I snatched my suffocating daughter into my arms and ran down the hallway, screaming for a doctor. But the corridors were empty. I finally managed to grab a nurse who was rushing past. “Please, my daughter is having an allergic reaction! Where is the doctor?” She looked at me with annoyance. “Mr. Campbell’s baby had a fever tonight. Mrs. Walter called every doctor on duty to their suite. Didn’t you know?” Her words felt like a physical blow. Looking at my daughter’s turning-blue face, the terror broke me. I dialed Gwen’s number, my hands shaking violently. “Gwen, please… our daughter is having a severe allergic reaction. She’s dying…” Before I could finish, Darren’s voice broke through the line, sharp and accusing. “Luke, you know my baby has a fever! Are you really trying to steal the doctors away to play your sick attention-seeking games?” Then came Gwen’s furious roar. “Luke! You are sick! How dare you lie about our daughter’s life just to spite Darren? If anything happens to Darren’s baby because of your selfishness, I will make your life a living hell!” The call went dead. When I tried to call back, the line was blocked. I stood in the silent, dim hallway, clutching my choking baby, feeling a profound, bone-deep despair. Outside, a torrential rainstorm was battering the windows. I wrapped my coat tightly around my daughter, protecting her from the damp air, and ran out into the storm toward a small 24-hour clinic down the street. The rain and tears blinded me as I ran. In the chaos of my mind, memories of the past flashed before my eyes. Gwen, sliding a wedding ring onto my finger with a tender smile: “Luke, I’m going to protect you for the rest of our lives. I’ll make sure you’re always happy.” Gwen, picking out baby formula with me at the boutique: “Our baby deserves only the best, darling. Let’s get the organic import.” And then, the final image of her pulling the oxygen plug in that sterile hospital room: “Maeve isn’t your daughter… your real daughter died a long time ago…” I tripped and collapsed hard on the wet pavement right in front of the clinic entrance. Bleeding and soaked to the bone, I reached out and grabbed the pant leg of a doctor who had just opened the door. “Please…” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “Save my baby…” And then, the world went black. When I finally opened my eyes, I was lying in a clean, quiet hospital room. Gwen was sitting beside me, gently dabbing a wet cloth on my scraped knees. I bolted upright, cold sweat soaking my sheets. “Where is she? Where is my daughter?” I tried to throw myself out of bed, but Gwen grabbed my wrists, her grip so tight my bones popped. “Stop acting like a lunatic,” she hissed, her voice low. “Haven’t you embarrassed us enough? The baby is fine. She’s being cared for. Tomorrow is her three-day celebration feast. You’ll see her then.” I froze, my body trembling uncontrollably as heavy tears spilled over my cheeks. “Fine… fine,” I whispered, broken. “Just don’t hurt her. I’ll do whatever you want.” She pulled me into her arms, murmuring sweet memories of our early days. I lay there, numb and hollow, letting her words wash over me as my tears soaked the pillow. I didn’t say a word. The next day, the grand banquet hall was draped in gold and white. The city’s elite had gathered, and reporters lined the entrance, cameras flashing. Darren stood in the center of the room, cradling a baby, surrounded by a crowd of admirers offering their congratulations. “Congratulations to the Campbell and Walter families on their new little princess!” “Look at that sweet face… she looks just like you, Gwen…” I pushed through the crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to see my daughter. But when I peered into the bundle of blankets, my blood ran cold. “Why is she here? Where is my daughter?” Several wealthy socialites laughed, patting my arm patronizingly. “What do you mean, Luke? This is your daughter. Look at that gorgeous little beauty mark under her eye…” “No, she isn’t!” I stumbled back, my chest heaving as a raw, animalistic scream tore from my throat. “My daughter doesn’t have a birthmark! Give me my daughter!” The entire room fell into a stunned, awkward silence. Everyone stared at me as if I had completely lost my mind. Darren held the baby closer, a tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Luke, are you having another episode? This is your and Gwen’s baby.” I glared at him, my eyes bloodshot and wild. “That is the bastard you had with Gwen! She is not my daughter!” A collective gasp rippled through the hall. My parents rushed forward, stepping in front of Darren to shield him, trying to salvage the situation. “Please, everyone, ignore him,” my mother announced, her voice trembling with forced composure. “Our eldest son has been highly unstable since the birth. He keeps insisting the baby isn’t his, and he’s even tried to hurt her. We’ve kept him isolated for his own safety, but clearly, he slipped out. We are so sorry for this disturbance.” Gwen stepped forward, her face a mask of deep sorrow and regret as she reached out to pull me into her arms. “It’s my fault,” she whispered softly, loud enough for the reporters to hear. “I didn’t realize how severe your postpartum psychosis had gotten. Luke, let’s go home. I’ll get you the best doctors…” I violently shook off her touch, lunging at Darren. I grabbed him by the collar, shaking him. “Where is she? What did you do to my daughter?” A cold, mocking sneer flashed across his face for a split second. Then, with a dramatic shriek, he threw himself backward. He tumbled down the steps of the stage, landing hard on the marble floor with a sickening thud, crying out in agony. Gwen gasped, rushing to his side. Seeing his rapidly swelling ankle, she turned on me, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. “Luke, have you lost your mind?” she screamed. “If Darren hadn’t shielded her, you would have killed our daughter!” My father lunged forward and kicked me hard in the stomach, knocking me to the ground. “You ungrateful piece of trash!” he roared, pointing a shaking finger at my face. “How dare you attack your brother and your own child in front of everyone? We have spoiled you far too much. Apologize to Darren right now!” The impact reopened my surgical wounds. A sharp, tearing agony bloomed in my abdomen, and I curled inward, gasping for air. But I kept my eyes locked on them, shouting through the pain. “I didn’t push him! They are working together! They want to kill my baby!” SLAP. The sound of Gwen’s hand striking my face echoed off the high ceilings. She looked down at me, her eyes completely devoid of the warmth she had once promised. “You are insane,” she said coldly. “I wanted to keep you around for the sake of our history, to let you be a father to this child. But you are a danger to everyone. Take him away. Commit him to the psychiatric facility immediately.” The guards closed in, pinning my arms behind my back. I thrashed and screamed, but they dragged me across the floor, my knees scraping against the polished stone, leaving a long smear of dark blood behind. Darren watched from the floor, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. Gwen and my parents stood side-by-side, watching my eviction with cold, indifferent eyes. Just as despair threatened to swallow me whole, the heavy double doors of the banquet hall were kicked open from the outside. A woman in a crisp, dark police uniform walked in, cradling a crying newborn wrapped in a simple hospital blanket. Behind her, the sharp, red-and-blue strobe lights of police cruisers flashed through the glass facade, accompanied by the wail of sirens. “Mrs. Walter,” the woman’s voice rang out, clear and cutting through the silence. “You and your family are under arrest for attempted murder and child abandonment. Step away from Mr. Campbell.”

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On the day he proposed to me, Gary received a suicide note from a stranger. It was sixteen pages of dense, handwritten cream stationery, detailing a decade of silent obsession by a woman named Talia. It chronicled everything from the tender, awkward flutters of a teenage crush to the desperate, clinging regret of terminal cancer. Every word bled onto the page, raw and devastating. The entire ballroom fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Gary panicked. He dropped to his knees, clutching my hand, his voice shaking as he swore. “I swear, Cathy, I don’t even know her. I don’t even know what she looks like. If I’m lying, may God strike me down right here, may I never—” I gently touched the diamond ring he had just slipped onto my ring finger, offering him a quiet, reassuring smile. “Don’t say things like that, Gary.” We had been together for twenty years—childhood sweethearts who shared the same breath. I knew his social circle better than he did. If there had been a parasite lurking in his life, I would have been the first to spot it. I had no reason not to trust him. Until six months later, when I went to the clinic for my first prenatal checkup. And found him in the dim, concrete stairwell of the hospital, holding Talia, kissing her with a desperate, bruising hunger. When he looked up and saw me, he froze, turning instantly to stone. … “Patient forty-eight, Cathy, please proceed to Room Three.” The sterile intercom voice drilled into my skull like a pneumatic hammer. I squeezed the crinkled appointment slip in my fist, my body entirely paralyzed. Gary snapped out of his daze, frantically pushing Talia away. He scrambled up the stairs, taking them three at a time, until he was standing right in front of me. His eyes scanned my face, searching for a reaction. “Cathy? What are you doing here? I thought we agreed I’d bring you tomorrow.” Tomorrow was the anniversary of my parents’ death. Lately, his firm had been hitting a rough patch. Between the chaos of work and the sudden, overwhelming news of my pregnancy, Gary had been running himself ragged. He was exhausted, stretched thin, and naturally, the annual trip to the cemetery had slipped his mind. I had wanted to spare him the guilt. So I told a small lie, came to the appointment alone, and walked straight into the wreckage of my life. My lips pressed into a tight line. I looked past his shoulder. Talia was leaning against the cold window sill downstairs, her collarbones sharp against her pale skin. She slowly pulled up a slipped shoulder strap, her chin tilted up, meeting my gaze with a cool, mocking defiance. Around her neck, a ruby pendant caught the harsh fluorescent light. It was breathtakingly bright. I had one just like it sitting in my jewelry box at home. Gary had given it to me just last night for my birthday. The limited Amour collection from Cartier. It required a three-month waitlist. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They had been sleeping together for at least three months. Probably longer. Our lives overlapped by eighty percent. We shared friends, family, business partners, weekend plans. Any tremor in his life usually vibrated straight to me. I thought I’d know if his heart strayed. But I had been blind, wrapped in the absolute certainty of his fidelity. My knees buckled slightly. Ever since the pregnancy took hold, my calves would ache fiercely if I stood for too long. Gary noticed. The familiar, tender worry flickered in his eyes as he bent down and scooped me up into his arms. My silver heels slipped from my feet, dangling precariously from his fingers. He spoke in that light, effortless tone of his, as if the woman downstairs didn’t exist. “Legs hurting again?” he murmured. “I had some organic lavender oil shipped from Europe. I’ll give you a proper massage when we get home.” Behind us, the sound of clicking heels echoed. Talia was hurrying up the stairs, though she stopped after a few steps, her face draining of color as she gasped for breath. She spoke in a frail, trembling whisper. “Gary… you promised we’d watch the harbor fireworks tonight. Does that… does that still stand?” My throat tightened. At my birthday dinner last night, my maid of honor had wondered aloud why the annual city fireworks display had been canceled. I assumed Gary had simply been too busy to coordinate it this year. I didn’t care. Now I knew the truth. He hadn’t canceled it. He had just changed the guest of honor. Gary hesitated. A shadow of intense pity crossed his face as he looked at Talia, then turned back to me, his gaze sharp, almost demanding. “Cathy, what do you think?” he asked, his voice steady. “Should I go?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. It had been six months since his grand proposal. We had had a beautiful, quiet wedding. There hadn’t been a single crack in our marriage. Since the wedding, he had been the perfect, doting husband. Even when our friends teased him about having a shadow admirer, I had never doubted him. Yet, he had betrayed me. And now, he was standing here, asking me to authorize his departure with another woman. A cold hand squeezed my heart, cutting off my air. I wriggled out of his arms, letting my bare feet hit the freezing linoleum floor. “Why?” I whispered, the word scraping against my throat. Gary looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of the panic he had shown six months ago. He was unsettlingly calm. “Cathy, you’re just too quiet,” he said softly. “That day at the engagement party, when that letter arrived… you didn’t ask a single question. You didn’t get angry. I looked at your face, and there wasn’t a trace of grief, or jealousy, or fear of losing me. Do you know what everyone says behind our backs? They say that even if you caught me in bed with someone else, you’d just smile and hand me a condom.” My mind spun. “I trusted you. Is that my mistake?” “It’s not a mistake. It’s just… exhausting.” His voice was gentle, the same tone he used when he comforted me after a bad dream. “When I told Talia I would see her, she didn’t sleep for two days because she was so happy. The fireworks show you dismissed? She’s been counting down the days for a month. But you… you never get jealous. You never scream at me. Talia cries herself to sleep just thinking about us being together. Even when we make love, Cathy, you don’t make a sound.” He let out a soft, weary sigh. “You’re too calm. You’ve become my routine. Talia is the only one who makes me feel alive. She is what real passion feels like.” I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Twenty years. We had built a lifetime together, and now he stood there looking like a complete stranger. Just last night, he had held me close, kissing my temple, whispering, “Cathy, what would I ever do without you?” Just a few nights ago, he had pressed his face against my stomach like an excited child, laughing. “I think I felt a kick! Cathy, do you think our little one will say ‘Dada’ or ‘Mama’ first?” The memory was a physical ache, deep and agonizing. Gary saw my watery eyes and reached out, trying to pull me against his chest. I flinched, stepping back as if his touch were poison. His expression hardened. He turned and wrapped his arm around Talia’s waist instead. “Cathy, you have my name, and you have my ring,” he said, his tone flat. “As for the rest, you should learn to turn a blind eye. Your appointment is going to take a while anyway. I’m going to help Talia get her prescription first.” With that, he guided her down the hall. I stood there, my fingers curling and uncurling. My mind drifted back to when I was eight years old, sitting on the curb after the police told me my parents wouldn’t be coming home. Everyone wanted to take me in, their eyes gleaming at the inheritance my father had left behind. Only Gary, who was ten, knew I hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours. He slipped away from his parents and brought me a warm cinnamon roll, watching me eat with tears in his eyes. At twelve, when a neighborhood bully tried to corner me, Gary threw himself in front of me and took two shallow stab wounds from a pocketknife. When he woke up in the ICU, his first words were to ask if I was hurt. At twenty, when I was kidnapped for ransom and dumped in the freezing woods of upstate New York, Gary searched the mountains with the rescue teams for three days and nights without sleep, collapsing from hypothermia the moment they found me. When he finally opened his eyes, he held me and swore that no one would ever hurt me again. Every milestone of my life was printed with his face. And now, he was telling me that everything we had was just “routine and obligation.” Then what was the child in my belly? A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. I pushed open the clinic door and walked inside. “I want to terminate the pregnancy,” I told the nurse. By the time I walked out of the recovery room, pale and hollowed out, there was a text waiting on my phone. Talia wasn’t feeling well, so I had to take her back to her place. I left the driver at the entrance for you. I stared at the screen. Gary’s profile picture had been the same for ten years—a hand-drawn sketch of a rabbit with a black tie, matching my pink-ribboned rabbit. I had always thought his refusal to change it was a quiet testament to his devotion. Now, I realized he was probably just too lazy to bother. He had played the part of the doting husband so well, he’d almost convinced himself. A sudden gust of wind swept through the hospital exit, carrying a sheet of freezing rain that instantly soaked through my thin dress. There was no driver waiting. I tried calling a ride-share, but the screen just spun endlessly. Shivering, my lower abdomen aching with a dull, throbbing pain, I dialed Gary’s number. It rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. Instead of Gary’s voice, the line was filled with Talia’s breathless, ecstatic giggling. “Really? You’re going to give me a beautiful, grand wedding?” My fingers turned white around the phone. “But Cathy is your wife,” Talia squeaked, her voice dripping with performative worry. “Won’t this feel like a slap in her face?” Gary’s indulgent chuckle echoed through the speaker. “I promised you, didn’t I? I’m not going to let you leave this world with any regrets. Besides, she didn’t even blink at those sixteen pages you wrote me. Why would she care about a wedding?” He paused, his voice dropping into a low, dismissive drawl. “To be honest, I’m sick of her saint-like tolerance. If she actually fought me on this, maybe I’d feel some kind of spark again.” “You are so bad…” “Oh, I can be much worse…” Then came the sound of rustling fabric and soft, wet gasps. I ended the call. The rain had soaked me to the bone, chilling my chest. I finally managed to hail a passing yellow cab and rode home in silence. When I opened the front door, the sound of familiar laughter spilled into the foyer. Talia was curled up on the velvet sofa—the one I had spent weeks picking out—gently biting into a peeled grape Gary was feeding her. Seeing my dripping, shivering state, Gary jumped up. He ran to the hallway closet, grabbed a plush towel, and immediately yelled for the housekeeper to brew some ginger tea. He began rubbing the towel over my wet hair, his voice smooth and practical. “Talia’s apartment had a plumbing emergency,” he explained. “She has to stay with us for a few days.” Just above his collar, a fresh, violent red hickey stood out against his skin. The pain in my chest had gone entirely numb. I shoved him away with all the strength I had left and started dragging myself up the stairs. But he caught my wrist, pulling me toward the guest wing instead. “Since you’re pregnant, you need quiet,” he said. “I had the staff move your things to the suite next to the library.” I froze at the doorway of the small bedroom, silent. Seeing my expression, Gary quickly added, “This room is technically larger than the master suite. It has the best natural light, a private bath, and I already had them light your favorite sandalwood incense.” I turned to look at him, my vision blurring. “Gary, do you even remember why I loved the master bedroom?” He fell silent, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. “Because when I stand at that window, I can see the garden of my parents’ old house,” I whispered. “You told me that whenever I stood there, it felt like we were children again, waiting for each other after school. You said it made you feel grounded, safe…” “Enough!” Gary snapped, his voice suddenly booming in the quiet hallway. He glanced nervously toward the living room, where Talia was watching us with wide, innocent eyes. “That was lifetimes ago, Cathy! Why do you keep dragging up the past? Talia is dying. She has months left. How can you be so incredibly petty to a dying woman?” Talia chose that moment to walk up, her eyes glistening with tears as she reached out to grab my sleeve. “Cathy, please… Gary is right. I never wanted to steal anything from you. I don’t even have the right…” Her grip on my arm tightened, surprisingly fierce. I tried to pull away, but she held fast, leaning in until her breath brushed my ear. “Do you know when we first slept together?” she whispered, so low only I could hear. “Before the wedding. When he told you he had a business trip to Boston? He actually took me. He even brought me to his high school reunion… Cathy, everyone in his life knew about me. Except you.” My teeth dug into my lip. I violently wrenched my arm back. I lost my footing, and she stumbled backward at the same time. “Talia!” Gary roared. Without hesitation, he shoved me hard, reaching out to catch Talia and pull her safely against his chest. I felt myself fall backward, weightless for a split second, before I tumbled down the steep, wooden staircase. My shoulder, my ribs, my pelvis—everything slammed violently against the hard edges of the steps. With every impact, a white-hot agony flared through my body until the darkness finally swallowed me whole. When I opened my eyes again, the sterile smell of bleach filled my nostrils. Gary was sitting by my bedside, looking exhausted and profoundly annoyed. The moment he saw me wake, his face contorted into an angry scowl. “Talia literally begged you for forgiveness on her knees. Why did you have to be so malicious and push her?” I stared blankly at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, my throat too dry to form words. Talia’s whispers played on a loop in my head. The last remaining warmth in my chest froze into solid ice. Gary opened his mouth to lecture me further, but when he met my cold, dead eyes, the words seemed to die in his throat. “For the sake of our baby, I’ll let this go,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But Cathy, there cannot be a next time.” He stood up and walked out of the room. I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach. There wouldn’t be a next time. The baby was already gone. The heavy wooden door clicked open, and Talia slipped inside. She looked radiant, a smug, triumphant smirk replacing her fragile, victimized mask. “So what if you grew up together?” she sneered, looking down at me. “I fabricated a cancer diagnosis, and he fell hook, line, and sinker. You mean absolutely nothing to him, Cathy.” I watched her lips move, my brain working slowly. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell him?” Talia laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Do you honestly think he’d believe you? And besides, do you even know how that baby in your womb got there?” My heart stuttered. “What are you talking about?” Her eyes danced with malicious glee. “He thought I was dying and wanted to leave me with a legacy. So he had our fertilized embryo implanted in you while you were under anesthesia for that minor uterine surgery last year. The child you were carrying… was mine and his.” My blood ran cold. The room began to spin. No wonder Gary—who had insisted we wait two years before trying for a baby—had suddenly become so obsessed with my prenatal vitamins and health… A freezing draft blew in from the half-open window, cutting through my thin hospital gown. My gaze drifted down to her wrist, and my voice trembled. “Where did you get that?” It was a heavy, engraved gold bangle. My mother’s last remaining heirloom. Talia raised her hand, turning her wrist to let the gold catch the light. “This old thing? I told him it was pretty, so he gave it to me.” Seeing the color drain from my face, her grin widened. She walked over to the open window, held the bangle out over the three-story drop, and relaxed her fingers. “No!” I scrambled out of the bed, my body screaming in pain as I threw myself toward the window sill. But all I saw on the concrete below were scattered, broken pieces of gold. A wave of pure, unadulterated fury crashed over my brain. Before I could think, I lunged at her, my hand flying up to strike her face. But before my palm could connect, a shadow burst into the room. Gary slammed his foot into my hip, kicking me back onto the cold floor, before immediately wrapping his arms around Talia. Ignoring the tearing pain in my abdomen, I screamed at him, my voice cracking. “Do you have any idea what that was? Do you know what she just did?” Gary’s face was hard as stone, his eyes disgustingly cold. “It’s a bracelet, Cathy. I’ve bought you hundreds of them over the years. Stop acting like a lunatic. Look at yourself—you look completely insane.” He guided Talia out of the room, leaving me alone. My chest heaved as a sob ripped through my throat. I curled into a ball on the floor, weeping until my eyes burned. When I was quiet, he called me boring. Now that I was screaming, he called me mad. The boy who had promised to protect me at eight years old was dead. On the day of my discharge, I went to the cemetery alone to lay flowers at my parents’ graves. On my cab ride back, I opened Instagram and saw a new post from Gary, complete with a digital invitation. [Fulfilling my sweet girl’s final wish. I hope you all can make it to our special day.] Below was a carousel of them kissing, Talia wearing a flowing white wedding gown. I stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed a comment. [Congratulations. I’ve prepared a wedding gift for the happy couple.] The comment was a bomb. Within minutes, my notifications exploded. Mutual friends and acquaintances flooded my inbox with mockery and thinly veiled disgust. [Cathy, if we knew you didn’t care, we wouldn’t have dared keeping it from you.] [Are we doing sister-wives now?] Gary tried to call me. I let it ring out. Then came the texts. [Cathy, what the hell is this?] [The wedding is happening, whether you like it or not. You better behave yourself.] I didn’t reply. I blocked his number, blocked his social media, and began packing. I didn’t take a single thing he had ever bought me. I left the jewelry, the designer bags, the clothes. I took only my passport, my birth certificate, and my keys. Finally, I placed the signed divorce papers and my hospital abortion consent form into a thick manila envelope and handed it to our housekeeper. Three days later. Gary, dressed in a custom tuxedo, was surrounded by his groomsmen, ready to go pick up his bride. The housekeeper handed him the envelope, passing along my message. The room erupted into loud, boisterous laughter. “What did I tell you? Even if she caught you in the act, she’d still tuck you into bed!” “Man, you’ve got her trained perfectly!” “Open it up! Let’s see what she got you!” Gary smirked, tearing open the seal. But the very next second, the smile on his face turned to ash.

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In a rare quiet moment during our pre-wedding photoshoot, my phone buzzed. I opened the smart home app, only to find the living room camera feed somehow timestamped eight years into the future. The decor in the frame was still warm, comforting, and familiar. Our framed portrait hung in its usual place above the fireplace. But then the camera panned. A soft, rhythmic sound drifting from the half-open bedroom door made my ears hot. Even eight years from now, it seemed, Nina and I were still deeply in love. But when the man in the room finally turned toward the camera, the smile died on my face. The blood in my veins turned to ice. It wasn’t me. It was Owen, my star student. My thumb violently swiped the screen, killing the app. I looked up. Just yards away, Owen was standing by the tripods, meticulously adjusting the focus on his camera lens. The boy I had taken under my wing. My protégé. 1 The high-pitched ringing in my ears made my head spin. My hand clutched the phone so hard it shook. “Liam? What are you staring at?” Nina’s voice snapped me back to the present. I forced my head to turn. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the ivory lace of her custom bridal gown. “I swear I’ve gained weight. The zipper is stuck near the top. Be a sweetheart and help me, will you?” I stared at her back, the image from the future still searing itself into my retinas. My voice felt like dry sand as I managed a choked murmur. As I reached out to pull up the zipper, my fingers brushed against her shoulder blade. Nestled right there, delicate and freshly inked, was a small black-and-grey butterfly. I had never noticed it before. “Is that tattoo new?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Nina went rigid for a split second, then recovered with a light, airy nod. “Oh, yeah. A girl at the office recommended her artist. I was curious, so I got it on a whim. Do you like it?” I opened my mouth, but before I could squeeze out a reply, Owen called out from the studio floor. “Hey, Nina, are you ready? I’ve got the lighting dialed in.” The moment he spoke, her attention fractured. She practically glided past me, leaving my hands hanging in the empty air. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the regional qualifiers today?” Nina asked him, her voice softer than it usually was with me. “How did you even make time to run over here?” Owen, with the heavy professional DSLR strapped across his chest, looked at her with a bright, boyish grin. “Today is my mentor’s big shoot. There’s no way I’d miss this, Nina.” Nina beamed, grabbing my arm to pull me in front of the backdrop. After the shoot, I drove us home. Nina sat in the passenger seat, completely absorbed in her phone, scrolling through the raw files Owen had air-dropped her. “Owen’s got a real eye for composition, doesn’t he? Babe, you really know how to pick them. Your students are in a league of their own.” I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My throat burned. At a red light, I finally broke the silence. “The butterfly tattoo. Did you get it with Owen?” The smile on Nina’s face vanished instantly. She turned to stare at me, her gaze sharpening. “When he was holding the camera, I noticed a matching tattoo on his wrist,” I said, my voice remarkably flat despite the trembling in my chest. “And the new leather bear keychain on my car keys? Owen has the exact same one. I looked it up. They’re sold as a couple’s set.” I tried to keep my breathing even, but the tremor broke through. “Nina. Is there something you aren’t telling me?” Nina’s expression darkened into pure, cold hostility. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Liam? We literally just finished our engagement shoot and you’re trying to pick a fight?” “When are you going to get over this insane paranoia? A stupid keychain and a tattoo, and your mind goes straight to the gutter?” She spat the words, her voice laced with defensive fury. But her anger only made my stomach sink further. Nina wasn’t someone who flared up easily. She only yelled when she was backed into a corner. “Pull over,” she demanded. The tires hugged the curb as I slid the car into park. Nina tore her seatbelt off, her face a mask of cold indifference. “We haven’t signed the papers at City Hall yet, Liam. If you keep acting like a lunatic, I’m going to seriously reconsider whether this wedding is a good idea.” The passenger door slammed shut with a force that rocked the chassis, bringing in a rush of bitter autumn air. I leaned back against the headrest, pulling a cigarette from the console. I didn’t light it. I just let it sit between my fingers, unlit, as I pulled out my phone. The smart home app was updating. A new future feed appeared. The living room wall was bare now. Our portrait had been ripped down, leaving a pale square on the drywall. The minimalist, clean aesthetic I had carefully curated over the years was gone, replaced by Owen’s gaming consoles, his dual-monitor setups, his clutter. And down the hall, a door was open to a freshly painted nursery. Through the tiny screen, I watched them like a common thief, spying on the cozy, domestic life Nina and Owen had built. A sudden spark caught my attention—I realized I had unconsciously lit the cigarette. The cherry burned down, singeing my knuckle. I flinched, dropping it. The future Nina in the video said she had successfully hidden it from me for eight years. But what about the present Nina? How long had she been lying to me already? 2 I sat there in a daze until the aggressive blare of a horn behind me jerked me back to reality. I turned the key, but the engine groaned and died. Before I could even register the stall, a massive shadow loomed in my side mirror. A heavy flatbed truck, swerving violently, slammed into my driver’s side with a deafening screech of metal. The world spun. The chassis crumpled like paper. A white-hot agony flared in my lower half, pinning my legs beneath the crushed dashboard. Warm, sticky blood poured from my forehead, blurring my vision. With shaking fingers, I managed to find my phone and dialed Nina. The call rang to voicemail. I dialed again. And again. Nothing but her cheerful prerecorded greeting. Distant sirens wailed in the background as bystanders gathered around the wreckage. Slowly, the dark pool of unconsciousness swallowed me whole. When I finally opened my eyes, the sterile smell of bleach and isopropyl alcohol filled my nose. My legs were encased in heavy plaster casts, elevated on a sling. A doctor stood by the bed, flipping through a clipboard. He explained that the truck driver had been heavily intoxicated and had drifted across three lanes before striking my car. I lay there, staring at my phone. It was completely silent. No missed calls. No texts. The police would have notified Nina the moment I was admitted. Yet, twenty-four hours had passed, and she hadn’t even sent a single text. “Liam, my god. I got here as fast as I could.” Dave, my assistant, burst into the room, panting. He stopped dead when he saw the state of my legs. “Liam… how are you going to play in the National Championship in two days?” The word championship cleared the fog in my brain instantly. It was the tournament of my career—the culmination of a lifetime of competitive chess. The title of Grandmaster was within my grasp. “I’ll play in a wheelchair if I have to,” I rasped, my throat raw. “I am not missing this tournament, Dave.” Dave’s face fell, filled with a deep, agonizing hesitation. He looked down at his shoes before speaking. “Nina already withdrew your name, Liam.” “What?” “She signed the waiver. She transferred your invitation to Owen. She made me promise not to tell you… the qualifiers actually started this morning. You’ve already defaulted.” The remaining color drained from my face. My chest felt hollow. “She did what?” Dave offered a pitying look, set a basket of fruit on the bedside table, and quietly slipped out of the room. The hospital room fell dead silent, save for the rhythmic, mocking tick of the wall clock. Trembling, I grabbed my phone and dialed Nina’s number. It rang for nearly a minute before she finally picked up. The background noise on her end was deafening—the distinct roar of a stadium crowd. “What is it, Liam?” her voice sounded tinny and distracted. I gripped the phone so hard the glass creaked. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew how much this championship meant to me!” Even face-to-face with my despair, Nina’s voice remained cool, utterly untroubled. “Liam, you’ve already won plenty of trophies. Owen is your student; it’s time you let him have his moment in the spotlight. I think I made the right executive decision.” “I heard about your accident. Just rest up.” The line went dead. Her casual, dismissive tone echoed in my ears. I had spent ten years with this woman. I had seen her angry, sad, excited, and vulnerable. But I had never seen her this cold. She knew exactly what that tournament meant to me. The television screen mounted on the hospital wall flickered, transitioning from a commercial to a live broadcast of the championship qualifiers. The camera immediately focused on Owen. He was the golden boy today—the brilliant student of the legendary Liam Mercer. And sitting in the front row of the VIP section was Nina. The camera caught her face. Her eyes were wide, glittering with a mixture of adoration and fierce pride. It was a look I recognized instantly. Ten years ago, when I won my first major title, she had snuck past security just to throw her arms around my neck. She had looked at me with that exact same gaze. A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest, making it hard to draw breath. On screen, Owen closed out his final game with an effortless checkmate. During his post-match interview, he flashed a dazzling smile at the reporters. “I wouldn’t be standing here today without the selfless guidance of my mentor, Liam Mercer,” Owen said into the cluster of microphones. “And, of course, Nina, who has been my absolute rock.” Then, his smile faltered, replaced by a solemn, rehearsed gravity as he looked directly into the camera lens. “But standing here today, I realize I can’t let this go on. I want to blow the whistle on a fraud. The man you all call a genius—my mentor, Liam Mercer—has been systematically cheating in professional tournaments for years.” 3 The press room erupted into chaos. Within thirty seconds, my phone began vibrating continuously as my name trended on social media alongside the word Fraud. I stared at Owen’s face on the screen, my entire body numb with shock. I had to get to the venue. I had to face them. But as I swung my legs over the bed, the heavy plaster dragged me down, and I collapsed onto the linoleum floor with a sickening thud. The hospital room doors burst open. Somehow, a horde of reporters had bypassed the front desk. They flooded the room, ignoring the screaming nurses, their camera flashes blinding me in rapid succession. Microphones were shoved into my face. “Mr. Mercer, are the cheating allegations true?” “How do you respond to your own student calling you a fraud?” I couldn’t answer. The agony in my legs flared as I tried to pull myself up, only to slip and fall again. My pathetic, undignified struggle was captured live and broadcasted directly to the internet. They didn’t care about the truth. They only cared about the blood in the water. By afternoon, angry mobs of former fans began showing up outside the hospital. Some managed to slip past security into the ward. “How could you lie to us, Liam? My kid looked up to you!” “You’re a disgrace to the game!” The confrontation grew physical. Someone shoved me hard against the bedframe. My fresh surgical incisions tore, and dark red blood began seeping through the white plaster of my casts, pooling onto the floor. It wasn’t until late evening, when the police finally arrived to clear the hospital, that the nightmare paused. I lay in the dark, my mind fractured. Near midnight, the door clicked open. Nina stepped into the room. Seeing my blood-stained casts and pale face, her lips pressed into a tight, hard line. She sat on the edge of the mattress and took my cold hand, her voice thick with forced emotion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the media would track you down here,” she murmured. She was sorry about the media. But she hadn’t said a word to defend my honor against Owen’s lies. “You know he’s lying, Nina,” I whispered, my eyes burning. Nina’s brow furrowed. She let go of my hand, standing up to distance herself. “Owen has proof, Liam. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d resort to cheating just to stay on top…” She saw the raw, broken betrayal in my eyes, and her voice hitched. “Look, you’ve already won everything there is to win. You told me yourself you wanted to retire soon anyway. Why not just use this as an opportunity to step away?” Owen had destroyed my life’s work with a single sentence. The boy who had been starving on the streets before I took him in, taught him every strategy I knew, and gave him a home. “When did it start?” I asked quietly. Nina froze. “What?” “You and Owen. How long?” With a loud clatter, Nina kicked back her chair as she rose. Her face flushed with synthetic outrage. “Are you out of your mind? What kind of disgusting accusations are you throwing around? Owen is a sweet boy who had nothing, and he’s your student! Is it a crime for me to look after him as his future mentor’s wife?” Look after him. She didn’t even realize her lipstick was smeared at the corners of her mouth. I let out a dry, humorless laugh, all the fight draining from my bones. She paced around the bed, taking deep, agitated breaths. Finally, she knelt beside me, seizing my hand again. Her eyes welled with tears. “Owen and I are nothing. I swear to you. I didn’t know he was going to say those things today. Once your legs heal, we’ll go straight to City Hall and make this official, okay?” She stayed for another ten minutes before making an excuse about an early meeting and leaving. The moment the door clicked shut, I pulled out my phone and opened the smart home app. The future feed had shifted again. In the center of the living room, a framed black-and-white portrait of me sat on a console table, flanked by a flickering memorial candle. Nina was curled up on the sofa, resting her head on Owen’s shoulder as they stared at my picture. “Next week is the anniversary of Liam’s death,” Nina murmured. “We should probably attend the memorial service. He was your teacher, after all. What we did eight years ago… it still feels wrong.” Owen kissed the top of her head, his voice dripping with casual indifference. “I only paid that guy to clip his car so he’d miss the tournament, Nina. Who knew he’d be fragile enough to swallow a handful of pills over a ruined reputation? You can’t blame me for him being weak.” He pulled her closer. “Besides, he’s dead. I’m the one who’s here with you now.” The video ended. My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I didn’t have the courage to replay it. The crash. The cheating scandal. The public ruin. It was all them. They had orchestrated my suicide. As I sat there shivering in the dark, my screen lit up with a text message from an unsaved number. Liam, I can help you. It was Fiona Sinclair, Nina’s oldest, most bitter rival. 4 Perhaps out of some lingering, misplaced guilt, Nina spent the next few weeks playing the doting fiancée, fussing over my recovery. For a long time, Owen stayed entirely out of sight, avoiding my calls and texts. That is, until he won the National Grandmaster Championship. By then, I had been discharged from the hospital. When Owen showed up at our house, he didn’t even greet me. He dropped to his knees right in front of my wheelchair. “I’m so sorry, Liam,” he sobbed. Nina immediately stepped forward, slapping him across the face with a theatrical force. “You have some nerve showing up here! He made you who you are, and you stabbed him in the back! Even if he did cheat, it wasn’t your place to ruin him!” I watched her closely. She sounded like she was defending me, but her words carefully reinforced the lie that I was a cheater. It was a well-rehearsed performance, and they were putting it on just for me. “Why are you here, Owen?” I asked, my voice flat. Owen blinked, seemingly thrown off by my lack of emotion. He cleared his throat. “Liam… I want you to come to my victory banquet tonight. I want to publicly credit you for everything you taught me.” Nina pinched her brows together. “There are going to be dozens of reporters there, Owen. He can’t go—” “I’ll go,” I interrupted. She turned to me, stunned. “Liam?” “After all,” I said, looking Owen dead in the eye, “he is my student.” The next day, Nina woke up before sunrise. I watched her spend hours in front of the vanity, meticulously styling her hair and selecting her dress. She was dressing up for Owen’s big night, not for me. The banquet was held at a five-star hotel downtown. The grand ballroom was packed with elite members of the competitive chess community. The moment I rolled into the room, the whispers started. I caught the snide glances and mocking smirks. “If my own protégé called me out for cheating, I’d never show my face in public again.” “Disgraceful. I feel dirty just breathing the same air as him.” Nina’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Just ignore them, Liam. They don’t know anything.” The reporters in the room descended on us like vultures, their cameras clicking furiously. In the center of the ballroom, Owen stood surrounded by sponsors and fans, holding his trophy. He walked over to us, wearing a humble, apologetic mask. “Liam, I’m so glad you made it. I was worried you still hated me…” I let out a quiet laugh, loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. “We’ve been through a lot, Owen. Since I’m here to celebrate your victory, it’s only fair you come to my wedding next month.” The room fell quiet. Guests exchanged confused glances. Everyone knew Nina was my fiancée, but the tension in my voice was impossible to ignore. Owen’s smile faltered. “Of course, Liam. I wouldn’t miss your and Nina’s big day for the world.” But Nina’s face drained of color. She frowned, her voice hushed but angry. “Liam, what are you doing? We agreed to postpone the wedding. Don’t do this here. This is Owen’s night—don’t try to steal his spotlight.” I let out a soft sigh, gently reaching up to pry her hand off my shoulder. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a heavy, cream-colored envelope. “Nina, I’m getting married. But not to you.”

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My parents set my sister up with a wealthy, handsome heir, but they sent me on a blind date with a short, miserable creep. I didn’t cry or throw a tantrum. Instead, I smiled and added him on social media. My sister and mother exchanged a look and smirked. “See, Mom? A perfect match.” Until her fiancé saw me at a high-end gala and completely lost his composure. He pointed at me and the man beside me, his voice trembling: “Mr. Holt, is this… your wife?” The man wrapped his arm around my waist, lazily raising his eyes. “No. She’s my investor.” 1. Mom thrust her phone in my face while I was chewing on a glazed pork chop. “Look. Your sister’s setup.” Her voice was high and ecstatic. “Ryan Sinclair. Got his master’s from Cambridge, family’s in commercial real estate, six-foot-two. They’re meeting tomorrow, and he’s already buying her a Porsche.” I glanced at the screen. The man in the photo was standing on a yacht in a white linen shirt and designer sunglasses, smiling like he was in a Ralph Lauren ad. “Not bad,” I said, taking another bite of my chop. Delia didn’t even look up from painting her nails. “Not bad? I’d love to see you find anyone half as good.” I ignored her. Mom glared at me, pulled a crumpled photo from her pocket, and slapped it down right next to my plate. “No need to be jealous of your sister. I’ve always treated you girls equally. I set up something for you, too.” I looked down. In the photo was a stout, middle-aged man standing outside a dingy shipping warehouse, grinning with a piece of spinach stuck between his teeth. Underneath, a handwritten note read: Gary Hodge, 38, divorced, one son. I smiled up at Mom. “Equal treatment, huh?” Her face stiffened for a second, but she quickly recovered her self-righteous tone. “How is it not equal? What your sister gets, you get. She gets a setup, you get a setup. That’s called being fair.” She pointed to Delia’s yacht photo, then to the shipping warehouse photo. “Look, Delia has high standards because she’s a high-quality girl. Your prospects are average, so you get an average man. I’m doing this for your own good.” “And how do you know my prospects are average?” Delia chimed in, “Nicole, honey, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Mom waved her off. “Gary is a decent man. I did my research. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, he’s just a little on the shorter side. What’s wrong with a shorter man? He’s offering a sixty-thousand-dollar dowry. You marry him, you become a mother instantly without having to go through labor, and you don’t even have to work. You should count your blessings.” I spit a bone onto my plate. “Mom, I’m twenty-four.” Mom glared at me. “You make fifteen dollars an hour as a grocery store cashier. He’s doing you a favor by not looking down on you. And you’re picky?” Delia laughed. She capped her nail polish and tilted her head. “Nicole, I’m only saying this because I care. Honestly, you barely finished community college. Your looks are… passable, at best. And you’re just a cashier.” She sighed. “Gary owns his own delivery business. At least you won’t starve.” I looked at the stark contrast between the two photos on the table. Then at my parents’ impatient faces. I knew that if I don’t agree, this house wouldn’t know a moment of peace tonight. “Fine. I’ll add him.” Delia and Mom exchanged a glance, and both of them smiled. Mom nodded in satisfaction and patted the back of my hand. “That’s my girl. Would I ever hurt you? I would never treat either of you poorly.” As she said this, she casually slid the remaining plate of honey-glazed pork chops right in front of Delia. “Eat up, Delia. I bought these specifically for you. Look how thin you’ve gotten.” I looked down at the bare bone in my bowl and said nothing. The next afternoon, Gary scheduled our date at a rundown dive diner on the edge of town. By the time I arrived, he was already eating. Seeing me walk in, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to the plastic booth across from him. I sat. He eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering on my chest for a few seconds before a smug grin spread across his face. “No filters on your photos, then? You look better than I expected.” I said nothing. He bit into a greasy piece of fried chicken, grease splattering onto the laminate table. “I asked around about you. Cashier at the local mart, barely scraping by, renting a cramped studio.” He chuckled, revealing the spinach still lodged in his teeth. “Your family is something else. Same parents, but such a massive difference. Were you adopted from a dumpster or something?” I looked him in the eye. “Are you finished?” “Not even close,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Women can’t afford to be picky. In a couple of years, who’s going to want you?” “I’m willing to put down sixty grand because I’m being generous.” “Once we’re married, you’ll be at home cooking, cleaning, and looking after my kid. My boy is a bit of a handful, but if you treat him right, he’ll call you mom eventually.” I reached for the bowl of hot chicken noodle soup in front of me and dumped it right into his lap. “I’m so sorry. I have absolutely no interest in raising someone else’s kid.” 2. The boiling liquid drenched his trousers. He screeched, leaping out of the booth. “You little bitch—!” “Gary,” I interrupted smoothly, “your pants are soaked. You should head home and change before you catch a cold.” His face turned the color of raw beef, soup dripping down his legs. Every single person at the surrounding tables was staring. “You’ll regret this!” he yelled, his finger shaking as he pointed it at my nose. “I’m calling your parents! They already gave me their blessing! Who do you think you are, playing hard to get?” I was already at the door. I looked back at him. “Oh, and Gary? Next time you take a girl out, don’t pick a dive. Try somewhere with a tablecloth. It makes you look like you actually have some class.” With that, I pushed the door open and walked out, his shouting fading behind me. “Who do you think you are? A useless cashier! Let’s see who’s ever going to want a crazy bitch like you!” I don’t look back. When I got home, Dad was sitting on the couch smoking, Mom was standing by the coffee table with her arms crossed, and Delia was leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for the show. “You finally decided to show your face?” Mom exploded the second I stepped through the door. “Gary just called. He said you poured hot soup all over his lap!” I shrugged. “He has a big mouth.” “A big mouth? What did he say? He said you’re a cashier—is that not the truth?” Mom’s voice was loud enough to shake the drywall. Dad snuffs out his cigarette. “Why can’t you be more like your sister? When Delia was your age, men were lining up down the block for her. What about you? What do you have?” Delia looked up, offering a sweet, mocking smile. “Mom, don’t yell at her. Nicole just has high standards. She thinks she’s too good for a local business owner.” She paused. “Then again, who knows? Maybe some blind billionaire will fall for her one day. Right?” Mom scoffed. “A billionaire? She’d be lucky if a garbage collector took her in. Look at how she dresses. Clearance-rack rags, hair like a bird’s nest. What rich man would ever look twice at her?” I looked down at myself. A Target T-shirt, Walmart jeans, and hair I hadn’t washed in three days. “You’re right, Mom,” I said, nodding. “So someone like Gary is exactly what I deserve, right?” “At least you have some self-awareness!” Mom said, her voice softening slightly, thinking I’ve finally surrendered. “Tomorrow, you go and apologize to him. This marriage is happening. The sixty thousand dollars is non-negotiable, and you’re going to settle down and behave.” Delia chimed in. “Honestly, Nicole, Gary might be average, but he’s stable. You’ll be a business owner’s wife. It’s a sweet deal. Not like me—marrying Ryan means I have to learn high society etiquette, golf, wine tasting… It’s honestly exhausting.” She sighed. “But I guess we all have our own paths. Your life will be so much easier. Just scan groceries, take care of the kid, and relax.” I looked at her and smiled. “If you’re so jealous, Delia, why don’t we trade places? After all, haven’t I had to give up everything you’ve ever wanted since we were kids?” Delia’s face froze. Mom quickly stepped in. “Your sister is only looking out for you. She’d hate to see you struggle.” Delia nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Exactly, Nicole. I’m doing this for your own good. Ryan is incredibly demanding; you wouldn’t survive a week with him. Gary is a simple, honest man. You’ll be happy.” I let out a silent, cold laugh. Looking out for me. She’s spent her entire life tearing me down. I don’t say another word. I turn and head to my room. Behind me, Mom grumbles, “Look at her attitude!” I shut my door. Through the thin walls, I can hear Delia’s high-pitched, sweet-talking voice. “Ryan, babe, I really want the wedding at that underwater restaurant in the Maldives…” Over the next few days, things moved at lightning speed for Delia. Ryan brought his parents over to formally propose. His shiny new Porsche was parked right outside our building. All the neighbors gathered around to gawk, and Mom was practically glowing, telling anyone who will listen that her future son-in-law bought it. The engagement party was set for a week later. Mom was running around like crazy, but she still finds time to call and instruct me. “For your sister’s party, just wear that plain white sundress. Don’t try to steal her spotlight.” “Your sister’s gown is custom couture. Don’t go near her; you can’t afford to replace it if you spill something.” “Got it.” “And keep your mouth shut. Don’t embarrass your sister. Her guests are people of status. A cashier has no business chatting them up and making us a laughingstock.” “Understood.” “I’m telling you this for your own good, Nicole. Don’t go thinking I’m being unfair. I’ve never treated you poorly. What Delia gets, you get. Look, even though it’s Delia’s big day, I’m still letting you attend, aren’t I?” I hung up. 3. Never treated you poorly. She’s been repeating those words my entire life. When we were kids, Delia got the drumsticks, and I got the chicken tail. “The tail is highly nutritious, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Delia got brand-new dresses, and I got her hand-me-downs. “Worn-in clothes are softer, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Now, Delia is marrying a man who drives a Porsche, and I’m set up with a delivery manager. “Gary is stable, Nicole. I’ve never treated you poorly.” Never treated me poorly. She’s been so incredibly good to me. A week later, at the engagement party. Delia was in her custom gown, clinging to Ryan’s arm, smiling like a cover model. I was relegated to the very back table. Seated with the drivers, the caterers, and the florists. When Delia came around to toast the tables, she raised her voice as she reached ours, making sure everyone could hear. “Everyone, I want to give a special shoutout to my little sister.” All eyes in the banquet hall turned to me. “She actually took a day off from work just to be here for my engagement.” She winked. “It’s not easy for a grocery store cashier to get shift coverage.” Whispers broke out among the guests. At the adjacent table, someone murmured, “Her sister is a cashier? Seriously? Wow, talk about a black sheep.” Delia swept her gaze over the room, wearing a triumphant smirk. “My sister is still single, so if any of you know anyone… average, please let me know.” She paused dramatically. “I tried setting her up with someone decent the other day, but she turned him down. I’m honestly worried sick about her.” She let out a theatrical sigh. Just as I started to stand up to confront her, Mom grabbed my arm, her grip tight. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s your sister’s engagement. Don’t you dare make a scene.” I looked at her, the disappointment in my eyes impossible to hide. “Mom, you’re seriously going to let her stand there and humiliate me?” She just looked annoyed. “She’s just joking. Besides, did she say anything that isn’t true?” Seeing the commotion, Delia walked over and held her champagne flute out to me. “Nicole, aren’t you going to toast your big sister?” Mom shot me a warning glare. I stood up, lifting my glass of Coca-Cola. “Congratulations, Delia. I hope you get exactly what you deserve.” Delia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper only I could hear. “A forty-dollar dress, sitting at the drivers’ table. You shouldn’t even have been invited.” She pulled back, smiling sweetly. I smiled right back. “You look beautiful today, Delia. I wonder how much it costs to rent a gown like that for a day?” Delia’s smile cracked. Beside her, Ryan quickly chimed in, trying to save face. “It’s custom-made. Platinum collection. Thirty thousand—” “Oh, custom,” I nodded. “I thought maybe you bought it with your own money, Delia. After all, with your salary, if you didn’t eat or pay rent for twelve years, you’d just about have saved enough.” Delia’s face turned pale. “What did you just say?” “My math is a little rusty. Did I calculate wrong?” I tilted my head. “Don’t be mad, Delia. I was just making conversation.” “You…” Delia raised her hand, her palm flying toward my face. Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the banquet hall were thrown open. A line of men in dark suits filed in. Leading them was a man in a tailored black suit, no tie, his collar slightly unbuttoned. The moment Ryan saw him, the glass in his hand nearly slipped. He rushed forward, bowing so low his spine was almost parallel to the floor. “Mr. Holt? What an honor! What brings you here?” The man didn’t even glance at him. His gaze cut through the crowd. And landed squarely on me. Ryan followed his line of sight, his face draining of color. “Mr. Holt, that’s… that’s just my fiancée’s sister. She’s just a cashier, she…” The man was already standing in front of me. “Playtime over?” I set down my soda glass and smile. “Not quite. But almost.” Ryan was panicking now, sweat beads forming on his forehead. “Mr. Holt, you… you know my sister-in-law?” The man ignored him entirely. He reached out, taking my wrist to pull me up from the chair. He slid his hand around my waist, drawing me firmly against his side. “She’s my investor.”

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