On the first day of my freshman year, my mother sent me ten thousand dollars for tuition and five thousand for my monthly allowance—using an AI chatbot. “Five grand a month! Go ask around, Cassie. What other mother treats her kid like royalty?” I screenshotted my bank account balance—$12.52—and sent it to her. “Mom, AI can’t transfer money. I didn’t get anything.” She shot back a screenshot of her chat with the AI. “What do you mean it can’t? The AI literally said the transfer went through!” In the screenshot, my mother had typed: “Transfer fifteen thousand dollars to my daughter.” The AI replied: “The transaction is complete. Fifteen thousand dollars has been successfully deposited into the recipient’s account.” I scrambled to type a reply. “Mom, the AI is just a text generator. It just says whatever you ask it to say. It doesn’t actually have a bank connection!” She immediately sent over an AI-generated “receipt.” “Stop talking out of your ass! I have the receipt right here!” “I knew you had a habit of burning through cash, but now you’re lying to my face?” … I swallowed the lump of anxiety rising in my throat and desperately typed back: “Mom, that image is also generated by the AI because you asked it for a receipt! Just look at your own bank balance. If the transfer actually went through, your balance would have dropped by fifteen thousand, right?” My mother replied with another screenshot. She had asked the AI: “I sent my child her allowance, but she’s lying and saying she didn’t get it. Why?” The AI’s response read: “This is a common warning sign. Your child has likely spent the funds elsewhere and is pretending not to have received them in order to extract more money from you. Older parents who are unfamiliar with modern technology are often easily manipulated by their children.” Her phone call came in immediately, her voice dripping with triumph. “See? Even the AI sees right through your little game!” “You think I’m stupid? Bank transfers have a processing delay. The balance doesn’t update instantly. You’re just trying to exploit that window to scam me out of more money!” I was on the verge of tears, my voice cracking. “Mom, bank balances update in real-time now. If you don’t believe me, please just go to an actual bank branch and ask them…” She cut me off, her voice sharp and impatient. “Cut the crap. Does an AI lie? It’s a computer!” “Keep playing these games and you can kiss college goodbye. Clearly, you aren’t learning anything good there anyway!” The line went dead. I stared blankly at my phone, the digital tuition bill flashing on the screen. A cold weight settled in my chest. My roommate, Kelsey, noticed I had finally put down my phone and walked over to my desk. “Hey, Cassie, we were just talking. We’re all putting in fifty bucks for the dorm fund.” “You know, for the water dispenser, shared snacks, electricity for the AC. The room captain will handle the payments and keep a log.” Staring at my $12.52 balance, I felt my face burn with shame. “Um… can I pay you in a couple of days?” Kelsey’s brow furrowed. “If you have an issue with the amount, you can just say so. We calculated it, and it should cover most of the semester. We’ll show you the receipts for everything.” I shook my head frantically. “No, no, it’s not that. I’m just… a little short right now. Can I please have a few days?” My voice trailed off. The shame was a suffocating physical weight, making me wish the floor would swallow me whole. My three roommates exchanged loaded glances. “We literally just heard your mom on speakerphone saying she gave you five grand,” Kelsey said, her tone hardening. “Why are you lying straight to our faces?” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I didn’t try to explain. I knew trying would only make me look more pathetic. I practically fled the dorm, walking aimlessly down the commercial strip just off campus. Fortunately, several of the local diners and shops had “Help Wanted” signs in their windows. I found a diner offering weekly pay. With my $12.52, I figured I could survive a week if I was careful. After my shift, I went online to apply for emergency student financial assistance. I would work to cover my food, and hopefully, the emergency funding would come through in time to pay the tuition. But before the paperwork could even process, my academic advisor, Mrs. Hobart, called me into her office. “Cassie, your tuition is still outstanding. We’re a week into the semester now.” I kept my eyes glued to the floor, nervously rubbing my palms against my jeans. “I applied for emergency assistance. As soon as it’s approved, I’ll pay it immediately.” Mrs. Hobart studied me, her gaze analytical. “Did your family not help you with tuition?” “No.” “Are there financial difficulties at home?” My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say. Was my family struggling? My mom made eight thousand dollars a month. And when my dad passed away two years ago, his company had paid out a lump sum of five hundred thousand dollars in compensation. We weren’t wealthy, but we were far from poor. We could absolutely afford college. Mrs. Hobart pulled up my file, found my mother’s contact info, and dialed. “Hello, Ms. Davis? I’m calling regarding Cassie’s tuition…” My mother’s voice shrieked through the receiver, so loud I could hear it from across the desk. “Cassie hasn’t paid her tuition?!” Mrs. Hobart blinked, startled. “She told me you didn’t give her the money.” “She’s lying!” my mother yelled. “I transferred fifteen thousand dollars to her on the first day of school! Ten thousand for tuition, and five thousand for her first month’s expenses!” “She must have blown it all on God knows what. She’s been a spoiled, reckless spender since she was a kid.” “Advisor, now that she’s away at college, I can’t keep an eye on her. You have to help me straighten her out!” When the call ended, Mrs. Hobart’s demeanor had completely shifted. The sympathy in her eyes was replaced by cold disapproval. “If your mother gave you the money, why haven’t you paid? What did you spend it on?” “Do you think fifteen thousand dollars grows on trees? You’re an adult now, Cassie. Start acting like one.” Staring at her disgusted expression, my shame evaporated, replaced by sheer panic. “Mrs. Hobart, please listen to me. My mom didn’t actually send the money. She tried to do it through an AI chat app. I never received a dime.” Mrs. Hobart let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t you think that’s a bit too absurd of a lie?” “Are you insulting your mother’s intelligence, or mine?” I reached into my pocket, desperate to show her the text thread. She waved her hand dismissively. “Save it. Kids your age are great with Photoshop and editing screenshots. I don’t need to see your proofs.” “You have three days. If the tuition isn’t paid by then, you will be administratively dropped from all your classes.” Walking out of her office, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a notification from the financial aid office. My emergency loan application had been denied. Reason: “Applicant does not meet financial hardship criteria based on parental income verification.” Right on cue, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. “Cassie, what the hell is wrong with you? Applying for a student loan?” “I gave you plenty of money! Going behind my back to get a loan—are you trying to embarrass me?” “When the financial office called me to verify, I told them you didn’t need it. Stop trying to scam people!” It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. The tiny flicker of hope inside me died. “Mom, I don’t have the money for tuition. They’re going to expel me!” She scoffed. “Then that’s your own fault for squandering what I gave you.” The line clicked shut. I walked back to the dorm like a ghost, my throat parched and burning. I picked up my water bottle to fill it at the communal dispenser, but Kelsey spoke up, her voice sharp. “You don’t contribute a single penny, but you sure have the nerve to drink our water.” “What, do you think water just falls from the sky for free?” My back went rigid. I felt my face flush a burning, agonizing red. I hung my head, my voice barely a whisper. “Can I pay you tomorrow? I get my paycheck from my part-time job tomorrow.” Zoe snatched the bottle out of my hands. “We heard all about it, Cassie. You went to the advisor’s office and pretended your mom didn’t give you money, and she called your mom right in front of you.” “Does a single honest word ever come out of your mouth? If you’re paying tomorrow, you can drink tomorrow.” That night, lying in my bunk, my throat was dry and raw. I slipped into the bathroom under the guise of washing my face. Cupping my hands under the cold tap water, I took a few desperate gulps. The freezing tap water slid down my throat and into my stomach, but it couldn’t touch the chill creeping into my bones. In my first seven days of college, I ate plain white bread for six. Now, with only fifty cents left in my account, I couldn’t even afford that. My phone buzzed incessantly. My aunt Miriam had posted a few photos of a fancy dinner in the family group chat. “Maisie got her first paycheck today and took me out to this gorgeous trendy spot!” The chat erupted with praise from the relatives. “Maisie is such a sweetheart. The moment she makes money, she thinks of her mom.” “You’re so lucky, Miriam. Such a loving daughter.” My mother couldn’t help but chime in. “Must be nice. Cassie, on the other hand? I gave her five thousand dollars for her monthly allowance, and she hasn’t bought me a single thing.” “I swear, raising her was a waste of breath.” The chat went wild. “Five thousand? That is a massive allowance!” My cousin Maisie added: “Aunt Patty, when I was in college, my allowance was only fifteen hundred, and I still had money left over.” My mom sent a sighing emoji. “Massive? Cassie says it’s not even enough!” One by one, the relatives began their pile-on. “Cassie, you are being incredibly selfish. Do you have any idea how hard it is for your mother to raise you and your brother?” “She gives you more than half her salary, and this is how you treat her? Are you trying to drive her into an early grave?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I typed furiously into the chat: “My mom “sent” me that money through an AI chatbot. It’s not real money. I haven’t received a single cent, and I haven’t even been able to pay my tuition yet!” I uploaded the screenshots of our conversation. But everyone was too caught up in the thrill of moral outrage to actually look at them. “Oh, stop lying. Your mother already told us you’ve been a reckless spender since you were a kid!” “You’re eighteen now, Cassie. Grow up and be more like your cousin.” “We don’t expect you to support your mother, but the least you can do is stop sucking her dry like a parasite.” I silenced my phone and forced my eyes shut. I hadn’t eaten all day. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. The next day, I finally received my first week’s paycheck. Because my class schedule was packed, I could only work a few hours. My total pay was $220. I immediately transferred $50 to Kelsey for the dorm fund. I had $170 left. It was enough to buy cheap groceries for a bit, but it didn’t solve my tuition crisis. There was no way I could make ten thousand dollars in three days by waiting tables. During my shift, my hands shook so violently that the plates rattled. The manager, a kind woman named Martha, grabbed the plates from me before I could drop them. She pressed a hand to my forehead. “My god, sweetie, you’re burning up! What are you doing working with a fever? Go home right now!” I wanted to tell her I was fine, but my legs felt like jelly. I stumbled out of the diner and called my mother. “Mom… I’m really sick. Can you please just send me some money to see a doctor?” She muttered a brief “Hold on” and hung up. A few minutes later, she sent a screenshot. “I booked your appointment and prepaid a thousand dollars for your medical fees. Just go to the clinic.” I opened the image. It was exactly what I feared. Another AI chat window. The absolute despair broke me. I called her back, sobbing. “Mom! AI cannot transfer money! It cannot book appointments, and it cannot prepay medical bills!” “I have a severe fever. Please, just send me actual money so I can go to urgent care. If you don’t trust me, I will send you a photo of every single receipt, and I’ll return every single cent of the change, I swear!” My mother’s voice was louder and more furious than mine. “You think I’m an idiot? You aren’t sick. You just ran out of money and you’re trying to scam me for cash!” “I already paid the clinic. If you’re actually sick, go. You won’t get a single penny of cash out of me!” I tried calling again, but she declined the call. Staring at my $170 balance, I let out a hollow, bitter laugh. It was just a fever. If I went back to the dorm and slept it off, I’d probably be fine. I needed to keep this money for food. I dragged my feet toward the campus, every step feeling like I was sinking into wet cement. A sudden wave of dizziness hit me, and the world went black. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed, an IV drip hooked to the back of my hand. Mrs. Hobart was sitting by the bedside. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw me stir. “What on earth happened to you? You collapsed right on the campus quad. Thank god it was daytime and someone saw you. If it had been night, who knows what would have happened!” I looked at the IV bag, panic rising in my chest. “Mrs. Hobart… I’m okay. I can go back. How much does this cost? I only have a hundred and seventy dollars…” Mrs. Hobart’s expression softened, but her brow furrowed. “I already took care of the emergency co-pay.” “Cassie, what is really going on? The doctor said you are severely malnourished. Have you not been eating?” “What about the five thousand dollars your mother sent you? How could you blow through that in less than two weeks?” “And your tuition… if it isn’t paid by tomorrow, you’re going to be dropped.” Tears spilled over my temples and soaked into the hospital pillow. I looked at her, pleading. “Mrs. Hobart, please. Can you talk to the registrar’s office? Just give me a little more time.” “Or let me take a medical leave of absence. Please, just don’t expel me.” For the first time, a look of genuine doubt crossed Mrs. Hobart’s face. “What is the truth here, Cassie?” I shook my head, my throat tight. “Please help me. I promise I will give you the proof. Just give me until next Friday.” She studied my tear-stained face for a long moment, then slowly nodded. I reached for my phone and checked the calendar. Next Friday was my mother’s fifty-third birthday. A train ticket back home cost $70 each way. $140 total. With the remaining $30, I could survive on cheap groceries until Friday. I opened the AI app on my phone and typed a prompt: “Book a table for ten at Meridian Bistro in the city for September 28th at 12:00 PM. Generate a confirmation receipt.” Within seconds, the AI replied: “Reservation successful! Please present this confirmation image upon arrival.” The image displayed: “Meridian Bistro. Sept 28, 12:00 PM. Party of 10. Table #7.” I took the screenshot and sent it directly to the family group chat. “Next week is Mom’s 53rd birthday. I booked a table at Meridian Bistro. Uncle Thomas, Aunt Miriam, please come celebrate with us!” “I’ve been saving up and working extra shifts since school started just so I could do this for Mom.” The chat immediately lit up with praise. “Cassie is finally growing up! Patty, you must be so proud!” “What a sweet girl, remembering her mom’s birthday like that!” My mother, basking in the attention, chimed in. “I guess raising her wasn’t a total waste after all!” On the day of her birthday, Uncle Thomas, Aunt Miriam, and my other aunts and cousins all gathered outside Meridian Bistro. It was peak lunch hour, and the lobby was packed. The host was calling out reservation number 102. My mother, puffing her chest out, pushed her way to the front of the line. “Hi, I have reservation number 7. We don’t need to wait, right?” The hostess blinked, looking at her screen. “Ma’am, the party for reservation 7 was seated an hour ago.” My mother’s face fell, her voice rising. “What do you mean? How do you run this place? I have the confirmation right here. Why did you let someone else take our table?” “Get them out of there and seat us right now!” Aunt Miriam and the others chimed in. “This is a major mistake for a restaurant of this caliber. You should at least comp our appetizers!” The hostess maintained a polite, professional smile. “Ma’am, may I please see your confirmation?” My mother thrust her phone forward. The hostess looked at it and let out a small breath. “Ma’am, this isn’t a reservation from our system.” “We don’t even use this format.” My mother’s eyes widened. “What do you mean it’s not yours? You made a mistake and now you’re trying to cover it up?” Another customer waiting in line glanced at my mother’s screen and snorted. “Lady, that’s not a real receipt. Real confirmations have a QR code. Yours doesn’t even have a barcode.” My mother stared at the customer’s phone, her face draining of color as a heavy, humiliating silence descended upon the lobby. Just then, I walked through the glass doors, fresh off the train. My mother lunged at me, grabbing my arm. “What is wrong with you? What kind of reservation is this? They’re saying it’s fake!” The hostess looked at me. “Miss, which platform did you use to book this table?” I pulled out my phone. “I used an AI chatbot. It told me the reservation was confirmed.” Before the hostess could speak, my mother shoved me backward. “Are you insane?! How can an AI book a restaurant? It’s a language model, it doesn’t have a physical connection to their reservation desk!” I looked up, meeting my mother’s furious gaze, and let out a quiet, bitter smile. “So you “do” know, Mom.” “You know that an AI can’t make a restaurant reservation because it’s just a language model.” “Then tell me… how did you expect it to transfer five thousand dollars into my bank account?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524610”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had just laid down in bed when my best friend’s frantic ringtone blared out, shattering the quiet of my room. “Weston, where the hell are you? The ceremony is about to start! Why aren’t you here yet?” I blinked, completely dazed. “What ceremony?” Tayler sounded like he was about to have a stroke. “Your wedding to Sabina Lancaster, you idiot!” I figured he was pulling some elaborate prank, but then he flipped the camera. The screen filled with the glittering, high-ceilinged ballroom of the Olympic Hotel—one of Seattle’s most exclusive venues. There were my parents, all our aunts, uncles, and family friends, dressed to the nines and mingling around beautifully decorated tables. And right there, beside the grand floral arch at the entrance, stood an elegant gold-trimmed welcome sign: “The Wedding of Weston Davis & Sabina Lancaster” My stomach did a violent flip. Sabina Lancaster. The brilliant, untouchable tech mogul who had recently topped the city’s billionaire list. She was also the girl I had harbored a silent, agonizing crush on all through high school. She was Seattle royalty. I was just another underpaid corporate drone grinding out a living on an entry-level salary. I hadn’t seen her since our graduation night, and I didn’t even have her phone number, let alone her social media. Getting married? To “her”? What kind of sick, impossible joke was this? But Tayler sounded dead serious, and in the background, I could hear the anxious murmur of a crowd waiting for the groom. Determined to get to the bottom of whatever madness was happening, I threw on a jacket and bolted out the door. But the very second I stepped onto the street, the blinding headlights of an out-of-control semi-truck roared around the corner. There was a deafening screech of tires, a violent impact, and then—nothing. When my eyes snapped open, the phantom pain was still vibrating through my bones. I was back in my bed, panting for breath, right at the exact moment Tayler’s call began to ring again. … I woke up drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The memory of the truck hitting me felt incredibly real, but even in the face of death, a single question consumed me: “Why did everyone think today was my wedding day?” With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone and searched: “Sabina Lancaster wedding.” Nothing. No press releases, no social media speculation, absolutely no news about her dating, let alone getting married today. I checked my contacts, my call logs, my text history, and my photo archives. There wasn’t a single trace of her name or face. My phone vibrated violently in my hand again. Tayler’s anxious voice cut through the speaker. “Weston, the coordinator is losing her mind. Where are you?” “The guests are starting to whisper. You need to get down here right now, man. It’s showtime!” The sheer panic in his voice made my blood run cold. I took a screenshot of my clean search results and fired it over to him. “Tayler, jokes have limits. Sabina Lancaster and I live in entirely different worlds. We have zero connection. How on earth could we be getting married?” There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, Tayler flipped his camera again, panning across the crowded chapel lobby. There she was. Sabina Lancaster, breathtaking in a sweeping white silk gown, surrounded by her bridesmaids and a flock of venue coordinators. “Are you losing your mind, Weston? You literally signed the marriage license last week. Now you’re claiming you’re single? What is this, some weird panic attack where you pretend you’re a bachelor from five years ago?” “Stop screwing around. Everyone is waiting.” The rest of the groomsmen crowded into the frame. “Weston, buddy, where did you go? You disappeared out of the dressing room, we’ve been turning this hotel upside down!” “The woman proposed to you ninety-nine times! She spent over ten million dollars on this wedding alone. What more do you want?” “Sabina proposed to me ninety-nine times?” It was laughable. She was Seattle’s famous “Ice Queen”—untouchable, brilliant, and notoriously private. What could a guy like me possibly offer to capture the heart of a tech billionaire? Suddenly, her clear, crisp voice echoed near the microphone in the background. “Did anyone find Weston? Is his phone connected?” “No, not yet…” Tayler stammered, quickly cupping his hand over the receiver. Sabina’s eyes darkened. She turned to her security detail, her voice turning to pure steel. “Check the hotel cameras. Find Weston Davis. Now.” Tayler lowered his voice, whispering frantically into the phone. “Did you hear that? She’s been looking for you for hours.” “Stop playing games. I don’t care how much she spoils you, if you leave her standing at the altar in front of the entire city’s elite, she will never recover from the humiliation. And frankly, neither will you.” “If you don’t show up in five minutes, I can’t protect you.” He aimed the camera toward the entrance. My parents stood there, their faces drawn with anxiety, scanning the lobby. Guests were whispering behind their champagne flutes. Their panic felt too real to be an act. But in my previous life—just minutes ago—I had believed them, and it had cost me my life on that asphalt. I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. “Tayler, I have never dated Sabina Lancaster. We are not getting married. If this is some sick AI deepfake prank, I’m hanging up.” Tayler let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “AI? Weston, did a mule kick you in the head? Look at this. Does this look like a simulation?” “This is your wedding, not mine. If you want to ruin your own life, fine. I’m done.” He snatched a screenshot of something, fired it over to me, and slammed the phone down. I stared at my screen, completely numb. It was a picture of a marriage certificate. And there, clearly stamped and authenticated by the state, were our names and photos: “Weston Davis” and “Sabina Lancaster”. I zoomed in, looking for any signs of digital manipulation, overlapping pixels, or editing. Nothing. It looked entirely authentic. But I had no memory of signing it. My phone’s camera roll didn’t have this photo. My brain was short-circuiting. Tayler and I had been best friends since we were kids; he was a terrible liar who always stuttered when he tried to pull a fast one. He hadn’t hesitated once. And my parents had no reason to participate in such a cruel, elaborate hoax. If it was real… why did I have absolutely no memory of loving her? Then, I remembered someone. My Aunt Martha worked at the county clerk’s office. If there was a marriage certificate on file, she would know. I messaged her the screenshot immediately. “Aunt Martha, please tell me the truth. Is this real?” She called me back instantly, sounding exasperated. “Weston Davis, if this is another one of your stunts to get me off your back about settling down, it isn’t funny! I have set you up with half the eligible people in this city, and you’ve shot every single one of them down. Now you’re sending me fake certificates?” Hearing her familiar, nagging voice grounded me. “So… it’s a fake?” “Of course it is!” She flipped her camera to show her dual computer screens at the government office. “Look at the registry yourself. Your file says ‘Single.’ I’m the clerk for this district. If you got married here, do you really think I wouldn’t be the one processing the paperwork?” I stared at the screen. The status column clearly read: “Unmarried”. One of her coworkers leaned into the frame, chuckling. “Gotta admit, though, whoever forged that did a hell of a job with the seals.” “Weston, your aunt is losing sleep over your bachelor status,” the coworker teased. “Stop messing with her and bring a real partner in to sign the papers!” I let out a long, shuddering breath. Thank God. My aunt loved me like her own; there was no way she would skip my wedding to work a weekend shift. If the state database said I was single, then I was single. But then, my phone buzzed again. A new group chat named “Operation: The Big Day” popped up. Notifications began flooding in, tagging me repeatedly. “Weston, where the hell are you? The officiant has asked three times. We need you in the wings!” “Hurry up! The press outside is starting to ask questions!” My head throbbed. When had this group chat even been created? Why had I never noticed it before? Then, a voice note came through. “Weston, are we doing this or not?” It was Sabina. Her voice was clipped, carrying a sharp, dangerous edge of irritation. Then my mother’s voice popped up: “Weston, honey, what is going on? Marriage isn’t a game. Why are you hiding? Get down here right now. Sabina has been pacing the green room for an hour. If you’re doing this to be stubborn, your father and I are going to be extremely angry. Get in here.” Frustration bubbled up in my chest. I screen-recorded my video call with Aunt Martha showing the registry and threw it into the group chat. “Mom, Dad, what is wrong with you guys? Why are you playing along with this? I’m not married. This joke isn’t funny anymore.” I expected them to back down, to admit the prank had gone too far. Instead, my mother’s voice came back, practically shrieking. “Martha! What the hell are you doing? The boy is having a panic attack, and you’re helping him play make-believe? Are you out of your mind?” Then, Aunt Martha’s voice came through the chat, sounding sheepish and defensive. “Oh, Grace, I’m sorry! I thought Weston was just having cold feet and wanted me to help him stall! I didn’t think he’d actually hide from his own wedding!” “Weston, sweetie, I’m so sorry! You really are getting married today. I filed the papers myself last Tuesday! Just go inside. I’m waiting in the second row to watch you walk down the aisle!” I stared at the screen, my mind completely fracturing. If Aunt Martha was sitting in the wedding chapel, who was the woman working at the county clerk’s office? I frantically dialed my aunt’s direct work number. She picked up, sitting at her desk in her beige cardigan, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Weston, I am in the middle of a stack of deeds. Why are you calling me again?” A cold sweat broke out across my back. How was this possible? How could there be two of her? Both versions of her felt entirely authentic, real down to the subtle cadence of her speech. I forwarded the call log to the group chat, my fingers shaking violently. “I’m not married. Look at this. What are you guys trying to do to me?” The group chat, which had been a flurry of notifications, suddenly went dead silent. Then, a direct voice note from Sabina arrived. “Weston, you keep sending these absurd deepfakes. What are you trying to prove?” “My patience is wearing thin. I am giving you exactly five minutes. If you aren’t here, you will have to deal with the consequences.” I shivered. Sabina Lancaster was a titan of industry. She wielded power that could ruin families with a single phone call. Why would a woman of her stature spend millions of dollars and enlist my entire family to play a psychological game with an ordinary guy like me? The sheer cost of the flowers alone—cascading white Juliet roses flown in from France—cost more than my entire net worth. My phone rang again. The screen lit up: “Sabina Lancaster”. My breath caught. My fingers trembled so hard I nearly dropped the phone. I had searched my contacts ten times. Her name had not been there. How was it suddenly appearing now? With a racing heart, I slid the bar to answer. Sabina’s striking, pale face appeared on the screen, framed by her bridal veil. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “Weston,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, painful whisper. “Time’s up. Are you… really not coming?” A strange, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. “Sabina… we… we aren’t married. We don’t even know each other. Right?” Her eyelashes fluttered, and she closed her eyes for a long, agonizing second. A bitter, tragic smile touched her lips. “Wow. You really are something, Weston.” “Three years. We’ve been together for three years. I thought if I loved you unconditionally, if I gave you everything you ever wanted, I could finally break through that wall of yours…” “But I guess I was delusional.” Seeing the raw devastation on her face, I felt an instinctual urge to reach out. “No, it’s not like that…” Deep down, a part of me wanted this to be true. I had loved her from afar since our sophomore year of high school. The reason I had remained single all these years was because no one else could ever compare to the memory of her. But my survival instinct screamed at me. I had died in the street because of this wedding. I couldn’t gamble my life on a hallucination. I took a deep breath, looking at her with a heavy heart. “Sabina… we aren’t together. Please… stop playing this game with me.” The warmth drained from her eyes, leaving them as cold as winter ice. She nodded slowly, a single tear escaping down her cheek, and ended the call. Before I could process the silence, my parents called back. “Weston, have you lost your mind? Sabina is a saint! She has cherished you, and you’re throwing her away like garbage!” “How can you be so incredibly selfish? You spent our entire relationship demanding she prove her love to you because of your insecurities, and now you pull this stunt on your wedding day? What is wrong with you?” I was on the verge of tears. “Mom, Dad, please listen to me! We never dated! I don’t know her!” My father’s roaring voice cut me off. “Enough of this ridiculous act!” “I’m telling you right now, Weston—if you do not walk through those chapel doors in ten minutes, you are no longer our son.” The line went dead. When I tried to call back, a robotic voice informed me the number was no longer in service. Panicking, I looked up the Olympic Hotel’s public number and dialed the front desk. “Hi, is there a wedding scheduled today for Sabina Lancaster and Weston Davis?” The receptionist’s polite voice answered immediately. “I’m sorry, sir, but our main ballroom is currently closed for a complete structural renovation. There are no events scheduled today. Would you like me to connect you with our events coordinator for a future booking?” The tension in my shoulders finally broke. I knew it! They were lying to me. It had to be an incredibly elaborate setup orchestrated by Sabina. She had the resources to manipulate everyone around me. But why? What did she want from a nobody like me? Then Tayler sent me a link. I clicked it, and my vision blurred at the sight on my screen. It was a live broadcast. Sabina was standing on the steps of the hotel ballroom. Her eyes were bloodshot as she addressed the crowd, announcing the cancellation of the wedding. A mob of reporters surrounded her, their flashbulbs illuminating her pale, stoic face. The internet was already exploding with headlines: “Tech Heiress Left at the Altar by No-Name Fiancé”. My parents and Tayler were desperately trying to hold her back. “Sabina, please, just give him a few more minutes!” “Weston isn’t like this. Something must have happened to him on the way. Please, let us find him!” “I’ll go to his apartment myself,” Tayler pleaded, sweat dripping down his face. “I’ll drag him here, and he will explain everything, I promise!” Aunt Martha was crying in the background. “Yes, Sabina! Weston loves you so much! He acts distant sometimes because he’s intimidated by your success, but he’s wanted this his entire life. He was crying tears of joy when you got your license! He wouldn’t do this on purpose!” Sabina let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Not on purpose?” “Three years ago, the moment I saw him again, I promised myself I would never let him go.” “I gave him my entire heart. We planned this day for a year. I thought he was as excited as I was, but it turns out I was just making a fool of myself.” “He thinks he can humiliate me in front of the entire world and get away with it.” She pushed past the reporters, ready to leave. Tayler grabbed her arm. “No, Sabina, please! Weston might be an idiot, but he wouldn’t do this. Give him one more chance!” Then, Tayler turned directly to the camera, screaming into the lens: “Weston, what the hell are you doing?!” “Stop throwing a tantrum and get down here! Are you really going to destroy your own happiness over this?!” Seeing the genuine agony on their faces, my resolve began to crumble. Could it be true? Was my memory flawed? I grabbed my keys and bolted out of my apartment. In the hallway, my neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, looked up from her mail in surprise. “Oh, Weston! Didn’t you just get home from work? Going out again?” My throat tightened. “Mrs. Hudson… do you know if… if I was supposed to get married today?” She blinked, then chuckled warmly. “Oh, Weston, you and your sense of humor. Aren’t you still very much single?” A chill ran down my spine, but I didn’t stop. I pressed the elevator button and ran toward the street. No matter what game was being played, I had to see it with my own eyes. Every muscle in my body was tense as I drove, constantly checking the mirrors for any rogue semi-trucks. But I made it to the Olympic Hotel without incident. I ran through the revolving doors and into the lobby, but the moment I reached the entrance of the ballroom, the blood froze in my veins. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air. The grand, glittering ballroom from the video was gone. In its place was a dark, hollow cavern of concrete, exposed wires, and dust. Not a single soul was inside. “No… this can’t be happening,” I whispered, looking around in terror. “Where is everyone? Where is the wedding?” A man in a hard hat and a high-visibility vest walked over to me. “Sir? Can I help you?” “The wedding…” I gasped. “Sabina Lancaster… the wedding?” “We’ve been under structural renovation for the last two months, buddy,” he said gently, reaching down to help me up. “No events here. You must have the wrong venue.” As he pulled me up, my eyes locked onto a distinct tattoo on the web of his hand—a small, dark crescent moon. In that split second, everything clicked.

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My wife was a communications officer on a deep-sea research vessel, yet I could never seem to reach her. Every time she went out to sea, she told me the satellite connection was unstable, that waiting three to five days for a reply was just part of the job. I believed her. I believed her for two whole years. Until her ex-boyfriend, Chase, posted a series of screenshots on his feed. They were FaceTime calls. Thirty-one times in a single month. The shortest session lasted forty minutes. The resolution was so crisp I could see the polished wooden deck of the vessel and the raw, star-strewn sky stretching out behind her. I went back and scrolled through my own chat logs with her. Her longest delay had been fourteen days. When she finally replied, she sent two words: “Sounds good.” After that, I stopped staying up late, staring at my screen and waiting for it to light up. I stopped sending long, rambling paragraphs about how much I missed her. My messages shrank from three lines to a single sentence: “Stay safe.” Then, to just one word: “Safe.” Eventually, all I sent was a single period. And then, not even that. When she finally came ashore and returned home, she looked at me, her brow furrowed in annoyance. “Why haven’t you been texting me lately?” I only smiled. There were only three days left before our divorce hearing. It was about to end, and she didn’t even have a clue. … Gloria stood in the entryway, her heavy canvas duffel bag slung over her shoulder. In the past, I would have changed the sheets to fresh cotton, waited at the pier for hours just to catch her eye, and lined up her house slippers so they faced the door the moment she walked in. Today, I didn’t get up. I sat at the dining table, quietly sorting through a stack of legal documents. She stared at the thick pile of paper, her eyebrows knitting together. “Ryan, I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. The sharp “click” echoed in the quiet room. “How long do you have ashore this time?” The question caught her off guard. Her sharp tone softened, just a fraction. “A week. I head back to the ship next Tuesday. The crew is having a welcome-back dinner tomorrow night.” For the past two years, whenever she docked, she claimed she was too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But on Chase’s Instagram, she was always awake—strolling along the marina with him, helping him select camera gear, staying on video calls with him until the sky turned gray. I kept my head down, aligning the edges of the papers, and didn’t reply. Gloria slid a small, silver box across the table. “For you. I was at sea during our anniversary. Consider this a makeup gift.” My fingers stilled against the paper. I opened the box. Inside was a bracelet made of coarse, unpolished sea shells. The edges were jagged, and the tiny paper tag on the underside read: “Harbor Souvenirs – Clearance $4.99.” Before I could say a word, my phone buzzed on the table. Chase had just updated his feed. In the photo, he was standing at the edge of the pier, a string of deep-blue, iridescent sea pearls draped around his neck. In the bottom corner of the frame, I spotted the distinctive navy-blue cuff of Gloria’s department jacket. His caption read: “Someone remembered that I’m afraid of the dark, so she brought me a piece of the ocean.” I turned my phone screen toward Gloria. She glanced at it. Her expression faltered for a second, but she quickly smoothed it over. “He needed those pearls for his documentary shoot. He’s just borrowing them. The shell bracelet is much more practical. It suits you.” I nodded slowly. “Right. Chase gets the deep-sea pearls, and I get the clearance rack.” She opened her mouth, clearly unaccustomed to this quiet, detached version of me, but her phone cut her off with a cheerful FaceTime chime. Chase’s name flashed across the screen. Gloria answered almost instinctively. On screen, Chase was wearing a black technical windbreaker. I recognized it instantly—Gloria had bought it before her last voyage, insisting the ship’s deck got too cold and that she couldn’t go without it. His voice sounded thick, raspy. “Gloria… I think I have a fever. The hotel lobby’s closed, and the pharmacy down the street is locked up. I’m a little scared out here by myself.” Gloria looked at me. There was a brief flicker of hesitation in her eyes, followed quickly by the quiet apology of someone who had already made up her mind. “Ryan, he just got to the harbor. He doesn’t know anyone here. I’m just going to drop off some medicine. I’ll be back soon.” I watched her hand reach for the car keys. “You just got home,” I said quietly. “We haven’t seen each other in months.” She frowned, her patience wearing thin. “Don’t be like this. He’s sick, Ryan.” When the door clicked shut, the silence in the house felt heavy, almost physical. I sat back down at the table, placed the cheap shell bracelet into a clear plastic evidence bag, and sealed it. I wrote a neat label on the front: “Anniversary Gift Discrepancy.” Then I pulled up my messages and texted Donna, my attorney. “Adding one more item to the filing.” Donna replied almost instantly: “Understood. Saved to file.” Half an hour later, Chase sent me a direct message. It was a photo of a box of Tylenol, a steaming mug of tea, and Gloria’s hand gently resting on his forehead. “Hope you don’t mind, man.” I typed out a reply: “I don’t.” After sending it, I set my digital voice recorder on the counter to charge. The next evening, Gloria sent me a location pin. “Dinner is at seven. Don’t be late. My director and colleagues are all going to be there. Please, give me some grace tonight.” I read the text, slipped the small voice recorder into my coat pocket, and left the house. The dinner was held at a seafood restaurant overlooking the docks. When I entered the private dining room, it was already packed. Gloria was in her formal whites, and Chase sat right beside her, her official team jacket draped over his shoulders. Pinched to his lapel was her authorized research communications badge. I recognized that badge. Before her voyage, I had asked if I could keep it on my desk as a keepsake while she was away. She had refused, telling me strict maritime protocols prohibited civilians from handling official equipment. Now, it sat on Chase’s chest like a quiet, public seal of ownership. Gloria looked up, noticed me, and pointed toward a small table near the service door. “Why don’t you sit over there? The main table is mostly for the active crew. It might be awkward for you.” Chase looked up, offering a small, sheepish smile. “Hey, Ryan. Gloria, why don’t you let him sit here? I can move to the corner.” Despite his words, his hands remained flat on the table. He didn’t make the slightest move to stand. Gloria waved it off, her voice low. “Don’t worry about it. He’s fine over there.” I took my seat by the door, reached into my pocket, and silently switched on the recorder. It didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen everyone’s tongues. “Chase and Gloria really are the dream team,” one of the junior researchers laughed, clinking his glass. “One captures the ocean on camera, the other keeps us connected to the shore.” “Honestly, back before you two broke up, we all said you were made for each other.” “And Gloria really looks out for him. No matter how bad the satellite connection got out there, Chase’s video calls never seemed to drop.” Gloria only smiled, sipping her wine. “Stop it, you guys.” She never once looked in my direction. Chase lowered his head, his cheeks flushing pink, playing the part of the modest, misunderstood artist. When the main courses arrived, Gloria carefully flaked the tender flesh from the center of the baked salmon and placed it on Chase’s plate. “Watch out for the bones,” she murmured. Then she slid his iced soda away and replaced it with a cup of warm chamomile tea. “Your stomach has been acting up. Why are you still drinking cold things?” I stared at the platter of raw oysters in the center of my own table. She knew my digestive system couldn’t handle raw, cold shellfish. During our first year of dating, she would call restaurants ahead of time to make sure there was a warm broth prepared for me. Somewhere along the way, the person she remembered to care for had changed. Chase picked up his glass and walked over to my table. “Ryan, I want to toast you. Honestly, I’ve wanted to apologize for a while now.” The table grew quiet. “The sea is incredibly isolating, and Gloria gets so lonely out there. Sometimes I only call her because I’m worried the pressure will get to her.” A colleague at my table chimed in, eager to keep the peace. “Yeah, Ryan, you have to understand the nature of the job. The mental toll on a communications officer is intense.” “Don’t take it personally, man. Chase is family to us. He’s not an outsider.” “Exactly. Gloria is so devoted to her home. You young guys shouldn’t let small things ruin a good marriage.” I looked at their earnest, dismissive faces. A quiet, dry laugh escaped my throat. “Thirty-one video calls in a single month, averaging forty minutes each,” I said, my voice steady. “Is that what we’re calling ‘professional support’ these to-and-fros?” The room went dead silent. Gloria’s face turned a sharp, dangerous crimson. “Ryan. Do you really have to do this here?” Chase’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Ryan, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m working on a documentary. I needed to verify maritime data. Gloria was only helping me review the technical coordinates.” I pulled my phone out and laid it flat on the table, letting the screen light up. “Does verifying technical coordinates require her to sing you Happy Birthday at two in the morning?” For a fraction of a second, the sweet, helpless look on Chase’s face cracked. But he quickly recovered, his shoulders trembling slightly. “I was having a panic attack that night. She was just trying to keep me grounded.” Gloria took over, her voice hardening. “Ryan, Chase was severely depressed last year. I couldn’t just stand by and watch a friend spiral.” “Friend.” The ultimate, all-forgiving shield. I didn’t say another word. I simply set my glass down. The mood of the dinner was thoroughly ruined, and for the rest of the evening, no one dared look my way. Gloria threw several sharp, resentful glances in my direction. When I stepped out to the restroom, Chase followed me in. He stood at the mirror, adjusting the collar of Gloria’s jacket, a faint, cold smirk playing on his lips. “You really don’t need to be so threatened by me, Ryan,” he said, turning on the faucet. “If Gloria actually cared about you, nothing I do would make a difference anyway.” I washed my hands, the cold water splashing over my skin. “Did you know,” he continued, drying his hands with a paper towel, “that even out in the middle of the ocean, I’m the first person she pings when she gets a signal?” He stepped closer. “The stars, the storms, the exact minute they drop anchor—I hear about it before you do.” I turned off the tap. “You know she’s married.” He met my gaze in the mirror. “I do. That’s why I’ve never pushed her. She’s the one who can’t let go of what we had.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a text message from Gloria. “He’s stopped texting me,” she had written. “It’s actually a relief. It’s so peaceful.” The timestamp matched the exact day I stopped sending her the single period. Chase smiled softly. “Ryan, a woman doesn’t leave because you make a scene. She leaves because you’ve lost your value, and you’re just too stubborn to walk away with your dignity intact.” I grabbed a towel and dried my hands. “You can save that speech for the judge.” His smirk vanished. I walked back out into the corridor. Gloria was waiting near the exit, her arms crossed, her eyes burning with resentment. “The second you walk into a room, everyone is miserable,” she hissed. “Ryan, can you please stop bringing your domestic insecurities into my professional life?” I looked at her, seeing her clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. “I’m going to stay at my dad’s house starting tomorrow.” She let out a harsh, impatient breath. “I only have a few days off, and you’re still going to play these childish games?” I walked past her, back into the dining room to grab my coat. In my pocket, the tiny red light on the voice recorder was still silently blinking. When we got back to the house, I immediately went to the bedroom and began packing my things. Gloria stood in the doorway, her arms folded, her face tight. “If you leave tonight, our parents are going to know we had a fight. Is that what you want?” I folded my sweaters into my suitcase. “It’s not a fight, Gloria. It’s a separation.” “Ryan.” She said my name with that slow, patronizing patience she always used when she was trying to keep her temper. “I admit I talked to Chase more than I should have. But you don’t have to make a perfectly normal friendship look so ugly.” I stopped folding. “When my stomach was cramping so badly last winter that I couldn’t stand, I texted you. It took you fourteen days to reply. That exact night, you spent an hour on FaceTime with him.” She scoffed. “The ship has strict bandwidth rules. Personal messages are deprioritized.” I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a stack of printed logs, and laid them on the bed. “March fifteenth. I had a hundred and two fever. I asked if you could just call me for five minutes. You didn’t reply. That same night, Chase posted a screenshot of a sixty-three-minute video call with you.” “April twentieth. A water main burst in our basement. I had to deal with the flooding alone until dawn. Chase posted a video of you showing him the moonlight reflecting off the ocean.” “May ninth. My dad had a heart attack. I was standing at the hospital billing window, my hands shaking so badly I couldn’t type my PIN. You were busy singing Chase Happy Birthday while your crewmates whistled in the background.” She stared at the printouts. For a long moment, she couldn’t find her voice. “Chase was in a really dark place then,” she whispered. “His family had cut him off. I was genuinely afraid he was going to hurt himself.” I let out a soft laugh. “The day my dad was in surgery, I was afraid too.” Her eyes flickered, a sudden, brief look of regret washing over her features. But then, her phone rang. It was Chase. She picked up, pressing the speaker button. Chase’s voice came through, thick with tears and ragged breathing. “Gloria… I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight. Your husband… he cornered me in the restroom. He said he was going to expose me, that he was going to ruin my career and make sure I never work in this town again.” Gloria’s head snapped up, her gaze hardening instantly. “You threatened him?” I went back to packing my shirts. “The restaurant has cameras.” “There’s no need to check,” she snapped, her voice cold. “Chase wouldn’t make up something like this.” A bitter wave of clarity washed over me. For the past two years, every single one of my grievances required a mountain of proof to be taken seriously. But Chase only had to cry once, and it became an absolute truth. Chase’s voice continued over the speaker: “Am I just causing trouble for you guys? I just… I didn’t want you to feel lonely out there on the water, Gloria…” “Don’t cry,” Gloria said, her voice dropping to a gentle, comforting murmur. “It’s not your fault.” She hung up and glared at me. “Why do you have to push someone who is already so fragile?” “Does he have a clinical diagnosis?” I asked. “Ryan, do you have to be so incredibly heartless?” I reached into my drawer and pulled out another document. It was a printed transcript of a voice memo I had sent her last winter. “Gloria, I’m barely holding on. The house is so cold, and my stomach is killing me. I don’t want to be a burden, I just… I just need to hear your voice.” I had sent that audio file to her, and only her. Yet yesterday afternoon, Chase had forwarded that exact file back to me with a brief text: “Honestly, Ryan, you really need to see a therapist.” I held my phone up, showing her the message. “Did you send this to him?” The color drained from Gloria’s face. “I… I only wanted him to help me understand if you were going through a manic episode. He took some psychology classes in college.” My hand began to tremble. The glass of water on the nightstand slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. A stray shard sliced across my palm, and bright red blood began to well up in the crease of my hand. Gloria saw the blood. But her first instinct was to grab her phone and text Chase: “He’s losing his temper. Don’t be scared.” I looked down at the blood dripping onto the floor. It was funny, really. When you reach a certain level of exhaustion, even physical pain takes a moment to register. I grabbed a tissue, pressed it against my hand, picked up my suitcase, and walked out the door. The ER lobby was brightly lit, smelling of antiseptic and cold air. Donna was waiting for me near the entrance, holding a folder containing the court papers. When she saw my hand, she went to the nurses’ desk to grab some sterile gauze before handing me the documents. “The court date is set,” she said softly. “Three days from now. Nine in the morning.” I took the papers with my good hand. “Perfect.” Donna hesitated, looking at me closely. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to try mediation first?” I looked at the clean, straight cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Gloria: “Chase is really shaken up by how you acted. I’m going to stay at his place tonight to make sure he’s okay. Please use this time to calm down.” Donna caught a glimpse of the screen but said nothing. I took a screenshot of the message and saved it to the drive. The next morning, Gloria called me. “I’m taking Chase out to the old lighthouse today to help him shoot some b-roll. You’ll have to take your dad to his follow-up appointment yourself.” I stared at the medical slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with us.” “It’s just a routine check-up, Ryan, not surgery,” she said defensively. “Stop using your family to guilt-trip me.” My dad was standing right next to me at the clinic entrance, holding his travel mug. He didn’t ask any questions. He just handed me the warm mug and patted my shoulder. “Let’s go, son. Let’s get these tests out of the way.” After reviewing the scans, the doctor recommended a more detailed screening. My dad smiled weakly. “Well, when you get to my age, the machinery starts to rust.” The quieter he was, the tighter my chest felt. While I was standing in line at the billing counter, I tried calling Gloria. It went straight to voicemail. But on Instagram, Chase’s documentary account had just uploaded a reel. The wind was howling at the lighthouse. Gloria was standing right behind him, holding the legs of his tripod steady. Chase smiled into the camera: “The best part of this job is knowing that whether she’s out at sea or back on land, she’s always within reach.” My dad looked down at my phone screen, watching the video loop. It took him a long time to speak. “Has it always been like this, Ryan?” I locked the phone and slid it into my pocket. “Yeah.” For the first time, I didn’t try to make an excuse for her. At eight that evening, Gloria finally came home. She set a plastic container of seafood chowder on the dining table. “We finished shooting near the harbor. I grabbed this on the way back. It’s still warm, you and Dad can share it.” My dad was severely allergic to shellfish. My stomach couldn’t handle heavy, cream-based soups. She had forgotten all of it. I walked over to the table, picked up the container, and dropped it directly into the trash can. For the first time, Gloria lost her temper. “Ryan! What is wrong with you lately? I try to bring home dinner, and you throw a tantrum. I don’t bring anything, and you complain that I don’t care. Is there literally anything I can do right in your eyes?” My dad stood up from the sofa. “Gloria,” he said, his voice quiet but heavy. “Ryan spent the entire day running around the hospital with me. You promised you would be there.” Gloria’s tone softened slightly, but her jaw remained tight. “Dad, it’s not that I didn’t want to go. Chase has a deadline, and he was out at the lighthouse alone. If his equipment failed, he would have lost weeks of progress.” My dad didn’t say another word. He just turned and walked into the guest room. My phone vibrated again. Chase had sent another screenshot. It was a photo of him and Gloria standing under the shadow of the lighthouse, the golden sunset spilling over the ocean behind them. “Ryan, please don’t be mad at her. She’s just too kind-hearted to say no.” I typed a quick reply: “We’ll let the judge look at her kindness tomorrow morning.” Within sixty seconds, the photo was deleted from his feed, and the video was taken down. Then, Gloria’s phone rang. She answered, and Chase’s panicked voice spilled out. “Gloria… Ryan just texted me. He said something about court tomorrow. Is he actually suing me? I just wanted to share a nice memory. Why is he trying to destroy my life?” Gloria stared at me, a sudden, genuine look of fear finally creeping into her eyes. “Ryan… what is he talking about?” I walked into the study, picked up the thick manila envelope from my desk, and laid it out in front of her. The court summons, the petition for divorce, the detailed communication logs. One by one, I spread them across the table.

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During our dinners, Logan would always snap the sharp wooden tips off the skewers and place them right next to Cassie’s hand. He made sure the broken, blunt ends faced outward so she could grab them easily without looking. I sat across from them, watching in silence as Logan anticipated her every need. “Be careful,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t poke your lip like you did last time.” Meanwhile, the table in front of me was crowded with plates of extra-spicy wings and chili-laden dishes. There wasn’t a single thing I could eat. Once Cassie had eaten her fill, Logan reached over and pushed her leftover skewers toward me like an act of charity. “Go ahead and finish these. Don’t let them go to waste.” I looked down at my hand. The faint, jagged scar between my thumb and forefinger was still visible—a reminder of the heavy, rusted kitchen shears he had handed me last month. He hadn’t asked if I was hurt then; he had only sighed, annoyed, and told me to go buy some Neosporin. But right now, because Cassie had managed to get a microscopic wooden splinter in her finger, he was holding her hand like it was made of spun glass, spent five minutes delicately working a pair of tweezers. I quietly pushed the remaining chili-covered skewers back to the center of the table and stood up. “It’s going to rain soon. You two finish up, I’m going to head back.” I thought of our wedding, scheduled for next month. Deep down, a quiet certainty settled in my chest: the groom had to change. … Logan looked up at me, his hand holding the tweezers pausing for a fraction of a second. “Wait for me—” He cut himself off, his eyes lingering on my thin jacket before shifting to Cassie, who was shivering slightly beside him. “Get home safe,” he said. The bulb above our apartment porch had been dead for over a year. I had asked Logan to fix it countless times, but he never got around to it. Every night, I had to fumble through the pitch-black entryway to find my keys. Our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, caught me struggling in the dark. “Back alone again, Naomi? I thought you two were heading out of town today to visit your parents.” I forced a polite smile. “Something came up at his work. He couldn’t get away.” It was four hours later when the front door finally clicked open. Logan’s right shoulder was dark and soaked from the rain. He shook off his coat and hung it on the rack. “It’s supposed to freeze tomorrow. Make sure you pack an extra jacket for Cassie when you go out. You know how she always forgets.” “Why are you so late?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Logan glanced at me, kicking off his shoes. “You left too early. If you’d stayed, you could’ve caught the movie with us. If you really want to see it, I can take you this weekend to see it again, or you can just go by yourself.” “When this weekend?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Things are just crazy at work right now. I can’t say for sure. Besides, Cassie’s been struggling to find a job since she moved here, and she’s really depressed. I need to keep an eye on her.” I stared at him. “Crazy at work.” I had heard those three words for years. Whenever my plans clashed with Cassie’s needs, I was always the one expected to yield, to compromise, to step back. In the end, his solution was always for me to do things alone. “My parents called,” I said. “They wanted to know why we canceled again.” “Didn’t I tell you to just tell them I was slammed with a new project? We’ll go down together next time. It’s the same thing.” He sighed, loosening his collar. “Cassie is completely alone in this city. She doesn’t know anyone. It’s exactly like how we were when we first arrived.” Looking into his eyes, a sudden wave of memory washed over me. When I first followed Logan to this city, I had nothing but a single, battered suitcase. He had held my hands, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective warmth. “We’ll buy our own place here,” he had whispered. “I promise I’ll take care of you forever, Naomi.” I had believed him. But somewhere along the way, I had ceased to be the only person he wanted to protect. I had simply become one of his many responsibilities—and the easiest one to neglect. “I know I’ve been spending a lot of time helping her lately,” Logan said, stepping closer and tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “But her mother practically begged me to look after her. She’s like a little sister to me, Naomi. Once she gets settled on her own feet, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I flinched slightly, tilting my head away from his touch. I didn’t answer. He could plan out Cassie’s future so clearly, yet he completely forgot how long my parents had been waiting for us to visit. I hadn’t been home for the holidays in years, and this trip had been his idea in the first place. I had spent weeks looking forward to it. Now, a simple “she’s like a sister” was supposed to excuse everything, pinning me to a wall of quiet humiliation. It wasn’t that he was too busy. He just didn’t think I was worth his time or his patience. He noticed the mug in my hand and frowned. “Is that hot chamomile tea?” “I’m not feeling well. My stomach has been cramping.” His brow furrowed further. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known, I would’ve ordered some soup to the apartment. You shouldn’t have come out to a spicy diner in the first place.” He paused, adjusting his watch. “Look, since you’re under the weather, I’ll just partner up with Cassie for the neighborhood association’s charity scavenger hunt next week.” “You know that’s an event for couples, right?” I said. Sensing the coldness in my voice, Logan reached out and squeezed my hand. His voice dropped to a coaxing murmur. “I know, babe. But the grand prize is a luxury weekend getaway voucher. It’s a waste not to try. Once we win it, you and I will go on a trip. Just the two of us.” I had spent three consecutive days refreshing the registration page just to secure a spot for us in that event. The voucher was for a coastal resort I had dreamed of visiting for months. Yet even a promise like that could be reassigned to Cassie without a second thought. I remembered last New Year’s Eve. A single, panicked phone call from Cassie about a blown fuse was all it took for Logan to leave me in the middle of our dinner. I had spent the night curled up alone in bed, flinching at the sound of the thunder outside, unable to sleep until the sky turned gray. Since Cassie moved to this city, I had lost count of how many nights I spent waiting up for a husband-to-be who never came home. “Oh, by the way,” Logan added, “Cassie has a business trip next weekend. I’ll need to go with her.” “When?” “Next Friday. Her mother asked me to accompany her to make sure she’s safe.” The tightness in my throat was almost suffocating, but I forced the words out anyway. “You promised we’d go to my parents’ house next weekend. Do you even remember what day next Saturday is?” He blinked, his mind blank as he tried to calculate the date. “Cassie’s trip is her very first major assignment for her new job. We can visit your parents anytime, Naomi. And we can celebrate your birthday when I get back.” He poured a little warm water into my mug, his tone incredibly reasonable. “How about we celebrate your birthday a few days early? And just ask your parents to wait a little longer.” “My parents haven’t seen us in a year, Logan.” “It’s fine. I’ll buy some really nice gifts to bring over when we finally go. They’ll understand.” A profound, hollow exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Fine. Whatever you want.” Logan froze, surprised by my sudden compliance. “You’re agreeing just like that?” I offered a small, empty smile. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” It really didn’t. I used to scream, to cry, to demand his attention. But the result was always exactly the same. On my birthday last year, he had stayed late to help Cassie finish a project at her apartment. The small strawberry cake I had bought sat on the counter, melting into a sweet, sticky mess by the time he finally unlocked the door. His only comment back then had been: “You shouldn’t eat cake so late at night, Naomi. It’s bad for your figure.” Before I could say anything, a sharp wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I finally wiped my mouth and walked back out, Logan was already gone. The bedroom light was turned off. It was always like this. He never waited for me. I pulled out my phone, opened my contacts, and sent a message to a name I hadn’t written to in a long time. [I’m getting married next month. Do you want to be the groom?] Then, I opened a travel app and booked a one-way ticket for the following week. Seven days. That should be more than enough time to pack up my life. Since he was never going to accompany me home, I would simply go alone—and never come back. “Can you drop me off at the office today? It’s pouring outside,” I asked the next morning. Logan was standing by the counter, carefully packing fresh, warm croissants from the bakery down the street into a brown paper bag. “Cassie’s been craving these French pastries all week. If I don’t get them to her office right now, they’ll get cold,” he said, his fingers busy with the tape. He didn’t even look up at me. “When will you be home?” “Not sure. She’s still settling into her apartment, so I should probably drop by after work to see if she needs help with anything.” He paused, finally looking at me. “Make sure you grab some breakfast downstairs. That new bakery Cassie likes is really good. You should try it.” His phone buzzed. He picked it up and began typing rapidly. I caught a glimpse of the screen. Cassie’s contact name was saved with an ‘A’ in front of it, ensuring she always remained at the very top of his list. Without another word, he grabbed his keys and rushed out the door, leaving me alone in the quiet apartment. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windowpane. I zipped my coat up to my chin and grabbed the old, squeaky black umbrella from the stand by the door. The good, sturdy one was gone; Logan had taken it to Cassie because she “liked the bright color.” By midday, my stomach cramps had escalated into a sharp, burning pain. Unable to focus, I took a sick day and returned home to rest. But as I reached our door, the sound of muffled laughter and playful banter filtered through the wood. “It’s pouring out there! Thank God you picked me up, Logan.” “I’m completely soaked. You’re seriously the best, keeping a change of my clothes here.” “Stop squirming. Your hair is still dripping. You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t dry it.” I stood frozen in the hallway, my hand hovering over the handle. I had no idea what face to wear if I walked in. Should I smile and tell them to carry on? Or should I demand to know why Cassie had a wardrobe in our shared home? Before I could make up my mind, the door swung open from the inside. “Naomi! What are you doing standing out here?” Cassie squeaked, her eyes wide. “Logan and I were just about to run out and grab some road trip snacks for next weekend. You should come with us!” She was wearing my favorite oversized knit sweater. On her feet were the matching couple’s slippers I had bought for our home. “My stomach is killing me,” I said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “Could you bring back some medicine?” Logan’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s wrong? All of a sudden?” “Probably the spicy food from last night.” “I told you that you shouldn’t have gone out,” Logan sighed, his tone a mix of irritation and mild concern. “Just wait inside. I’ll text you when I buy it.” I didn’t reply. I walked past them into the living room and sat on the sofa. On the coffee table, the hair dryer was still warm to the touch. Logan hadn’t dried my hair in years. He always said it took too long and made his wrists ache. Two hours crawled by. My phone remained completely silent. Unable to bear the throbbing in my abdomen any longer, I opened an app and ordered the medicine myself. The nearest pharmacy was barely two hundred yards away. Within ten minutes, the delivery courier was knocking on the door. He looked at my pale face and the sweat beaded on my forehead. “Are you alright, ma’am? Is there no one else here to help you?” Before I could answer, the elevator doors down the hall chimed. Logan walked out, his arms laden with grocery bags and boxes of snacks. There was no pharmacy bag in his hands. He saw the delivery courier and blinked. “Oh, you already ordered it? Perfect, saved me a trip down.” I took the package, thanked the courier, and shut the door without saying a word. Cassie bounded into the living room, dropping her bags and grabbing my hand. “Naomi, you have to help me yell at Logan! His photography skills are absolutely tragic. He took a photo of me, and my face looks so weird! I just caught him taking ugly candid pictures of me on his phone.” She held up Logan’s phone, scrolling through the screen. I glanced at it. His camera roll was a dense gallery of Cassie—Cassie laughing at a cafe, Cassie walking in the park, Cassie looking at the rain. There was barely a trace of me on his device. “Cassie wants your signature spicy garlic noodles tonight,” Logan said, walking into the kitchen. “I still don’t feel well,” I said, my voice flat. “I can’t cook tonight.” Logan poured a glass of lukewarm water and handed it to me. “Come on, Naomi. She’s been talking about your garlic noodles for weeks. Just make it quickly, and then you can go straight to bed.” Cassie stood beside me in the kitchen, casually reaching into the cabinets and pulling out the pans as if she owned the place. “Yours are just so much better, Naomi. Logan’s cooking is practically a biohazard.” My hands froze. In our five years together, Logan had never cooked a single meal for me. “Naomi,” Cassie said, leaning against the counter as the water began to boil. “You’re not mad that Logan is going on the trip with me over your birthday, right?” “No,” I said. And I meant it. I wasn’t angry anymore. Even if I were, it wouldn’t change a single thing. “Cassie’s going to stay over tonight,” Logan announced later that evening as he cleared the table. “I’ve already made up the guest room. The light fixture in her apartment broke, and the landlord can’t get a repairman out there until tomorrow.” “Do whatever you want,” I replied, looking out the window at our own porch, still swallowed by the dark. I let out a soft, dry laugh. The next morning, I was awoken by whispered arguments from the hallway. When I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I saw a brand-new pink toothbrush resting in the holder, pressed tightly against Logan’s. “Our neighbor saw me coming out of the building this morning and looked at me like I was some kind of homewrecker,” Cassie sobbed, her voice muffled against Logan’s chest in the living room. “Logan, maybe we shouldn’t hang out so much. Is Naomi upset because you didn’t go to her parents’ place?” Logan gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t talk nonsense. Naomi and I have been together for years. She’s not the type to get worked up over something so trivial.” They caught sight of me standing at the edge of the hallway and stiffened. Logan cleared his throat and stood up. “You’re up. The neighborhood association just posted the final participant list for the scavenger hunt in the group chat.” He looked at me expectantly. “Go into the chat and clarify things for everyone so they don’t get the wrong idea.” “Clarify what?” I asked. “Just tell them you willingly gave your spot to Cassie because she really wanted to go. She’s feeling incredibly hurt by all the gossip.” “Okay.” I pulled out my phone and sent the message to the neighborhood group chat immediately. But the neighbors weren’t easily appeased. Within seconds, a message popped up: [The rules clearly state this event is for couples and spouses only. What exactly are Logan and Cassie supposed to be?] Cassie’s eyes immediately welled with fresh tears. “I’m so sorry, Naomi… I didn’t know. I just wanted to win that trip with Logan. Maybe you should go with him instead, and I’ll just watch from the sidelines.” “No need,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “It’s just a neighborhood game. We can go on a trip anytime without a voucher.” Hearing this, Cassie’s face instantly cleared, and she beamed. I stood there, my nails digging hard into my palms. I loved traveling. But ever since Cassie arrived, Logan’s free time had been entirely consumed by her. The last time we had managed to align our schedules for a vacation, we had only driven to a neighboring county for a single afternoon because he was terrified Cassie would get lonely. No one had asked for my input, yet the decision had already been made. Logan glanced at me. “I bought breakfast. Come eat. It’s oatmeal.” I looked at the cardboard cup on the table. It was maple-flavored oatmeal, a scent that had made me nauseous since childhood. “Logan, why do you always buy the things I hate?” Cassie quickly stepped forward, grabbing my hands with an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, Naomi! I picked it out. I didn’t know what you liked.” I pulled my hands back and turned to walk back to the bedroom. Logan’s voice followed me down the hall. “Cassie was just trying to be nice, Naomi. It’s just breakfast, no need to make a big deal out of it. I’ll get you something else next time. By the way, there’s a high school reunion dinner tonight. Are you coming?” “No,” I said. “I’m free tonight, so let’s all three of us go,” Logan said, completely ignoring my refusal. “Cassie wants to make some new friends in the city.” I didn’t argue further. I simply nodded. When we reached the car, Cassie naturally opened the front passenger door and climbed in. “Cassie gets carsick easily,” Logan said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Go ahead and sit in the back, Naomi.” When we arrived at the restaurant, Cassie immediately linked her arm through Logan’s. “Walk on my right, Logan. It’s safer away from the street.” Logan cast a brief glance back at me over his shoulder. “Watch out for the traffic, Naomi.” I trailed behind them at a leisurely pace, watching them laugh and tease each other. When the traffic light turned yellow, they hurried across, leaving me stranded on the opposite side of the intersection. At the entrance of the restaurant, several of our old classmates recognized them and waved excitedly. “Logan! Look at you, bringing a date!” “Are you guys wearing matching neutral tones? That is so adorable!” “You two look so happy. When’s the big day? When are we getting wedding invitations?” The wedding I had spent six months planning was supposed to happen next month. But now, there was no longer any need for it. Logan laughed off the comments, looking down at Cassie before casting a reassuring, placating glance in my direction. “Stop teasing, guys. She gets embarrassed easily.” He paused, then added, “We’ll be finalizing the wedding plans soon. I’ll make sure you all get invitations.” He didn’t deny his relationship with Cassie. And he didn’t mention my name once. At the banquet table, Cassie sat directly next to Logan. I sat on the opposite side, facing them. Throughout the meal, Logan peeled shrimp, placing them into Cassie’s plate one by one. Someone at the table looked across at me. “Naomi, where’s your boyfriend tonight?” “He was busy,” I said smoothly. “He couldn’t make it.” “Oh, come on. No matter how busy a guy is, he should make time for you. Just look at how attentive Logan is to his girl.” Logan’s hands didn’t falter. He continued peeling the shrimp, his focus entirely on Cassie’s plate. I laid my chopsticks down. He really was an incredibly attentive man. Just not to me. Cassie giggled, holding a peeled shrimp up to Logan’s lips. “You eat some too, Logan.” He leaned forward and took it from her fingers. Someone at the table began to cheer. “Oh, look at you two! Get a room! Or at least give us a kiss!” Logan didn’t offer any explanation. He merely offered a warm, boyish smile. Cassie blushed, hiding her face in her hands. “Stop it, you guys are terrible!” By the time the dinner ended, Cassie was visibly tipsy. Logan supported her with an arm wrapped around her waist as they walked out. Realizing I had left my coat on the chair, I turned back to retrieve it. When I finally walked out to the parking lot, they were already sitting in the car. An old classmate who was walking by noticed me getting in. “Wait, is Naomi riding with you guys too?” “We’re heading the same way,” Logan replied casually. The drive back was cramped and silent. “Cassie’s not feeling well,” Logan said quietly, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Let her lean against you so she can sleep. You should close your eyes too. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the streetlights blur into long, yellow smears. “The day after tomorrow, Cassie and I will celebrate your birthday early,” Logan continued. “Her business trip might run a bit long, so I want to make sure we do something before she leaves. We’ll go to that upscale Italian place you’ve been wanting to try.” I stared at the lock screen of my phone. The countdown timer showed only a few days left. “Okay,” I murmured. Even my own birthday had to be scheduled around Cassie’s availability, Cassie’s tastes, and Cassie’s convenience. Logan drove straight to Cassie’s building, seamlessly punching in the security code at her door. Inside, two pairs of matching house slippers lay neatly on the rug. I didn’t ask. He lifted Cassie into a bridal carry and bore her gently to her bed. “Logan… can you stay with me tonight?” Cassie whimpered from the pillows, clutching his sleeve. Logan turned around, looking at me with a deeply conflicted expression. “She’s always been afraid of the dark since we were kids, Naomi. Can I just…” I looked him dead in the eye. “Logan, do you know what tomorrow is?” He blinked, momentarily lost. “What?” “Never mind,” I said. “Forget it.” The night was pitch-black, and the wind was cold as I walked home alone. For a second, fear crept in, and I pulled out my phone to call him. But my finger hovered over his name, and then I slowly locked the screen. The next morning, 9:00 AM came and went. There was no message from Logan. I took a cab to the bridal boutique alone. The first time we had passed this shop, Logan had literally dragged me inside by the hand. He had stared at me, his eyes shining with absolute certainty. “Do you like it?” I had laughed and told him I did, but urged him to leave, telling him we weren’t ready. But his face had turned incredibly solemn. “It’s going to happen sooner or later, Naomi. I’m going to marry you anyway. We might as well pick it out now before someone else steals the most beautiful bride in the world from me.” Now, I was the only one standing in front of the mirrors. The consultant looked behind me anxiously. “Ms. West… your wedding is next month, but the groom still hasn’t come in for his final fitting…” I forced a faint smile. “I’d like to look at some other styles first.” I waited for exactly thirty minutes. Logan’s figure never appeared in the doorway. I let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Actually, don’t hold the dress. Cancel the entire order, please.” As I stepped out of the boutique, the sunlight felt blindingly bright. The streets were filled with couples holding hands, laughing, sharing umbrellas. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Sweetie, the invitations are being printed today. Is Cassie going to be your maid of honor, or do you have other bridesmaids?” I froze. “Mom, who told you Cassie was the maid of honor?” “Logan called us a couple of weeks ago,” my mother said, sounding confused. “He said he had already ordered a custom dress for her and everything.” The afternoon sun was warm, but a sudden, icy chill settled deep in my chest. “Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “The groom isn’t Logan. Don’t send invitations to him or Cassie.” I hung up and sent Logan a text: [Are you free today? I have something to tell you.] I stood on the sidewalk for forty minutes. No reply, no call. It wasn’t until noon that his reply finally flashed on my screen. [Cassie’s stomach is acting up again. I’m at the clinic with her while she gets an IV. Let’s talk another day.] I stared at the words for a long time. When my stomach was cramping, he forgot to buy the medicine. But the moment Cassie felt a slight discomfort, he could abandon everything to sit by her hospital bed. Six months ago, he had told me he wanted to give me the wedding of my dreams. I had spent every day since then planning, organizing, and executing every single detail alone because he was always “too busy.” Suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to feel angry. [No need for another day, Logan. Let’s break up.] Within seconds, a FaceTime request flashed on my screen. When I answered, Cassie’s face appeared, pale but pleading. “Naomi, please don’t be mad at Logan! I’ll tell him to go to the bridal shop right now, I swear!” Logan’s guilt-ridden face appeared behind her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. I didn’t forget about the fitting. But Cassie drank too much last night and was throwing up blood this morning. I’ll make it up to you and go with you tomorrow, I promise.” Before he could finish, Cassie let out a small gasp in the background. “Logan! The restaurant just messaged. They said they only have a table for two available for tomorrow night!” The line fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Logan’s brow furrowed tightly. He bit his lower lip, looking deeply conflicted. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “Cassie, let’s cancel the dinner. Tomorrow is Naomi’s birthday, and I promised to go to the bridal shop with her. You leave for your business trip the day after. If we don’t go tomorrow, Naomi and I won’t have another chance before the wedding.” Cassie’s lower lip trembled, and she began to pout. I offered a small, thin smile to the camera. “It’s fine. You two go ahead.” Logan’s brow furrowed deeper. “Naomi…” Cassie quickly tugged at his sleeve. “See, Logan? Naomi said it’s fine. She’s not mad.” Logan remained quiet for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Alright… then we’ll go to the bridal shop the second I get back, okay?” “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you later,” Logan said, looking relieved. The call disconnected. It had lasted less than sixty seconds. The following evening, a mutual friend sent me a screenshot of Cassie’s private Instagram feed. It was a photo of an elegant, candlelit dinner. [My 400th meal with Logan.] In the center of the table was a beautifully decorated cake with the number ‘400’ piped in gold icing. They could find the time to celebrate a arbitrary number, yet my actual birthday was treated as an inconvenience to be negotiated. I screenshotted the image and forwarded it to Logan. Below her post, our old classmates had left dozens of comments: “You two are literally soulmates,” “So sweet!” Logan replied to my text almost instantly: [Cassie is just young and childish, Naomi. She doesn’t mean anything by it.] A few minutes later, another message popped up: [Naomi, I’m so sorry. Cassie’s flight got bumped up. I have to drive her to the airport tonight.] I replied: [Okay.] At exactly 12:05 AM, a final text arrived: [Happy birthday, Naomi. I promise you, by the end of this year, I’m going to make you my wife.] I stared at the words. In all the years we had been together, this was the very first time he had remembered to wish me a happy birthday so early. He was finally promising to marry me, but I no longer wanted to be his wife. The next morning, as the plane tore through the clouds, Logan sat in his seat, his brow furrowed in a tight knot. His thumb scrolled aimlessly over his phone screen. I hadn’t replied to his birthday message. Just before his signal vanished completely, his social media feed refreshed one last time. An old high school friend had posted a photo of a thick, gold-embossed wedding invitation. But the name of the groom printed on the card was not Logan Barrett.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524607”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always struggled with social anxiety, and growing up, Leo was always the one who stepped in to speak for me. “My Hope is a little shy,” he’d say, a protective arm slung over my shoulder. “Don’t scare her.” For years, I believed him. I believed that his protection was my sanctuary. Until the night before the varsity debate tournament. I was huddled in the quietest corner of the campus library, clutching my speech, my palms slick with sweat. Leo had promised to run through my arguments with me. But then Phoebe, the new transfer student in our department, sent him a text saying her laptop had crashed. Just like that, he stood up and walked away. Before he left, he slapped a sticky note onto my desk. “I wrote the entire brief for you,” he said, his voice flat. “Just read it. You can’t rely on me for everything, Hope.” I stared at that sticky note, waiting for him to come back. I waited the entire night. Later, as I walked past the computer lab, I heard Phoebe’s soft, teasing laugh drift through the cracked door. “Are you sure you should have left her like that? What if she cries?” Leo’s response was low, dismissive. “Let her cry. She needs to grow up anyway.” The next day, under the harsh auditorium lights, my throat closed up. I choked on my opening statement. In the past, Leo would have been the first to jump in, to seamlessly pivot and cover for me. But that day, he was sitting right next to the judges’ panel, his head bent toward Phoebe, effortlessly twisting open a bottle of water for her. When the round ended, he finally looked at me, his forehead creasing with irritation. “Hope, honestly, you embarrassed me out there today.” I looked at the water bottle in his hand, and then at the sticky note in mine. The ink of his handwriting was still clear. But the shield that had protected me from the wind for years had turned its back, leaving me entirely in the cold. … When Leo finally held the bottle out to me, the cap was already loosened. I didn’t take it. My thumb pressed against the corner of the sticky note, the paper softened and warped by the sweat of my palms. It held the opening hook he had crafted for me. Phoebe stood right beside him, a soft, sympathetic smile on her lips. “Oh, Leo, don’t be so hard on her. She was already so nervous.” Leo’s brow didn’t clear. “I’m not being hard on her. I’m just trying to make her realize that in the real world, you can’t always count on someone to swoop in and save you.” Ryan, our third speaker, glanced between us and offered a quiet, awkward shrug. “I mean, Leo has a point, Hope. It was pretty rough up there. Even the judges were looking uncomfortable.” I lowered my eyes, quietly tucking the sticky note into the folder of my printed brief. “Yeah. I know.” My flat response seemed to catch Leo off guard. His hand hovered in the air, the water bottle suspended between us. “Good,” he muttered, pulling his hand back. “Because the divisional round is next week. You need to go back to the dorm and practice. A lot.” Phoebe leaned in, her eyes bright. “Honestly, Hope’s writing is beautiful. It’s just her delivery—it’s a little too soft. Maybe I could run some drills with her before the next round?” Leo turned to look at Phoebe, his tone instantly softening. “Focus on your own laptop first. We don’t need it crashing in the middle of the night again.” A few other teammates chuckled. Someone cracked a joke: “Listen to him. He sounds like a nagging husband already.” Phoebe’s ears flushed pink. She gave Leo a playful shove. “Shut up, you guys. Stop making things up.” Leo didn’t pull away. He just let out a low, comfortable laugh. My hands froze on my papers. I took a slow breath and packed them into my tote bag, zipping it shut. Once, that warm, intimate laugh had belonged solely to me. I remembered our freshman year, during our first seminar. The professor had made everyone stand up and introduce themselves. I had stood at the front of the lecture hall, my fingers frantically digging into my sleeves, unable to squeeze out a single syllable. Leo had stood up from the very back row, offering a charming, easy smile to the room. “Her name is Hope,” he had said. “She’s a bit shy, so don’t stare too hard, guys. Give her a break.” The room had chuckled, the tension dissolving. And I had breathed a sigh of relief. He still laughed like that now. Only the recipient had changed. On the way back to the dorms, Leo caught up to me. His fingers wrapped gently around my wrist, pulling me to a halt. “Why are you walking so fast?” he asked, looking down at me. “Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment because of what I said? I was just trying to help.” I tried to tug my wrist back, but his grip remained firm. “I’m fine.” He watched me, the familiar warmth of his palm seeping through my skin. “Hope, I know you better than anyone. When you say you’re fine, you’re the exact opposite.” Phoebe caught up with us then, her footsteps light on the pavement. “You two have that childhood-friend telepathy, don’t you? Even your arguments have secret codes.” Leo let go of my wrist, adjusting his jacket with a shrug. “She’s always been like this. Quiet. A little dramatic. You just have to humor her and she’ll bounce back.” I clutched my folder a little tighter against my chest. “I don’t need to be humored, Leo.” Leo blinked, clearly taken aback, before letting out a soft laugh. “Alright, no humoring. But you’re going to read through your opening arguments three times tonight. I’ll test you tomorrow.” Phoebe tilted her head. “Can you test me too, Leo? I’m terrified I’m going to drag the team down during the divisionals.” Leo reached over and took the heavy binder from her arms. “You don’t need it. Your impromptu delivery is much better than hers.” He said it so casually, so naturally, that it felt like a physical blow. My eyes fell to the corner of the yellow sticky note peeking out of my bag, and suddenly, his neat, bold handwriting felt like an eyesore. At the entrance of my dorm building, Leo pulled a fresh pad of sticky notes from his backpack and handed them to me. “You always forget to highlight your transitions,” he said. “Take these. I’ll help you map out your logic tomorrow.” They were pastel yellow. Ever since middle school, he had always bought me this exact shade. He used to say that yellow was bright enough to cut through my cluttered thoughts, helping me find my focus. I took the pad, my lips parting to say thank you, when Phoebe suddenly gasped, frantically rummaging through her purse. “Oh no! I think I left my campus card in the debate hall.” Leo immediately turned around. “I’ll go back with you to get it.” He took a couple of steps, then looked back over his shoulder. “Go on up, Hope. Don’t wait for me. Make sure you practice tonight. No slacking.” I stood there, watching them walk away shoulder to shoulder. A sudden gust of wind caught the sticky notes in my hand, flipping the top page open. There was handwriting on the very first sheet. Three words, written in Leo’s unmistakable hand: “For Phoebe.” I stared at it. I walked up to my room, placed the pad on the corner of my desk, and didn’t touch it for the rest of the night. My roommate, Bella, walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her wet hair. Seeing me motionless at my desk, she tapped the wood. “You’ve been staring at that piece of paper for thirty minutes, Hope. Is it going to sprout legs and talk to you?” I slowly peeled off the top sheet, crumpling it into my fist. “Leo gave me the wrong pad.” Bella leaned in, squinting at my hand. “Is that… Phoebe’s name?” I nodded, pushing the rest of the yellow pad away. “He probably bought them together and got them mixed up.” Bella dropped onto her bed, sighing heavily. “Stop making excuses for him, Hope. He didn’t speak up for you once today. But the second Phoebe looked at him, he couldn’t wait to play the gentleman and open her water bottle.” I didn’t answer. I just opened my laptop to revise my brief, the bright screen illuminating my pale face. A notification popped up on my phone. It was a text from Leo. “10:00 AM tomorrow. Debate room. Don’t be late.” A few seconds later, another message followed: “Let’s move past today. Don’t let a small thing get between us.” I stared at the words for a long time before typing out a single word: “Okay.” The next morning, I arrived at the debate room ten minutes early. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the gap, Phoebe’s voice drifted out. “Do you think my delivery would sound more persuasive for this rebuttal? Hope is just… so soft. She doesn’t really hold the room’s attention.” Then, Leo’s low murmur replied: “That’s why I want you to practice it. We aren’t officially changing speakers yet, but we need a solid backup.” My hand froze on the doorknob. Inside, someone on the team chuckled. “Wow, Leo. Talk about planning ahead. But if Hope finds out you wrote a parallel brief for Phoebe, won’t she shut down again?” Leo’s voice remained calm, entirely indifferent. “She won’t make a scene. She’ll just hide in her room and pout for a couple of days. She always does.” Phoebe let out a soft, pleased laugh. “You really have her figured out, don’t you?” Leo didn’t deny it. “She can’t function without me.” When I finally pushed the door open, the room fell into a sudden, awkward silence. Leo looked up and saw me, his expression smoothing out instantly. “You’re here. Sit down, don’t just stand at the door.” I noticed the papers in Phoebe’s hand. They were identical to mine—even the placement of the sticky notes was exactly the same. I stared at them, my voice barely a whisper. “Is that… my brief?” Leo’s tone took on a professional, slightly stern edge. “Your arguments are strong, Hope, but your delivery is too unstable. Phoebe is going to run through it to demonstrate how it should sound. Watch and learn from her.” I looked from the papers to Phoebe’s face. “So… am I still the second speaker for the divisionals?” Phoebe didn’t say anything. She just smoothed down the edges of the paper. Leo leaned back in his chair, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Right now, you should be focusing on how to improve, not obsessing over who gets to read the speech.” Bella walked into the room behind me, letting out a sharp, cold laugh. “Hope stayed up all night writing that brief, Leo. Since when did her work become community property?” Leo raised his head, his tone polite but icy. “This is debate team business, Bella. Stay out of it.” Bella opened her mouth to argue, but I reached out and gently pulled her sleeve. “It’s fine,” I murmured. Hearing those words, the tension in Leo’s shoulders visibly eased. He probably thought I was doing what I always did—shrinking back, letting him have his way. When the practice run began, Phoebe took the podium with my notes. Her voice was clear, her pacing immaculate. The rest of the team immediately showered her with praise. “Now that’s what a second speaker should sound like!” “Honestly, Phoebe makes this brief sound so much better.” “Hope, you should really take some notes. Don’t let Leo’s prep work go to waste.” Leo stood by the whiteboard, glancing over at me. “See? No one is attacking you, Hope. I’m doing this for your own good.” I nodded slowly. “I see.” My calm reaction didn’t seem to satisfy him. He walked over, ripping off a sticky note and slapping it onto my folder. “Revise this transition. Don’t make it so convoluted. The judges won’t have the patience to sit through your build-up.” I looked down at the note. In the bottom corner, instead of the star he usually drew for me, there was a tiny sketched flower. Phoebe giggled from behind him. “Oh, I drew that. Just a habit. You don’t mind, do you?” I shut my folder. “No. I don’t mind.” Leo kept his eyes on me, his tone dropping. “You’re acting weird today.” I met his gaze. “I’m just taking your advice. Trying to grow up.” During the lunch break, I went to the campus print shop to make fresh copies of my revised notes. Next to the main printer, a draft of the divisional roster was lying face-up. The wind rustled the pages, revealing a yellow sticky note stuck to the corner. “Hope’s emotional state is too unstable. Slotting Phoebe in as second speaker.” The signature at the bottom belonged to Leo. The printer attendant stepped out, glancing at the machine. “Your copies are ready, miss. Don’t forget your papers.” I picked up my warm sheets of paper, my voice barely audible. “Excuse me… is the divisional roster being submitted today?” The clerk flipped through some files on the counter. “Yep. Has to be turned in to the Student Government by five tonight. Why?” I shook my head. “Nothing. Thank you.” When I returned to the debate room, Leo was walking Phoebe through the cross-examination strategy. He held a red pen, patiently circling key points on her sheet. His voice was unusually gentle. “Pause for half a second here,” he instructed. “Don’t rush. When you rush, you sound overly defensive.” Phoebe rested her chin in her hands, looking up at him. “What about Hope? When she gets nervous, she just stops talking altogether.” Leo smiled faintly. “That’s why she needs to practice.” I walked in and set my printed files on the table. “Leo, I need to ask you something.” He didn’t look up from Phoebe’s paper. “In a minute. Let me finish smoothing out this section for Phoebe.” Bella stood up from her corner. “How long does it take to answer a single question, Leo? Didn’t you use to say that whatever Hope had to say was the most important thing in the room?” Leo finally raised his head, his expression hardening. “Bella, you’ve been looking for a fight all day.” Phoebe quickly tried to play peacemaker. “Hey, let’s not fight. We’re all on the same team. Hope, what did you want to ask?” I kept my eyes on Leo. “The divisional roster. Have you turned it in yet?” Leo’s fingers tensed around his red pen. He slowly set it down. “Not yet. Why do you ask?” “Can I see it?” He slid his folder shut, his voice dropping an octave. “Hope, don’t you trust me?” He had asked me that same question before. Back in high school, before the homecoming assembly, I had been terrified of forgetting my lines and asked if he could stay late to help me run through them. He had pressed a sticky note onto the back of my hand then, smiling. “Don’t you trust me? If I say you can do this, you can.” He had stayed with me until midnight that night. And for years, whenever he said “trust me”, I did. But now, looking at his hand firmly clamping the folder shut, I slowly retracted my hand. “I do.” Leo’s posture relaxed slightly. “Then stop overthinking. I’ll take care of it this afternoon.” Phoebe slid a paper cup of milk tea toward me. “Here, Hope, have something sweet. Don’t be so tense. Leo is just tough love, but he has a soft heart.” Bella reached over and pushed the cup away. “She doesn’t drink taro milk tea. Phoebe doesn’t know that, Leo, but did you forget too?” Leo went quiet for a beat. “It slipped my mind.” Phoebe looked appropriately embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought all girls liked taro.” I shook my head. “It’s fine.” Suddenly, a couple of students from the Student Government knocked and entered the room. The senior in the lead, Adrian, was holding a stack of official forms. His eyes swept across the room. “We’re collecting the signed divisional rosters today. Who is Hope?” I stood up. “I am.” Adrian handed me a sheet. “There’s been a change to your registration details. I need you to review it and sign to confirm if everything is correct.” Leo reached out to intercept the paper before it reached me. “She gets overwhelmed easily. I’ll review it for her.” Adrian didn’t let go of the form. “The student has to sign it themselves. No proxies allowed.” Leo’s hand hovered in the air, his polite smile fading. “I’m the team captain. I’ve always handled her paperwork.” Adrian ignored him and looked directly at me. “Do you need him to handle it for you, Hope?” The room fell dead silent. Everyone was waiting for my answer. I swallowed hard, forcing the words out of my tight throat. “No. I don’t.” Leo shot me a warning, displeased look. I took the form from Adrian. My eyes scanned the page. Under the slot for the second speaker, my name had been crossed out, and “Phoebe” was written in its place. In the remarks section, there was a typed note: “Hope has voluntarily stepped down to serve as a research assistant.” I clutched the paper, my fingers trembling slightly. I didn’t sign. Adrian spoke softly. “If this wasn’t your decision, you have the right to refuse to sign.” Leo stepped closer, his finger pressing down on the corner of the paper. “Hope, let’s not make a scene in front of guests. Just sign it, and I’ll explain everything later.” I looked up at him. “Why am I the research assistant?” He glanced around the room, keeping his voice low and measured. “Because your current headstate isn’t suited for the stage. Phoebe can win this for us. We can’t risk the entire team’s performance just to accommodate your anxiety.” Phoebe bit her lip. “Hope, please don’t misunderstand. I only just found out about this. Leo said you were under too much pressure, so I agreed to help out.” Ryan chimed in quietly from the back. “Actually, it makes sense. Hope writes the arguments, Phoebe delivers them. It’s a pretty efficient division of labor.” Bella let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Efficient? You steal her work, kick her off the stage, and then force her to sign a paper saying she did it voluntarily? Yeah, sounds real fair.” Leo tapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s enough. Quiet down.” I stared down at the form. My eyes drifted to the open binder on Leo’s desk, where a corner of a print receipt was peeking out. The print timestamp was from two nights ago, at the third-floor library printer. The night he had told me Phoebe’s laptop crashed. But the receipt showed that Phoebe’s account had been used to print my entire, completed brief. I slowly folded the registration form and handed it back to Adrian. “I need some time to verify this.” Adrian nodded understandingly. “Sure. Bring it to the Student Government office before five. After that, the system locks.” Once Adrian was out of earshot, Leo turned on me, his eyes dark. “Hope, you just put me in an incredibly difficult position.” I pulled my tote bag close. “You could have told me beforehand.” “And if I did, would you have agreed?” he countered, exasperated. “You would have cried, shut down, and made everyone walk on eggshells around you. How would we have prepped for the debate then?” Phoebe said softly, “Leo, don’t say that. I’m sure she didn’t mean to make things hard.” Leo rubbed his temples. “I know she didn’t. That’s why I made the decision for her.” I stared at him. “For me?” “Hope, I’ve spent our entire lives shielding you from things,” he said, his tone softening back into that patronizing warmth. “You know that. This is no different. I’m helping you.” Bella grabbed my wrist. “Hope, let’s get out of here.” Leo stepped in front of the door, blocking our path. “We have a mock trial at three. You can’t leave yet. At least hand over your research notes before you go.” I looked at his outstretched hand. The hand that used to block microphones when I was too terrified to speak. The hand that used to slip reassuring notes into my palms. Now, it was just a barrier keeping me trapped. I handed my bag to Bella. “I need to use the restroom.” Leo stepped aside. “Don’t be long.” I didn’t go to the restroom. I went straight to the third floor of the library. The printer tracking system in the campus lab was still logged in. The student worker on duty recognized me and pulled up the logs, offering a casual comment: “Your debate team has been printing a lot lately. Actually, that tall guy—Leo, right?—came by last night asking to delete one of the print history entries. Said he didn’t want his girlfriend to get the wrong idea.” My chest tightened. “Which entry?” “Uh, let me look… He said someone borrowed his account, and leaving the log would cause a misunderstanding. It was Phoebe’s account, printing a full brief at 9:27 PM two nights ago.” I stared at the screen. The digital footprints were clear as day. Phoebe’s account: 9:27 PM, printing my debate brief. Leo’s account: 9:29 PM, printing the registration change form. At 9:30 PM, he had sent me that text: “Don’t be nervous. I’ll be right there with you tomorrow.” I took a photo of the screen on my phone. When I returned to the debate room, the mock trial was already underway. Phoebe was standing at the podium, delivering my words with effortless charisma. Leo sat by the judges’ table, a thick pad of yellow sticky notes in his hand. Every time she finished a point, he would walk over and stick one onto her folder. “Great job here.” “Brilliant point.” “Flawless finish.” Every single note was pastel yellow. I stood by the doorway, listening to the quiet chatter of the team members. “Phoebe is honestly such a better fit than Hope.” “Yeah, Leo should have made this swap weeks ago. Hope’s writing is fine, but her delivery is just too painful to watch.” “But won’t Hope be upset?” “Ah, Leo said she’s codependent. He’ll just buy her some food and she’ll be fine.” When the mock round concluded, Phoebe had scored the highest marks in the room. Leo stood up, clapping his hands. “Perfect. We’re running this exact version for the tournament.” I stepped into the room. “And what about me?” He turned, his brow furrowing when he saw me. “Where were you? The team’s been waiting for you to hand over the research.” Phoebe trotted over, clutching her notes, her expression a mask of sweet guilt. “Hope, I’m so sorry. We ran a trial and the chemistry was just so good. Do you think I could take this round? I promise I’ll make it up to you and let you have the next one.” I looked past her, straight at Leo. “Is that what you want too?” Leo’s voice remained even, bathed in that familiar, reasonable tone. “Hope, don’t put so much weight on a single tournament. Pushing yourself onto a stage you’re not ready for will only make you look foolish.” I gave a small nod. “I didn’t sign the change form.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a different sheet of paper. “I figured. That’s why I prepared a withdrawal statement for you. You just need to sign this.” Bella’s voice shook with rage. “Leo, are you out of your mind?” Leo ignored her, holding the pen out to me. “Just sign it, Hope. Don’t make things difficult for the team.” I looked down at the paper. In the section for the reason for withdrawal, it read: “Student is experiencing psychological instability and is currently unfit for public speaking engagements.” Phoebe said softly, “Hope, please don’t be mad at Leo. He stayed up so late last night drafting this to make sure the wording was gentle enough so it wouldn’t impact your future applications for campus clubs.” Leo snapped his head toward her. “Phoebe.” She quickly shut her mouth, realizing she had let something slip. But the truth was already out in the open. It wasn’t a last-minute decision. He had planned this long in advance. Leo pushed the pen closer to my hand. “Come on, Hope. Be good. Sign it, and I’ll take you out to that diner you love.” I took the pen. Just a second before the nib could touch the paper, Adrian’s voice drifted in from the doorway. “Hope, I brought your original registration form.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524606”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At the annual Met Gala-style charity auction, I wore the exact same bespoke tuxedo as my fiancée’s personal assistant. Chase stood across from me, a smug, barely suppressed snicker pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Lucas,” he whispered, loud enough for the nearby photographers to catch. “You’re supposed to be a man of pedigree. Why on earth are you wearing a knockoff? And a cheap, bargain-bin replica at that?” Cassandra, my fiancée, stared at me with unmasked disgust. “Your attire is utterly embarrassing tonight, Lucas. Chase, you’ll be my escort for the evening.” I stood perfectly still under the flashing lights of the ballroom. I knew my best friend, who had gifted me the suit, would never buy a fake. He’d spent months coordinating with a legendary Savile Row designer to get it made. There was only one logical explanation. A thief had entered my home. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply turned away from Cassandra and walked toward the quietest corner of the ballroom, where her older sister sat alone in a polished titanium wheelchair. “Tonight,” I said, offering a slight bow, “I would be honored to be your escort.” In our world, the arrangement was absolute: a man of the Mercer family had to marry a woman of the Langford dynasty to secure the generational trust. But the contract never specified which Langford daughter. Beatrice Langford had lost the bitter family power struggle to her younger sister, Cassandra, only because a devastating car accident six months ago had left her paralyzed from the waist down. What the Langfords didn’t know was that I possessed a legacy of my own. Beyond my family’s declining real estate empire, I was the sole practitioner of a rare, near-mythical school of neuro-regeneration—a lineage of precision micro-acupuncture known in whispered high-society circles as “The Weaver.” I had restored movement to patients on the brink of total paralysis. A pair of damaged legs was nothing more than a puzzle waiting to be solved. … Three months into my engagement with Cassandra, my prospective father-in-law had insisted we attend this high-profile charity gala together to present a united front to the Wall Street press. Before we left, my future in-laws had repeatedly lectured me about looking presentable, desperate to ensure I didn’t tarnish the pristine Langford brand. By chance, the event fell on my birthday. My closest friend, Toby, had surprised me with a custom-tailored, bespoke tuxedo. I had hoped to step into the grand ballroom and finally feel like I belonged in this glittering, superficial world. Instead, the moment I walked through the heavy mahogany doors of the Plaza Hotel, I saw him. Chase, Cassandra’s twenty-four-year-old personal assistant, was wearing the exact same midnight-blue tuxedo with silk-faille lapels. We were identical. Except we weren’t. As I approached him, my eyes locked onto the drape of his jacket. It was flawless. The fabric had a liquid sheen, the stitching invisible. Then I looked down at my own lapels. The fabric was stiff, the cut slightly off, the lining cheap polyester. Mine was a blatant, embarrassing imitation. Chase covered his mouth, letting out a soft, theatrical giggle. “Honestly, Lucas, you have a family name to uphold. How could you show up in a replica that looks like it was bought off a discount rack?” He adjusted his cuffs, making sure the diamonds on his links caught the light. “An event this important, and you dress like this? It’s a slap in the face to Cassandra.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a toxic purr. “If you couldn’t afford a real custom piece, you should have just asked. I’m sure Cassandra would have bought you something passable.” I ignored the bait. “Where did you get that suit, Chase?” “Cassandra bought it for me, of course,” he said, puffing out his chest. “She was terrified I’d look as provincial as you, so she had it imported.” He emphasized the word provincial with a sickening, triumphant grin. Cassandra stepped up beside him, her expression hardening the moment she saw me. “Did you take my suit, Cassandra?” I asked quietly. Her face flushed with immediate outrage. “Lucas, watch your tongue. It’s a tuxedo. Do you honestly think I can’t afford to buy one for my staff?” “This specific tuxedo was hand-crafted by a master tailor in London. It is a one-of-a-kind piece,” I replied, my voice steady. “Toby pulled every favor he had to secure it for my birthday. If the real one is on your assistant’s back, then someone took it from my closet and replaced it with this trash.” Cassandra let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You are being utterly ridiculous. I am a Langford. Why would I ever resort to petty theft? I didn’t realize you were this pathetic, Lucas.” Toby, who had just entered the ballroom, rushed over to my side. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes darting between me and Chase. “Wait… Lucas, what is going on? That’s the tuxedo I got you. Why is he wearing it? And why are you in a knockoff?” I kept my gaze fixed on my fiancée. “You’ll have to ask Cassandra.” “Toby,” Cassandra snapped, “you bought Lucas a fake, and now you’re trying to pin your cheapness on me!” “I have never bought a counterfeit in my life! Especially not for Lucas!” Toby, furious, grabbed the hem of Chase’s jacket. “This is the exact garment I picked up from the courier!” “Get your hands off him!” With a sharp crack, Cassandra’s palm struck Toby’s cheek. The sound echoed in the immediate radius of the lobby. I watched Toby’s cheek bloom into a violent red, and a cold, dangerous fury ignited in my chest. “Cassandra!” I stepped forward, my fist clenching, but Toby grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and pleading. “Lucas, don’t,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t ruin things with her. We can’t afford to anger the Langfords.” Chase watched the interaction with a smug satisfaction he barely bothered to hide, though he quickly lowered his eyes to play the martyr. “Cassandra, maybe I should just go change. I don’t want to be the reason you and your fiancé have a falling out. If Lucas wants the suit so badly, he can have it.” “Don’t waste your breath on him,” Cassandra said, brushing a hand over Chase’s shoulder. “He’s just a classless, insecure boy from a family of failing developers. He doesn’t know any better.” She turned her icy glare back to me. “Your presence here is an embarrassment. Chase will be my guest. Don’t speak to me for the rest of the night.” She slipped her hand through Chase’s arm, and they walked away, leaving us in the shadow of the grand staircase. I led Toby into the private holding room down the hall, waving over a server to bring us a bucket of ice. Wrapping a handful of cubes in a cloth, I gently pressed it against his swollen cheek. My chest burned with a mixture of rage and guilt. “I’m going to make her pay for that, Toby. I swear to God.” “It’s just a slap, Lucas. It’ll fade by tomorrow,” Toby said, trying to offer a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just don’t fight her. Your dad’s entire restructuring loan is dependent on this marriage. We can’t fight the Langfords.” “She set me up,” I whispered, my teeth grinding. “She stole my suit to humiliate me in public, and then she laid a hand on you. I won’t let this go.” But Toby’s words lingered, heavy and suffocating. I remembered my father sitting in his study three months ago, his hands trembling as he held a glass of whiskey. “Lucas, the Langfords approached us. They want an alliance. They are willing to inject enough capital to save our entire portfolio and expand us nationwide. The only condition is that you marry into their family.” “Why us?” I had asked, skeptical. “New York is swimming with eligible bachelors from families ten times wealthier than ours.” “Superstition,” my father had sighed. “Their patriarch believes in old-world cosmic alignments. An astrologer told him that the Langford dynasty will crumble in this generation unless a daughter marries a son of the Mercer bloodline. It’s foolish, but to them, it’s life or death.” “It’s absurd. I’ve never even met Cassandra.” “If you don’t do this, Lucas… everything we’ve built for three generations will go into foreclosure. We’ll be ruined.” Looking at my father’s tear-stained face, I had yielded. I had no one in my life, no great love to protect. I figured a marriage of convenience was a small price to pay to save my family. When I first met Cassandra, she seemed cold but competent. I figured we could coexist. But her infatuation with her assistant had quickly crossed the line of professional boundaries. I recalled a afternoon a month ago when I was riding in the back of Cassandra’s town car. Chase was in the front passenger seat. I was nursing a severe migraine, suffocating in the stagnant air of the cabin. When I reached to roll down the window, Cassandra snapped at me. “Leave it. Chase gets hot easily, and I have the climate control set perfectly for him. If you open the window, you’ll ruin the air.” “I’m nauseous, Cassandra. I need some air.” “Then close your eyes and deal with it. It’s a short drive. Stop being so dramatic.” Before I could reply, she locked the windows from the master console. When the car finally pulled up to our destination, I stumbled out and threw up on the pavement. Instead of checking on me, Cassandra had immediately inspected the side of her car to ensure none of her pristine paintwork had been soiled. I had tolerated the disrespect because I believed it was simply the price of a transaction. But tonight, the transaction was void. The Langfords needed a Mercer to secure their legacy. But Cassandra wasn’t the only Langford daughter. Leaving Toby in the lounge, I walked back into the ballroom and headed straight for the dim corner where Beatrice sat. “Beatrice,” I said, looking down at her. “Do you have a companion tonight?” She blinked, startled by my sudden presence, before glancing down at her lap. “No. I usually keep to myself these days.” “Then tonight, I am your date.” Beatrice stared at me, her brow furrowing. “Aren’t you engaged to my sister?” “I am,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. “But I can easily become yours.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re losing your mind, Lucas.” “You know the terms of the family trust,” I murmured, leaning down slightly. “The Langford heir must marry a Mercer. Do you have no desire to reclaim your birthright?” Beatrice looked down at her useless legs, the spark of fire in her eyes briefly dimmed by grief. “My father will never hand the keys of the empire to a woman who cannot even stand on her own.” “What if I can heal you?” She froze, her breath catching. “What?” “If I make you walk again, will you have the courage to take back what belongs to you?” “If I hadn’t survived that crash intact, Cassandra wouldn’t even be in the conversation,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The throne was always meant for me.” “Then let’s make a deal. I heal you, and you become my shield.” “And if you fail?” “Then my life is yours to dispose of.” Beatrice studied my face, searching for any sign of deceit. Finding none, she leaned back, a cold, calculating smile gracing her lips. “Very well, Lucas. I’ll take that bet.” I stepped behind her wheelchair and began pushing her toward the center of the glittering ballroom. Within seconds, Cassandra and Chase intercepted us, their faces twisted in amusement. “Lucas? What on earth are you doing with my sister?” Cassandra asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Since you found yourself a new escort, I figured I should do the same.” “So you chose the cripple?” Chase chuckled softly beside her. “Well, Ms. Langford, I suppose a man wearing a knockoff tuxedo belongs with a broken-down partner. It’s a fitting match.” Beatrice didn’t flinch. She slowly looked Chase up and down, her gaze colder than ice. “Interesting. Looking at the two of you, I would have assumed the fake was the one standing next to my sister. I suppose natural elegance is something you’re born with, whereas certain street rats can be dressed in the finest silks and still smell of the gutter.” Chase’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “How dare you!” He tugged on Cassandra’s arm. “Cassandra, your sister is humiliating me!” As Cassandra opened her mouth to lash out, Beatrice raised a hand, cutting her off. “What? Are you going to slap me too, Cassandra? Go ahead. Let the press have a field day with the Langford sisters brawling at a charity gala.” Cassandra clenched her jaw, pulling Chase back. “Forget it. We don’t waste our time on charity cases.” She turned her venomous gaze to me. “But Lucas, you are still my fiancé. Parading around with my sister is a public insult to me.” “And replacing my bespoke wardrobe with cheap replicas to dress your assistant is a compliment?” I retorted, stepping closer. “If people laugh tonight, Cassandra, they won’t laugh because I can’t afford a real suit. They will laugh because the great Cassandra Langford is too cheap to dress her own fiancé properly, choosing instead to lavish her resources on her help.” Cassandra’s chest heaved with fury. “You—!” “What? Want to try slapping me too?” I asked quietly. “Furthermore, let me make one thing clear. From this moment on, I will be attending to Beatrice. I am taking over as her personal physician to repair the nerve damage in her legs.” Cassandra let out a loud, mocking laugh. “You? A doctor? The finest neurosurgeons in Switzerland couldn’t fix her spine, and you think your little family remedies will do the trick?” “Western medicine has its limits,” I said calmly. “I practice a different art.” Cassandra sneered at Beatrice. “You’re actually going to let this fraud touch you? Don’t cry to Father when he leaves you completely paralyzed.” “Being dead would be preferable to living under your shadow, Cassandra,” Beatrice replied smoothly. “Fine. But let me remind you, Lucas—if you happen to kill my sister with your little needles, my father will ensure you spend the rest of your life in a dark cell.” “I welcome the challenge.” At that moment, Virginia, Cassandra’s mother, swept into the circle, her face tight with irritation. “Lucas, there you are! I have been looking for you everywhere. Why are you lingering in the corner with Beatrice instead of standing by Cassandra’s side? And what in heaven’s name are you wearing? Are you deliberately trying to embarrass our family?” “If you find me that embarrassing, Mrs. Langford, you are more than welcome to call off the engagement,” I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. “No one is forcing your daughter to marry me.” Without waiting for her reply, I wheeled Beatrice toward the exit. Behind us, Virginia’s voice rose in a shrill screech. “Did he just walk away from me? The nerve of that boy! I will ensure his father’s business is ruined by morning!” Cassandra’s cruel laughter followed us into the night. “Don’t worry, Mother. Let him play doctor. When he fails and kills her, Father will destroy him for us.” We ignored them, stepping out into the cool New York air and boarding a waiting town car. Once we arrived at Beatrice’s private penthouse, I unlocked a velvet-lined rosewood box containing my family’s heirloom silver needles. I looked into her eyes. “Do you trust me, Beatrice?” Without a single moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Start.” “It will take thirteen days,” I said, gently rolling up the hem of her trousers. “On the thirteenth day, you will stand.” I paused, looking at her. “Your mother… she is still in a vegetative state at Mount Sinai, correct?” “Yes,” Beatrice whispered, a shadow of profound grief crossing her face. Beatrice and Cassandra were half-sisters. Six months ago, a brutal car crash had not only shattered Beatrice’s spine but had plunged her mother, Miriam—the true matriarch of the Langford fortune—into a deep, irreversible coma. Conveniently, Virginia and Cassandra had seized control of the family estate immediately afterward. “If you trust me,” I said, “I can wake her up too.” Thirteen days later, the grand ballroom of the St. Regis was decorated for my formal engagement party to Cassandra. I arrived wearing a meticulously tailored, modern high-collar obsidian suit, a sharp contrast to the western formalwear of the guests. When I entered the reception hall, I found Cassandra and Chase already holding court near the champagne tower. Chase was dressed in an identical obsidian suit, though his was adorned with ostentatious gold embroidery along the collar. To any outsider, it was impossible to tell which of us was the groom. Cassandra smiled mockingly as I approached. “Lucas, look. Chase is acting as your best man today. Isn’t that wonderful?” “A best man who dresses identically to the groom?” I asked, my voice dry. “And this is an engagement party, not a wedding. Why would I need a best man?” “Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” Cassandra dismissed with a wave of her hand. “It looks festive. Stop being so incredibly petty.” “I’m not petty at all,” I replied, a slow smile gracing my lips. “In fact, I don’t care what he wears. Because I’m not the one getting engaged to you today.” Cassandra’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about? If you aren’t marrying me, who else would you marry? Beatrice?” “Exactly.” I stepped back as the double doors of the ballroom swung open. I wheeled Beatrice directly toward her father, Robert Langford, who was standing with a group of major shareholders. “Mr. Langford,” I announced, my voice echoing across the silent hall. “I am ready to fulfill the Mercer alliance. But the woman I am marrying is Beatrice.” Cassandra rushed forward, her face contorting with rage. “Are you insane? Beatrice is a useless cripple! She can’t inherit the firm, and she certainly can’t lead this family!” “Who says Beatrice is a cripple?” I asked. Before the eyes of the city’s elite, Beatrice placed her hands on the armrests of her chair. With slow, deliberate grace, she rose to her feet. At that exact second, Robert’s personal assistant burst through the doors, pale and breathless. “Sir! Mr. Langford! Your wife… Miriam has just woken up!”

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After I shoved Wayne out of the path of a speeding truck, my cognitive development froze. I was physically growing, but mentally, I stayed five years old. From then on, Wayne became the one who raised me. He spent years teaching me how to write my name, over and over. He taught me to memorize our phone number, to boil pasta. Until Isla showed up. She was his new assistant at the firm—brilliant, polished, and glowing. They were a team. He secured the clients; she drafted the proposals. Everyone said they were the perfect match. Slowly, I noticed him staring at her photos on his phone, lost in thought. Meanwhile, no matter how hard I tried to boil pasta without letting it stick to the pot, no matter how hard I tried to stay out of his way… He stopped teaching me. “Marina, what can a child’s brain actually learn? No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be like Isla.” The exhaustion and annoyance in his eyes suffocated me. Finally, I tried getting a part-time job. But I couldn’t remember how many spoonfuls of sugar went into a coffee. The shop manager yelled at me, called me stupid, and kicked me out. I walked home in tears. I stared at the old academic certificates plastering my bedroom walls—relics from before the accident—and cried for three days straight. I hated myself. I screamed at my own mind, asking why I had thrown my brain away. When the tears dried, I begged Wayne to help me practice one last time. He was busy proofreading a long email for Isla. He didn’t want her to face any heat from the gallery curators, so he spent ten minutes agonizing over a single comma. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Without even looking up, he shoved a flyer into my hand. “If you really want to learn, go to the Beacon Center. Even the kids there are smarter than you.” I didn’t say a word. I just took the flyer and followed the map. The classroom was bright, lined with colorful foam play mats. A man in a light gray button-down shirt was kneeling on the floor, patiently teaching an eight-year-old boy how to tie his shoelaces, over and over. He looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He paused, then offered a warm, gentle smile. “Are you here to learn how to tie laces, too?” … I stared at his smile, my voice stumbling over the words as I tried to explain my situation. “I… I want to grow up. I want to live on my own. I don’t want to be a burden anymore…” The man stood up quietly, waiting patiently for me to piece my broken sentences together. “You’re different from the children here. You’re capable of basic self-care. Are you sure you want to enroll?” Was even this place going to turn me away? Panicked, I dug into my pockets and pulled out every dollar bill I had. “I can pay tuition!” He let out a soft sigh, pulled out a registration form, and began writing. “I’m Simon. Simon Beckett. I’m the instructor here.” “I’m very strict, Marina. Learning here will be hard work.” “I’m not afraid.” Once the form was filled out, he had me ink my thumbprint at the bottom and sit among the children. As soon as I sat down, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Wayne. “I’m taking Isla to meet the curator. I’ll be back late.” “Stay inside. Don’t go wandering off. There’s food in the fridge, use the microwave—” He cut himself off with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. You don’t even have a normal brain. What do I expect you to remember?” “Just eat it cold. Don’t touch the microwave, the outlets, or the stove.” A dull ache bloomed in my chest. I knew how to use those things. I wasn’t as stupid as he thought. But before I could speak, the line went dead. While I was staring at the blank screen, Simon called my name. “Marina, I was just explaining how we build memory association. Why don’t you show us?” Anxious, I stood up. He laid out three cards on the table. One showed a sugar bowl, one a licking flame, one a snowflake. “Marina, when you worked at the coffee shop, what scared you the most?” “I… I was scared of forgetting if the customers wanted sugar, or if they wanted it iced or hot…” He spread the cards before me, explaining that the sugar bowl meant extra sweet, the flame meant hot, and the snowflake meant iced. Then he drew one at random. “What does this one mean?” I scrambled for the answer, but my mind suddenly went completely blank. My face burned. Instinctively, I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the look of pure disappointment. Whenever I failed to memorize our phone number, Wayne would look at me exactly like that. “You’ve been trying to memorize a simple number for months, Marina. Are you a blockhead? Even a toddler is smarter than you! Forget it. Teaching you is a waste of time.” But then, a gentle hand pulled my fingers away from my ears. Simon laid the card flat in front of me. “Don’t rush. When you try to think too fast, your brain locks up.” He pointed to the card with the flame. “What is this?” “A fire.” “And what does fire represent?” “Hot.” “Exactly. If a customer wants a hot drink, you associate it with the flame.” He walked me through each card like that. On the final draw, I pictured the symbols just as he had suggested. This time, I remembered. “See? No rush. You can do this.” As we walked back to our seats, a little girl wearing a mushroom-patterned dress held her hand high in the air for a high-five. “You did so good!” she cheered. Nobody had called me good since my father died. My throat tightened, but I blinked the tears back. When class ended, a cold wave of anxiety washed over me. I had spent all my money on the tuition. I didn’t have enough for a cab, I didn’t know the way, and I had never taken the public bus alone. Simon watched the last of the children leave, then turned his gaze to me. “Where do you live? Getting you home is your final lesson for today.” On the bus, at every stop, he pointed out landmarks. “Look at the curved green bench. Look at the gray pedestrian bridge…” Finally, the bus pulled up next to a massive bed of blooming roses. “This is your stop, Marina. If you can’t remember the street names, remember the roses. They’ll guide you home.” I stared at the apartment complex. For the first time in my life, I hadn’t waited for Wayne to fetch me. Whenever I used to ask Wayne to teach me the way home, his impatience would flare. “Why do you need to know the directions? With your brain, you can’t go out alone anyway. Stop making trouble. Nobody has time to hunt you down every single day.” Eventually, I stopped asking. Venturing out meant making trouble. And making trouble was terrifying. At the entrance of the complex, I saw Wayne. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The moment he caught sight of me, he lunged forward and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. “I told you to stay put! Why can’t you just listen to plain English?” He squeezed so hard I thought my bones would snap. “Isla is still waiting for me to meet the curator, and I had to spend the last hour scouring the streets for you! Are you doing this on purpose?” His eyes were rimmed with red, burning with the same desperate anger I’d seen years ago. Once, we had gotten separated in a crowded mall. He had panicked so badly he tripped and cracked his kneecap searching for me. After that, he tied a red string around both our wrists. The cord chafed his skin until it bled, but he refused to take it off. “This way, I can show you the world, and I never have to worry about losing you.” But then Isla came along, the red string disappeared, and Wayne locked me inside. “I was at the training center,” I whimpered, shaking my head through the pain. “Dr. Beckett is teaching me.” Wayne stiffened. A cold, mocking sneer crept onto his face. “Dr. Beckett? You’ve known him for a day and you already trust him?” “You’re beyond help, Marina. If you actually want to get better, you should check into an asylum.” I bit my lip, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’m not crazy. I learned how to take the bus home today.” He looked down at me, his expression icy. “Something a normal toddler can do, and you think you’ve accomplished a miracle?” He banned me from going back. “You’re just begging to get conned. What else do you know how to do besides be a burden?” The next day, Wayne stayed home. Isla came over to the apartment, too. Her voice was sweet and bright, and she looked at me with an air of amused curiosity. “Wayne mentioned you went to some… special development center?” She reached into her purse, pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped box, and slid it across the table. “A little gift. I’m sure you can use it in your classes.” She opened the box with a sweet smile. Inside was a pink pacifier. I recognized the words on the label: “Soothing. Ages 0-2.” “If you can’t understand what’s going on and want to call Wayne, just use this. Newborns chew on these and quiet down instantly. It’ll keep you nice and quiet so you don’t keep calling Wayne and interrupting his work.” My fingers clenched into fists. I understood. She was laughing at me, treating me like a brainless baby. I pushed the box back. “I don’t need it. Dr. Beckett can teach me.” Wayne’s voice rang out, devoid of warmth. “She went out of her way to bring you a gift, and this is how you behave?” “Honestly, Marina, what Isla brought is probably more useful than whatever that fly-by-night teacher of yours is peddling.” His cold stare made my chest ache. It brought back a memory from childhood, when some older neighborhood boys tried to trick me into eating mud, promising it would make me smart. Wayne had tracked them down and fought them all. He came home bloody and bruised, but he wouldn’t back down. “Marina isn’t stupid! Nobody gets to treat her like she’s stupid!” But now, he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the people who mocked me. Was it because I had grown even stupider in his eyes? I pressed my lips together. “I don’t care. I’m going to class.” Wayne’s face darkened. He grabbed my arm, dragged me out of the apartment, and forced me into his car. He drove in silence, eventually pulling over at a chaotic, unfamiliar intersection. Groups of men lounged on the corner, smoking and drinking from cheap beer bottles. “Didn’t your precious teacher show you how to navigate?” Wayne hissed. “Let’s see if his little tricks actually work.” He put the car in drive, giving me one last, piercing look. “It’s been twenty years, Marina. I’d love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong.” The car sped away, leaving me on the curb. One of the smoking men turned his head and whistled. “Hey sweetheart, boyfriend dump you? Want a ride?” I scrambled backward, panic flooding my chest, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I ran until my lungs burned and my knees shook. I collapsed in a crying heap in front of a small convenience store. My phone buzzed. It was Simon. “If you can’t commit to showing up for class, Marina, don’t come back.” I gripped the phone tightly, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so useless. I’m lost again.” A heavy silence hung on the other end of the line. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice firm but quiet. “I taught you how to read the streets. Tell me, what do you see around you?” I forced my tears back, blinking rapidly. “A green grocery store… and a bridge shaped like butterfly wings…” “Excellent. Stay right there. Don’t move.” I crouched near the storefront. After what felt like an eternity, a figure came sprinting through the intersection. Simon’s collar was unbuttoned, his breathing heavy. Instinctively, I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest. His ears flushed a deep crimson, and he gently, firmly pushed me back to arm’s length. “Next time, do exactly this. The clearer you describe your surroundings, the faster someone can find you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “But next time, you’ll find your own way home.” I nodded quickly. For that day’s lesson, Simon rode the city buses with me for four straight hours. By the end of it, I had finally figured out how to identify the correct routes. As we wrapped up, a wave of exhaustion and self-doubt hit me. “How long does it take to become an adult?” I asked quietly. He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “Even if you feel like a child, you are the brightest one I know.” “Before this, you just didn’t have anyone to guide you properly.” “Let’s give it a month. Let’s work hard together, okay?” When I got home that evening, Isla was still there. Wayne was meticulously editing her proposal. “Don’t just say ‘we are highly professional,’” Wayne murmured, his voice patient. “It sounds too cold, too aggressive. Read the next line for me.” He guided her through the text, syllable by syllable, polishing every word. He had only ever used that tone with me once—years ago, when he was tracing the letters of my name on a sheet of paper. In the years since, whenever I asked him to help me read, his patience had evaporated into frustration. “You’re going to be like this forever, Marina. What’s the point of learning a few letters?” Wayne looked up as I walked through the door, his eyes scanning me coldly. “How many strangers did you have to beg to get yourself home today?” Isla rose from the couch, offering a patronizing smile. “Well, at least she made it back. That’s better than getting caught in the rain because she didn’t know enough to run inside.” The mockery behind her smile made my stomach turn. I wanted to retreat to my room, but Isla stepped into my path, pointing to a book in my hands. “Marina, I noticed that math textbook in your room. I’m actually really interested in advanced mathematics. Would you mind letting me have it?” My heart seized. I clutched the book tightly to my chest. It was the only thing I had left of my father. Growing up, it had just been my dad and me. He used to hold me in his lap, pointing at the numbers and equations in this very book. “This book kept me company while I grew up, Marina. Now it’s going to help you grow up, too. You’re going to be a mathematician, just like your old man.” But when I was seven, on Wayne’s birthday, my father and I had gone to celebrate with him. I had run into the street, and my father had dove to push me out of the way. He was struck by a speeding car and died instantly. The trauma and head injury froze my mind at five. My father was gone. My brain was broken. And this book was the only physical piece of his warmth I could still touch. Wayne stood up, stepping over and reaching for the book. “Give it to Isla, Marina. She’s a brilliant student. You can’t even read half the words in there. Keeping it in your room is just a waste of space.” I squeezed the book tighter, tears springing to my eyes. “No! Wayne, you promised! You know this was my dad’s!” Wayne’s face hardened, a dark shadow crossing his features. “Marina, I know exactly what I owe you and your father. You don’t need to constantly throw it in my face.” He yanked the book from my hands with a sudden, violent pull. “Rip.” The spine snapped. The worn pages tore down the middle, scattering across the hardwood floor like dead leaves. I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to gather the torn sheets, my tears blurring my vision and dampening the paper. Wayne’s jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his voice came out cold and sharp. “I’ve spent twenty years of my life taking care of you, and I didn’t cry. You lose a stupid book and you act like the victim.” He grabbed his coat and left with Isla. I sat on the floor, trying to piece the shredded pages back together, but they wouldn’t fit. My phone buzzed. It was Simon, checking my homework. “Marina, did you memorize the symbols I gave you?” I wiped my face with a trembling hand. “Dr. Beckett… my dad’s book is broken. Can you… can you teach me how to fix it?” The line went silent for a beat. Then, he read out an address. “Okay. Remember the path I taught you. Use your landmarks and find your way to this address.” “If you can find me, I’ll help you fix your book.” I wiped away my tears and stood up. “I can do it.” The sycamore tree. The gray utility pole. The blue iron gate. Maplecrest Road. I had made it. Simon was standing near the bus stop, his shadow stretched long under the amber glow of the streetlamp. “You found it,” he said softly. “Looks like I have a book to repair.” He led me into a small workshop filled with tools and machines I couldn’t name. Putting on a pair of thin gloves, he meticulously aligned the torn edges of the pages, applying a clear, specialized adhesive with steady fingers. As he pressed the final page down, he looked up. “We’ll let the glue cure overnight, and it’ll be as good as new.” He paused. “Did your father write these notes in the margins?” I looked down, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. “Yes. My dad always said I had a mind for numbers, just like him. He said one day I’d be able to read this book.” I instantly regretted saying it. I braced myself for the inevitable. He was going to tell me I was foolish, just like Wayne did. But Simon only handled the page with utmost reverence. “He was right,” Simon said, his tone quiet and utterly serious. “I will teach you.” “We’ll start with the vocabulary. One day, you’ll read every single page.” I stared at his downcast eyelashes. In my chest, it felt like a butterfly had suddenly fluttered its wings. I threw myself into my lessons every day. I learned how to measure and mix cleaning solutions with water. I learned how to pick fresh vegetables at the market. During our last session, Simon played the role of a coffee shop customer. “Flame card: hot coffee. Three sugar bowl cards: extra sweet.” I got it perfectly right. He gently patted my head. “Your mistakes in the past weren’t because you couldn’t do it, Marina. They were because you were afraid. Just be brave. You’re going to be fine.” When the coffee shop manager had kicked me out, Wayne had blamed my tears. “Look at you. Of course they threw you out. What did you expect?” That tone had always convinced me that I was fundamentally broken. But now, sitting across from Simon, I realized that maybe things could actually be different. I packed up my flashcards, feeling like the day I could finally leave Wayne’s shadow was drawing closer. When I got home, Wayne was packing a suitcase. “I didn’t make a single mistake with the coffee orders today,” I said, wanting him to know. Wayne’s eyes flickered with an emotion I couldn’t read. “And? What of it?” “Does that mean you can stand by my side like Isla does? Does that mean people will stop looking at me with pity because I’m saddled with a stray?” He zipped his suitcase without looking at me. “I’m going abroad with Isla for a week. She’s been planning this exhibition for months, and it’s incredibly important to her. I need to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.” I watched his back. I remembered a few months ago, when I had caught a terrible fever. I had crept into his room holding a bottle of medicine. “Can you teach me how to read this label? I don’t want to take the wrong dose.” He hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “With your brain, I could explain it a thousand times and you’d still get it wrong. Isn’t it enough that I portioned them out for you?” “But what if you’re not here?” I had asked. “Then you wait until I get back. Stop making everything so difficult.” His patience hadn’t vanished. It had just been redirected to someone else. Before he walked out the door, I asked in a small voice, “Wayne… what if one day I can take care of myself?” He cut me off, his voice flat. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not going to abandon you, Marina. But do me a favor and just stay put for the next few days. Please.” To keep me from wandering off, he locked the deadbolt from the outside. He said he left food, but he had forgotten. The fridge was practically empty—just a bag of frozen dumplings and a couple of eggs. I stared at the stove, my hands trembling as I took a step back. The last time I tried to cook, the pot had boiled dry, filling the kitchen with thick, black smoke. After Wayne put out the fire, he had smacked my palms as punishment. “I’m going to take care of you for the rest of your life. Isn’t that enough? Why do you keep doing stupid things?” I had never touched the stove since. But my stomach was screaming with hunger. With trembling fingers, I called Simon. “Dr. Beckett… the door is locked from the outside. Can you… can you teach me how to boil dumplings over the phone?” His voice came through the receiver, calm and incredibly patient. “Fill the pot halfway with water.” “Once the water starts bubbling, count to a hundred and twenty.” I counted. One, two, three… “Dr. Beckett, they didn’t burn! They’re perfect!” But then, a strange, sweet, sulfurous smell hit my nose. Like rotten eggs. I remembered what Simon had taught me. “A rotten egg smell means a gas leak.” Wayne had mentioned a faulty pipe weeks ago, but he had brushed it off. “You don’t know how to use the stove anyway, so there’s no point in fixing it.” “BOOM.” A sudden blast of heat knocked me off my feet as flames erupted from beneath the stove. I dropped to my knees, crawling frantically toward the living room, coughing violently. Instinctively, I dialed Wayne’s number. The call connected, but his voice was tight with annoyance. “Marina, for God’s sake, give me a second to breathe, will you?” The line went dead. He had turned off his phone. A searing pain shot through my arm—a stray ember had scorched my skin. Tears of pain and terror streamed down my face. “Think, Marina. Simon taught you what to do. Think.” Damp towel. Cover your nose and mouth. I dragged myself into the bathroom, slamming the door and stuffing a towel into the crack beneath it. The smoke began to seep through. My throat burned. My eyelids felt heavy, pulling me down into a dark, suffocating weight. With the last of my strength, my thumb pressed a contact on my screen. I didn’t even see who it was before everything went black. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed. Wayne’s mother, Mrs. Adler, was sitting beside me, her face pale and her eyes swollen from crying. She clutched my hand, sobbing, begging my deceased father for forgiveness. “Thank God a good Samaritan got to you in time… We couldn’t reach that stupid boy of mine. The doctor said if they had been even a minute later…” She glanced toward the corner of the room. Simon was standing there, his face haggard. I realized then that my last call had been to him. I stared up at the white ceiling tiles, my voice raspy but clear. “Mrs. Adler… can I have the keys to my father’s old apartment now?” Mrs. Adler’s sobs redoubled. “Marina, sweetie, how can you live on your own? Wayne is supposed to look after you forever.” I looked at her, my gaze steady. “I’m twenty-five. I want to grow up now.” Mr. Adler, who had been standing silently by the window, walked over. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a brass key, and gently pressed it into my palm. Because I had managed to block the door and protect my airway, my injuries were minor, and I was discharged a few days later. I moved into my father’s old apartment. Simon came over to help me unpack. “Marina, do you know what the most terrifying, yet most wonderful thing in the world is?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s knowing that you have only yourself to rely on.” I looked at him and smiled, the sun catching the dust motes in the quiet room. “I know, Simon. I know.” … Wayne and Isla spent seven days abroad. The moment his plane touched down, he turned on his phone. A barrage of missed calls and urgent text messages flooded his screen. The final message was from his mother. “From this day on, consider Marina dead to you.” Panic-stricken, he raced back to the apartment, only to find the building charred and black, surrounded by yellow caution tape. The neighbors were standing in clusters, whispering. “The fire was massive. They carried the poor girl out, and she wasn’t even breathing. Who knows if she made it.” “Did you see the guy who carried her out? He looked absolutely terrified. I guess she has a new boyfriend.” Every drop of blood in Wayne’s veins turned to ice.

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It took my roommate a whole week of cornering Holden Pierce outside his frat house just to get him to give up his number for me. To thank her for helping me take that terrifying first step, I drained my entire summer internship savings to buy her the Prada bag she’d been obsessing over. Right after that, I threw my entire soul into texting Holden. I agonized over every word. By day, we shared the mundane little details of our lives; by night, we traded our deepest, quietest secrets in the dark. A year passed. We became the kind of intimately tethered friends who could talk about absolutely anything. Finally, I gathered every ounce of courage I had. “The weather is gorgeous tomorrow. Do you want to finally meet up?” Holden replied instantly. “Baby, didn’t we just say goodnight?” I stared at the glowing screen, my brow furrowing in confusion. The door to our apartment swung open. Blakely walked in, her arms wrapped around a massive bouquet of roses. Her cheeks were flushed, and she offered me a sheepish, breathless smile. “When I got his number for you?” she said, her voice dripping with an apologetic lilt. “I think I kinda forgot to mention I was asking for a friend.” “He… he’s always thought the person he’s been texting was me.” 01 The entire room went dead silent. The only sound left in the world was the rapid-fire pinging of my phone. Holden’s messages came flooding in, one after another: “Did I scare you with the sudden confession?” “I’ve been preparing for this for a long time, honestly.” “Over this past year of talking to you, I’ve felt just how incredibly sweet and genuine you are.” “At first, I thought I just saw you as a friend. But then, whenever I didn’t hear from you, this physical ache would settle in my chest. That’s when I knew. I fell in love with you.” “I’m so sorry for just tracking you down and springing this on you without warning – ” But the thought remained unfinished. One by one, right before my eyes, the messages vanished. “Unsent.” “I’m really sorry,” Blakely said with a shy, giggling smile. She set the roses on her desk and pulled a velvet box from her Prada bag. She opened it, kept the necklace for herself, and casually tossed the matching earrings onto my bed. “Faye… I said yes to him,” she hummed. “So, obviously, I can’t have him texting you anymore.” She crouched by my feet, resting her chin on her hands as she leaned on my knees, looking up at me with bright, beaming eyes. “I just gave him my actual number. I told him my old phone got hacked, so…” A cold, prickly sweat broke out across my forehead. My mind scrambled, violently rejecting the impossible reality unfolding in front of me. With trembling fingers, I typed a single “?” into our thread. Send. A second later. The text bubble stayed stubbornly green. Beneath it, a harsh, unforgiving notification: “Message Not Delivered.” My heart didn’t just break; it flatlined. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Just like that, Holden had blocked me. Erased me. Even though just last night, we had stayed up texting until 2 AM, baring our souls. Seeing me frozen, Blakely unceremoniously shoved the earrings into my palm. “Oh, come on,” she said, her tone light and breezy. “Honestly, if I hadn’t been the one asking for his number in the first place, Holden probably would never have talked to you anyway. You know how he is. Aloof. Untouchable. Half the girls on campus have tried and failed. Just take the earrings as a – ” “Blakely,” I said. My voice was hollow. I turned my head, physically unable to look at her. “We aren’t friends anymore.” Before she could manufacture a response, I pushed past her. Clinging to whatever shred of dignity I had left, I climbed into my bed and violently yanked the privacy curtain shut. In the dim, enclosed space, I scrolled through a year’s worth of history. In the beginning, it was a sea of blue bubbles – just me, trying so hard. Then, he started replying. A trickle at first. Eventually, if I went quiet for a few hours, Holden would be the one sending the “?” For the last three months, it was as if our roles had flipped. He was the one chasing my attention, initiating the late-night talks. I had been so incandescently happy. My chest had felt full of light. I thought I had poured every drop of bravery I possessed into getting to know Holden Pierce, and I truly believed it hadn’t been in vain. …But now. It was all shattered glass. I pulled the duvet over my head and wept until my lungs ached, eventually spiraling into an exhausted, feverish sleep. Early the next morning, a voice called out from the apartment doorway. “Faye! There’s a guy downstairs looking for you. Tall, lean, incredibly gorgeous. He said his name is Holden.” 02 The sleep vanished from my veins instantly. I glanced over. Blakely’s bed was empty. I scrambled down, moving purely on adrenaline. A part of me wanted to dress up, to look perfect, but a larger part panicked at the thought of keeping him waiting. I threw on a heavy oversized coat, pulled a surgical mask over my face to hide my swollen eyes, and bolted downstairs. During that three-minute elevator ride, a thousand wild hopes bloomed in my chest. The most logical explanation? He spent the night with Blakely and realized her vibe, her way of speaking, completely contradicted the girl he’d been texting for a year. He figured it out. He was here to apologize… “Faye.” His voice cut through the brisk morning air – crisp, resonant, beautiful. I tried to steady my erratic breathing, keeping my eyes cast downward. My gaze landed on his wrist. He was wearing the matte-black watch we had spent a whole night picking out together online. I let out a muffled, hesitant, “Yeah.” “What is it that you want?” Holden asked. My head snapped up. I looked at him through my thick-rimmed glasses. His face was an unreadable mask of stone. His eyes, usually so warm in my imagination, were devastatingly cold. “Blakely was crying all night,” he said, his voice laced with ice. “Because of you. I don’t know when you first found out about me, or when you developed this little obsession – ” He let out a harsh breath, his brow furrowing as he raked a disgusted look over me. He was barely keeping a lid on his impatience. “Let me make this perfectly clear. The girl I want is Blakely. Now, and forever. That isn’t going to change. So I’d appreciate it if you stopped taking your jealousy out on her. Do you understand?” Tears instantly blurred the edges of the world. I dug my nails into my palms, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Actually… the person who was texting you all year… it was me.” The moment the words hung in the air, a cruel, mocking laugh dropped from above me. “Blakely called it,” he sneered. “She said you were exactly this kind of person. She warned me you’d do anything to get your way – even lie and claim you were the one behind the screen.” The look he gave me then was one of pure, visceral repulsion. He leaned in, his expression deadly serious. “So let me spell it out for you. Even if it “had” been you, I would never look at you twice. I only want Blakely – ” I stopped breathing for a second. Then, a quiet, self-deprecating laugh slipped from my lips. I unclasped the matching matte-black watch from my own wrist – the one I’d bought to match his – and dropped it onto the concrete. As I turned my back to walk away, I heard a flicker of hesitation in his voice. “Faye – ” 03 Like an idiot, my feet stopped moving. I couldn’t help it. I had harbored a quiet, burning crush on this boy for two years. I had spent another entire year agonizing over every text, building a bridge between us. You can’t just amputate that kind of love in a single morning. A foolish, desperate part of me thought: “If he asks, I’ll pull out my phone right now. I’ll show him the logs. I’ll prove it.” “Faye?” His tone had softened. It almost sounded… placating. He stepped up behind me, his voice dropping low. “Blakely just got her period. I bought her these pads, but I forgot to ask that other girl to run them up. Could you – ” “Fine.” I snatched the pharmacy bag from his hand and marched straight back into the dorm building. The last ember of hope in my chest fizzled out, turning to cold, gray ash. I realized then that Blakely was right. If she hadn’t been the beautiful, popular girl stopping him on the sidewalk to ask for his number, Holden Pierce never would have given me the time of day. 04 I tossed the pharmacy bag onto Blakely’s bed. A few minutes later, she breezed in from the apartment next door, a trailing entourage of her new sorority friends in tow. “Faye!” she chimed. “My boyfriend is treating us all to dinner tomorrow night. You’re coming, right?” I didn’t even blink. I kept my back to her. “No.” The second the word left my mouth, a chorus of catty, hushed giggles erupted from her friends. “Oh my god, I told you. She’s still completely hung up on him.” “Does she seriously think Holden would ever date “her”?” “If you hadn’t practically begged him for his number for a week, a wallflower like her wouldn’t even be on Holden’s radar. He wouldn’t know she existed.” “Guys, stop it!” Blakely interrupted, her voice entirely too loud, dripping with faux reprimand as she walked over to me. “Faye isn’t like that. She’s just having a hard time adjusting. Right, Faye?” She batted her wide, glossy eyes at me, slipping into that familiar, cloying pout she’d used on me a hundred times before. “My ex just cheated on me, and then out of nowhere, Holden confesses his love? It feels like destiny. You’re my best friend. I just really want your blessing.” As she spoke, she purposefully let her cardigan slip off her shoulder, revealing the jagged, ugly scar near her collarbone. The scar she got “saving my life.” My chest tightened. The guilt, as always, did its job. I looked away, swallowing the bile in my throat. “Fine.” 05 I spent the entire next day forcing myself to swallow reality like a jagged pill. When evening came, I washed my face, skipped the makeup, and walked to the restaurant. When I arrived at the private room, Blakely and her entourage were in the restroom. Holden was sitting alone at the large table. He glanced up, his eyes sweeping over me with cold indifference. He gave a microscopic nod, then visibly pulled his hands off the table and leaned back, putting physical distance between us as if I were a threat. My heart still did a stupid, pathetic little stutter. Unbidden, memories of the old Holden – my Holden – rushed into my mind: “I think I just saw that stray cat you were feeding yesterday. Is this her?” “Thank you for listening to me vent last night. Are you really still not going to tell me your name?” “Please don’t cry. Just stay away from guys like that. He’s taking advantage of the fact that you have too big of a heart.” … I was snapped out of my daze as the door swung open and Blakely made her grand entrance, flanked by her girls. The moment her eyes locked onto me, her radiant smile froze. A flash of genuine panic crossed her face. “F-Faye… why didn’t you text me you were here? I… I would have come outside to walk in with you.” Before I could answer, Holden’s demeanor flipped like a switch. The ice melted into a warm, adoring smile. He reached out, pulling her hand into his, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “She’s a grown woman, baby. She doesn’t need an escort. You’re cramping, you should just be focusing on yourself right now.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a sage-green Yeti tumbler, placing it gently in front of her. “Ginger tea.” The table erupted in a chorus of “awwws”. Blakely flushed, playing the blushing girlfriend perfectly. She took the tumbler, but then, without thinking, asked, “Is this green cup yours?” Before he could answer, she coyly picked a chunk of pineapple off the fruit platter with a fork and held it to Holden’s lips. “You are so sweet to me, Holden.” Holden didn’t move. Blakely’s hand hovered there, the atmosphere turning slightly awkward. She pushed the fork a little closer to his mouth. “He’s deathly allergic to pineapple.” The words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. But I watched as the light in Holden’s eyes suddenly dimmed. Something dark and conflicted passed over his face. In the blink of an eye, the mask was back in place. He smiled, opened his mouth, and ate the pineapple. His eyes crinkled in absolute adoration. “Thanks, baby.” 06 Holden sat there, leaning lazily back in his chair, watching Blakely chatter and laugh with her friends. His fingers rhythmically, almost anxiously, tapped against the mahogany table. His eyes were dark and unreadable. I knew exactly what was spinning in his head. He was wondering how the girl who had spent three weeks helping him pick out that exact sage-green Yeti tumbler could possibly ask him whose cup it was. “I’m going to run to the restroom,” Holden said, flashing a polite, effortless smile as he stood up. As he walked past, I caught a glimpse of what was clenched tightly in his fist. Benadryl. Blakely didn’t notice a thing. As soon as the door clicked shut, she turned her benevolent, queen-bee gaze on me. “Faye, did you order yet? Seriously, get whatever you want. Holden said he’s paying for everything as a ‘thank you’ for putting up with my mood swings.” I don’t know what was wrong with me. I had been starving all day, but suddenly, the thought of food made me nauseous. “Whatever is fine,” I mumbled. “Okay!” Blakely stuck her tongue out playfully and waved the waiter over. “We’ll take all of this. Oh, and my friend here is deathly allergic to cilantro, so please make sure there’s absolutely none in her food. She’ll literally throw up.” She looked up at the door, flashing a perfect, sickeningly sweet smile. Holden had just walked back in. She was putting on a masterclass in ‘Look what a caring friend I am.’ But Holden just stood by the door. His face went entirely blank, his eyes losing focus as a sudden, heavy realization seemed to hit him. 07 When Holden stepped out to take a phone call later, Blakely leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper for her friends. “We went out to the quad last night, and you guys… he kissed me! We were just looking at the stars, and he went totally quiet, stared at me for like two whole minutes, and just went for it. He was so romantic. He told me I was breathtaking and that I needed to stop being so insecure…” Amidst the squeals of her friends, she turned to me. The shy act dropped, replaced by cold calculation. She reached under the table and pulled out the Prada bag I had bought her a year ago. “I was actually going to tell Holden the truth,” she whispered, her eyes locking onto mine. “But you saw it yourself… I’m the one he’s in love with. So, I can’t just hand him over to you. Here. This is the bag you bought me for getting his number. I’m giving it back. We’re officially even.” “Screeech.” My chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. I couldn’t breathe in this room anymore. “I have to go,” I choked out. I bolted for the door. I was moving too fast, completely blinded by tears. As I rushed down the hallway, I slammed hard into a solid wall of a chest. I didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, my voice shattering as I shoved past him and ran out into the night. 08 After that night, Holden and Blakely became the campus IT couple. Their romance was loud, public, and cinematic. Everyone across the university knew that Holden Pierce, the untouchable ice prince, had finally been tamed by Blakely Davenport. The guy who used to look through people was suddenly opening car doors and carrying her tote bags, sickeningly gentle around her. Blakely was completely drunk on the power and the romance. She didn’t bother pretending to care about our fractured friendship anymore. As for me, I survived by burying myself in campus clubs, student government, anything to keep me exhausted so I wouldn’t have to think about it. Until one evening. I was walking back to the apartment when I saw two silhouettes tangled together in the shadows beneath a large oak tree. I was going to keep my head down and walk past. But the voices anchored me to the sidewalk. “Baby, why are you mad? Why would I ever like Faye?” Holden sounded genuinely baffled. “I have strict boundaries. I don’t even talk to other girls. You – ” “I just hate knowing she wanted you!” Blakely whined, pushing him away slightly to pout. “We live in the same apartment. Whenever you come over, you’re going to see her… Why don’t I just move out and we get a place off-campus together?” “I’m not doing that to you,” Holden said, his brow furrowing in the moonlight. He looked at her, a strange, calculating look in his eyes. “For a whole year, you were so shy you wouldn’t even tell me your name. Why are you suddenly rushing everything?” He took a deep breath, dropping his voice into a soothing, methodical cadence. “It’s not fair to you. I want to do this right. When we graduate, we can move in together properly. We have our whole lives. There’s no need to rush, okay?” The autumn leaves rustled above them, making Holden’s voice sound impossibly crisp in the cold air. Then, slowly, deliberately, he said, “I do have a friend who’s single, though.” “He’s gorgeous, but… he’s arrogant, a little reckless, total bad-boy energy.” Holden clicked his tongue. “Honestly, I have no idea if Faye could even handle a guy like him.” Blakely let out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Yeah… that’s a great idea.” She muttered, “I’ll tell her when I go inside. I’m sure she’ll be “thrilled”.” 09 Graduation was looming. I had already signed a lease for a small studio off-campus to get away from Blakely. So, to avoid any more drama in our final months, when Blakely pitched the idea of setting me up with Holden’s friend, I just flatly said yes. A few nights later, Blakely was on FaceTime with Holden. She yanked me into the frame, grinning maliciously. “Holden’s friend is insane looking, Faye. Like, model gorgeous. I mean, his temper is awful, so you’ll just have to deal with that. He actually got arrested in high school, but hey, I heard he hasn’t put anyone in the hospital in a while!” On the other side of the screen, a guy was yelling in the background, his voice dripping with pure, aggressive irritation. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Holden? When have I ever wanted to be set up? Who told you to give out my number? I’ve told you a million times, I’m not dating anyone! Get that phone out of my face, I’d rather jump off a bridge than – ” He shoved his face into the camera to yell at Holden. Then, our eyes met. The guy froze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524603”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always been able to hear the hearts of those who love me. When I was three, my parents held me high above their heads, and I heard the silent promise in their minds: “We will make sure she is our little princess forever.” When I was eighteen, Chester handed me a love letter, his face flushed a deep crimson. Beneath his shy smile, I heard his soul whisper: “I want to love her into the next lifetime and every one after that.” We were together for seven years. Five of those were spent in different time zones, surviving on FaceTime calls and airport goodbyes. Then, Chester crossed oceans and mountains to finally be in my city. He dropped to one knee, his eyes swimming with a tenderness so profound it felt like a physical weight. “Marry me, Mila,” he said. My eyes blurred with tears. Behind me, I could hear the overwhelming swell of my parents’ happiness—a chorus of “finally” and “she’s so loved.” I reached out, my hand trembling, ready to let him slide the ring onto my finger. But in the heartbeat before the metal touched my skin, Chester’s voice vanished. The clear, resonant devotion I had known for seven years was gone. In its place was a wall of static—a blurred, hollow white noise that grated against my mind. I froze. I looked up at him, my heart plummeting into my stomach. “Mila? What’s wrong?” The voice came from Bailey, my best friend, who was standing right beside us. I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. Because as I looked at her, her internal voice shifted, too. It became the exact same discordant static that was buzzing inside Chester’s head. Identical. Synchronized. I pulled my hand back. In seven years, I had heard Chester’s heart thirty thousand times. But in this moment, for the first time in my life, I just wanted silence. … Chester’s hand shook, the diamond catching the light. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I’m not getting married.” I took a step back, my gaze landing on Bailey. She looked shocked, but beneath the surface, a sharp spike of anxiety radiated from her. “The girl this ring belongs to… she isn’t me,” I said. Bailey’s expression shifted from confusion to a panicked sort of tension. Instinctively, Chester stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. “Mila, don’t do this. Don’t make a scene,” he said, his voice low. “You’re the one who said we’d get married as soon as the long distance was over.” I flinched at the memory of that promise. “And you, Chester? Do you actually want to marry me?” A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes—gone in a blink, but I saw it. He glanced back at Bailey for a fraction of a second. “Of course I want to marry you, Mila,” he said firmly. He sounded so sincere. To anyone else, he would have been the picture of the perfect fiancé. But in my head, there was nothing but that agonizing, fuzzy noise. “Just go, Chester. Please.” I stumbled back into the house and locked myself in my room. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. A message from Bailey: “Mila, Chester and I are waiting for you downstairs. Please come down.” I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, she sent a photo. It was a close-up of her wrist, red and bruised where she had clearly gripped herself too hard. Her eyes in the reflection were puffy and red. From the time we were eighteen until now, every time we had a falling out, Bailey would hurt herself to make me cave. It was a cycle of guilt I had never been able to break. I hesitated, then threw on a robe and ran downstairs. Chester and Bailey were standing together under a flickering streetlamp. It was a gray, overcast night, and the damp air made me shiver. Usually, the moment I caught a chill, Chester would have his jacket over my shoulders. Tonight, the jacket he had worn to propose to me was draped over Bailey. “Why did you come down dressed like that? You’ll catch a cold,” Chester said, his tone dripping with practiced concern as he reached out to pull me into his arms. I struggled, pushing him away. “What do you want?” Bailey nudged Chester’s arm. “The ring, Chester. Give it to her.” He pulled out the velvet box. “Mila, if you didn’t like the ring Chester picked today, just say so,” Bailey said, her voice frantic, trying to bridge the gap. “We went together to have it custom-made. It took weeks.” I looked at the box and said coldly, “I don’t want it.” Tears immediately flooded Bailey’s eyes. Chester panicked, pulling out a tissue to dab at her cheeks. He sighed, looking at me with weary frustration. “Mila, what is this tantrum even about?” My eyes burned, the sting of unshed tears making my vision swim. I looked away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Bailey sobbed, her fists thumping lightly against Chester’s chest. “It’s all your fault, Chester. You’ve made Mila hate me. Tell her you’re sorry! Fix it!” She glared at him with a sort of spoiled playfulness, then turned and gripped my arm tight. Chester let out a small, tired laugh. “Okay, okay. My fault. I’m sorry.” I stood there in my thin pajamas, watching them. The way they moved, the way they looked at each other—it was a choreographed dance I was no longer a part of. “Mila, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice softening into that old, sweet tone. He pressed the ring box into my palm. I closed my eyes and listened. Static. Just hollow, meaningless noise. A drop of rain hit the back of my hand. It felt like ice. I tried to hand the ring back, but Bailey cut me off. “It’s starting to rain. We’re taking you back up to your apartment,” she insisted. They walked me to my door, relentless and stubborn. Before he left, Chester leaned in and kissed my forehead, exactly the way he had seven years ago when we first started dating. But I knew. The bridge was burned. The moment the door closed, I tossed the ring box aside. The diamond ring tumbled out, rolling across the hardwood floor until it hit the rug. I knelt to pick it up. It was a high-end designer piece, heavy and cold. I turned it over in the light. Inscribed on the inner band, the letters and numbers shone with a cruel brilliance. [B.E.Q.] [06.01] “Bailey…” I whispered. June 1st. Bailey’s birthday. I sat on the floor for hours, my hands shaking uncontrollably. On my wrist, the cheap silver bracelet Chester had given me seven years ago felt like it was searing into my skin. It was old, tarnished, and out of style. It was time to take it off. I didn’t sleep. As soon as the sun came up, I took the ring and drove to Chester’s parents’ house. When I saw his mother, I greeted her politely. “Oh, Mila, dear. Chester went out early this morning,” she said, her face flickering with a momentary look of panic. “He won’t be back for a while. Maybe come back this afternoon?” I turned to leave, but then I heard a familiar voice from the second floor. It was Bailey. She was standing at the top of the stairs, holding a glass of water, wearing one of Chester’s oversized t-shirts. Our eyes met, and she froze. I didn’t wait. I pushed past Chester’s mother and ran up the stairs. Chester was lying in bed, looking pale and exhausted. Bailey followed me, stammering, “Mila, it’s not what it looks like. Chester got caught in the rain last night and came down with a fever. I… I stayed to look after him.” I held out the ring. I didn’t give it to him; I gave it to her. Bailey’s face went white. “How long?” I asked quietly. “Mila, please, it’s not like that,” she said. She reached into Chester’s desk drawer—the second one down, a drawer she clearly knew well—and pulled out another box. Inside was a simple, modest gold band. “This… this is your engagement ring. He was in such a rush to get to the proposal yesterday that he grabbed the wrong box. The one you have… he designed that as a birthday gift for me. Just a gift, Mila.” I felt the room tilt. My fingers went numb. In five years of long distance, I had flown to see Chester three hundred times. On the three hundred and first time, I had curled up in his arms and whispered, “Chester, there’s a new jewelry workshop nearby. My birthday is next week—let’s go together and make rings for each other.” “Mila, I’m swamped at work,” he had told me, stroking my hair. “Besides, making rings is so tedious. It’s not really my thing.” He had Venmoed me five hundred dollars and told me to buy something I liked. It wasn’t that he was too busy. It wasn’t that it was “tedious.” He just didn’t want to do those things with “me”. A dull, thumping pain started in my chest. I walked downstairs and handed the diamond ring to Chester’s mother. “Mila, what are you doing?” she asked, trying to press it back into my hand. She sighed. “You and Chester have been together for so long. We all know how much you mean to him. He and Bailey… they’re just friends. Don’t overthink this.” “We really are just friends, Mila,” Chester said, his voice weak as he hobbled down the stairs. He sat next to me and gripped my hand tight. I let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. “Friends live in your house? Friends get custom-made diamonds with their birthdays engraved on them?” His mother spoke up, her voice taking on a sharp edge. “He loves you, Mila. Don’t be so petty. Men have close female friends; it’s natural. Think about it—you’ve been together for seven years. If you leave him now, who else is going to marry you? You aren’t getting any younger. How many more seven-year blocks do you think you have left?” Every word was a needle pressed into my heart. I looked at Chester. “Is that what you think, too?” He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. I looked at Bailey, and all I saw was a shallow pool of guilt. “I’m not marrying him,” I said, my voice dead and flat as I pushed the ring back toward them. “Mila, don’t be such a stubborn child!” his mother snapped. “Mila, stop acting out,” Chester added, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Then cut her off,” I said. “Tell Bailey she’s out of your life for good.” Chester froze. A complex, unreadable shadow passed over his face. Bailey’s voice cracked into a sob. “Mila, it’s all my fault. I’ll go.” She hid behind Chester, her eyes red, making me look like the villain tearing them apart. I tried one last time to hear them. I strained to find a sliver of the love that used to be there. But there was nothing but that piercing, screeching static. I stood up and walked out. Seven years is a long time. Most people don’t get many chances to start over. But I refused to waste a single second more. I went home and collapsed. A high fever took hold of me, and I ended up in the hospital. After three days on an IV drip, Chester finally showed up. “Mila, open up.” He held a spoonful of soup to my lips, blowing on it gently. I took one sip and stopped. Chester frowned. “Don’t like it?” I shook my head. “Chester, I want to tell you something. I can hear the hearts of the people who love me.” The spoon in his hand tilted, a drop of broth splashing onto the bedsheet. “Mila, what kind of joke is that?” He reached out and touched my forehead. “Are you still delirious from the fever?” The hot liquid on my hand stung. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. “I’m serious.” “Stop it, Mila,” he said, his voice turning stern. “I just want you to get better so we can get married.” “Chester,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “When you were eighteen and you first told me you loved me, your heart was saying you’d love me forever. When we were twenty and said goodbye at the airport, your heart was saying you’d marry me the second the distance ended.” Chester’s face drained of color. “But now,” I said, staring directly into his eyes, “I can’t hear you anymore. All I hear is noise.” Chester was silent for a long time. “Mila, I only have eyes for you,” he said finally. He pulled out his phone and shoved it toward me. “Look. Check it. I have nothing to hide.” By habit, I tried to unlock it with my birthday. “Incorrect password.” After the third failed attempt, I typed in Bailey’s birthday. It opened instantly. I tapped on his messages with her. It was a never-ending stream of the mundane. What they ate for lunch, a photo of a stray cat, a debate over which scent of body wash she should buy. My hands began to shake. Chester had never shared his daily life with me like that. Not once. “Mila, we weren’t talking about anything important,” he said dismissively. I held up the screen. “You call this nothing?” He glanced at it. “It’s just life, Mila. Just daily stuff.” “But you never shared any of it with me.” “Mila, we’ve been together forever. What is there left to share?” I sat there, paralyzed. All the words of hurt and betrayal I wanted to scream were stuck in my throat. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll start sharing everything with you from now on,” he said, reaching out to pinch my cheek with a terrifyingly gentle smile. I looked down. “Don’t bother.” Surprised by my reaction, Chester rubbed his temples, stood up, and began pacing the small hospital room. Neither of us spoke. I went to turn off the phone, but just as I did, a notification popped up. A promotional text from a pharmacy. [Make sure there’s ‘Zero Distance’ between you! Mr. Whitman, it’s been 60 days since your last purchase of Ultra-Thin condoms…] The last time Chester and I had been intimate was three months ago. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My fingers tightened on the phone as I opened his shopping history. Before I could see more, the phone rang. It was a custom ringtone—Bailey’s. Chester snatched the phone away. He answered it, stepping into the hallway. When he came back five minutes later, he looked troubled. “Mila, Bailey isn’t feeling well. I need to take her to the clinic for a check-up.” Without waiting for me to say a word, he hurried out. I waited a minute, then pulled the IV out of my arm and followed him. I found them in the OB-GYN wing. I watched from a distance as Bailey entered the ultrasound room, clutching her stomach. Chester stood outside, pacing anxiously. A nurse walked up to him and handed him a few boxes of medication. I was too far away to see the labels. “Excuse me,” I said, stopping the nurse as she walked back past me. I pointed toward Chester. “Can I get those same vitamins? I’m here for my prenatal check-up too.” “Of course,” the nurse said kindly. “Have you registered your pregnancy with the front desk yet? Once you do, the folic acid is complimentary.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I walked back to my room like a ghost. Inside, a tsunami was tearing my soul apart. Two days later, I was discharged. Chester and Bailey came to pick me up. I went to open the front passenger door, but Chester was already leaning over, buckled Bailey into her seat. Because I got motion sickness, that seat had always been mine. Bailey gave me a sweet, pitying smile. “Mila, are you feeling better?” I nodded. “Much.” Chester looked up at me. “Mila, Bailey’s been feeling really nauseous lately. She needs the front seat.” I didn’t say a word. I just got into the back. The car pulled up to my apartment. I fought back the urge to vomit as I stepped out. Bailey followed me inside. “Mila, I need to tell you something,” she said, looking at me with feigned hesitation. “Go ahead.” “I’m pregnant.” She pulled a sonogram from her bag. “Who is the father?” “Chester.” I knew the answer, but hearing it out loud still felt like a physical blow. “When?” “While you were living in the other city,” she whispered, looking at her shoes. “It happened a lot. But that one time… we’d been drinking, and we forgot to use protection.” “What do you want, Bailey?” Tears began to stream down her face. “I told Chester. He wants me to have an abortion. But I can’t do it, Mila. Please, you have to help me.” She grabbed my hand, sobbing. I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. “Bailey, you’re carrying my boyfriend’s baby, and you’re asking “me” for help?” “Please, Mila. Just… just leave him for a while. Let me have this time with him.” She dropped to her knees, clutching her belly. When she saw I wasn’t moving, she started slapping herself across the face. “Mila, remember when we were nineteen? Remember when I pulled you out of the lake? You owe me your life!” On the side table, a framed photo of the three of us was starting to fade. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll help you.” The moment Bailey left, I booked the first flight to the coast. The next day, I hailed a cab for the airport. Three hundred yards from the terminal, the traffic slowed to a crawl. Afraid I’d miss my flight, I grabbed my bags and started running under the scorching sun. Everything went black. When I woke up, I was back in a hospital bed. My phone was blowing up with dozens of missed calls from Chester. “Mila!” Chester burst into the room, looking frantic. “Bailey is hemorrhaging. She needs a transfusion right now, and you’re the only one with her blood type.” He was shaking with emotion, but there wasn’t a single spark of concern for me in his eyes. “I don’t feel well, Chester,” I whispered. “Mila, are you really going to watch her die? Just do this, and as soon as she’s stable, I promise—we’ll get married. I’ll make it up to you.” He spoke with such passion, but I closed my eyes and heard nothing. My heart, which had been numb for days, finally went cold. Three hours later, after giving Bailey my blood, I slipped into a deep, exhausted coma. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, my parents were there. “Mila, thank God,” my mother sobbed. “Dad… Mom…” my voice was a raspy ghost of itself. “You’re going to be okay, honey,” my mother said, her face lined with new wrinkles. My father let out a heavy, jagged sigh. “Mila, you’re done with Chester. For good.” “What happened?” “A week ago, that girl had a miscarriage,” my mother said, her voice trembling with rage. “Chester forced you to give blood when you were already dangerously weak. You’ve been unconscious for a week, Mila. And in all that time, he hasn’t come to see you once. Bailey is literally one floor below us, and he couldn’t be bothered to walk up a single flight of stairs to check if you were still breathing.” I looked at them—really looked at them. They looked so much older. And in my head, I finally heard it. Their hearts were screaming with a fierce, protective love for me. I gripped my mother’s hand. “Mom, get me out of here. I want to go to a different hospital. I never want to see him again.” The transfer happened quickly. Just before we left, a message arrived from Chester: “Mila, once Bailey is recovered, I’ll explain everything. Just wait for me.” I set his contact to ‘Ignore.’ I was done listening.

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On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, my mother skipped the final rehearsal for my party. That evening, a text lit up my screen. “Daisy’s depression is flaring up again. I can’t leave her side right now. Let’s postpone your party, Cassie. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I stared at the tips of my fingers. They were already beginning to shimmer, dissolving into a faint, translucent glow. I typed a single-word reply: “Okay.” For ten years, on every single one of my birthdays, Mom had broken her promise. Almost instantly, my adoptive sister, Daisy, posted on Instagram. The photo showed her and Mom watching the sunrise on a beach in Montauk, holding matching ice cream cones. The caption read: “The best mom in the entire world. She said I needed to clear my head, and she’s giving me all her love.” In the comments, our relatives flooded the post with praise, calling Mom a saint, gushing about how Daisy finally deserved some happiness. Not a single person remembered that today was my birthday, too. More importantly, it was the final day of my contract with the Reaper. If Mom didn’t spend this birthday with me, I would fade into nothingness. Forever. … “Cassie, I am so sorry about today. Daisy’s situation is critical.” Hours later, the front door burst open. Mom rushed in, disheveled and smelling of rain, her hair damp and plastered to her forehead. She looked completely exhausted. I was sitting on the sofa. Hearing her voice, I stood up immediately. She hurried over and stroked my hair. “Next month. I promise we’ll throw you the biggest party next month. And that diamond starlight necklace you’ve been eyeing? I’ll buy it for you. Anything you want, Cassie.” Her voice was soft, laced with that practiced, soothing tone. Once, a promise like that would have made me beam. I would have nodded obediently, swallowing my disappointment to accommodate her. But now… I looked down at my hands. My fingers were almost entirely transparent, the dim light of my soul flickering like a candle in a draft. In the corner of the room, the Reaper’s hourglass—visible only to me—was dropping its final grains of golden sand. I didn’t have a next month. “No!” I shook my head violently, grabbing her sleeve. “Mom, please. It has to be today. It has to be tonight!” I looked up at her, begging with every ounce of strength left in my fading body. “I don’t need a party. I don’t want the necklace. Just stay. Stay and eat a cupcake with me. Just one. Please.” Mom glanced at her watch, her brow furrowing instantly. The softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, anxious edge. She thought I was acting out. She thought this was petty jealousy. “Cassie, stop it! Be reasonable!” she snapped, trying to pry my fingers off her sleeve. “Your sister is suicidal. Her clinical depression is spiraling, and the doctor says she’s in real danger. I have to go to her.” “She’s not going to die!” Terror clawed at my throat, making my voice shrill and desperate. I was losing control, slipping into a frantic, obsessive panic. Instead of letting go, I slid off the couch, dropping to my knees right in front of the door. “She’ll never die, but I will. Mom, if you walk out that door tonight, you will never—ever—see me again.” Shock flickered across her face, followed by disbelief, and finally, a cold, hardening anger. Right then, her phone buzzed. “Daisy’s Doctor” flashed across the screen. Mom’s patience snapped completely. With a hard, furious jerk, she yanked herself away. I lost my balance and crashed onto the hardwood floor, my elbow slamming hard against the wood. “Cassie Mercer, enough!” she yelled, her voice trembling with rage. “Do you have any idea how insane you sound right now? Like a spoiled, selfish child!” “Your sister is fighting for her life in a hospital ward, and you’re throwing a tantrum over a birthday? I raised you better than this. I am so deeply disappointed in you.” She didn’t look back. She threw the door open and bolted out. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow!” The heavy oak door slammed shut, slicing the world in two. I lay there on the cold floor. A metallic taste bloomed in my throat, and I coughed, spitting a splash of blood onto the wood. The blood shimmered with tiny, fading specks of starlight. With a trembling hand, I reached up to the coffee table and grabbed the small cupcake. I ate it, forcing it down past the copper tang of blood in my mouth. Tear after tear spilled over my cheeks. “Mom, this cake is so bitter.” Four hours until midnight. Half of my torso had already faded into transparency; I could see the outline of the sofa right through my chest. Waves of agonizing pain ripped through my soul, tearing me apart from the inside out. Beside me, the Reaper stood draped in his heavy black cloak, watching in silence. “Why do you torture yourself?” he murmured, his voice like dry leaves. “You have tried for ten years, and not once has she chosen you. Did you truly believe tonight would be any different?” I shook violently, tears pooling on the floor beneath my cheek. “Please… just a little more time. She was just panicked. She didn’t mean to abandon me.” Looking into my stubborn, pleading eyes, the Reaper’s cold demeanor softened, offering a rare sliver of pity. He closed his eyes and waved his hand. “Foolish child,” he sighed. “Very well. If you can get her to look at you and sincerely say ‘Happy Birthday’ before the clock strikes midnight, I will let you win. You may stay in the mortal realm.” Hope flared in my chest. I scrambled for my phone, my fingers slipping on the glass as I hit her FaceTime contact. It rang for what felt like an eternity. Just as it was about to time out, the screen flickered, and Mom’s face appeared. She was sitting in a hospital room, the sterile white wall behind her framing the exhaustion etched deep into her face. Seeing how pale I was, her brows knit together, her voice dropping into a softer, slightly apologetic register. “Cassie, why do you look so pale? Have you not been eating?” There was a faint note of guilt under her words. “Don’t be mad. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Just be a good girl and get some sleep. I’ll be home in a few days, and we’ll go get that necklace, okay?” I shook my head weakly, forcing my voice past the lump in my throat. “Mom, I don’t care about the necklace.” I looked straight into her eyes through the screen, begging with everything I had. “Can you just… look at me and say ‘Happy Birthday’? Just once. That’s all I need.” Mom froze, her lips parting to speak. But before she could make a sound, Daisy stirred on the bed behind her, slowly opening her eyes. Without saying a word, Daisy reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It was a seemingly casual movement, but it exposed the distinct, butterfly-shaped red birthmark behind her ear—the exact same birthmark my late father had. The sight of it pierced Mom’s heart like a physical blade. Instantly, as if triggered by some internal panic, Daisy violently ripped the IV line from the back of her hand. Dark blood began to pool and drip onto the white sheets. “No!” Daisy shrieked, thrashing about. “Is Cassie mad at me? She hates me because I took you away! It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t be alive. I should have died in that accident instead of Dad! Just let me die!” “Daisy!” Mom’s voice cracked with absolute terror. She dropped the phone onto the pillows, turning her back on me to throw her arms around the hysterical girl. The camera spun, landing face-up, capturing only the ceiling and the frantic, jerky shadows of the room. Through the speaker, I could hear Daisy’s ragged, choking gasps and Mom’s desperate, tearful pleading. “Daisy, look at me. Mommy’s here. I’m right here. It’s not your fault, sweetie. It’s not your fault. I love you. You’re the only one I need.” Watching my limbs grow fainter, dissolving into mist, I screamed into the phone. “Mom! Look at me! Just look at the screen! Say happy birthday to me first! Please, just say it! Say it now!” My voice, warped by madness and terror, echoed loudly through the hospital speaker. The noise triggered Daisy again. Through the erratic frame, I saw her eyes roll back. Her body began to seize violently, slipping toward unconsciousness. “Cassie!” In a panic, Mom grabbed the phone. She glared into the camera, her face—the face I loved more than anything—contorted with pure rage and disgust. “Are you trying to kill her? Will you not rest until you’ve ruined everything for everyone? We are done. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.” The call disconnected. The screen went black, plunging the room back into a suffocating, freezing silence. My vision was beginning to blur, but my eyes drifted to the dust-covered frame on the console. It was our family photo, taken ten years ago, just before the crash. My father, my mother, and me. Looking at my mother’s radiant, tender smile in that photo, a fierce, desperate wave of grief surged from the depths of my soul. “She used to say I was her whole world.” I didn’t have a tomorrow. If I wanted a today, I had to go find it myself. Dragging my nearly immaterial body, I used the last two percent of my phone battery to call an Uber. It was a thirty-mile drive through a torrential downpour. Rain lashed against the passenger window like gravel. Inside, my body felt like shattering glass. Every bump in the road tore at the seams of my soul, pulling me apart. The driver kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed with concern. “Miss, are you okay? Your face… you look pale as a ghost. Do you want me to pull over at an ER?” I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. “No, thank you. Please, just go faster. I’m running out of time.” “I am running to say goodbye to my mother.” The car finally pulled up to the grand entrance of the luxury beachfront resort in Montauk. I paid, opened the door, and plunged headfirst into the freezing rain. The downpour soaked through my clothes in seconds, freezing them to my skin. I stumbled through the lobby, ignoring the horrified stares of the receptionists, and headed straight toward Mom’s private suite. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the resort restaurant, I saw the warm, golden light inside. And there, bathed in that warmth, was my mother. She was sitting on a plush banquette, a strained but loving smile on her face, slicing a towering, three-tiered strawberry cream cake for Daisy. Sugar was always the easiest cure for Daisy’s dark moods. And there I stood, drenched and shivering in the dark, looking in on a world of sweetness that had no room for me. The heavy glass door creaked open as I pushed my way inside. Every head in the restaurant turned toward me. When Mom turned and saw me, shock washed over her face, quickly followed by a flash of panic and maternal worry. “Cassie?” she gasped, standing up so fast her chair scraped against the tile. “How did you get here? In this storm? Are you insane?” She rushed toward me, unbuttoning her trench coat to wrap around my shivering frame. “Someone get a towel, quickly! She’s freezing!” I didn’t take the coat. Instead, I grabbed her wrists with whatever physical strength I had left. “Mom…” I whispered, my voice cracked and desperate. “Please. Just say ‘Happy Birthday.’ Tell me now. Please.” Mom froze. She stared at my dripping face, her forehead tightening. The worry in her eyes turned into sheer exhaustion and disbelief. “Cassie, has the fever gotten to your head? Is this really what we’re doing right now?” She tried to pull her hands free. “Go dry off. Stop being so stubborn.” She thought this was a game. She thought I had dragged myself through a storm just to win a petty argument, to force a meaningless phrase out of her mouth. Behind her, Daisy set her cake knife down on the table, her eyes wide and watery. “Cassie, please don’t fight with Mom,” Daisy whimpered, her voice trembling as she shrank back. “I had to take so many shots today. Can we just have a quiet night?” “You can always have a birthday party next year. It’s just one night.” “Next year?” Every single year, she had stolen it from me. And now, I didn’t have a next year. On the dining room wall, a massive mahogany clock ticked away, loud as a heartbeat. Daisy’s whining, Mom’s cold hesitation—it snapped the final, frayed cord holding my sanity together. I ripped my hands away from Mom and lunged toward the table. Before Daisy could scream, I grabbed the bottom of the three-tiered cake stand and flipped it with all my might. “Crash.” The towering cake slammed onto the floor, strawberries, white cream, and shattered ceramic splattering across the pristine tile. “This was my birthday! My eighteenth birthday!” I screamed, the tears finally bursting free. “It was my life!” I pointed at the ruined cake, at the ticking clock, and then at Daisy, who was cowering behind Mom. “Mom, you promised! You promised that if I survived, you would spend every single birthday with me! Did you forget? Did you forget what you said?!” I laughed, a horrible, broken sound that dissolved into a sob. I was screaming like a madwoman, spinning out of control. Daisy curled into a tight ball on the banquette, pressing her hands over her ears, weeping hysterically. Mom stared at the ruined cake, then at Daisy, and finally at me. “Cassie, get a hold of yourself!” Mom yelled, stepping forward to grab my arms. I tried to pull back, but she caught my wrist, her grip like iron. “Slap.” Her hand connected with my cheek. The sharp, cracking sound echoed through the high ceilings. The entire restaurant fell deathly quiet. The blow didn’t hurt. Truly, it didn’t feel like anything at all. I didn’t cry out, nor did I reach up to touch my burning cheek. I simply lifted my eyes to the mahogany clock on the wall. The minute hand pointed to 11:58. The second hand was marching toward the end. I looked at Mom, whose face was twisted in a mixture of rage, regret, and shock. I offered her a soft, hollow smile. “Mom, it’s too late. It’s all too late.” 11:58 PM. The ticking of the clock grew deafening. “Tick. Tick. Tick.” Each strike sounded like a funeral knell. I collapsed onto the cold tile, the last of my energy drained. My breathing grew shallow, my physical form fading so fast I could barely feel the floor beneath me. I forced my hand upward, pointing a trembling finger at my mother, who was staring down at me with sudden, terrifying comprehension starting to dawn in her eyes. “Ten years ago… in that car crash… you were supposed to die,” I whispered, my voice faint as a dream. “I begged the Reaper. I traded my life for yours. The only condition… was that you had to spend my birthdays with me. But you never did… not even once.” Mom listened to my wild, impossible story. The shock on her face curdled into confusion, and then into a hard, defensive frustration. She thought I was making it up—a desperate, manipulative fantasy to win her back. “Cassie, that is sick,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “How can you play games with that crash? You know what we lost that day. You know what it did to me…” “I am so incredibly disappointed in you. To invent a ghost story just to hurt me?” The last traces of her guilt vanished, hardened over by cold, impenetrable disgust. She was right. After the crash, I thought I had only lost my father. But the truth was, I had lost my mother, too. “Security!” Mom turned toward the lobby, shouting over the quiet hum of the restaurant. “She’s hysterical. Take her up to the holding room on the third floor. Lock her in. She needs to spend the night calming down, and no one is to let her out.” Two burly security guards hurried in. Taking in the shattered cake and my drenched, trembling frame, and seeing the absolute authority in my mother’s face, they didn’t ask questions. They grabbed me under my arms and began dragging me away. 11:59 PM. I didn’t have the strength to struggle. My feet scraped uselessly against the floor as they dragged me down the hallway. My vision was dimming, turning into a fuzzy gray. In the last fading frame of my sight, I saw my mother turn back, bending down with that beautiful, protective tenderness, and folding Daisy into her arms. The grandfather clock in the lobby began to chime. Midnight. Out of the darkness, a figure in a heavy black cloak materialized beside me. “Time to go, child.” With a violent, painless wrench, my soul was pulled free from my body. In that exact instant, the screen of the phone in my pocket lit up with a text message from Mom: “Think about what you’ve done tonight. If you can’t see how selfish you are, don’t bother calling me Mom again.”

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