It was past midnight when I missed the last train home. Shivering on the empty platform, I called my husband, asking him to come pick me up. He answered, his voice airy and completely unbothered. “Give me an hour.” In that single second, the illusion shattered. I knew exactly what that “hour” meant. Tonight, like so many nights before, would be a test of endurance. A waiting game with no end. For the years we’d been married, Wayne had used this petty, calculated tactic to punish me. A lingering retaliation for the times I’d run late putting on my makeup when we first started dating. When my grandmother was on her deathbed, drawing her final, shallow breaths, he lied about the driving distance. “It’s only a three-hour drive, Gloria. We have time.” By the time we pulled into my childhood driveway, there was nothing left but a cold casket and a room smelling of incense. When my appendix flared up—a white-hot, blinding pain in my lower abdomen—he texted that his car was pulling into the driveway. Instead, he left me writhing on the freezing hardwood kitchen floor for thirty agonizing minutes. Now, I sat on the curb of a desolate street, gently rubbing my blistered, swollen heels, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. My phone buzzed in my palm. A foolish, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. It was extinguished instantly. “By the way, did you drop Delilah’s dress off at the dry cleaners?” his text read. “Her commencement ceremony is in exactly seventy-two hours, five minutes, and twenty-one seconds.” Looking at those numbers—so agonizingly precise, down to the very second—the dam broke. Years of swallowed tears and quiet compromises came rushing out. I stared into the dark, empty street, and for the first time, I simply didn’t want to hold on anymore. … My entire body ached by the time I finally dragged myself through the front door. I fumbled with the medicine cabinet, pulling out a bottle of soothing ointment to tend to my bruised heels myself. After years of marriage, I had become an expert at carrying my own heavy, silent burdens. A moment later, the bedroom door clicked open. Wayne stood in the hallway, his eyes locking onto me as I massaged my raw skin. He frowned, a slight crease forming between his brows. “I was just getting ready to head out to get you,” he said, his tone casual. “Why did you walk back? And wearing those ridiculous heels? You’re just asking for trouble.” “It wasn’t that far,” I muttered, my voice stiff as I walked past him toward the kitchen. I was looking for the microwave. I’d texted him this morning, asking him to save me some dinner. But when I pulled the microwave door open, my hands froze. It was completely empty. “Did you take Delilah’s dress to the cleaners?” Wayne asked again, ignoring my silence. He leaned against the counter. Delilah was a college student we’d been sponsoring together. Lately, though, the boundaries between them had begun to blur in ways that made my skin crawl. I was slowly realizing I’d brought a viper into my home. Seeing my blank stare, Wayne pressed on, his voice taking on that familiar defensive edge. “I know she told me last week there was no rush. But she’s a young girl, Gloria. She wants to look beautiful for her graduation. Just get it done early.” “You asked me to do something this morning,” I started, turning to face him. “But I—” Before I could finish, his phone blared. Wayne stepped away into the living room, murmuring into the receiver. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a takeout bag. “Since you haven’t eaten,” he said, setting it on the table. “Here.” He turned back toward the bedroom, and as he did, a sudden glint of silver caught the light. It was a small, masculine ear stud. I had bought him countless pieces of jewelry over the years, but he had always rejected them, calling them “too feminine” or “not his style.” Yet, last week, when we took Delilah out to dinner, she had giggled over a magazine ad of a male celebrity with a cartilage piercing, calling it incredibly hot. The very next afternoon, Wayne had come home with a fresh hole in his left ear. During the early, rocky years of our marriage, I had begged him to compromise on the little things. He’d always shrugged me off, claiming he was a free spirit who hated being managed. Now, the truth was glaringly obvious. It wasn’t that he couldn’t change. It was just that I wasn’t worth the effort. I shook the thoughts from my head and ripped open the plastic takeout bag with a loud, sharp snap. Inside was a bowl of extra-spicy Sichuan noodle soup, the broth hidden beneath a thick, angry layer of red chili oil. Wayne lived for spicy food. I couldn’t tolerate a single drop. Normally, even when he was being dismissive, he never made mistakes when it came to my allergies or food preferences. But then I saw the receipt stapled to the bag. On the back, written in a neat, loopy handwriting, was a note: “Thank you for giving me this internship opportunity, Professor! You’ve been working so hard. I ordered this specially for you—make sure to eat it while it’s hot!” I wasn’t even getting a meal he’d bought for me. I was getting her unwanted leftovers. A hot spike of anger flared in my chest. I crumpled the receipt into a tight ball and threw it fiercely into the trash can. Wayne came back out for a glass of water, letting out a soft, exasperated laugh. “What is it now? You’re picking fights over a bowl of noodles?” “You gave Delilah a job at your firm?” I demanded. “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of water. “Her grades aren’t stellar, but she’s young, eager, and has a lot of potential.” “But when I asked you to interview my cousin last semester, you said your company had a strict policy against nepotism,” I said, the hurt cutting deep into my voice. Wayne sighed, looking at me as if I were a difficult child. “Babe, that’s completely different. Skill is one thing, but brand image is another. Delilah has the look. She represents the energy we want.” The fight drained out of me. My shoulders slumped. “Oh, and by the way,” Wayne added, pausing at the bedroom door. “You don’t need to buy me any more accessories. They’re a bit… dated. Delilah offered to help me pick out some new pieces. She’s an art major; she actually understands modern aesthetics.” He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dim kitchen. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. As my hand touched the brass handle, my eyes locked onto a brand-new digital clock mounted directly above the mirror. A bitter memory surfaced. Last week, Wayne had spent ten minutes extra in the shower, and Delilah had called my phone repeatedly, frantic, crying that she was terrified he had slipped and hit his head. The next day, this clock appeared. I looked around, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own home. On the towel rack, his old blue bath towel—the one he’d used for a year—was gone. In its place hung a plush, lavender-colored one. Lavender: Delilah’s absolute favorite color. In the corner of the vanity, a clear plastic cup was neatly wrapped in a ziplock bag and tucked away safely. It was the cup Delilah had used when she stayed over on our couch a few weeks ago. He couldn’t even bring himself to throw away her used cup; he had preserved it like a relic. Meanwhile, my old things—my favorite hand lotions, my worn-out vanity organizers—had been cleared out and thrown away to make room. The sense of sanctuary, the delicate order I had fought so hard to maintain in this marriage, was completely gone. My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from my mother: “Gloria, sweetie, have you made up your mind? Your father and I are settled here in Sydney now. What are you going to do over there all by yourself?” My mother had seen through my marriage long ago. She had spent the last year begging me to leave him and join them in Australia. I typed back, my fingers surprisingly steady: “Mom, please start the visa paperwork for me. I don’t want to keep hurting myself like this.” The next morning, I woke up to find we were out of my usual facial cotton pads. On the marble counter, Wayne had placed three unopened packs of a new brand. The packaging was covered in bright, cutesy pink cartoon characters—completely jarring against the minimalist, neutral aesthetic of our bathroom. My hand hovered over the box. Wayne leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile on his lips. “Those are super popular right now. There was a summer sale, and Delilah grabbed a whole case for us.” “Right,” I murmured. The cotton felt soft against my skin, but it felt like tiny needles. My face stung. I’ve always been particular about my skincare, only buying brands I’ve trusted for years. Before we married, I told him I would handle the household shopping. Now, slowly, silently, a stranger was taking over my space. “I’m not used to this brand,” I said quietly. “Let’s stick to the old one next time.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll use these. You can buy whatever you want. It’s not a big deal.” When I walked into the living room, Wayne was kneeling on the carpet, playing with a small tabby cat. He had a severe allergy to cat dander; years ago, when I had begged him for a kitten, he had flatly refused, claiming it would kill his sinuses. Now, he was wearing a medical mask and thick gloves, laughing as the kitten batted at a string. It was a stray Delilah had found shivering near a dumpster last week, and her dorm didn’t allow pets. The kitten broke away from Wayne and came over to rub against my ankle. As I stepped back to avoid it, Wayne raised his phone. “Don’t move,” he said. A sharp click echoed in the room. “Delilah’s always worried you hate the cat,” Wayne said, looking down at his screen. “Sending her a picture of you two will put her mind at ease.” “I actually don’t like it,” I said flatly. “Once she graduates and finds an apartment, she needs to take it.” Wayne’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. Sensing my coldness, his tone softened, trying to coax me. “Come on, Gloria, don’t be like that. Didn’t you always want a cat? I thought you’d be happy.” But I had wanted “our” cat. A pet we chose together. Not an interloper that took over our living room. At breakfast, looking at the plain ceramic plate in front of me, another memory drifted back, sharp and unbidden. A few months ago, during a weekend trip to a pottery retreat in the Hudson Valley, I had spent hours throwing a beautiful, hand-painted blue-and-white porcelain dinner set. I wanted to bring it home as a gift for my parents. But on the drive back, Wayne had insisted on packing the heavy plates at the very top of our largest suitcase, right under the lid. He claimed he needed to cushion a giant, fluffy plush bear Delilah had won at an arcade. When we unpacked, the porcelain set was in shattered, jagged pieces. The suitcase lining was dusted in blue glaze. Delilah stood next to him, her eyes welling with tears because a tiny bit of stuffing was leaking from her bear’s arm. “The plates breaking is just bad luck, Gloria. We’ll file a claim with the airline,” Wayne had said, barely looking at the ruins of my hard work. “Help Delilah sew her bear back together, okay?” In the end, my hours of careful creation were swept into a trash bin at the airport. I had returned home empty-handed. “Don’t forget about Delilah’s dress,” Wayne muttered, bringing me back to the present. “We can’t delay it anymore.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m running a company, Gloria. I’m incredibly busy. I hope this is the last time I have to remind you of this.” The mention of the dress made the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. He was so meticulous, so fiercely protective of a rented gown for a girl who wasn’t his family. Yet for me, there was only the leftover scraps of his attention. I gripped my fork, a sudden wave of anger washing over me, but then I slowly let it go, exhaling a quiet breath. Why even bother arguing? In a few days, I would be gone anyway. Years ago, when we first started dating and talked about the future, he told me he hated the bureaucratic trap of a marriage certificate. He suggested we wait to sign the papers until I got pregnant. I had agreed, blinded by love. But in all these years, he had never truly touched me with real intimacy. We had the ceremony, the big party, the shared house—but we had never actually gone to the courthouse. I didn’t even need to hire a divorce lawyer. There were no assets to split, no legal ties to sever. How beautifully simple. I spent the day wrapping up my remaining projects at the university. By evening, I walked across the campus to turn in my keys and final resignation papers to the administration office. As I neared the grand campus auditorium, the rich, swelling chords of an orchestra drifted through the double doors—the graduation gala. I intended to walk past, but something made me stop. My gaze anchored onto the center of the polished dance floor. Delilah was spinning in a slow, graceful circle, wearing a stunning champagne-colored gown. She was radiant, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. Holding her by the waist, guiding her steps with effortless poise, was Wayne. My breath caught, a cold lump forming in my throat. That champagne gown was my wedding reception dress. My absolute favorite piece of clothing, tucked away in the back of my closet. Wayne had gotten a haircut, styling his hair to look like a college student himself. He looked youthful, laughing softly at something she whispered. They were close—so close their shoulders brushed with every step. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Years ago, I was the administrator who had personally reviewed the financial aid applications. I saw that Delilah’s parents had passed away, that she was living on government assistance, and my heart had broken for her. I was the one who convinced Wayne that we should sponsor her tuition, her rent, her life. I pulled her out of the mud. And here she was, wearing my dress, holding my husband, standing in the spot that belonged to me. Perhaps my stare was too intense. Wayne froze mid-step, his eyes catching mine. He slowly let go of Delilah’s waist and walked toward me, his expression tightening with a sudden, nervous energy. “I came to the university to sign the endowment papers,” he said, his voice hurried, defensive. “I just ran into Delilah. It wasn’t planned.” The more he explained, the guiltier he looked. I smiled, a genuine, light feeling washing over me. “It’s fine. Keep her company. I have things to do.” He blinked, momentarily stunned by my reaction. Usually, if I saw him looking too closely at a waitress or texting late at night, I would lose my temper. Today, I was perfectly, uncannily calm. “Delilah is the student you sponsored, after all,” Wayne said, trying to regain his footing. “I’m just looking out for her on your behalf.” “Gloria, we need you to sign the final exit forms,” a colleague called out, rushing toward us with a clipboard. “What exit forms?” Wayne’s brow furrowed. I didn’t answer. He shook his head, a patronizing smile returning to his face. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I can easily support both of you.” After I finished the paperwork, my phone buzzed with a text from Wayne. It was a rare, urgent message: “I’m coming to pick you up. Stay right there. Seriously, ten minutes this time. If I’m late by even a second, I’ll Venmo you ten thousand dollars.” I stared at the screen, looking at the desperate promise. The urge to walk to the train station vanished. I pulled up a chair in the campus security booth instead. “Waiting for the husband again, Gloria?” the elderly guard, Mr. Hudson, asked with a warm, sympathetic smile. “Is he going to make it on time today? I’m supposed to lock up and pick up my grandson soon.” A flush of embarrassment warmed my cheeks. Wayne was always late. Even the campus security guards knew my husband couldn’t be bothered to show up on time for me. Nine minutes later, my phone chimed. A Venmo notification: “Wayne Garrick sent you $10,000.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. I stood up, walked out into the baking afternoon heat, and headed straight for the subway station. By the time I reached the entrance of our gated community, I was drenched in sweat. I stopped by the mailroom to pick up our packages. The young clerk behind the counter smiled brightly when he saw me. “Oh, hey! I have a package for ‘WayneLovesDelilah.’ That’s your husband’s account, right? I’ll grab it for you.” He handed it over, his eyes shining with admiration. “You guys have the cutest couple name. Seriously, relationship goals.” The words felt like a physical slap across my face. I took the package, my fingers cold against the cardboard. The temperature of my blood seemed to drop a few degrees. Without my noticing, Delilah had invaded almost every corner of my life. His keys now carried a little plush fox—her favorite animal. His classic leather-wrapped flask had been replaced by a trendy, pastel travel mug. Even the smart lock code to our front door had been changed to her birthday. When he first changed the lock, I had been touched, thinking he had finally remembered my birthday. It was only later that I realized Delilah and I shared the exact same day. I collapsed onto the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Delilah’s latest post popped up on my feed—a photo of her and Wayne, head-to-head, smiling broadly. “How lucky am I to have someone so gentle in my corner?” her caption read. “Mr. Garrick, here’s to another year of standing by each other. More than just friends.” A second later, a little red heart popped up. Wayne had liked it instantly. I stared at that tiny red heart for a long, quiet moment. Then, with a numb finger, I swiped past. The front door clicked open. Wayne walked in, holding the champagne wedding gown in his hand, crumpled and smelling of cheap perfume. He tossed it onto the sofa next to me. “Get this dry cleaned and put it away,” he said casually. “You and Delilah are basically the same size. She really wanted to try on a designer piece, so I let her have her moment. Don’t be mad.” I looked at the wrinkled fabric of the dress I had treasured for years. I didn’t even look up at him. “Don’t bother cleaning it,” I said. “Just throw it in the trash.” He froze, staring at me in disbelief. “What? You love this dress. You’ve kept it preserved like gold. Why would you throw it away?” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. He knew. He had always known how much that dress meant to me. Yet, the moment Delilah asked, he hadn’t hesitated for a single second to hand it over. Seeing the hollow look in my eyes, Wayne pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Within an hour, a delivery service arrived, lining our living room with racks of the latest designer gowns. One of them was a breathtaking, limited-edition piece. Wayne lifted the dress from the rack, holding it up with a triumphant smile. “I saw you liked this on your Pinterest board yesterday. I knew you’d want it. I had my assistant track down a personal shopper in Paris to get it flown in overnight. Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” Looking at the beautiful silk, I realized how incredibly easy I used to be to appease. An expensive toy to quiet a crying child. Even though I had officially resigned, the dean had personally requested that I give a brief speech at the commencement ceremony as the graduating class’s administrative counselor. Standing on the stage, looking out at the rows of students in black caps and gowns, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. “After years in education, watching class after class step into the world,” I spoke into the microphone, my voice steady and resonant, “seeing student Delilah Cross, whom my husband and I have sponsored for years, graduate today… feels like the perfect, quiet closing chapter to my own career here.” As the applause faded, Delilah walked up the steps to the stage. She was wearing the freshly pressed champagne gown, standing out like a star under the stage lights. She took the microphone, launched into a long, emotional speech, and spent five minutes praising Wayne’s generosity. She didn’t mention my name once. I stood off to the side, my brows drawing together as a cold sense of dread settled in my stomach. Suddenly, Delilah paused, a playful, sharp smile spreading across her lips. She looked down at the audience, then turned her eyes to me. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I haven’t thanked Mrs. Whitman,” she said, her voice amplified clearly through the speakers. “Gloria Whitman, our university counselor, is listed as my official sponsor on paper. But in reality, she has never given me a single dollar of her own money. She doesn’t deserve a single word of my gratitude.” A collective gasp rippled through the auditorium. Hundreds of faces turned toward me. The whispers started instantly—sharp, mocking, judgmental. I froze on the stage, the blood rushing to my ears, turning my hands icy cold. Delilah’s smile widened. She leaned closer to the microphone, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “And there’s one more thing.” “I know for a fact that Mrs. Whitman and Mr. Garrick were never legally married. They aren’t husband and wife. In fact, they broke up weeks ago.” She turned her gaze to the front row, where Wayne sat, his face drained of all color. “Today, as I graduate, I finally have the courage to say what’s in my heart. Wayne, you’ve stood by me through seven years of school. You are my savior, my mentor, my everything. Will you marry me?” The auditorium went dead silent for a fraction of a second, before exploding into a deafening roar of cheers and applause. I looked desperately toward Wayne. His face was stark white. He stumbled up the stairs of the stage, almost tripping over his own feet. He grabbed the microphone from Delilah’s hand. “I do,” he said into the mic. The words echoed off the high ceilings. My mind went entirely blank, the last of my strength evaporating. I turned and ran. I fled down the backstage stairs, tears blurring my vision as I burst out into the cool night air. He didn’t run after me. My phone vibrated violently in my hand, a string of desperate texts lighting up the screen: “Gloria, please. I didn’t know she was going to do that.” “I only said yes to calm her down, to protect the company’s image.” “Give me five minutes. Just five minutes, I’m coming to find you.” I stared at the blinking screen, my vision swimming in hot tears. I pressed the record button, my voice cracking into a ragged, broken sob: “Wayne! In all these years, have you ever been on time even once?! I’ve waited five years for you to show up. I am done waiting! We are over!” I raised my hand, hailed a passing cab, and gave the driver the address of the airport. My parents were already waiting at the terminal. The moment my mother saw my tear-streaked face, she pulled me into her arms, stroking my hair without a word. As the plane rolled down the runway and lifted into the sky, the tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally began to loosen. Meanwhile, back in the city, Wayne had finally managed to dodge the reporters and quiet Delilah down. When he finally rushed through the front door of our empty apartment, two hours had already passed. He stepped into the elevator, his heart pounding against his ribs, preparing himself to face my rage. Instead, he ran into our next-door neighbor, who was returning from a weekend trip. The neighbor smiled, nodding politely. “Hey, Wayne. Is Gloria going on a trip? I just landed at JFK and swear I saw her walking toward the international departures gate. What country is she off to?” Wayne froze on the spot, his face turning a sickly, hollow white.

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I was working past midnight when my husband, Logan, sent me a text. “Forgot to grab your package. You’ll have to get it tomorrow.” Almost simultaneously, an update popped up on my feed. His childhood best friend, Kylie, had posted a new photo on Instagram. “Free home delivery. My personal courier.” The photo showed a man wheeling a handcart stacked high with cardboard boxes. The shot was taken from behind, but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. It was Logan. In the three years we’d been married, Logan always managed to forget my packages. But whenever Kylie ordered something, he was there, ready to hand-deliver it to her doorstep. When she ordered an ergonomic office chair, he said she wasn’t good with tools and went over to assemble it. When she ordered groceries, he said she was too weak to carry them and personally stocked her fridge. He even picked up her lingerie deliveries, claiming that personal items shouldn’t pass through a stranger’s hands. Rain or shine, he never missed a delivery for her. A mutual friend had commented on Kylie’s post: “You two are too much. Stop feeding us dog food!” I quietly double-tapped and liked the photo. Within seconds, Logan’s name flashed on my screen. “Don’t be mad,” he said as soon as I picked up. “I had to go out of town on an unexpected business trip today. I’ll grab your package as soon as I’m back tomorrow.” I stared out the window at the endless grid of city lights, my voice barely a whisper. “Don’t bother.” This particular package was from my lawyer. It contained the divorce papers. From now on, he would never have to pick up a package for me again. … I stayed at the office a little longer, finally unlocking the front door of our apartment at 2:00 AM. My phone lit up again—another automated, relentless text from the lobby’s parcel locker reminding me to collect my delivery. I looked at the dark, hollow living room, turned back around, and took the elevator back down to the lobby. As I pulled the thin cardboard envelope from the metal locker, a profound sense of unreality washed over me. From eighteen to twenty-eight. Ten years of my life with Logan, ending in something so incredibly cheap. As I walked back across the courtyard, a man smelling heavily of alcohol stumbled out of the shadows, blocking my path. “Hey, beautiful. Why are you out so late all by yourself?” Before my brain could register the danger, he lunged, tackling me to the concrete. The stench of cheap liquor and sweat filled my nose, snapping me out of my shock. I screamed, kicking and clawing with everything I had. Every inch of skin he touched felt like it was burning, rotting away. Thankfully, the night security guard heard the commotion and rushed over, pulling the drunk off me and calling the police. Soon, I was sitting in the brightly lit precinct, waiting to give my statement. The drunk was still belligerent, shouting to the officers, “We’re dating! It was just a little lovers’ quarrel!” “I’m married,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” The man scoffed, gesturing wildly. “Well, your husband’s worse than me then! Leaving you to wander around alone at this hour. You were practically asking for it!” “Shut your mouth,” a young officer snapped, shoving him into a holding cell. He turned back to me, his eyes softening with pity. “I remember you,” the officer said quietly. “You were here last year for something similar. Didn’t your husband swear up and down back then that he’d never let you walk alone at night again?” The memory hit me like a physical blow, leaving a hollow ache where my chest used to be. That time, too, Logan had dropped me off at the entrance of our neighborhood so he could rush off to deliver a package to Kylie. He told me to just walk the rest of the way. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. “He’s… out of town on business.” The officer sighed. “You should still call him. Let him know.” With numb fingers, I dialed the number I knew by heart. He answered almost immediately, but the background was loud, filled with the roar of a crowd and commentators. A game. “Is everything okay?” His tone wasn’t cold, but it lacked any real warmth. Before I could speak, Kylie’s voice cut through the noise. “Logan! Stop lingering! The game’s starting! Get over here!” My grip tightened on the phone. “I thought you said you were out of town on business. Why is she there?” Logan’s voice muffled slightly, as if he had placed his hand over the receiver. “I was just dropping off her package before I left, but when she found out I was traveling, she begged to come along. It’s… her time of the month, and she’s been in a really bad head space. I didn’t feel right leaving her alone in her apartment, so I brought her with me to get her mind off things.” He paused, as if waiting for me to argue. “I got her her own room next door. She’ll go back right after the game.” He knew her cycle. He knew her mood. I looked down at my torn collar, at the raw red scratches on my arms. “What about me?” There was a brief silence on the line. “What about you? Don’t start, Gloria. She’s careless and fragile; I’ve been looking out for her for twenty years. It’s just second nature now. You’re different. You don’t make me worry.” “Are you coming back tomorrow?” “Yeah.” “We need to talk about a divorce.” “What?” The roar of the stadium drowned out my voice. I didn’t try to repeat myself. I didn’t even feel angry. I was just tired. When he was with Kylie, he could never hear me, and he could never see that I needed him too. I hung up first. The next afternoon, the front door unlocked. Logan walked in, with Kylie trailing close behind. “Logan, you are the absolute worst!” Kylie kicked off her shoes, tossing them aside as she collapsed onto our sofa. “We promised we’d stay up for the whole game, and you fell asleep halfway through! I had to drag your heavy ass to bed!” Logan picked up her shoes, placing them neatly in the entryway with an indulgent sigh. “You’re one to talk. Who was the little pig snoring so loudly she almost rolled off the bed? I had to reach over and pull you back.” Kylie threw a sofa cushion at him, her eyes wide. “Liar! One more word and I’m not helping you wheel my packages next time!” They bickered, entirely wrapped up in each other. As if this weren’t my home, but their playground. It took several minutes before Kylie seemed to remember I was sitting there. She let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Gloria, please don’t get the wrong idea. I lost my key card and I’m terrified of the dark, so I forced him to let me crash in his room. We’ve known each other for twenty years—I have zero interest in him like that.” I said nothing. Logan jumped in. “Honey, don’t listen to her. I must have owed her a massive debt in a past life, and now I’m stuck cleaning up her messes. She wouldn’t survive a day without me.” He walked over and held out a beautifully wrapped gift bag. “She bought this mango-scented diffuser for you. She said it’s supposed to help with insomnia.” “Thank you,” I said, but I didn’t reach for it. Logan frowned. “Aren’t you going to look at it? She spent forever picking it out.” I looked up, my gaze completely flat. “I’m allergic to mangoes, Logan. I hate the smell.” The room went dead silent. Logan shifted on his feet, looking away guiltily. He quickly cleared his throat to change the subject. “So, why did you call last night? Was there something you needed?” Kylie instantly piped up, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What else could it be? She missed you, obviously.” “Go away,” Logan muttered, though there was no heat in it. “We’re an old married couple. We don’t do cheesy.” I remembered a few weeks ago, when Logan had left his phone on the kitchen counter. A notification had popped up from Kylie. Her contact name in his phone was “Chatty Little Peacock”, and her messages were a constant stream of consciousness: “Logan, I’m bored.” “Logan, I miss you.” “Make sure you’re thinking of me.” My contact name in his phone was simply “Gloria”. Our text history was a dry ledger of logistics: “Working late? What time will you be home? I ate already.” That was the day I had called the attorney to draw up the papers. Now, I noticed a colorful, hand-woven bracelet on Logan’s wrist. Kylie wore an identical one on hers. We had been together for five years before marrying, and we had been married for another three. In all that time, he had never worn a single piece of matching jewelry with me. He had taken his wedding band off the day after our ceremony, locking it away in our safe. “A grown man looks ridiculous wearing that kind of stuff,” he had said. Looking at the bright thread around his wrist now, my chest throbbed. “Last night, I was assaulted,” I said. “I spent the night at the station giving a statement.” The air in the room instantly froze. Logan’s face went rigid. His voice cracked as he raised it. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” Before I could answer, Kylie chimed in again. “And do what? You had drank so much, Logan. It’s not like you could have driven back. Gloria is always so independent and understanding. I could never be that strong.” Just like that, Logan’s attention drifted right back to her. “Oh, so you’re proud of being codependent now? If it were you, you would’ve been crying and begging me to rush home. You should learn a thing or two from Gloria.” He didn’t see the torn fabric of my collar. He didn’t ask if I was hurt. His world only had room for one person. A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. The vows we took three years ago about being partners for life felt like a storm with a time delay. My side of the world was drowning in the deluge, while his remained perfectly dry. I stood up, walked to the cabinet, and placed the envelope in front of him. “Take a look. If it looks okay, sign it.” Before Logan could reach for the papers, Kylie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then habitually looped her arm through Logan’s. “My new dress just arrived at the lockers! Come with me to grab it. I want to wear it to the party tonight!” Logan looked at me, a brief flash of hesitation in his eyes. Kylie’s lower lip trembled, her expression turning fragile. “Gloria just said she was assaulted. Now I’m terrified to go down there alone. You know what happened to me when I was a kid… I still have trauma.” Logan stiffened. When he turned back to me, his tone carried an edge of blame. “You really shouldn’t have gone down there. I told you I’d get your package today. Why did you have to go in the middle of the night? If you had just waited, none of this would have happened.” The memory of the drunk’s face flashed before my eyes. I clenched my fists and let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Right. My fault.” Logan opened his mouth to say more, but Kylie tugged his arm, pulling him toward the door. “Come on, let’s go. We’re going to be late.” At the door, Logan knelt down to help Kylie slip into her heels. He was half-bent before her, looking exactly like a man proposing. I turned and went upstairs to pack. There was a lot to go through, but so much of it was tainted by Logan’s presence that I left almost everything behind. I only packed my everyday clothes and my documents. As for my job, I had submitted my resignation a month ago. Working late last night had just been to finish the handoff. The transfer to our firm’s Los Angeles office had already been approved; they were just waiting for me to report for duty. As I placed the last dress into my suitcase, I paused. Logan had bought this dress for me right after we got married. He said I looked beautiful in it. Back then, there was a light in his eyes when he looked at me. I couldn’t remember when that light had gone out. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. My phone rang. It was Kylie. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Gloria, get dressed and come down! Today is your anniversary, and Logan’s been planning this party for weeks. You absolutely have to be here.” I froze. In three years of marriage, he had never once celebrated our anniversary. I used to care, but he always told me that marriage was about daily life, not showing off for others. I didn’t know what had changed, but since I was leaving anyway, I figured this could be our final goodbye. “Okay.” I changed into a simple outfit and walked down. Kylie was already sitting in the passenger seat of Logan’s car. On the dashboard, there was a small customized sticker: “Little Princess’s Seat”. As I opened the back door, Kylie gasped, slapping her forehead. “Oh my gosh, Gloria! Do you want to sit up front? I’m just so used to sitting here, I swear I didn’t mean to take your spot.” “It’s fine. Stay there.” I got into the back. Kylie immediately turned and playfully punched Logan’s shoulder. “You lucky dog. You hit the jackpot marrying someone as sweet as Gloria. You were just saying she’d be mad at me, but look at her—she doesn’t mind at all.” Logan caught my eye in the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away. “Just sit tight and behave.” We navigated the streets in silence—or at least, my silence. In the front, they talked and laughed the entire ride. I sat in the back, as quiet as a passenger in transit. When we arrived at the lounge, the doors swung open, and a crowd of our friends shouted, “Happy Anniversary!” Confetti rained down on my face. But the crowd was surrounding Logan and Kylie. On the wall behind them, a banner read: “Celebrating 20 Years of Best Friendship!” Kylie looked at me, a sudden look of realization on her face. “Oh… Gloria, I’m so sorry. I must have gotten the dates mixed up.” She hadn’t mixed anything up. I had. I had gotten everything wrong for a very long time. “It’s fine,” I said, finding a quiet corner to sit down. Logan was surrounded by his friends. Kylie mentioned she wanted some grapes, and he immediately began peeling them, laughing as he fed them to her. Our friends cheered and egged them on. Nobody noticed me sitting in the shadows. After a few rounds of drinks, someone started a game of Truth or Dare, thrusting a microphone in front of Logan. “Alright, Logan, truth time. Have you and Kylie ever actually had feelings for each other?” Logan stayed silent, but a visibly tipsy Kylie leaned her head onto his shoulder, tears brimming in her eyes as she whispered, “Of course we did. You jerk… How could you call another woman your wife? You promised you’d marry me when we grew up.” The room fell dead silent. Every eye in the lounge slowly turned toward me. I remembered what a mentor had told me when Logan and I first started dating: “Don’t date a guy with a tight-knit childhood crew. You’ll always be the outsider.” But back then, I was already too deep. Logan was handsome, we shared the same values, and he seemed completely devoted to me. I thought love could overcome anything. When we were dating, Kylie lived out of state and rarely visited. On the rare occasions she did, I viewed her as a younger sister. It was only after we got married that her shadow truly fell over my life. If she couldn’t figure out her tracking numbers, Logan had her route her packages to our address so he could personally deliver them to her. When she had cramps, he knew her cycle better than an alarm clock, bringing brown sugar tea and pain meds to her bedside. When she had a presentation at work, he stayed up all night formatting her slides. But when I asked him to pick up a package for me, he always forgot, or said he was too busy. Once, when I went back to visit my parents for a month, I ordered two boxes of fruit that ended up rotting in the parcel locker. During that same month, Logan had delivered packages to Kylie seventeen times. “Have fun, everyone. I’m going to head home.” Leaving the stunned crowd behind, I walked out of the lounge. Logan ran out after me, panic written all over his face. “Gloria, wait! Don’t misunderstand. She’s just drunk and talking nonsense. We’ve been friends for so long, if anything was going to happen, it would have happened years ago.” I looked at him, my voice very quiet. “Can you drive me home? I don’t want to walk in the dark.” He glanced back toward the lounge, his brow furrowing. “Can I call you an Uber? Or maybe the doorman can walk you to the door when you get there? Kylie’s really drunk, and I don’t feel safe leaving her alone.” He raised his hand to hail a cab, opening the door for me. “Just this once,” I said, looking at him. “Can you please just take me home?” We were standing inches apart, yet he felt miles away. A flicker of impatience crossed his face. “Stop making a scene, Gloria. It’s not the first time you’ve gone home by yourself.” He turned and walked back inside. He didn’t look back. I got into the cab and gave the driver my address. The city lights blurred past the window, a visual tracker of the ten years I had wasted. When I got home, I dragged my suitcase to the door and looked around the apartment we had shared for three years. Our wedding portrait hung on the wall, but on the coffee table, Kylie’s sunglasses and lipstick sat neatly in a tray. Ten years, and I had never managed to fit into his world. I slipped my wedding band off my finger and placed it directly on top of the divorce papers. The door clicked shut behind me. The cab was still waiting downstairs. I climbed in, turned my phone to airplane mode, and gave the driver our final destination: the airport.

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When Tyler and I first started dating, he told me we’d get married as soon as we drove across the entire country together. For the first four years, we made it to ninety-nine percent of our goal. But in our fifth year, his college ex, Gwen, became his coworker. After that, our final destination—Lake Tahoe, the place we had sworn we’d finally get our marriage license—was planned ten times. And canceled ten times. The day before our sixth anniversary, I finally took matters into my own hands. I booked a cabin and a guided tour package for the two of us and sent him the confirmation. Poking him playfully in the chest, I teased, “If you make my parents wait around for us there again, don’t even think about showing your face at Sunday dinner.” Tyler didn’t even look up from his phone. “Cancel it. I don’t have the time. Tomorrow I’m helping Gwen pick up her new kitten, next week I’m taking her to the vet for its checkup, in ten days she wants to see that concert, and at the end of the month… she gets terrible cramps, and she needs someone around to take care of her.” He Venmoed me the cancellation fee, adding a casual line: “Next time, check with me before you book anything. Let’s make sure it doesn’t clash with Gwen’s schedule.” I froze, staring at the screen. He could remember Gwen’s menstrual cycle down to the day. Yet he couldn’t remember what my parents had said on the phone just forty-eight hours ago: “If you two don’t get married by your anniversary, Cassidy, you might as well come back home and let us set you up with someone else.” I declined the Venmo transfer and changed the destination of my flight ticket to my hometown. Fine. I won’t waste your precious time anymore. … “Why did you send the money back? Not enough? I can send you more.” I locked my screen. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced up, his expression entirely devoid of curiosity. He didn’t ask why. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “She doesn’t really have anyone else out here. It’s only right that I look out for her. We can go on a trip anytime, Cassidy. There’s no need to make a big deal out of this.” It sounded like an explanation, but it was actually a warning. A gentle reminder not to make a scene. This was the tenth time he’d said some variation of this. The last time we were about to leave, Gwen’s kitchen pipe burst. Tyler said he’d just run over to help her find a plumber and come right back. But he ended up playing handyman himself, rolling up his sleeves and coming home two hours late, making us miss our flight. The time before that, the night before our departure, Gwen had to pull an all-nighter at the office because of a botched proposal. He said he’d just stop by to offer some pointers and head home. But he ended up staying all night to finish the project for her. His phone died, and he didn’t answer a single one of my calls. The very first time it happened, I told him straight out that I was hurt. He told me I was overthinking, getting jealous over ancient history, and twisting his good intentions. Every time after that, if I showed even a flicker of frustration, he’d meet it with quiet resentment, as if my hurt was an accusation of infidelity. I opened my mouth. “But my mom said this time—” “I don’t know, I think ‘Lucky’ sounds a bit generic,” Tyler murmured into his phone, sending a voice note. “A female kitten needs something softer. Like ‘Mimi’ or ‘Peaches’.” He locked his screen and looked back at me. “What were you saying? But what?” The words died in my throat, leaving a heavy, suffocating weight in my chest. It wasn’t just that he’d cut me off. It was the endless, effortless patience he had for her—a patience he never seemed to spare for me. Whenever I asked him to look at wedding venues or photographer portfolios, he’d glance at them for two seconds and say, “Yeah, looks fine. Whatever you want, babe.” But for Gwen, even a kitten’s name deserved his undivided contemplation. It was so exhausting. “Nothing. Go back to what you were doing.” I got up and headed toward the bedroom, but his hand shot out, catching my arm. “If something’s on your mind, just say it. I honestly didn’t hear you. I wasn’t trying to ignore you.” I took a slow, deep breath, looking into his eyes. They seemed so earnest, so sincere. But just as I opened my mouth to speak, his phone rang. It was Gwen. “Tyler, what was the name of that stomach medicine you bought me last time? My…” He bolted upright. “What’s wrong? Is your gastritis flaring up again? Hang on, don’t hang up. I’m coming over right now!” He let go of my arm instantly, grabbing his shoes and scrambling into his jacket. He didn’t look at me once before the door slammed shut. I stood there, feeling utterly hollowed out, surrounded by a heavy, stifling silence. I pulled out my phone and saw a text from the travel agent asking if I wanted to reschedule for next month. I slowly typed out my reply: “No, thank you. Cancel the trip permanently.” This time, I was done waiting. When Tyler came home, I was out on the balcony, folding laundry. “Gwen’s stomach is really acting up, and she can’t cook for herself. Delivery takes forever on the weekends, so she’s going to hang out here today.” Gwen peeked out from behind him, looking small and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Cassidy. I told him I’d be fine, but he insisted on bringing me here. I hope I’m not intruding.” Tyler smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about it. Cass isn’t the type to get petty over something like this.” Then he turned to her. “What do you feel like eating? Still want some oatmeal?” Gwen nodded. “I’d love—” Before she could finish, Tyler blurted out, “A spoon of sugar, light on the oat, slow-cooked until it’s completely smooth and velvety?” She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “You still remember that? After all this time?” Tyler just smiled, offering no reply. But I already knew the answer. He kept quiet only because I was standing there, trying to avoid a fight over “insignificant details.” After all, every time he cooked a dish with cilantro—which I absolutely detest—he would always say he forgot. I used to make excuses for him, telling myself his mind was simply too crowded with the demands of his job. Now, I saw the truth. The human brain only has so much room. He had filled his to the brim with Gwen, leaving nothing but scraps for me. A dull, persistent ache bloomed behind my ribs, heavy and suffocating. I couldn’t stand watching their little domestic scene a moment longer. I walked back into the bedroom and started packing my bags. Halfway through, I stepped out to grab something from the hallway. They were already seated at the dining table. Gwen was sipping her oatmeal, and Tyler sat across from her, his gaze filled with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. “Slow down. It’s hot.” The warm, starchy scent of the oatmeal drifted through the air, and my stomach betrayingly growled. Gwen looked up at me with a sweet smile. “Come join us, Cassidy! Tyler makes the absolute best oatmeal.” Before I could decline, the warmth drained from Tyler’s face. “She doesn’t like oatmeal,” he said coldly. “She can just order takeout.” My feet froze. “I don’t like oatmeal?” Tyler rarely cooked for me. It was always takeout or dining out. On the rare occasions I was sick and craved oatmeal, whatever he made was either half-raw or scorched to the bottom of the pot. Over time, I simply stopped asking him to make it. Seeing me stand there frozen, Tyler’s voice took on a warning, dismissive edge. “Her stomach is really sensitive today, Cass. She needs the oatmeal. Don’t fight her on this. If you want some, I’ll make you a batch another time.” Tears stung my eyes. I took a sharp breath, marched straight to the entryway, and grabbed my coat with unnecessary force. “Don’t bother. I’ll eat out.” He stood up, crossing the room with a deep furrow in his brow. “Do you have to be so passive-aggressive when we have a guest? You’re going to make her feel too uncomfortable to ever come back.” I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Did you ever think about whether “I” feel comfortable in my own home?” “You tell me not to overthink, but every single thing you do is designed to cater to her, protecting “her” feelings while you walk all over mine. Do you even remember that I’m your girlfriend?” His jaw tightened, his mouth opening and closing as if the words had lodged in his throat. I shook off his hand and slammed the door behind me. Through the thin wood of the apartment door, I could still hear Gwen’s fragile, trembling voice. “I told you she’d be upset if I came.” Tyler didn’t try to pacify her by blaming me, but he didn’t follow me either. “It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “She’s just throwing a tantrum because I can’t take her on that trip. Give her a couple of days to cool off. She’ll get over it.” “But shouldn’t you go after her? It’s getting dark. Is it safe for her out there alone?” There was a brief pause. “Don’t worry about her. She knows how to take care of herself. Just eat your food. You need to eat on time, or your stomach will start hurting again.” The voices faded, but they continued to echo in my chest like a physical blow. During our first year of long-distance, a stranger had followed me to my apartment and tried to break in. Tyler had driven through the night to meet me at the police station. Holding me as I shook, he had sobbed and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never let you be alone again.” He went back, handed in his resignation, and moved to my city. From that day on, he had never let me walk alone at night. I didn’t even realize I was crying until my collar felt damp. My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from my mom: “Tomorrow is your six-year anniversary. What are you two planning? Have you made up your minds yet?” I wiped my tears and booked a one-way ticket home. “I’m coming home the day after tomorrow. Go ahead and set up those blind dates. I’m ready.” It was ten at night when Tyler finally found me sitting on the swings in the neighborhood park. “You should know better than to stay out this late,” he said, walking over. “I called her an Uber. Come on, let’s go home.” He reached out to take my hand, but I pulled away. He blinked, looking confused. “What? Are you still mad?” The anger had evaporated hours ago. All that was left was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. I stared up at the crescent moon. “Tomorrow is our sixth anniversary. You remember that, right?” He nodded. “Of course I do.” I looked at him, a faint, humorless smile touching my lips. “But you’re taking Gwen to pick out her kitten tomorrow, aren’t you? What if I ask you not to go?” His expression hardened. “Don’t be childish, Cass. I gave her my word weeks ago, and tomorrow is the only day she has off.” “But look, I’ve already planned it out. We’ll do a big makeup celebration next month. I haven’t forgotten about you.” I didn’t say another word. I pulled my hand from his grip, stood up, and walked toward our apartment building. “I’m not being childish. I won’t ever be childish again.” The next morning, I woke up gasping for air, a fierce, tickling itch burning my nose and throat. I opened my eyes to see a fluffy, long-haired kitten sitting right beside my pillow, licking my bare arm. Panicking, I threw my hand over my nose and bolted into the living room. “Tyler, the cat—my allergies—” Before I could finish, Gwen, who was kneeling on the floor assembling a cat condo, scrambled over and rubbed some catnip-infused spray onto my hands. “Isn’t her coat gorgeous? Here, let her get used to your scent, and she’ll love you in no time!” Instantly, a violent, stinging rash began to spread across my skin. I shoved her away, my voice raspy and choked. “Get away from me! Who told you that you could bring a cat in here? I’m severely allergic!” I rushed to the kitchen sink, turning the water on high to scrub my skin raw. Behind me, Tyler was already hovering over Gwen, inspecting a tiny red mark on her forearm with deep concern. He whirled around, his voice sharp with anger. “She didn’t know you were allergic! Did you have to shove her like that? Look at her arm, it’s completely red!” But his fury faltered when he saw my neck. The massive, angry red hives blooming across my skin made his jaw drop. “How is it this bad? I thought as long as you didn’t play with it, you’d be fine…” My hands froze under the running water. I stared at him, unable to comprehend what I was hearing. A suffocating weight settled on my chest, cutting off my breath. “So you “knew”. You knew I was allergic, and you brought it here anyway. You let it into my bedroom. You let it sleep right next to my head.” When we first started dating, he had pet a stray cat and brought some stray hairs home on his shirt, which triggered a severe allergic reaction that put me in the urgent care clinic. From that day on, he stayed ten feet away from any cat he saw. If he accidentally came into contact with one, he would immediately shower, sanitize, and change his clothes before coming near me. Yet now, just to keep his high school sweetheart from feeling disappointed, he had brushed aside my health as if it were a minor inconvenience. Gwen’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry… I wanted to show her the kitten, so I opened the door. It’s all my fault. Don’t blame Tyler.” Tyler let out a heavy sigh, gently rubbing her shoulder. “It’s my fault for not making it clear. You have nothing to apologize for.” He reached out to touch my face, but I slapped his hand away. Stumbling over to the bathroom, I pulled down the first-aid kit to find my rescue inhaler and EpiPen, or at least some strong antihistamines. But when I flipped the lid open, the compartments were entirely empty. I stared at the empty plastic box for what felt like an eternity. Then, a memory surfaced. A few weeks ago, Tyler mentioned that Gwen had suffered a terrible dust allergy at the office. He told me he’d given her my imported prescription antihistamines because they worked so well. “I’ll replace them,” he had promised when I got upset. I told him those pills were specialty imports that required a long waitlist. He had pinched my cheek then, swearing up and down that as long as he was around, he would never let anything trigger my allergies anyway. Gasping for air, my throat closing rapidly, I turned to look at him, my eyes burning. “Where is my medicine, Tyler?” Panic finally flickered in his eyes. “I… oh god. Cassidy, I’m sorry. I forgot to reorder them. I’ll take you to the ER right now!” Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot and angry. I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength to push him away. “Don’t touch me! You make me sick.” But as I tried to take a step, the world spun, and everything went black. The last thing I heard before slipping into the dark was Tyler screaming my name. When I woke up, the hospital room was completely silent and empty. A sharp pinch in the back of my hand drew my attention to my IV line—dark red blood was backing up into the plastic tube. I pressed the call button. The nurse hurried in, clicking her tongue as she adjusted the line. “Where did your boyfriend go? He swore he’d watch the drip and call me when it ran low. Why is he gone?” Just as she finished speaking, Tyler walked through the door, his hand resting gently on Gwen’s back as she sobbed. “Shh, stop crying. She’s not going to blame you.” He looked up and froze, seeing the nurse flushing my line and cleaning the dried blood off my skin. Before he could say a word, the nurse glared at him. “What is wrong with you? You specifically told me to let her rest because you’d keep an eye on her. How could you just wander off?” “She is incredibly weak right now. How can you be so careless with your girlfriend?” Tyler’s face flushed with embarrassment. He looked at me with deep guilt. “I’m so sorry, Cass. Gwen was hysterical, and I thought I’d only be gone for a second…” I took a slow, painful breath. “Save it. Do whatever you want.” He frowned and knelt beside my bed, trying to capture my gaze. “Cassidy, please don’t be like this. I know I messed up, and I swear I’ll make it up to you. I promise this will never happen again.” “Don’t be mad at her. She didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was my fault for not warning her. She feels absolutely terrible.” Even now, with my throat still raw and my skin covered in hives, his priority was clearing her name. He didn’t see the dark bruise forming on the back of my hand, or the red welts still lingering on my neck, or my dry, cracked lips. All he saw was Gwen’s tear-stained, pitiful face. A bitter lump swelled in my throat, but I forced it down. I managed a small, empty laugh. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. It’s my fault for being allergic to the things she likes.” “If you’re done here, you should go back to comforting her. I’m perfectly fine.” Hearing this, Gwen looked as though she might collapse. Her tears fell thick and fast onto the linoleum floor. She bowed deeply to me, her voice trembling. “I am so, so sorry! This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t be ruining your lives like this!” With a dramatic sob, she turned and ran out of the room. Tyler’s eyes flared—a volatile mix of heartbreak for her and anger at me. He bolted upright, staring down at me with profound disappointment, but he didn’t say a word. Just as his foot crossed the threshold, I called out, my voice flat and cold. “Tyler. If you walk out that door, we’re done.” He froze, then slowly turned back, his expression twisted with sheer frustration. “Enough, Cassidy! I’ve had it with you picking on her. Now you’re using our relationship to threaten me? I told you, she is just a friend. Stop letting your paranoia hurt innocent people!” A hot wave of tears threatened to spill over. “If she were the one lying in this hospital bed today, is that what you would say to her?” He locked eyes with me. For a moment, seeing the quiet, mocking smile on my face, he seemed to falter. After a long pause, his jaw tightened. “Hypothetical questions are pointless. Stop making a scene, Cass. Today is our anniversary. Let’s not ruin it.” And with that, he turned and ran after her. Tears finally escaped, hot and silent against my cheeks. I let out a dry laugh. I had known he wouldn’t stay. But some stubborn, foolish part of me had desperately wanted to prove myself wrong. Six years. Reduced to a “pointless” question. How utterly pathetic. The moment they were out of sight, I pulled up my phone and changed my ticket to the earliest train home. I couldn’t spend another second in this city. After checking myself out, I went back to the apartment to grab my bags. But as I walked out of the building lobby, I spotted them sitting side-by-side under the courtyard gazebo. Gwen’s voice was soft, laced with a gentle concern. “Are you sure you should have left like that? What if she actually breaks up with you?” “Didn’t you say her mom called the other day? That if you guys didn’t get married today, her parents were going to force her to go back home for set-ups?” Tyler leaned back, staring up at the gray sky. “She won’t leave. We’ve been together for six years; she doesn’t have the heart to throw that away. The whole setup thing is just her parents trying to pressure us.” “Then why aren’t you marrying her?” Tyler reached over and patted her head, his tone light but laden with affection. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It just doesn’t feel like the right time. Honestly, I won’t feel right settling down until I know you’ve found someone stable to take care of you. I worry about you.” “She already has it out for you. If we got married now, she’d make sure I never saw you again. That’s why I always find some excuse to back out of our trips at the last minute.” “Maybe next year. Hurry up and find a boyfriend so I can finally get married in peace.” I stood frozen in the shadow of the doorway, the blood draining from my face. My knees trembled so violently I had to lean against the brick wall to keep from collapsing. Eleven times. A year and a half of canceled plans. I had spent eighteen months making excuses for him, convincing myself he was just stressed, too busy, or forgetful. But the truth was far simpler. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was deliberately putting our entire future on hold—watching my parents break my heart with pressure—just because he couldn’t bear to leave his first love’s side. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted rust. “Enough.” This pathetic, one-sided show had run its course. I dragged my suitcase past them, keeping my head down, and hailed a cab to the airport. Right before boarding, my screen lit up with a text from Tyler: “What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up.” I didn’t reply. Instead, I blocked his number and deleted him from every social media platform I owned. “Tyler, since you couldn’t make a choice, I made it for you.” “Now, there is no one left to stand between you and your precious first love.”

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My fiancée stole my master design proposal, and she did it for one reason: so her darling college senior could win the prestigious Apex Gold Medal. When I confronted her, she didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. She just stood there, entirely unbothered. “You’re a genius, Larry,” she said, her voice carrying that effortless, exhausting dismissiveness I had grown to dread. “You can sketch a new masterpiece on a napkin in your sleep. This competition is Trevor’s last shot at a real career. Don’t be so incredibly petty.” So, I did the only logical thing. I walked away from the competition entirely, packed my bags, and went home to inherit my family’s real estate empire. Suddenly, my “petty” fiancée went into a full-blown panic. “Larry, stop throwing a tantrum!” she screamed over the phone. “Architecture is your life. You’ve bled for this career. You can’t just walk away from it!” Even her precious senior, the guy who had happily slapped his name on my stolen blueprints, started losing his mind. “This project has years of your sweat and tears in it,” Trevor stammered. “Are you really going to let it go over a little misunderstanding?” I hung up the phone. I didn’t feel a thing. What Linda didn’t realize was that the stolen design was the conceptual blueprint for her own family firm’s newest, most expensive municipal contract. And without my final structural calculations, she was handing her golden boy a ticking time bomb. I couldn’t wait to see how he was going to stop it from exploding. 1 “Larry, why did you plagiarize my design?” Under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the department exhibition hall, surrounded by our peers and professors, Trevor pointed a trembling finger at me, playing the part of the wronged artist to perfection. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but before I could utter a word, Linda, my fiancée, stepped forward. “Larry, I know how badly you wanted to win this competition,” she said, her voice thick with staged disappointment. She looked at me with a face full of sorrow, as if she were mourning my lost morality. “But plagiarism is pathetic. You can’t just steal someone else’s hard work and present it as your own. Have some dignity.” Only Linda and I knew the truth. Only we knew about the endless sleepless nights I had pulled, the countless cups of lukewarm coffee, the three computer monitors that had burned out under the strain of rendering those complex, organic curves. She had waited until the night before the submission deadline, waiting until I finally collapsed into a deep sleep, to copy my entire digital archive onto a flash drive. All to hand it over to her college crush, her “white moonlight,” so he could secure the Apex Gold Medal and jumpstart his career. We were the department’s golden couple; our relationship had been sweet, steady, and envied for years. Naturally, no one in that room doubted her words. If his own fiancée was calling him a thief, he must be a thief. The whispers began, sharp and venomous, cutting through the heavy air of the gallery. My chest tightened, my hands trembling with a rage so hot it felt like physical pain. But Linda wasn’t done playing the martyr. She turned to the crowd, offering a deeply apologetic bow on my behalf. “I am so incredibly sorry, everyone. I never imagined Larry would stoop to this level. As his fiancée, I feel it’s my responsibility to apologize for his actions. I just hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive him, for the sake of our years as classmates.” My stomach turned. Before I could speak, Linda grabbed my arm, her grip tight, urging me under her breath, “Larry, just apologize to Trevor. Do it now.” I looked at Trevor. He was standing just behind her, his lips curved into a smug, victorious smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. I wrenched my arm out of Linda’s grasp. “I won’t apologize,” I said, my voice quiet but echoing clearly in the sudden silence of the room. “Because I didn’t steal a damn thing. But you don’t have to worry about me competing. I withdraw. I’m out.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the design institute, leaving the whispers behind. But Linda wasn’t going to let me go that easily. She chased me down the concrete steps of the plaza, grabbing my elbow to spin me around. “Larry! Architecture is your dream! Do you have any idea how much you’ve sacrificed for this? So what if you copied a few ideas? If you just go back in there, apologize sincerely, and play nice, we can still get you back into the running!” “She’s right, Larry,” Trevor added, stepping into view with a saintly, patronizing smile. “I don’t hold a grudge. Just apologize, and I’ll tell the committee it was a collaborative misunderstanding. You can still participate.” Looking at the two of them—their faces molded into identical expressions of false concern—I felt a wave of profound disgust. I shook Linda off, reached up to my lapel, and unpinned the silver institute badge that had once been my proudest possession. I let it drop onto the pavement between us. “No thanks,” I said, looking Linda dead in the eye. “The air in here is too suffocating. I’d hate to trip over the snakes in the dark.” 2 I went back to our shared apartment and systematically packed my life into three suitcases. I sat at my desk, looking at the custom-built PC that had been my companion through seven years of intense study. I initiated a factory reset, watching the screen go black, wiping away every trace of my digital existence in that apartment. Just as the progress bar hit one hundred percent, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Larry, sweetheart,” her warm, elegant voice flowed through the speaker. “How is the Apex competition going? Are you holding up okay?” I stared out the window at the gray Chicago skyline. “I dropped out, Mom.” Before she could ask why, I added quietly, “I’m coming home.” There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end, followed by a gasp of pure, unadulterated joy. “Oh, thank God! Larry, you’re finally coming back to us! I’m calling the driver right now to pick you up!” “Thanks, Mom,” I said, hanging up. For the first time in years, a genuine sense of relief washed over me. My family’s company, the Mercer Group, was a real estate titan. Our net worth dwarfed Linda’s family business by a landslide. But seven years ago, because Linda loved architecture, I had defied my parents, walked away from my finance track, and transferred into the design program. From my bachelor’s degree straight through to my doctoral research, I had poured my soul into this field. I had won major student awards, and more importantly, I had personally designed several high-profile projects that allowed Linda’s father’s company, Crestview Developments, to win massive municipal bids. I had given Linda everything. I had built a pedestal for her with my own two hands, only for her to push me off it the moment her old flame whistled. I took a deep breath, picked up my personal laptop, and drove back to the campus administrative office to return the university-issued equipment. But Linda was already waiting for me at the entrance of the building, her arms crossed, her eyes flashing with anger. “Larry, why are you being so stubborn? Why won’t you just admit you used Trevor’s concepts?” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “Why should I admit to a lie, Linda?” “Linda, nobody else in that department knows the truth, but you lived with me. You watched me pull consecutive all-nighters. You saw the blisters on my fingers from building those physical models. You knew how much this specific proposal meant to me…” “Oh, enough!” Linda interrupted, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’ve already won so many awards, Larry! Would it honestly kill you to let someone else have this one? Yes, I took the files and gave them to Trevor. So what? You’re the certified genius of the department. Everyone knows you can doodle on a napkin and turn it into a masterpiece. This award is Trevor’s only ticket to a secure future. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “Petty.” It was her favorite word for me. Over our seven years together, whenever I stood up for myself, I was being “petty.” When a taxi driver charged us double and I demanded a refund, she called me petty. When the department head gave her scholarship money to another student and I went to the dean to argue her case, she told me I was being petty. Now, when she had literally stolen years of my intellectual labor to hand-deliver it to another man, she still called me petty. I realized then that in Linda’s mind, my boundaries were just inconveniences. 3 A profound, bone-deep exhaustion settled over me. I didn’t want to waste another breath on her. I took a step to bypass her, but she lunged forward, blocking the glass doors. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To the department office,” I said flatly. Linda’s brow furrowed into a tight, hard line. “You’re still withdrawing from the competition? Seriously?” “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “Do you honestly expect me to stay here, play the obedient little assistant, and watch him take the credit for my life’s work?” That, of course, was exactly what she expected. She adjusted her designer handbag, her voice taking on a maternal, patronizing tone. “You can’t just quit, Larry. I know your financial situation. Without a degree and a recommendation from this department, what are you going to do? How are you going to survive?” She stepped closer, her voice softening into a transactional sweetness. “Stay. Finish the project under Trevor’s name. Once the competition is over and he gets the Apex job, I’ll talk to my dad. I’ll get you a starting position at Crestview Developments.” I stared at her, genuinely stunned by her audacity. It was almost comical. Linda had spent our entire relationship believing I was a struggling scholarship student who depended entirely on her family’s grace. She had built this entire narrative in her head to keep me small, to keep me compliant. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, my voice dripping with cold irony. “But I’ll pass.” I pushed past her, but she screamed after me, her voice echoing off the concrete walls of the hallway. “Larry! If you walk out of this building today, we are done! Do you hear me? We are through!” In our seven years together, Linda had threatened to break up with me at least a hundred times. And every single time, I had been the one to swallow my pride, buy her flowers, and beg for her forgiveness. She was a princess accustomed to her throne, and I had been her most loyal subject. But the throne was empty now. “Okay,” I said quietly, without turning around. “We’re done.” I walked into the office, submitted my formal withdrawal papers, and returned the laptop. Professor Martha Geoffrey, my academic advisor, sat behind her mahogany desk, peering at me over her gold-rimmed glasses. She sighed, a performative, maternal sound. “Larry, I heard about the unpleasantness this morning. Look, we all make mistakes under pressure. Nobody is going to crucify you over a little lapse in academic judgment. There’s no need to ruin your entire academic career over this.” Her words were smooth, designed to soothe, but I knew better. Geoffrey had been lobbying for Trevor to get a faculty recommendation for months; she needed this win for him to boost her own department’s prestige. “Professor Geoffrey,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “You and I both know the caliber of my work, and we both know Trevor’s. You know exactly whose design that is.” Geoffrey’s face hardened instantly. “What are you implying, Larry? Are you accusing this department of bias? Let me tell you something—architecture requires character. If your attitude is this fragile, you won’t last a day in the real world.” “Which is why I’m leaving,” I said, offering a polite, empty nod. “Have a nice day.” As I turned to leave the office, the door swung open, and Linda and Trevor walked in. Hearing the tail end of our conversation, Trevor stepped forward with a display of grand, fraudulent generosity. “Larry, look, we’re all adults here. I’ve already spoken with Professor Geoffrey. We’re willing to keep the plagiarism accusation quiet. You can be listed as my primary design assistant on the submission. When we win, your name will still be on the secondary credits. What do you say?” 4 I wanted to laugh. He was truly magnificent in his shamelessness. I looked at him, letting the silence stretch between us until his smile began to falter. “Trevor,” I said slowly. “You’ve been in this industry long enough to know that assistants don’t get nominated for the Apex Prize. The gold medalist gets a fast-track executive role at Apex Holdings. An assistant’s name is just footnote ink. I don’t do footnotes.” Linda’s face flushed red with anger. “What is wrong with you? The design isn’t even yours anymore! Trevor is throwing you a lifeline, and you’re spitting in his face! If you don’t take this assistant position, I personally guarantee you will never get a single design contract in Chicago.” Professor Geoffrey leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. “I have a lot of influence in the academic community, Larry. A student with a black mark like plagiarism on their record… well, let’s just say you won’t find another graduate program willing to take you.” “And if I remember correctly,” Trevor added, his voice dripping with faux-concern, “you’re on a direct-track PhD program, aren’t you? If you leave now, all those years of coursework go down the drain. You’ll have nothing.” They stood there, a united front of arrogance, entirely convinced they had backed me into a corner. They thought my passion for design was a leash they could pull. I looked at their smug, self-satisfied faces, and a new plan began to take shape in my mind. “Fine,” I said, letting my shoulders drop as if defeated. “I’ll do it.” Linda’s expression instantly shifted into a triumphant, smug grin. “I knew you’d see sense. Just do a good job, Larry. I’ve already talked to my dad. Once the award is ours, we’ll get married, and you can come work for Crestview.” Professor Geoffrey smiled warmly, promising me that my academic standing would remain secure. But I didn’t want their marriage, their job, or their degree anymore. I wanted something else entirely. 5 With less than twenty-four hours until the final submission deadline, I was practically locked in the department’s advanced rendering lab. Under the guise of “collaboration,” Trevor and Linda took turns monitoring me, barely leaving me alone for a second. They wanted to make sure I didn’t sabotage the files. I only had a few precious moments in the restroom to check my phone. My mother had sent me several messages. “Larry, is everything okay? Why aren’t you answering my calls?” I typed back quickly: “I have some loose ends to tie up, Mom. I’ll be home tomorrow, I promise.” With their eyes burning into the back of my neck, I worked with deliberate speed. Within twelve hours, I had finalized the remaining structural equations and polished the aesthetic rendering. But I left one tiny, crucial detail incomplete. The final 3D interactive model—the core presentation tool the Apex judges used to test structural integrity under simulated stress—had a deep rendering bug hidden in its source code. Without my specific administrative key to run the patch, the model would look perfect statically, but the moment the judges tried to interact with it, the file would glitch. Trevor, staring at the screen, was sweating profusely. He could sense something was off, but his lack of technical skill meant he couldn’t pinpoint the issue. Linda was pacing behind me, complaining about my pacing. “I’ve been staring at this screen for fifteen hours,” I said, rubbing my eyes and sighing with exhausted resignation. “Even a machine needs to recharge. How about I go back to the apartment, get a few hours of sleep, and come back tomorrow morning to fix the final bugs? The submission isn’t until tomorrow afternoon anyway.” Linda immediately shook her head. “No way. What if we run out of time?” Looking at her—at the woman I had loved for seven years, who now looked at me not as a partner, but as a utility to be drained dry for another man—I felt a coldness settle deep in my chest. “My head is splitting,” I muttered, pressing my hand to my temple. I let my knees buckle, letting myself slide off the chair and onto the carpeted floor of the lab. I feigned a dead faint. The panic in the room was instantaneous. I was rushed to the university hospital, where they ran a battery of tests. The doctor eventually emerged to tell a frantic Linda and Trevor that I was simply suffering from severe physical exhaustion and dehydration. “He just needs rest,” the doctor said. Linda and Trevor let out visible sighs of relief. But because I refused to “wake up,” they were forced to stay by my bedside, waiting for me to regain consciousness so I could fix the file. In the dead of night, the hospital room was quiet save for the steady beep of the monitor. Believing I was deeply asleep, the two of them began to whisper, their voices low and urgent. Then, I heard the rustle of clothing. “Don’t,” Linda whispered, her voice carrying a breathy, performative reluctance. “Larry is right there.” Trevor’s voice was slick with arrogance and heat. “So what? It makes it hotter. Besides, once I win the Apex Gold Medal tomorrow, I’m heading straight to their corporate headquarters. Larry will be nothing but a shadow in our rearview mirror. Why are you still worrying about him?” Linda giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. Within seconds, the quiet room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of their mouths meeting. I lay perfectly still under the thin hospital blanket, my hands clenched into fists beneath the sheets, forcing my breathing to remain slow and steady. The last lingering shred of pain in my heart died in that moment, replaced by a cold, clinical detachment. I waited until their movements shifted, until they slipped out of the room to find a more private corner in the stairwell. The moment the door clicked shut, I pulled the IV line from the back of my hand, grabbed my coat and my duffel bag, and slipped out of the hospital through the side exit. My family’s private driver was already waiting for me at the curb. By the time Linda and Trevor returned to an empty hospital bed and began frantically dialing my phone, I was already sitting in the first-class cabin of a flight leaving Chicago. I watched the screen of my phone light up with Linda’s contact name over and over again. With a calm, steady hand, I switched the device to airplane mode, leaned my head back against the leather seat, and closed my eyes. For the first time in seven years, I slept peacefully.

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My boyfriend was always busy. When my appendix nearly ruptured and I needed emergency surgery, he was in the middle of a multinational board meeting. He told me the surgeons were top-tier, so his presence wouldn’t change the medical outcome anyway. When a pipe burst and flooded our brownstone into a miniature lake, he was boarding a flight. Through the static of airport announcements, he told me to handle it with the building management myself. Even the night my mother passed away, he was out entertaining clients at a steakhouse. He sent a brief text – “My condolences” – followed by a bank transfer to cover the burial plot. It wasn’t until I stood outside City Hall, holding the notification of our eighth canceled marriage license appointment, that the truth finally settled in. I stared at the cold words on my screen, then looked up at the historic brick facade of the municipal building. Today was supposed to be our fifth anniversary. It would have been the day we finally made it official, if the last seven attempts hadn’t been derailed. My phone vibrated again. It was a custom alert for his childhood friend’s social media. Ruth Conrad had posted a photo. Propped up in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale but smiling, she was flashing a victory sign. “Gideon still cares about me the most~” I locked the screen and turned around. This time, I didn’t text him back to ask which day we would reschedule. Because deep down, I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. … The first time he canceled was three years ago. Ruth had just gone through a messy breakup. In the middle of the night, she called Gideon, weeping and threatening to jump from her balcony. Gideon threw on a pair of slides and ran out the door, spending the night talking her down until dawn. When I called to ask when he’d be home, his voice was a harsh, hurried whisper. Can you stop crowding me? Ruth is incredibly unstable right now. I gripped my phone, swallowing the words I actually wanted to say. Ruth’s parents were gone, and her older brother had died saving Gideon’s life years ago. I knew Gideon felt a debt to her. I understood it. So I waited. I waited for five long years, expecting that debt to eventually be paid. I took a cab back to the place we called home. In the entryway sat a pair of plush pink slippers. They weren’t mine. Ruth had a key to our place. Gideon claimed she needed a safe haven in case she ever felt overwhelmed and couldn’t reach anyone. Walking past the living room, I noticed a half-empty matcha latte on the coffee table, a vivid red lipstick mark staining the straw. The master bedroom was on the left; my bedroom was on the right. We had been sleeping in separate rooms since our third year together. At first, he framed it as a courtesy – so he wouldn’t wake me when he came home late from the office. But then Ruth started staying over more frequently, sleeping in the guest room right next to the master suite. Closer to him than I ever was. I began to pack. Five years of living together, yet my entire life fit neatly into a single suitcase. The heart, however, was a different story. I had left mine somewhere in this house, and I knew I would never get it back. At 2:00 AM, the front door clicked open. Gideon walked in, carrying the distinct, sharp scent of hospital antiseptic. Still awake? His voice was slightly hoarse. I didn’t answer. He walked over to the edge of my bed, reaching out naturally to touch my shoulder. Could you whip up some pasta? Ruth said the hospital food was inedible, so I didn’t eat either. My stomach is killing me. I looked up at him. He was striking – strong jaw, deep-set eyes under dark brows. Even worn thin by exhaustion, he was the kind of handsome that made your chest ache. Gideon, I said, we need to talk. His brow furrowed, that familiar twitch of irritation settling over his features. Tomorrow. I’m exhausted. In the past, I would have pushed, letting the words spill out of me. But tonight, I felt entirely hollow. I nodded. Okay. He blinked, caught off guard by how easily I had let it go. The next morning, I woke up early. Or rather, I barely slept at all. When I walked downstairs, Gideon was already seated at the dining table, scrolling through his tablet. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. You’re up. There’s some plain pasta in the pot. Help yourself. His tone was perfectly even, as if the night before had never happened. I walked into the kitchen and lifted the lid. It was just dry noodles with a couple of wilted spinach leaves thrown in. Nothing like the rich bone-broth ramen with soft-boiled eggs and chopped scallions I used to make for him. I poured a glass of milk from the fridge and sat down across from him. Are we talking today? I asked. Gideon’s fingers paused on the screen. He raised his head, his gaze heavy and guarded. Naomi, I was incredibly tired yesterday. Things are complicated with Ruth right now, I – When are things ever simple with her? I interrupted. Gideon’s face darkened. What is that supposed to mean? Exactly what I said. I took a sip of my milk. In the last five years, she’s had three breakups, two layoffs, four bouts of acute stomach flu, one appendectomy, a car accident, and two cases of food poisoning. I set the glass down. Gideon, are you actually blind, or are you just pretending to be? He stared at me, his jaw clenching tightly. Naomi! Stop being unreasonable! Her brother died for me! I promised him I’d look after her for the rest of her life! Can’t you show a little empathy?! Always the same argument. Every single time. I looked into his reddening eyes and, surprisingly, I found myself smiling. Gideon, I said, gently pulling my hand back as he tried to reach for it. Go ahead and look after her. Marry her. Just stop ruining my life. I turned and walked upstairs. Below me, his voice echoed through the high ceilings. Naomi! Get back down here! We aren’t finished! I let out a quiet laugh. I laughed at how foolish I had been, thinking we could actually sit down and have a mature, clean break. After five years, everything that needed to be said had already been worn down to dust. The only thing left was goodbye. I had just booked a one-way ticket for three days from now when I heard the front door open downstairs. It wouldn’t be Gideon. He had a partner meeting; he’d be trapped in a boardroom at this hour. Sure enough, Ruth was standing in the living room, wearing her plush pink slippers and a silk slip nightgown. Over her shoulders was my limited-edition designer silk robe – the one I hadn’t even unwrapped yet. She was grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. When she saw me, her face lit up with a sweet, fragile smile. Oh, Naomi, you’re home? I thought you’d be at the restoration studio. She took a little spin, the hem of my robe fluttering around her knees. Gideon gave this to me. He said the color really brings out my eyes. You don’t mind, do you? I walked over to her, my eyes locking onto her neck. I recognized the necklace. It was a vintage platinum pendant with a rare Ceylon sapphire, carved with an intricate Art Deco filigree. It was the Harrison family heirloom, given to me by Gideon’s grandmother just before she passed. Now, it was resting against Ruth’s collarbone. Did Gideon give you the necklace, too? Ruth touched the sapphire, her smile widening. Oh, this? Gideon said it was a shame to keep it locked away in a safe. He told me to wear it for fun. If you want it back, Naomi, I can take it off? Three years ago, in this very living room, she had worn my sweater and my earrings for the first time. Gideon had brushed it off, saying, “She was cold, Naomi. It’s just a sweater. Why are you making a big deal out of it?” Then Ruth had burst into tears, crying like a faucet. “Naomi, do you hate me? Gideon and I really don’t have anything going on. If we did, we would have been together years ago…” Once upon a time, those tears made me feel guilty, like I was the petty, narrow-minded one. Now, it just felt pathetic. Take the robe off, I said. It cost five thousand dollars. Either take it off right now, or I’ll assist you. Her smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, putting on a wounded expression. Naomi, is it really that serious? It’s just a piece of clothing… It is. I pulled out my phone. Are you paying via transfer, or should we discuss this with the police? The front door clicked open again. Gideon walked in, carrying a pastry box from the high-end bakery Ruth loved. He froze when he saw the two of us in the living room. His eyes swept over the silk robe she was wearing, and he frowned slightly. Why are you wearing so little? You’re going to catch a cold. Just like that. No questions about why she was here, or why she was wearing my clothes. When things reach a certain level of absurdity, you can’t help but laugh. I let out a sharp, genuine chuckle. Gideon looked at me, his frown deepening. What are you throwing a tantrum over now? Your childhood sweetheart is wearing my five-thousand-dollar designer robe. Pay me for it, or I call the police for trespassing and theft. Your choice. Gideon looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion, as if dealing with a petulant child. Naomi, it’s just a robe. Do you have to be this incredibly petty? Just a robe. Two years ago, it was much more than that. Ruth had knocked over and shattered a vintage mother-of-pearl brooch my mother had left me – the only physical piece of her I had left. Ruth had wept, offering endless apologies, while Gideon wrapped an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “Out with the old, in with the new, Naomi,” he had told me. “I’ll buy you a better one.” Fine, I said, nodding slowly. Then don’t blame me for being petty. I dialed 911 and reported an illegal intruder who had stolen high-value personal property. Ruth’s face went completely pale. Naomi, what are you doing?! Gideon told me I could come over! Gideon snatched the phone from my hand, speaking quickly to the operator. Apologies, there’s been a misunderstanding. Everything is fine. He ended the call and glared at me. Naomi, do you have to make everything look this ugly? Who is the one making it ugly? I pointed directly at Ruth. She has a key because you gave it to her. She wears my clothes and my family heirloom because you allow it. Why are you even with me? Am I just a prop in whatever twisted game you two are playing? Ruth shrank back behind Gideon, let out a soft, trembling sob. Gideon, I didn’t mean to… I just thought the robe was beautiful, and I wanted to try it on… Try it on? I laughed. To the point of cutting off the tags? To the point of lounging around in it? Gideon took a deep breath, pulled his wallet from his coat, and tossed his black card onto the coffee table. Is this enough? If not, I’ll wire you more. I looked at the sleek piece of plastic, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. Five years. Every conflict ended this way. He threw money at it, as if a transaction could erase every insult, every humiliation. I walked into the study, grabbed my tablet, unlocked it, and pulled up a specific folder. I brought it back to the living room and held it out. This is the timeline of Ruth’s emergencies over the past five years. Three years ago, our first appointment to get a marriage license: she threatens to jump from a balcony. Two years ago, my birthday: she gets food poisoning. Last year, our engagement dinner: she gets into a car accident. This Valentine’s Day: she gets acute appendicitis. Every single milestone of ours, she manages to derail with perfect precision. Gideon, are you genuinely blind, or do you just enjoy the drama? Gideon stared at the screen, his mouth tightening into a thin line. I swiped to the next page. And this is Ruth’s private burner account on Twitter. The tweets were laid out in a damning row. “Success again~ He actually dumped that woman to come rescue me [giggle]” “Men are so easy. Keep them drowning in guilt, and they’ll never leave~” “Finally got the sapphire necklace! It’s an antique, but at least it’s a family heirloom~” “This silk robe is gorgeous. I cut the tags so she can’t wear it [laughing emoji]” Ruth’s face lost all color. You… you hacked my account?! I turned the tablet toward Gideon. Every single one of these tweets was posted from this house’s IP address. Gideon stared at the screen, his fingers clenching so hard they turned white. For a second, I thought he would snap. I thought he would demand answers, or at least look at me and say he was sorry. But when he raised his eyes, his voice was quiet, almost pleading. Ruth just lacks security, Naomi. Her parents passed early, her brother… she only has me. Can’t you just be the bigger person for once? The heating in the townhouse was running high, but a sudden, violent chill swept through me, making my teeth chatter. Five years. I was already planning my exit, yet having the courage to ask the question only to receive an answer like this was a different kind of pain. The next evening was Franklin Harrison’s seventieth birthday party. I hadn’t wanted to go. But the elder Mr. Harrison had called me himself, his voice weak and raspy over the phone. Naomi, sweetheart, you have to come… Has that foolish boy of mine been mistreating you again? Tell me, and I’ll straighten him out. My heart softened. Franklin had always been exceptionally kind to me. Five years ago, when Gideon first brought me to meet his family, Franklin had taken my hand in his, his eyes warm and paternal. If this boy ever treats you poorly, you let me know. I’ll break his legs myself. Before the dinner, Gideon came to find me. The dinner starts at six. I’ll pick you up. I kept my eyes on my work, not looking at him. Go ahead without me. Naomi, his voice dropped an octave, warning me. My father isn’t in good health. Do you really have to pick now to throw a tantrum? I set down my tweezers and turned to face him. Your father has been nothing but kind to me, and I respect him. I am going for him, not for you. Gideon stared at me, his gaze lingering. I used to love seeing him in a tailored suit. Tonight, it just made me feel slightly sick. The sapphire necklace is back, he said quietly. Ruth gave it to me. She didn’t ‘give’ it back, I corrected him. It was returned to its rightful owner. And I wired the five thousand for the robe to your account. His voice carried an edge of controlled frustration. Every single cent. Are we good now? I looked at him, letting out a soft sigh. Gideon, you will never understand what the actual problem is. The celebration was held at the Harrison estate – a grand, sprawling colonial house adorned with lights and packed with New York’s elite. The moment I walked through the door, I saw Ruth. She was standing beside Lydia Harrison, Gideon’s mother, laughing brightly. Lydia was holding her hand, nodding along to whatever she was saying. Gideon paused next to me, muttering under his breath, I didn’t invite her. She must have come on her own. None of my business, I said, slipping my hand out of his arm and walking ahead. I spent some time chatting with Franklin in the study. He patted my hand, sighing softly. Naomi, I know you’ve put up with a lot. I shook my head. It’s fine, Mr. Harrison. It’s all in the past. And it was. I was leaving the country in less than forty-eight hours. Everything that had transpired here would soon be a lifetime away. When the dinner began and the toasts were being made, Franklin suddenly spoke up, raising his glass toward our table. Gideon, you and Naomi have been together for five years now. When are we going to hear wedding bells? Dad, Gideon offered a strained smile. We’ve both been swamped with the new venture. Once things settle down – Busy! You’re always busy! Franklin slammed his cane against the floor. Naomi has waited five years for you! How much longer do you expect her to wait?! Oh, Mr. Harrison, Ruth’s sweet voice chimed in from across the table. Gideon is incredibly talented, of course his career has to come first. Besides, Naomi is so understanding. She doesn’t mind waiting, do you, Naomi? She flashed a triumphant, mocking smile. I picked up my glass and took a slow sip. You’re right. I understand perfectly. I set the glass down and stood up. Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Behind me, I could hear Franklin’s angry protests and Gideon trying to quiet him, but I didn’t look back. I walked out to the second-floor terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade. I pulled a cigarette from my purse and lit it. I had quit three years ago, but tonight, I needed something to take the edge off. Smoking isn’t great for an art conservator’s hands. The voice was deep, smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. I turned around. And you are? Jude Harrison, he said, stepping into the dim light. He was holding two glasses of Pinot Noir, offering one to me. Gideon’s uncle. I took the glass but didn’t drink. Is the uncle out here to lecture me, too? Just escaping the noise. I read your paper on the restoration of the “Pompeii Fragments”. I felt a sudden jolt of surprise. That project had been completed under a strict pseudonym. How did you know that was me? Your brushwork, Jude said, taking a slow sip of his wine. Your technique is incredibly distinct. You have this habit of hiding your starting stroke and finishing with a perfectly rounded edge. I saw it once in a gallery years ago, and I never forgot it. He turned to look at me, his eyes catching the light of the garden below. You’re a genius, Naomi. The wind brushed past us, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. I remained silent. Jude didn’t press. He simply stood beside me, sharing the quiet space. After a long moment, he spoke again. Gideon doesn’t deserve you. I let out a soft laugh. Is this the part where the uncle apologizes on behalf of the family? No, Jude said, shaking his head. Just stating a cold fact. He leaned closer. I’m putting together a team for a major international recovery project. We’ve located a cache of looted medieval manuscripts in Florence. I need a master-class conservator to oversee the authentication and restoration. It’s a three-month contract, based entirely in Italy. He looked at me intently. I believe it aligns perfectly with your current plans. What do you say? When I returned to the main hall, the party was in full swing. Ruth was at the center of a small crowd, pouring wine for Franklin and sweet-talking the older guests. Gideon stood nearby, looking hollow and distant. I tried to slip past them to say my goodbyes to the host, but as I walked by, Ruth suddenly let out a sharp cry and stumbled directly into me. The dark red liquid splashed across the front of my cream silk dress, staining the fabric in a brutal, ugly smear. Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! Ruth cried out, instantly grabbing a napkin and dabbing frantically at my chest. Naomi, I swear I didn’t mean to, I just tripped – Gideon immediately stepped in, pulling her back by her waist. Are you okay? The question was directed at her, though his eyes darted to me for a fraction of a second. I looked down at the ruined silk, and a memory from five years ago flashed through my mind. We had been at a gallery opening, and someone had accidentally spilled a drink on me. Gideon had gone absolutely livid, demanding an apology on the spot. “If anyone ever treats you with disrespect, Naomi, I’ll ruin them,” he had promised me back then. It’s fine, I heard myself say, my voice flat. I’m used to it. Gideon’s face hardened. Naomi, she said it was an accident. Don’t start – Whether it was an accident or not, you know the truth. I turned toward the exit. Behind me, I heard Franklin calling my name, Ruth’s soft whimpering, and then Jude’s calm, cutting voice: The first rule of the Harrison family is to protect our own, Gideon. Have you forgotten that? The night air was freezing. I got into the waiting cab, where my luggage was already packed in the trunk. As we neared JFK, my phone began to buzz violently in my bag. It was Gideon. When the hell did you pack up your entire life?!

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My best friend, Rae, had just won another high-profile case, securing her reputation as the city’s premier trial attorney. To celebrate, I had put together a quiet, intimate dinner for her and my husband, Larry, who had been the presiding judge on the case. Throughout the dinner, the conversation flowed effortlessly between them. They talked about the embezzlement appeal that had just landed on Larry’s desk, pivoted to a massive federal smuggling case, and then drifted into the details of last year’s landmark worker’s comp suit. For two solid hours, I sat there, unable to wedge a single word into their dialogue. Suddenly, an acquaintance wandered over to our table to offer congratulations. He glanced down, his eyes shifting between Rae’s finger and Larry’s. They were wearing matching platinum bands on their right hands. “I had no idea you two were married,” the man said, a warm, knowing smile playing on his lips. “No wonder…” Rae cut him off instantly, her voice smooth but practiced. “Oh, goodness, don’t start rumors. In our line of work, a judge and a defense lawyer being married would be a massive conflict of interest. Completely against regulations.” The man chuckled. “Well, with a reaction time that fast, Rae, it sounds like the thought has crossed your mind once or twice.” A cold, heavy weight settled in my chest. It was suddenly so exhausting. Back in law school, they had taken turns occupying the top spot on the dean’s list. I was the runner-up, the quiet second place whose name no one ever remembered. After graduation, Rae went into high-stakes criminal defense, Larry climbed the judicial ranks to the bench, and I—in order to avoid any potential conflict of interest with my husband—quietly took an in-house compliance job at a corporate firm. I looked down at the centerpiece of our table: a sizzling, fiery Szechuan grilled fish, buried under a mountain of chili oil and fresh cilantro—ingredients Larry knew I absolutely despised. I set my chopsticks down on the ceramic rest with a sharp, deliberate “clack”. I spoke my first sentence of the evening. “As soon as you’re finished eating, Larry, I want a divorce.” The “sandwich method” of delivering bad news. At least I was finally putting my corporate communication training to use. … The moment the words left my mouth, the table fell dead silent. Even the acquaintance standing beside us froze, his smile evaporating instantly. Realizing the profound awkwardness of the situation, he began to back away, stammering apologies. “I—I’m so sorry. The table centerpiece was blocking my view, and since I hadn’t heard a third person speak the entire evening, I just assumed…” “He assumed there were only two people sitting at the table.” The humiliation was familiar. In fact, it was the recurring motif of our lives. Whenever the three of us went out, strangers invariably assumed Larry and Rae were the couple. And why wouldn’t they? They fit together perfectly—in their polished looks, their shared professional vocabulary, the effortless rhythm of their banter. Next to them, I was like a ghost, a physical draft in an otherwise warm room. The man muttered another apology and practically fled. Rae watched him go, a flicker of genuine anxiety crossing her face. “Natalie, that was the director of the Legal Aid Society,” she whispered, her tone carrying a mild, motherly reprimand. “He’s not someone we want to alienate.” Larry shot me a sharp, disapproving look. “Sweetheart, you really need to watch your timing. Do you have any idea how awkward you’ve just made things for Rae and me the next time we have to work with him?” I looked at my husband, staring at the hard, calculated lines of his face. For the first time, I saw him not as the brilliant young legal mind I had married, but as someone incredibly small, careerist, and vulgar. Sensing the icy tension, Rae tried to smooth things over. “Oh, come on, Larry, it’s not that big of a deal. Just don’t do it again, Natalie.” She patted my hand, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “After all, Natalie doesn’t work in the litigation trenches with us. She doesn’t know the unwritten rules of the courthouse. It’s fine. Our little Natalie is smart; she’ll catch on.” Larry’s expression softened into that patronizing warmth I had tolerated for far too long. He reached out and playfully ruffled my hair. “Seriously, what goes on in that pretty little head of yours?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice quiet but steady. “I’m thinking about how long it’s going to take for you to actually hear me say the word “divorce”.” It wasn’t the first time the word had passed my lips. But in the past, it had been a desperate plea for attention, a cry for help. Tonight, it felt like a clean, cool draft of fresh air. I felt entirely weightless. Naturally, Larry didn’t believe me. His hand paused on my hair for a fraction of a second before he slid back into his comfortable, indulgent grin. “What is it this time? A new designer bag? Or those limited-edition figurines you collect?” Rae let out a knowing laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, please. Our Natalie isn’t that superficial, Larry. I bet you she wants something you’d never guess.” “Oh yeah? Like what?” “Let’s make a wager,” Rae said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, playful ambition. “If I win, you have to let me expedite my motion on the docket next week. I already promised my client we’d get a hearing before the end of the month.” Before I could speak, Rae leaned in close, grabbing my wrist. Her breath smelled faintly of white wine. “Natalie, honey, do me a favor,” she whispered. “Tell him you want that vintage scale model of the Concorde.” It was a rare, thousands-of-dollars collector’s piece. The very one Rae had been drooling over for months. “Just say you want the model. He’ll buy it for you, you’ll give it to me, I win the bet, and everyone is happy. It’s a win-win, right? Please, babe? You know you’re my absolute favorite person in the world.” I froze, staring at her. I couldn’t find the words, and frankly, I didn’t want to. I just watched the two of them, struck by how utterly absurd, how cartoonish, this whole dynamic had become. “I’m telling you, she really wants that Concorde model,” Rae declared aloud to Larry. Larry snorted, taking a sip of his water. “Rae, stop using my wife as a pawn in your games. Since when does Natalie care about aviation history? She doesn’t have the patience to assemble ten thousand tiny plastic pieces.” “I don’t care. Natalie wants it, and if you buy it for her, she’ll forgive you instantly for being a terrible husband.” They kept volleying back and forth, their voices rising and falling in a familiar rhythm, and just like that, I was pushed out of the conversation again. I was supposedly the subject of their discussion, yet they bypassed me so seamlessly it was almost a performance art. I didn’t understand how they did it. But starting tonight, I no longer cared to know. In hindsight, the warning signs had always been there. I had simply chosen to ignore them, whether out of a desperate need for peace or sheer, willful blindness. I still remembered the day I first introduced Larry to Rae. He had looked at her with a mix of surprise and admiration, saying, “I had no idea the person sharing my spot at the top of the class was such a beautiful woman.” It was the classic meeting of minds, the golden boy and girl of the law school. I became the background noise as they launched into a rapid-fire debate that spanned from antitrust law to maritime regulations, looking for all the world like two long-lost soulmates who had finally found each other. When Rae and I went shopping, she’d ask why I hadn’t invited Larry. When Larry and I went on dates, he’d ask if we should order takeout to drop off at Rae’s apartment. I worked incredibly hard, but talent was a cruel, binary thing, and I was always just a step behind. I had envied Larry. Everything he did came with an effortless, casual grace. I had a natural inclination to admire strength, and for a long time, that admiration kept my eyes fixed upward, worshipping him. I used to think there was no one brighter in the world—until I met Rae in our dorm. During those endless, grueling nights of cramming for finals, while I was frantically scribbling notes and downing espresso, Rae would be lounging in her bunk, headphones on, playing video games and shouting coordinates to her teammates. And yet, when the grades were posted, just as I was tasting the brief, sweet victory of placing right below Larry, I would see Rae’s name printed right next to his. Tied for first. It left me with a profound, hollow sense of helplessness. But back then, Larry had always been there to comfort me. “The way you study is so adorable, Natalie,” he’d say, pulling me into his lap. “Everyone has different gifts.” “Then what is my gift?” I had asked him once, searching his eyes. He had looked back at me, entirely sincere. “Loving people. You have this incredible capacity to love. Anyone who has ever been loved by you will find the rest of the world entirely flavorless.” It was hard to reconcile that man—the one who whispered such beautiful, intoxicating things—with the man who glared at me in the car on the drive home that night, his voice cold with irritation. “Natalie, don’t you think you took things a little too far tonight? Rae and I gave you every opportunity to back down gracefully, but you just kept pushing.” I kept my eyes on the dark highway stretching ahead of us. “I think when a person asks for a divorce three times in one night, she deserves to be taken seriously. I have no obligation to play the pleasant wife to my future ex-husband.” Larry let out a heavy, theatrical sigh, gripping the steering wheel. “Are we seriously still doing this? Do you have any idea how exhausting the last three months have been for Rae and me? We worked ourselves to the bone on this trial just to get a decent outcome.” He still didn’t believe me. I couldn’t decide whether to find it pathetic or merciful. “She did it to protect her title as the city’s golden girl,” I said, a dry laugh escaping my throat. “And you? What did you do it for?” “I did it because I am a dedicated judge doing my job,” he snapped. I shrugged, letting a quiet, indifferent smile touch my lips. “Of course. And now I’m offering you all the space and time in the world to focus on that precious career. Aren’t I being incredibly thoughtful?” Larry turned to me, his brow furrowed in genuine disbelief. “Why do you have to be so incredibly childish? Is your job really that easy? Or have you just spent so much time hiding in a cozy corporate legal department that you’ve lost all touch with how brutal the real world is?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “You really need to step outside your bubble, Natalie. Living in your little ivory tower, completely oblivious to how things work… it’s honestly exhausting.” When we graduated, Larry wanted the bench, and Rae wanted the courtroom. I had smiled and declared that I was going to be a trial lawyer too—it had been my dream since childhood. More importantly, my family was a prominent legal dynasty; my father’s connections could have opened any door in the country for me. But Rae had looked at me with a worried, sympathetic expression. “But Natalie, Larry just proposed to you. If you get married, a criminal defense lawyer and a trial judge in the same district… isn’t that a massive conflict of interest?” Professional conflict of interest rules. If Larry sat on the local bench, I couldn’t practice law within his jurisdiction without creating a logistical nightmare. Blinded by what I thought was love, I ignored my parents’ warnings and my father’s absolute fury. I signed the marriage certificate right after graduation and threw away my dreams of litigation to take a quiet corporate compliance job. And this was my reward: my husband sneering that my comfortable “ivory tower” existence made me oblivious and pathetic. “God, Natalie,” I thought, staring at my reflection in the dark car window. “You were so incredibly stupid.” Two weeks passed after that dinner. Larry still hadn’t given me a straight answer about the divorce. I knew his strategy; he wanted to freeze me out, wait for my “tantrum” to pass, and then pretend nothing had ever happened. Eventually, Rae took time out of her busy schedule to play mediator. She asked me to meet her at the café on the ground floor of my office building. The moment I sat down, she sighed dramatically, tossing her designer bag onto the empty chair. “Honestly, Natalie, I envy your corporate gig. I’m working eighteen-hour days, looking like a zombie. I swear my laugh lines are getting deeper by the second.” She was deeply insecure about her looks, and usually, I would immediately rush to reassure her. Not today. I leaned back, studying her face, and smiled thinly. “You might be right. But then again, we are in our thirties now. It’s bound to happen.” Her smile stiffened, and she awkwardly cleared her throat before forcing a transition to her real agenda. “So, I was at the courthouse this morning, and you’ll never guess who I ran into.” “I have no idea, Rae. I don’t keep track of your schedule.” She ignored my icy tone and forged ahead. “Your handsome husband, of course. He looked absolutely miserable, Natalie. Are you two still fighting?” She gave a light, scolding laugh. “Honestly, we’re in our thirties, why are we acting like teenagers? It’s one thing to have a marital spat, but dragging me into the middle of it is just so awkward.” Seeing that I wasn’t playing along, she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “Look, whatever is going on between you two, you can’t freeze me out. I’m just an innocent third party here. Promise you won’t shut me out.” “An innocent third party.” Or a third wheel? Either way, the space between us was getting suffocatingly crowded. “Of course not,” I said softly, pulling my hand away to pick up my water glass. “As long as you’re truly innocent, Rae, you have nothing to worry about.” She bit her lip, her expression faltering for a brief, uneasy second. Perhaps my tone rattled her, because when she reached for her latte, her sleeve caught the rim. The cup tipped over, sending a dark, hot wave of coffee across the marble table, soaking her sleeve and spilling directly over her open MacBook. “Oh my god!” she gasped, leaping up. “My trial briefs! I haven’t backed them up yet!” I grabbed a handful of napkins and stepped closer to help her clean it. But before I could reach the table, the glass doors of the café swung open with a violent shudder. A hand grabbed my shoulder, pushing me aside with startling force. “Natalie, what the hell is wrong with you?” Larry’s voice boomed, sharp and dripping with anger. “Do you have any idea what a laptop means to a trial attorney?” He stood protectively over Rae, desperately trying to wipe down her computer with his own coat. “Can you stop being so incredibly selfish for once? Does the entire world have to revolve around your tantrums? If Rae hadn’t wasted her morning coming here to baby you, this wouldn’t have happened.” He turned back to her, his face dark. “Just go, Natalie. Stop making things worse.” In the heavy silence that followed, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was an automated notification from HR. My resignation, submitted early this morning, had just been approved. I looked at the two of them—Larry frantically checking Rae’s screen, Rae looking up at him with wide, tearful eyes. I slipped my phone into my pocket. “Fine,” I said quietly. “I’m leaving.” And this time, I wouldn’t be looking back.

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Ten years after my father died, I ran into my mother, Diana Senn, while working the afternoon shift at a local boba tea shop. Unlike me – struggling to scrape together enough change for dinner – Diana looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. She wore an elegant, tailored silk dress, her posture flawless as she navigated the nearby boardwalk with her new husband and son, looking every bit the billionaire philanthropist the magazines made her out to be. She was looking at her pampered son, her voice dripping with maternal warmth as they approached the counter. “Too much sugar isn’t good for you, sweetie. Just one cup today.” Even with my face mask on, she recognized me instantly. I saw the sudden, sharp shift in her eyes as they narrowed, her face instantly hardening. Her voice dripped with quiet sarcasm. “Is your father dead? Did he really make you work a service job to ‘build character’ after high school graduation instead of taking you on a trip?” I kept my head down, pretending her words didn’t cut right through me. I slid the cup across the counter. “Here’s your drink. Have a nice day.” Her son, Christian, noticed the sudden tension. He looked me up and down, his eyes filled with a teenager’s easy arrogance. “Mom, do you know this guy?” Diana’s jaw tightened. She stared at me for a long, agonizing second before spitting out two words: “I don’t.” They walked away, leaving me standing behind the register. As she turned, a faint, cloying scent drifted from her – the sickeningly sweet smell of wild honey and copper. It was the distinct scent of the love-worm. I let out a bitter, silent laugh. She was right about one thing, though. My father was dead. Everyone knew it. Everyone except her. … “Man, she’s even more stunning in person,” my coworker sighed, leaning on the counter with an envious stare. “Forty years old and she looks like that. Rich, beautiful, devoted to her family. Must be nice to be her kid.” I froze, the metal shaker heavy in my hand. Nice? To be loved by a woman who threw you away like yesterday’s trash, who left you penniless, and who blocked your birth registration out of spite, turning you into a ghost in your own country? My father had to work illegal, backbreaking construction jobs under the table just to buy groceries. When he died, I couldn’t even afford a proper casket for him. I had the grades to go to Stanford. Instead, I’d been forced to drop out because there wasn’t a single cent for tuition. While other kids my age were spending their post-graduation summer on European beaches, I was pulling double shifts, working myself to the bone just to survive. I gave a faint, empty smile and kept shaking the tea. “Honestly, Wyatt,” my coworker teased, nudging my shoulder, “you kind of look like her. You sure you aren’t some long-lost relative of Diana Senn? If you could get on her good side, you wouldn’t have to slave away in this heat.” It was true. Diana’s brand as the ultimate doting wife and mother was plastered across every billboard and social media feed. Even without a smartphone, I couldn’t escape her face. Somewhere in the foggy corners of my memory, I remembered what her love felt like. Warm. Safe. Until he showed up. Until Uncle Charles ruined everything. “Fifty more cups. Made by him.” A voice, both foreign and dreadfully familiar, broke through my thoughts. I looked up. Diana was standing there, her eyes ice-cold as she stared at me. My coworker stammered, “Ma’am, he can’t do fifty alone… we usually split the large orders – ” As the CEO of the Senn Group, Diana wasn’t used to being questioned. She possessed the kind of quiet, terrifying authority that could silence a room with a single glance. My coworker withered under her gaze and stepped back. I was used to being bullied, used to keeping my head down. But as I silently grabbed a fresh cup, she was the one who couldn’t bear the quiet. She frowned, her manicured fingers tapping the sticky counter. “Are you mute? I told you to make the drinks.” I didn’t look at her. “It’s my job.” She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, looking around the cramped, sweltering shop. The cheap ceiling fan hummed loudly, doing nothing but pushing the hot, humid air around. “You call this pathetic little place a job? Is this how your father raised you?” At the mention of my father, the father who had been buried in an unmarked grave for ten years, the mask of indifference I’d worn all day finally cracked. “I don’t have a father,” I said, my voice dead. Diana blinked, caught off guard. Then, a look of profound disgust washed over her face. “A liar raises a liar, I see. You won’t even acknowledge the man who raised you.” I opened my mouth to tell her the truth – that he was dead – but shut it the moment Christian swaggered back into the shop. “Mom, what are you doing back here?” He looked at my stained apron and cheap sneakers, his brow furrowing with jealousy. “Are you looking for him? You lied to me. You do know him.” Diana’s face softened instantly. It wasn’t fear, but a desperate, coddling need to keep him happy, to make sure her golden boy never felt threatened. She gently smoothed his hair. “Of course not, sweetie. I just wanted to buy some drinks for the security staff.” “Oh. Good.” He glared at me, his eyes carrying the same possessive, controlling streak as his father, Charles. Diana whispered something in Christian’s ear. He smirked, gave me a final, mocking look, and walked out. The shop went quiet again. Diana stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to beg. When I didn’t, she spoke with a cold, magnanimous pity. “Go home and tell your father this: the moment he admits he was the one who put that blood-binding love-worm in me all those years ago, I’ll forgive him.” She paused, her voice tightening. “Once he begs for my forgiveness, I will personally compensate both of you for everything you’ve suffered over the last decade.” Looking at her stubborn, arrogant eyes, a wave of bitter grief crashed over me. I clenched my fists, fighting back the tears stinging my eyes. “You want him to apologize?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “He’s been dead for ten years.” Behind me, my coworker gasped, dropping a freshly sealed cup of boba. It burst on the floor, splattering black pearls across our shoes. Diana’s immediate reaction wasn’t shock. It was disbelief. She let out a mocking, cynical laugh. “Still playing these pathetic games! When your father cursed me, he denied it to the very end. He was always so clever, so full of tricks. You expect me to believe he just died?” Her impatience flared, her brow furrowing deep. “I am a woman of my word. If he apologizes, I will let the past go. Even if he hadn’t cursed me back then, I still would have married him. But his greed got the better of him. He touched my boundaries…” She stopped herself, shaking her head as she looked at me. “I’ll give him three days. Tell him he has three days to come to me.” Three days. “Three days from now is the anniversary of his death,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of hope. “If you want his apology so badly, you can come with me to his grave.” “Don’t test me!” Diana snapped, her voice rising, unable to bear the word ‘death’ associated with him. She took a deep breath, smoothing her designer dress. “Do not push my patience, Wyatt.” I watched her walk out, my heart completely numb. But I hadn’t expected her family to strike so soon. The very next afternoon, Christian showed up at the boba shop. He brought four burly bodyguards with him, effectively blocking the entrance. “Ten thousand cups,” Christian demanded, pointing a finger at my chest. “By tomorrow morning.” Like mother, like son. Their cruelty lacked any real imagination. “I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Even if you chopped me into a hundred pieces, it is physically impossible to make ten thousand cups in twenty-four hours.” The wealthy heir looked like he’d never heard the word ‘no’ in his entire life. His face twisted with rage. “Fine. Refuse me, and I’ll have my guys trash this place. Let’s see how a broke loser like you pays for the damages.” “On what grounds?” I yelled, my anger finally boiling over. “You can’t just destroy a business and blame me!” “I have money, power, and lawyers,” Christian sneered, leaning in close. “Who do you think the police will believe?” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Slowly, I lowered my head. My father’s memorial was in two days. I needed every cent of my paycheck to buy him flowers and a small offering. I was already drowning; I couldn’t afford a lawsuit. My aunt was coming from the mountains, and I didn’t want her to see me ruined. But I had severely underestimated how malicious Christian could be. By the time my hands were cramping and raw from making a hundred cups, he decided he was bored. “Not fast enough,” he barked. He signaled his bodyguards. Before I could react, two large men grabbed my arms, pinning me to the floor. “Since you made them, you should drink them,” Christian smiled, grabbing a cup off the counter. Drinking a hundred cups of sugary liquid would rupture my stomach. I thrashed, trying to scream, but Christian grabbed the back of my neck, slamming my face near the floor. He leaned down, whispering in my ear so the terrified customers outside couldn’t hear. “Angry? Feel helpless? Do you want to curse me too, just like your pathetic father did to my mom? I honestly don’t know how shameless parasites like you and your dad had the guts to try and steal my mother’s wealth. You think you can do dirty tricks and get a payout? Keep dreaming.” He stood up, his face cold and indifferent. “Pour it down his throat.” In broad daylight, they forced cup after cup of milk tea down my throat. My stomach bloated to the point of agony, my chest tightening until I couldn’t breathe. By the time they finished, I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes rolling back as white foam seeped from my lips. When I finally woke up in the hospital, the first thing I saw was a face that looked eighty percent like my father’s. For a split second, my mind slipped. “Dad…?” I whispered. The man’s eyes flashed with a brief, sharp flicker of disgust before quickly smoothing into a warm, gentle smile. “Wyatt, you’re awake,” he said. It was Charles. He paused, looking around the sterile room. “You’ve been asleep for a whole day. Why hasn’t your father come to see you?” Uncle Charles. As memory rushed back, my skin crawled. It was him. Ten years ago, he was the one who had cast the love-worm on Diana, trying to force her to love him. When she discovered the curse, he had masterfully pinned the entire thing on my father, throwing us from luxury into a living hell. Remembering that I had almost called him ‘Dad,’ a wave of nausea hit me. “Get out,” I rasped, my throat raw. “You don’t deserve to be here. Get the hell out!” Charles’s face fell, a look of deep hurt masking his eyes. “How can you say that to me, Wyatt? We’re family. We share the same blood.” In the span of a second, his expression turned dark. I knew what was coming. The hospital door swung open. Diana walked in. Seeing Charles’s pained expression, her eyes turned into absolute daggers, directed entirely at me. “What did you do to Charles?” she demanded. Looking at her immediate, unquestioning defense of him, a suffocating weight settled on my chest. Was this how helpless my father felt back then? One frown from Charles was all it took to condemn us without a trial. I wanted to scream at her, to ask if she remembered how much she used to love my father. But I knew the words would only bounce off her armor of hatred. “I hoped ten years of poverty would teach you and your father some humility,” Diana said, looking at Charles with deep tenderness before turning back to me, her voice dripping with venom. “But you’re still as wicked as ever. Where is your father? Is this how he raised you?” “Diana, don’t be angry,” Charles said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s just a child. He didn’t mean it. Don’t ruin your health over this.” My stomach churned, and I began to dry heave over the side of the bed. Charles’s expression hardened slightly. Diana’s jaw clenched. “What is wrong with you? Apologize to your Uncle Charles right now!” Apologize to the man who ruined my life? “Never,” I said, staring straight into her eyes. Diana raised her hand, her face flushed with fury. “Why, you – ” “Hey, it’s okay,” Charles intervened, catching her wrist and offering me a sweet, patronizing smile. He brought over a bowl of broth from the bedside table. “Just drink this broth as an apology, Wyatt. Don’t force him, Diana. He’s innocent in all of this.” The hypocrisy made me physically ill. I grabbed the bowl and choked down the hot liquid in seconds, wanting nothing more than for them to leave me alone. I didn’t notice the faint, victorious smirk on Charles’s lips as I handed the empty bowl back. An hour after they left, my body began to feel incredibly strange. My limbs felt heavy, yet entirely disconnected from my mind. When I tried to get out of bed to use the restroom, my legs moved on their own, tripping me onto the cold floor. And then, the horror set in. I watched, completely powerless, as my body stood up, walked out of the room, and began stripping off my hospital gown in the middle of the crowded hallway. The submission-worm. My father had warned me about this. It was a high-level, dark binding spell that took away all physical autonomy. Even my father had never mastered it. I was naked in the bustling hospital lobby. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me. I could feel the burning weight of their stares, the whispers, the laughter. “Look at this freak!” someone laughed. “Is he off his meds?” another whispered. People pulled out their phones, recording me. When they realized I wasn’t fighting back, they stepped closer, thrusting their cameras directly into my face. Because of the submission-worm, I couldn’t even close my eyes or open my mouth to scream. The humiliation washed over me like a freezing tide. Dad, please help me, I cried out in the silence of my mind. But no one came. Instead, through the crowd of flashing screens, I saw them. Diana. Charles. Christian. Diana’s face was twisted in disgust. Charles looked utterly smug. Christian was grinning, enjoying the show. I tried to force my vocal cords to explain, to tell everyone I was cursed, but the parasite in my throat twisted my words. “I… I am garbage,” my mouth rasped out. “What did he say?” a spectator laughed, leaning closer with his phone. “I am garbage!” I screamed, my voice echoing through the lobby. “I am the son of a filthy thief! I am a mistake!” The flashes multiplied. The laughter grew louder, pounding against my skull like iron hammers. I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. By the time the doctors finally tackled me, pinning me down and wrapping me in a tight restraint blanket, the three of them were gone. They strapped me to a psychiatric bed. Even then, my limbs thrashed, trying to tear off the sheets the nurses had placed over me. I lay there, tears of absolute despair leaking into my hair. Five hours later, the curse finally faded, leaving my muscles sore and my spirit entirely broken. By then, the video of my breakdown was the top trending story in the state. That evening, Diana walked into my room alone. “Well, you’re famous now,” she said, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “The Senn family can never associate with someone who has humiliated themselves like this. The three-day deadline is almost up, Wyatt, and your father still hasn’t shown his face.” She tapped her polished nails on the bedside table. “My patience is wearing thin. Tomorrow is the last day. If he doesn’t come to apologize, don’t blame me for what happens next.” A sudden, fierce spark of anger flared in my chest. Why did my father have to bear the blame for a crime he didn’t commit, while the real monster lived in luxury, bathed in her love? Tomorrow was the day Aunt Lorelei was arriving. As Diana turned to leave, I called out to her. “Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see him. But you have to come to a place of my choosing first.” Diana hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Deal.” It was time she learned the truth. The love-worm inside her had grown too large to ignore anyway. The next morning, the anniversary of my father’s death, we set out. To my disgust, Charles and Christian insisted on joining us, claiming they “missed Thomas” and wanted to pay their respects. I kept my mouth shut, letting them play their roles. When a member of our mountain community left the Hollow to live in the city, they were considered dead to the clan, never allowed to return. Years ago, Diana had wandered into our woods by mistake, and my father had fallen in love with her. He gave up everything – his family, his heritage – to build a life with her in the city. He lived in a cramped, moldy apartment, ate cheap instant ramen, and took care of her every need while she built her empire. And all the while, Charles had traveled back and forth between the Hollow and the city, pretending he was trying to help my father find a way back home. He was my father’s younger brother; we trusted him blindly. Aunt Lorelei, who wasn’t allowed to leave the mountains, had begged Charles to bring my father home. Instead, Charles lied to everyone. For wealth and for Diana, he had driven my father to his grave. But a few days ago, I had managed to get a message to Aunt Lorelei. When it came to folk magic, Aunt Lorelei was far more powerful than Charles could ever hope to be. Once she arrived, Diana would finally see the truth. As the sleek black SUV wound deep into the isolated mountain roads, Charles began to fidget. “Wyatt, where exactly are you taking us?” his voice trembled slightly, his eyes dangled to the dense pine trees outside. To hell, Uncle Charles. “To see Dad,” I said coldly, closing my eyes to end the conversation. Diana patted Charles’s hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m right here.” A bitter smile touched my lips. If only you knew, Diana. Your ‘heroic’ protection is the very thing that killed the man who actually loved you. When the car stopped, we were surrounded by towering trees and wild briars. Diana stepped out, her designer heels sinking into the damp earth. She frowned. “Your father lives here?” I nodded. My father had spent his final years longing for these mountains. Since he couldn’t return to the Hollow, I had buried him as close to the boundary as possible. I carried a bundle of carnations – his favorite – and walked toward a small, grassy mound in a clearing. The cheap wooden headstone was weathered, but his carved face was still recognizable. Diana’s face darkened instantly. She marched over and kicked the carnations out of my hand, scattering the pink petals into the dirt. “Enough of this theater!” she hissed. “Where is he!” I pointed to the grave. “Right there.” Diana lost all control. She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “I have given you so many chances. If you insist on lying to me, then don’t expect me to show any mercy!” Charles quickly stepped in, playing the peacemaker. “Wyatt, please, stop lying to your mother. Look how upset she is…” Christian spat on the grave, his eyes filled with juvenile malice. “Good riddance. He was just a filthy leech anyway.” My heart stopped. The blood drained from my face. “I’m not lying!” I screamed. “My father is buried here! Why won’t you believe me?!” Diana’s face twisted into something monstrous, her voice cold as winter frost. “You really won’t admit it, will you? You’re just like him. A parasite who lives on lies.” She pulled out her phone and made a call. “Send the men up with shovels. I want this grave dug up. Let’s see if the bastard is actually inside.” I shook violently, the horror suffocating me. She had lost her mind. My father was dead, and she still wouldn’t let him rest. With a raw scream of fury, I threw myself at her. “Diana! How could you do this to him?! Do you remember how much you loved him? Do you have any idea how he suffered?!” Before I could reach her, a heavy boot slammed into my chest. The force knocked the wind out of me, and I fell backward into the dirt, coughing. Christian retracted his foot, pretending to look apologetic as he covered his mouth. “Oh, sorry about that. You were getting too aggressive. I didn’t want you hurting my mom.” Seeing me on the ground, Diana’s hand twitched, a momentary flicker of instinct crossing her face. But before she could move, her hired men arrived. Ignoring my screams and tears, they drove their shovels into the earth. Within minutes, they unearthed a small, square wooden box. Diana’s face paled slightly. Charles quickly whispered in her ear, “They probably prepared a fake urn just to fool you. I bet it’s empty.” Diana stared at the box for a moment, her voice turning flat. “Bring it up. Open it.” “No!” I shrieked, scrambling forward on my hands and knees. “Don’t touch him! Don’t you dare touch him!” I threw my body over the wooden box, locking my arms around it. “Beat him,” Diana commanded, her voice devoid of any human warmth. “I want to see how long he can keep up this lie.” I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself as the heavy blows began to rain down on my back. “Stop this at once!” A commanding voice echoed through the clearing.

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Ethan Vance, my boyfriend of ten years, was asking me to register our marriage at City Hall for the 100th time. He sent me a text, his tone unusually solemn: “Put on your wedding dress and come to City Hall right now. I’m serious this time. I won’t lie to you again.” For the past ninety-nine times, he had used fake proposals to trick me into rushing to City Hall, only to place bets with his childhood best friend, Chloe Miller, laughing at my desperate reactions. But this time, he promised me over and over that this would be his last prank. He even swore that on our 100th time, he would finally keep his word. I believed him. Until I pushed open the doors of the hall, and erupted into a wave of mocking laughter. Ethan curled his lips into a smirk: “You actually came? I bet Chloe you wouldn’t show up this time. I bet against you, and she bet on you.” “The stakes were: if I won, we’d get married today. Since I lost, I guess we’ll have to wait until next time.” He shrugged. “So, I lost the bet. Guess we’ll get married next time.” Looking at Ethan’s casual, mocking face, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. So, in his eyes, our marriage was nothing more than a joke to gamble on with his friends. He didn’t even remember that today was our ten-year anniversary. I took off the promise ring I had worn for ten years and dropped it into his palm. “Ethan, I waited for your 100th proposal.” “But I don’t want to marry you anymore.”

Even the clerk at the desk threw me a sympathetic look. But Ethan got angry. “What is that supposed to mean? It was just a joke.” “Do you really have to pull a face like that?” “Everyone is watching. Don’t embarrass me.” I said nothing. Chloe, his little green-tea best friend, let out a soft giggle. “Ethan, is your girlfriend actually mad?” “She’s such a party pooper.” “Maybe she just doesn’t love you anymore.” Ethan’s face instantly darkened. “No way.” “For the 37th proposal, I joked that I’d marry her if she jumped off a 100-meter high dive. She has severe vertigo, but she still jumped.” “For the 55th proposal, I lied and said my family went bankrupt. She ate nothing but expired bread for six months just to save money for me. She starved herself until her stomach bled and ended up in the ICU.” “As long as I say the word ‘marriage,’ she’d die for me. If that’s not love, what is?” A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. So, he knew. He knew all along. He knew exactly how much damage he had caused me. Yet, every single time, he chose to place another bet with Chloe. Over and over again, he treated my pain as his personal entertainment. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. With one last shred of hope, I looked at Ethan. “So, this time, did you ever actually intend to marry me?” Ethan leaned in, kissed my cheek, and smiled: “Babe, it’s just a game. Don’t take it so seriously.” “Next time. I promise it’ll be real next time.” I looked into his eyes, my gaze steady. “There won’t be a next time, Ethan.” “Are you going to marry me today, or not?” Before Ethan could speak, Chloe chimed in coldly: “Ethan, your girlfriend is being ridiculous.” “She’s pushing so hard for marriage. Is she after your family’s money or something?” Ethan’s grip on my hand slowly loosened. His expression hardened. “Yeah, my parents haven’t even accepted you yet.” “Stop being so sensitive.” “Can’t you be more like Chloe? Just relax a little.” But Ethan. I couldn’t wait any longer. For ten years, I hadn’t gone home once. I had cut ties with my parents. All because of your promise: “I’ll marry you on the 100th time.” I flew into your fire like a moth, over and over. I lost a baby. I ended up in the ICU five times. I became a running joke in everyone’s eyes. I let out a long sigh, feeling ten years older. “But I’m tired.” Ethan violently let go of my hand. “Fine! Don’t marry me then!” With that, he took out the ring, dropped to one knee in front of Chloe. “Chloe, marry me.” Even as he said it, his eyes were locked on me, trying to provoke me. Chloe began to cry tears of joy, throwing herself into his arms. Ethan shot me a defiant smirk. “See? You didn’t want it, but plenty of girls do.” The ring I had waited ten years for was handed to someone else just like that. I watched them sign the marriage papers right there in City Hall. My chest tightened, but surprisingly, it didn’t hurt anymore. Just pure, hollow absurdity. I smiled bitterly. Ethan had no idea. I had a ten-year agreement with my parents. And tonight was the final deadline.

Looking at the marriage certificate in their hands, I forced a tight smile. “Congratulations. I hope you’re happy.” Ethan scoffed. “I don’t want to wait another second.” “We’re having the wedding tomorrow.” “Let’s go, Chloe. I’m taking you to get your wedding dress!” He looked me up and down, his eyes filled with contempt. As Chloe walked past me, she paused and whispered, “Some people just don’t look like brides, even in a wedding dress.” “Ten years of waiting, and you’re still just an outsider.” She reached up to adjust her hair. The diamond earrings she wore caught the light, sparkling brilliantly. I recognized them instantly. They were heirlooms from Ethan’s grandmother. Ethan once told me those earrings would only be given to his future wife. Yet in our ten years together, I had never once been invited to a Vance family gathering. When I used to complain to him about it, he would just brush me off. “Is meeting them really that important?” “You’re marrying me, not my family.” Later, I asked him, “Why does Chloe get to go on family vacations with you every year?” He laughed. “She grew up with us.” “My mom treats her like a daughter.” “If I actually liked her, would I even be with you?” “Stop overthinking.” That afternoon, Ethan booked the most exclusive bridal boutique in the city. He ordered her a custom-designed gown adorned with a hundred diamonds, each worth millions. Chloe spitefully sent me a Snapchat video to brag. Champagne towers, a live string quartet, a sea of roses. Ethan knelt on one knee, gently putting the wedding shoes on her feet. As I watched, my eyes still burned. Not out of jealousy. But out of pity for myself. Pity for how pathetic and small I had been for the last ten years. Ethan always told me that true love shouldn’t be measured by money. So, during our ten years, I lived frugally, never asking him for a dime. The most expensive thing he ever gave me was a cheap $5 dollar-store glass bracelet. One winter, I caught severe pneumonia. I couldn’t afford the medical bills and called Ethan to borrow $300. He didn’t pick up once. Hours later, he replied with a text: “Babe, don’t use things like this to test me.” “I hate women who use money to prove love.” “Once we’re married, everything I have will be yours anyway.” He thought I was faking an illness to get cash out of him, so he turned off his phone and ignored me. That night, I coughed up blood. To this day, my lungs have never fully recovered. I blocked Chloe on Snapchat. Then, I called my parents. “Dad, Mom… I lost.” “Book my flight for tomorrow night. I’m coming home.” Suddenly, a pair of warm hands wrapped around my waist from behind. Ethan’s dark, suffocating gaze locked onto me. “Which home are you going to?”

My heart skipped a beat. I quickly broke free from his embrace. “My parents cut me off years ago. What other home would I have?” Ethan let out a soft laugh and pulled me back into his arms. He rubbed his face against the back of my neck affectionately. “Babe, you blocked Chloe because you’re jealous, right?” “I knew you still cared about me.” “Be good. Just apologize to her, and on our 101st time, I’ll divorce Chloe and marry you for real, okay?” “Why should I apologize?” I pushed his arms away. “You guys are the ones playing games, you’re the ones who disrespected me, so why am I the one who has to apologize?” Ethan frowned, looking at me as if I were a spoiled child. His voice went cold. “I told you, Chloe is just a friend. It was a harmless joke.” “Plus, we had a deal.” “Once you passed my 100 tests, we’d get married.” “We were only one test away. Do you have to be this dramatic?” Even now, he still didn’t understand why I was angry. I ripped the ridiculous veil off my head. I tore off the cheap wedding dress that had cost me a whole year’s savings, the one they had laughed at. But I didn’t let my tears fall. “You wanted to play a game, so you used me as your toy.” “Ethan, what am I to you?” “You said you weren’t ready, that you lacked security, so you made me go through 100 tests.” “I had to walk 100 steps to get to you.” “But Chloe didn’t have to do a single thing for you to run to her.” Ethan smiled, brushing a stray hair from my face. “So you really are just jealous.” “If you hadn’t embarrassed me in front of my friends, we wouldn’t be here.” “Are you scared now?” “Don’t worry, I won’t throw you away. Just say you’re sorry…” I pushed him back, my voice firm. “What I mean is,” “We are done. It’s over.” “Have a nice wedding, Ethan.” Ethan grit his teeth, his face twisting in anger. “Fine. Fine! If you want to play tough, don’t come crawling back crying to me.” “Tomorrow is my wedding. As my generous ex, you better show up.” Ethan turned on his heel and slammed the door. I sank to the floor. The cheap glass bracelet he had given me slipped off my wrist. *Shatter.* It broke into a million pieces. Glass is so fragile. Why couldn’t Ethan ever understand that?

The news of the Vance and Miller families marrying exploded all over social media. The wedding cost eighty million dollars. Ethan’s parents were thrilled. They gifted Chloe ten million dollars in cash and a prime commercial building in downtown Manhattan. Ethan’s friends were spamming their group chat on Snapchat: [I knew they’d end up together.] [We finally got rid of that gold-digger. If she found out the “100 proposal tests” was actually Ethan’s idea to make Chloe laugh, she’d lose her mind.] [That’s nothing. Remember when Sera almost got assaulted and Ethan played the hero to win her over? That was Chloe’s idea too, and Ethan agreed without a second thought.] They seemed to have forgotten I was still in the group. I read every single word. Each letter felt like a dagger to my chest. My entire body went numb with cold. We had met at an art gallery. Ethan claimed it was love at first sight and pursued me relentlessly. At the time, I didn’t know if he had recognized my real identity or if he was just lusting after me. I kept rejecting him. Until one night, I was grabbed by some thugs on the street. Ethan appeared out of nowhere, taking a knife to the shoulder to save me. Even as he bled, he held me and wiped my tears. “You look prettier when you smile. Don’t cry. If I die, at least nobody will bother you anymore.” For ten years, I used that single memory to forgive him a thousand times over. But now, reality told me even that was a lie. My heart felt like it was dissolving in acid. I stared at the screen until a notification from Ethan popped up. [There’s still thirty minutes left. It’s not too late to regret your choice.] [Sera, if you show up at the venue and apologize to Chloe and me in front of everyone, I’ll take you back.] I swallowed the lump in my throat. I blocked him on everything. I packed my bags and walked out. Chloe was waiting for me in the lobby, a smug smile on her face. “You saw the messages?” “Did you do that on purpose?” “I just wanted to help you see reality,” Chloe sneered. “A prince like Ethan was never going to marry a charity case like you.” “You were just his toy while I was away. Now that I’m back, it’s time to return what’s mine.” I let out a cold laugh. “Then congratulations.” “A trashy man for a trashy girl. You two deserve each other.” Chloe’s eyes narrowed, but she quickly recovered. “All you have is your mouth, Sera. But guess what? Your miscarriage three years ago? It wasn’t an accident.” My pupils dilated. That baby was a scar I never dared to touch. It was because of that loss that I felt guilty toward Ethan, enduring his friends’ humiliations for years. “It was Christmas. I flew back to surprise Ethan,” Chloe whispered maliciously. “But he wanted to spend it with you. He even said he wanted to end the game and settle down.” “I lost my mind. I was the one who caused your car crash.” “I was terrified, but Ethan comforted me. He said his parents wouldn’t have accepted the kid anyway, so it was for the best.” “He told me he’d keep it a secret from you forever.” Chloe’s proud smirk burned into my brain. But Ethan had told me he was looking forward to that baby. He had said his mother was finally going to let me into the family, but because I failed to protect the child… I had slipped into severe depression, unable to sleep for six months. And it was all a lie? I burst into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down my face. So this was what it felt like to have your soul completely crushed. Chloe mockingly handed me a tissue. I ignored her. As I turned to leave, I heard Ethan’s voice complaining nearby. “Why isn’t she here yet?” “I thought you said she’d come crawling back once the wedding started?” “Just wait a bit longer,” Chloe replied smoothly. “If she doesn’t show up, I’ll just have to marry you instead.” “Stop joking. You’re like a sister to me.” I didn’t look back. I boarded the private jet my parents had sent for me. At the same time, I couriered the shattered glass bracelet and a recording of Chloe’s confession directly to the wedding venue. Ethan waited and waited, but I never showed up. As the ceremony neared, panic began to set in. Suddenly, a figure appeared. He gasped in relief, but when he got closer, it was a stranger. “Are you Ethan Vance?” “This is a wedding gift from Seraphina Belmont. She insisted you open it immediately.” “What is this?” Ethan opened the box. The shattered glass bracelet fell to the floor, breaking into even smaller pieces. And then, the recording began to play. Ethan’s hand shook, the color completely draining from his face.

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My dear daughter Rosie has been begging to go to Disneyland for months. My husband Colin promised we’d take her together for her sixth birthday—then bailed last minute. I handed him the keys to my family’s empire after my father died—made him the Don of the Devlin family myself—and now he can’t even show up for his own kid. But fine. He’s busy. Rosie and I can still have a perfect day. Rosie’s bouncing on her toes at the gate, clutching her little Mickey ears headband, when the attendant scans my VIP card and frowns. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This membership has been canceled.” I blink. “That’s impossible. Run it again.” She does. Same result. “It’s showing as deactivated, ma’am. As of this morning.” Before I can even process that, my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize. “Mrs. Devlin, this is Tessa Nolan. Your husband hired me as Rosie’s childcare consultant. I canceled the membership. From now on, all of Rosie’s activities and expenses need to go through me for approval.” I open my mouth, but she keeps talking. “Disneyland is excessive. It encourages wasteful habits. Going forward, Rosie is not allowed to participate in any recreational activity costing over a hundred dollars. Twice a month, maximum. I’ve calculated her monthly allowance for snacks and entertainment—two hundred and fifty dollars. I’ve already sent it.” She hangs up before I can say a single word. My phone buzzes. A bank transfer. $250. I stare at the screen. Two hundred and fifty dollars. For my daughter. My daughter, who has never wanted for anything because everything she has comes from me. From my family. From the empire my grandfather built and my father died protecting. And some woman I’ve never met just put a price tag on my child. I call Colin. Straight to voicemail. I text him. “Colin, what the hell is going on? Who is Tessa Nolan, and why is she making decisions about OUR daughter? Get rid of her. Now. Don’t forget—that seat you’re sitting in? I put you there. I can take it back just as fast.” No reply. I call again. And again. Nothing. Rosie tugs my sleeve. She’s watching the other kids stream through the gates, one by one, laughing and skipping. She looks up at me with those big brown eyes. “Mommy, does this mean I can’t go in?” My heart cracks right down the middle. This trip was supposed to make up for all the times Colin wasn’t there. For all the dinners he missed. For every promise he broke. And now I can’t even get her through the Disneyland gate. I crouch down and brush the hair from her face. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Something came up. But I promise—Mommy will bring you back tomorrow. I swear.” Disneyland is all digital tickets now. The VIP card was our fast pass to everything. I never thought I’d need a backup plan because I never imagined anyone would dare do this. And that makes me even angrier. But Rosie just tilts her head and smiles. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ve been here lots of times. And Daddy’s not here today anyway, so let’s just come back with Daddy next time. The other kids can have my turn.” She’s six. Six years old, and she’s the one comforting me. My chest aches. Since the day this little girl was born, I have never once broken a promise to her. Not once. And now, because of some woman named Tessa Nolan, today is the first time. I squeeze her hand and force a smile. “You’re the best girl in the whole world, you know that? Okay, how about this—you go home with Marco first and have some lunch. Mommy has to go see Daddy real quick. And I’ll bring you back a cake. Deal?” “Deal! A unicorn cake. The sparkly kind!” “The sparkly kind. Got it. One unicorn cake for my princess, coming right up.” I buckle Rosie into the back seat. Marco is one of the few men left from my father’s days—loyal, solid, been driving this family since before I was born. I trust him with my life. I watch the car pull away. I watch until it disappears around the corner. I call Sal. “Send me a car. Now. I’m at the Disneyland parking lot and I need to get to Colin.” The car shows up fast. One of our guys, no questions asked. The VIP card is registered under my name. If Tessa canceled it, she needed authorization from the account holder—which means Colin gave it to her. He knew we were coming to Disneyland today. He knew, and he let this happen. He let some stranger humiliate me and disappoint our daughter without even a heads-up. He’s going to explain this to my face. But before I even make it halfway, my bracelet starts screaming.

The alarm is sharp, relentless—three fast beeps over and over. My blood runs cold. This GPS bracelet is custom-made. I had three of them built—one for me, one for Colin, one for Rosie. It’s designed for one thing only: emergencies. I told Rosie a long time ago—if you’re ever scared, if anything bad happens, press the button. Mommy will come. But Rosie is in the car. She’s on her way home. Marco is with her. What could possibly— I pull up the GPS tracker. The dot blinks on the screen. She’s at the house. She’s already home. So why is she hitting the panic button? I don’t think. I just react. “Turn around!” I shout at the driver. “Take me home. Now.” I start calling the house. One by one. Nobody picks up. Finally, Maria—the head maid who’s been with me for six years—answers from her personal phone. “Mrs. Devlin, we were all let go. Tessa showed up at six this morning with four men we’d never seen before. She said the Don ordered a full staff replacement. Told us if we didn’t leave quietly, things would get ugly.” “She handed out cash—three months’ pay each—and had us escorted off. We didn’t even get to pack our things.” “She said the Don authorized it. That all household staff needed to be re-screened by her personally. We tried calling you, but our numbers had already been blocked.” “She said WHAT?” I hang up. My whole body goes cold. Every single person in that house—every maid, every guard, every face my daughter knows and trusts—gone. Replaced overnight. Without anyone asking me. “Tessa Nolan, you’re a dead woman,” I whisper. Then I think about Rosie’s bracelet. My baby is in that house with strangers, and she’s calling for help. “Turn around! My daughter’s in trouble. Step on it!” The house feels wrong the second we pull through the gate. The gate guards are faces I’ve never seen. The familiar staff are all gone. Instead, there are a few young women in the foyer—mid-twenties, dressed like they’re going to brunch, not running the household of a Don. Not one of them even asks who I am. They just stare. When my father was alive, a stranger couldn’t get within a mile of this house without clearance. Now they’re standing in my foyer like they own the place. I don’t stop. I run past all of them. I’ll deal with every last one of them later. “Rosie! ROSIE!” I find her in the dining room. My daughter is on the floor. Curled up in a ball. Shaking. Her lips are purple. Angry red welts cover her face and arms. Allergic reaction. A bad one. My eyes snap to the table. A plate of noodles tossed with crushed peanuts sits in the center. My vision goes white. Rosie is deathly allergic to peanuts. Any trace—peanut oil, peanut butter, a single crushed shell—sends her body into overdrive. Mild exposure means fever and hives. Serious exposure means her throat swells shut. It means she stops breathing. It means she can die. And this woman made her eat peanuts. Tessa is standing right there, arms crossed, looking down at my daughter like she’s being dramatic. She nudges Rosie with her foot. “Stop faking it, you little brat. I cooked this meal myself and you won’t eat it? I’m not your pushover mother. You eat what I give you. Now get up.” Something snaps inside me. I cross the room in three steps and my fist connects with Tessa’s face so hard she staggers back into the wall. “Touch my daughter again and I’ll kill you myself.” I’m already pulling out my phone, dialing 911, scooping Rosie off the floor with one arm. She’s burning up. She’s barely breathing. Her little body is limp against my chest. But Tessa—her nose bleeding, her eyes wild—throws herself in front of the door. “Are you insane?! I am a professional childcare consultant! Your husband hired me! He said every decision about this child goes through ME. Put her down. Right now.” She wipes the blood from her lip and takes a step closer. “And you just hit me. You’d better believe Colin is going to hear about this. You owe me an apology.” I look at her. I look at my daughter’s face—swollen, purple, twisted in pain. I kick Tessa out of my way. Hard. “You want an apology? Here’s your apology. If my daughter dies, I will bury you and Colin both. Now get out of my way.” Rosie is limp in my arms. Her lips are turning blue.

Tessa doesn’t try to stop me again. I think the look in my eyes tells her exactly what will happen if she does. I burst out of the house with Rosie in my arms. The family driver is still out front. “Children’s hospital. Drive. NOW.” By the time we get through the ER doors, Rosie is completely unconscious. “Help! Someone help me! My daughter—she’s not breathing—” A nurse rushes over, takes one look, and calls a code. “Severe allergic reaction. Get her in now. Prep for gastric lavage. Mom, I need you to go to the billing desk.” They take her from my arms. They put her on a gurney and wheel her through those double doors, and I stand there watching them disappear with my baby, my hands shaking, tears running down my face. She’s going to be okay. She has to be okay. I go to billing. “I need to pay for my daughter’s treatment. Rosie Devlin.” The clerk types, waits, types again. Frowns. “Mrs. Devlin, all four of your cards have been frozen. None of them are going through.” I stare at her. Four cards. Every single family account. There’s at least ten million dollars across those accounts—money that came from my family, my inheritance, my blood. Frozen. There’s only one person who could do that. The person I stupidly gave full access to everything. Colin. I call him. For once, he actually picks up. But before I can open my mouth, he’s already screaming. “Natasha, have you lost your mind?! Tessa is someone I personally brought in to take care of Rosie, and you put your hands on her?” “I run the family. My word is law in this house. Get back here right now and apologize, or you’re going to find out what happens when you cross me.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Colin. Listen to me. Rosie is in the emergency room right now. That woman forced Rosie to eat peanuts. Rosie almost died. She is in there right now fighting for her life, and you want me to APOLOGIZE?” “Bullshit! Tessa is a certified expert. I told her about Rosie’s peanut allergy myself—she would never do that. You’re just jealous because she’s younger and more qualified than you’ll ever be, so you make up lies to get rid of her. You know what, Natasha? You’re pathetic.” “I—” He laughs. Actually laughs. “I’m the Don, Natasha. Everything in this family moves because I say so. You want your accounts back? Go home. Apologize to Tessa. If she forgives you, maybe I’ll think about it.” Click. He hangs up on me. I stand there in the hospital hallway, phone in my hand, tears drying on my face. My daughter is behind those doors. Unconscious. Maybe dying. And my husband just laughed at me and told me to beg the woman who poisoned her. I can’t think about this right now. Rosie needs me. I call Sal. “Sal. St. Mary’s Children’s ER. Bring cash. Rosie’s in critical care and that son of a bitch froze every account I have.” A pause. When Sal speaks, his voice is low and steady. The same voice I remember from when I was a little girl sitting on my father’s knee. “I’m on my way. And Miss Devlin—say the word, and this ends tonight.” “Not yet. Just get here.” The bill gets paid. Rosie is still in surgery—stomach pump, IV steroids, oxygen support. I sit on the cold bench in the hallway. The red light above the OR door burns steady. Eight years. I married Colin when I was twenty-two. We grew up together—after his parents died, my mom and dad took him in, raised him like their own son. When my father passed, the family was mine. The seat, the men, the money, the name—all mine. But I didn’t want to rule alone. I loved Colin. I trusted him. So I made him the Don and stepped back, because I thought that’s what a good wife does. I handed a nobody the keys to a kingdom. And now he can’t even keep our daughter alive. Was any of it worth it? Was he ever worth it? My phone buzzes. A video. From Tessa’s number. I open it. Colin is lying on the couch at home. His head is in Tessa’s lap. She’s cleaning the bruise on his cheek—gently, carefully, like he’s the one who got hurt. He looks up at her like she’s made of glass. Tessa’s voice comes through, sweet as poison. “Your wife really messed me up, babe. But you came straight home the second you heard. That means a lot.” She giggles. Then the camera shifts. Tessa looks right into the lens. “Hey, Natasha. How’s your daughter? I heard serious allergic reactions can be fatal. And you can’t even pay the hospital bill? That’s rough.” The video ends. I set the phone down. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I pick it back up and dial. “Sal. I want it all back. The title. The accounts. The men. Every single thing I gave him. By morning, Colin Marsh is nobody again. And that woman—find out who she really is. Where she came from. What she wants. I want everything, and I want it tonight.”

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In the fifth year of my boyfriend Gabriel Salvatti’s political alliance engagement to my best friend, Serena Cavallo, she got pregnant with his child. Five years earlier, Gabriel had thrown himself from the second-floor balcony of the Salvatti estate, shattering his leg, just to make one thing clear to his parents. “I will only ever marry Chloe Moretti. No one else.” That same night, Serena stayed with me at the Moretti safehouse, crying by my side until dawn. “Don’t worry, Chloe,” she’d whispered, never leaving my side. “The moment Gabe takes the Don’s seat from his father, I’ll give him back to you. I’ll keep an eye on him. I won’t let him hurt you.” Everyone on the East Coast said I was the luckiest girl alive. I had a boyfriend willing to defy his own Family for me, and a best friend who treated me like Family. I thought I had everything I could ever want. But now, in the fifth year of their engagement, I stood in the living room of the Newport house Gabriel had bought me and handed him Serena’s positive pregnancy test. “We’re broken up,” I said. Gabriel didn’t flinch. He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Serena is my fiancée, Chloe. Isn’t it normal for her to be pregnant?” Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and snapped my ring finger back. I gasped as the bone gave. He ripped the engagement ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash beside the sofa. “Stop using these pathetic little breakup stunts to get my attention. It’s getting old.” I looked down at my hand, trembling as I pulled it away from his grip. The pain was blinding, but I didn’t scream. For five years, I had screamed. I had cried until my throat was raw. All my pain had ever done was give him and Serena more oxygen. Every tear I shed only drew them closer. I looked up. My voice came out steadier than I expected. “Gabriel. You told me to wait. I waited five years for this.” “I’m done wasting my life on you. It’s over.” He didn’t even look at me. He walked past me into the living room and saw my packed suitcases lined up by the door. He leaned back against the sofa and gave me a look of pure derision. “Quite the performance. But let’s be honest with each other for once. You are a Moretti girl who spent five years living off the Salvatti name. This house. That car in the drive. The clothes on your back. The doctor who takes your calls at three in the morning. Every last piece of it belongs to my Family. Taking any of it walking out that door would be theft.” He tilted his head. His eyes were cold. “Be honest, Chloe. Can you even survive a day outside the Salvatti umbrella?” He was certain I would stay. He was used to me folding. Used to me swallowing his excuses. He always claimed he owed Serena. He acted as if her presence in our lives was some great sacrifice on her part. And so, over and over, he moved the line for her. “Serena is only doing this alliance so we can be together,” he used to tell me. “She’s giving up her best years for us. We can’t be cruel to her.” That kindness had turned into passionate hugs. Then careful kisses. Then her in his bed. Every time I found the photos, the ones that felt like a serrated knife dragged through my chest, he would come crawling back. Once, he’d knelt at my feet and pressed a blade to his own stomach until he bled onto the hardwood. “I just wanted to show her what it felt like to be loved, Chloe. I was just compensating her. I swear, it’s the last time. Please. Don’t think I’m dirty.” I believed him. I let his blood stain my dress and I forgave him. Then came the videos. Each one worse than the last. I had reached my limit. I’d fought him, hit him, put him in the ER once in a fit of rage. I had said it’s over a thousand times. And over those five years, his reaction had shifted from desperate terror to cold indifference. I walked to the suitcases, opened the largest one, and pulled out only my passport and my legal documents. My real ones, the ones outside the Salvatti network. “The rest is yours. You can keep it. I don’t want a single reminder of you.” I looked him dead in the eye. “And Gabriel. There isn’t a person on this earth I can’t live without. Especially not you.”

Gabriel’s smug grin vanished. Just then, the front door swung open. His cold expression shifted in a heartbeat. He deliberately shouldered past me, his shoulder slamming into mine, and rushed to the door to steady Serena by the elbow. “Serena? What are you doing here?” His voice was thick with worry. “The floor is a mess. Watch your step. You could get hurt.” Serena reached out toward me, as if to help, and then stumbled. Gabriel caught her hand immediately. They stood there, fingers laced right in front of me, the matching engagement rings on full display. When Serena noticed me staring, she pulled her hand away with a practiced, panicked look. “Today was my prenatal appointment… I’m so sorry, Chloe. Did I interrupt something? I’ll tell Gabe to come see you after we’re finished today.” Gabriel took her hand back and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Why are you explaining yourself to her? She’s been snapping at everyone lately like she’s off her leash. I don’t even want to look at her face. Let her rot here.” His gaze flicked to me out of the corner of his eye. Seeing no reaction, he slammed the door and walked out. My broken finger was still throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache. I picked up my documents and headed for the hospital. The moment I stepped into the lobby, I saw them again. Gabriel Salvatti. The second son of one of the oldest Families on the coast. A man who had grown up being taught that a Salvatti does not bend his knee to anyone outside the Table. He was on the tile of a public hospital lobby, one knee down, in a bespoke Brioni three-piece, gently massaging Serena’s calves. He was handling her like a piece of the Sistine Chapel. I had no desire to watch. I turned toward the orthopedics wing. Serena was waiting for me in the hallway. When she saw me, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face, quickly replaced by resolve. “Chloe.” She stepped into my path. “I think it’s best if you stay away from Gabe while I’m pregnant. The baby needs his father’s full attention. You love Gabe so much. I know you wouldn’t want anything to happen to his child. Right?” Then she pulled out a thick stack of bills. Right there in the crowded hallway, she pressed them into my arms. “Take this. Consider it… compensation.” She didn’t lower her voice. I felt the weight of a dozen curious stares. I heard someone behind me whisper “mistress”. Serena flinched theatrically at the murmur. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for them to hear.” She grabbed my hand, the same way she used to at Choate when she wanted a favor. “Please. Just stay away from Gabe for a while. The baby needs a father.” In the middle of the crowd’s whispered judgment, I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. “Serena. Aren’t you tired of playing the victim? You took him. Enjoy the prize and shut up.” Heavy footsteps thundered behind me. Serena collapsed onto the tile, tears streaming down her face on cue. “Chloe, I’m sorry. I said the wrong thing.” Gabriel rushed over and hauled her up. When he turned to me, his eyes were black with loathing. “Chloe Moretti. Have you completely forgotten what Family you were born into? A Moretti girl raising a hand to a Cavallo girl carrying a Salvatti child. In public. Do you have any idea what your father is going to hear tonight?” His voice dropped to something colder. “Get on your knees and apologize to Serena. Right now. Or I swear on my grandfather’s name, you will not walk out of this building on your own.”

This was the thousandth time. The thousandth time Gabriel Salvatti had blindly taken Serena’s side without a second thought. A year ago, I would have fought tooth and nail. Argued until I’d proven my innocence. Now, all I felt was an all-consuming exhaustion. Serena knew me well. Before I could speak, she reached out and timidly tugged on Gabriel’s sleeve. “Don’t talk to Chloe like that, Gabe. It was my fault. I just tripped.” Predictably, her defense only made Gabriel’s eyes turn colder. “You don’t need to cover for her, Serena. We both know exactly what she is.” He looked at me, his voice dropping to a threat. “Chloe. If you want to walk out of this hospital on your own two feet, you’ll apologize to Serena. Now.” I was done with the theater. I pointed to the security camera above the nurses’ station. “The truth is right there. Watch the footage yourself.” I tried to step past him. A hand clamped down on the back of my head. Gabriel yanked my hair back hard enough that I was forced to meet his eyes. “You think you can put your hands on Serena and walk away?” Serena’s tears started instantly. “Gabe, stop! What are you doing? I told you, I fell. Let her go.” My scalp felt like it was tearing open. I winced. Gabriel, the same man who used to panic if I so much as got a papercut, looked at me with pure disgust. “Stop acting,” he mocked. “You aren’t a Cavallo princess. You expect me to believe this hurts?” I tried to twist out of his grip. He moved faster and drove his foot into the back of my knee. I went down hard on the polished floor. “Apologize.” Looking up at his face, I felt a strange, sick vertigo. I remembered when we were eighteen. A rival capo tried to kill Gabriel at a private club, and I stepped in front of him before the blade could reach him. It pierced my shoulder instead, leaving the scar beneath my collarbone. He held me as I bled in his arms, his eyes red, swearing on his grandfather’s grave that no one would ever hurt me again as long as he lived. Now, every wound I carried came from his hand. I closed my eyes and pulled in a jagged breath. “I will not apologize for something I didn’t do.” “Gabe, please, just let it go…” Serena sobbed, reaching for me. Gabriel pulled her back behind him. Then his fist came down. Not a slap. A closed backhand across the temple. My vision whited. My knees buckled. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. The hallway went dead silent. Serena stopped crying, her eyes wide with real shock, and lunged forward to shield me. “Gabe! Stop!” Gabriel ignored her struggle and pulled her into a protective embrace. He glanced at the red welt swelling across my temple without a trace of remorse. “I’m warning you for the last time. The Salvattis owe the Cavallos for this arrangement. If you’re angry, take it out on me. But if you touch her again, I will make you pay a thousand times over.” Then I threw my hand up and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. “You already gave her your body and your soul as payment, Gabriel. What exactly do I still owe her?” He stumbled back, stunned. “Chloe Moretti!” I didn’t stay for the rest of the roar. I turned and walked away. That night, I checked into a hotel and stared at the ceiling until dawn. My phone buzzed in the dark. A message from Serena. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. I had no idea Gabe would get that worked up. I scolded him for it, so please don’t be mad, okay?” I didn’t reply. I turned the phone off. The next morning, I took a car straight to Logan. I called a senior from my MIT days. “Evan Ferraro. I’m at the airport. I’ll be back in Boston tonight.” After years of being Gabriel’s shadow, I was finally going back to the research work I had walked away from for him. I used to be at the top of my cohort, a girl with a brilliant future. A future I had set on fire to keep Gabriel warm. But as I approached the gate, three men in dark suits stepped into my path. They didn’t ask questions. They walked me straight into an SUV waiting at the curb and drove me back to the Salvatti estate. Gabriel’s mother sat in the drawing room, looking down at me with practiced elegance. Coffee in one hand. She came from one of Sicily’s oldest Families and ruled it as its Donna. Every morning, she prayed for God’s forgiveness. Every afternoon, she treated the gunshots echoing through the courtyard as background music, never seeing the slightest contradiction between the two. “Miss Moretti. I used to think you were a sensible girl.” Her voice was cold. “I never imagined you’d have the audacity to lay a hand on Serena. When a girl steps out of line in this house, she answers for it.” “ In this house, every rule broken comes with a price.” “Get the whip.”

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