After my boyfriend’s childhood friend Holly learned about my $50k monthly allowance, she started copying me. I had wavy hair—she permed hers to match. I got a manicure—she visited twenty salons to replicate it. I wore designer clothes—she starved herself working five jobs to buy the same outfits. I thought she was just obsessive. Then I suddenly died from a mysterious illness. As I faded away, my family didn’t visit. They were comforting my roommate—calling her my nickname. My soul lingered, watching Holly curl up with Nicholas. “Thanks for funding me,” she whispered. “The system let me steal her luck. Now everything’s mine.” I woke up reborn—back to the day she copied my hair. 1 A quiet click and a flash of light. Holly scrambled to hide her phone. My best friend, Kelen, leaned in close. “Samantha, want me to go check if she’s taking pictures of you again? Lately, she’s always pointing her phone at you, like some kind of stalker. I’m seriously getting fed up with it.” I shook my head, signaling for her to let it go. In my past life, I had felt violated and demanded to see her phone. But it was wiped clean, and I was the one who ended up looking like a bully. That night, Holly, who had always had long, straight black hair, showed up with waves identical to mine. The color, the curl, the length—every detail was a perfect match. From that day on, from the back, my own friends constantly mistook her for me. Remembering her “system,” I sent a quick text to my personal stylist. “Hey, I’m over the waves. Design something for me that’s high-concept, something no one can possibly copy. If it’s good, there’s a big bonus in it for you.” Her reply was instantaneous, accompanied by a photo. In it, seven or eight top stylists were huddled in a conference, sketching out designs for my new look. I smiled, locked my phone, and turned to Kelen. “Hey, let’s get our hair done later. Invite Zoe. My treat.” “Deal! But we’re not letting you pay for everything. Dinner’s on us,” she insisted. Before I could answer, Holly’s shrill voice cut through the air from behind us. “Where are you guys going to eat? Why didn’t you ask me? I’m your roommate! Why are you isolating me? Samantha, is it because you look down on me?” Her voice was so loud it drew the attention of the entire lecture hall. Sensing the eyes on her, Holly’s expression immediately shifted to that of a wounded victim. Her voice trembled pitifully. “I know you all come from wealthy families, that you’re all locals. I know you look down on a girl from a small town like me. But I really, really want to be your friend.” Her idea of “being friends” was, every time we went out, to conveniently “forget” her wallet or claim poverty, forcing us to cover her share. If we pushed her to pay, she’d launch into a sob story about her tragic life and how she barely had two cents to her name. After a while, we just stopped inviting her. I was about to pull out the receipts and expose her, but my boyfriend, Nicholas, the golden boy and big man on campus, swooped in like her knight in shining armor. “Samantha, haven’t I told you? I don’t like bossy women. Can you stop bullying people just because your family has some money?” he scolded, placing a protective arm around Holly. “Holly may not have your advantages, but she’s a better person than any of you born with a silver spoon. Do you have any idea how much she had to sacrifice just to get into the same university as you?” Hearing him talk about my “stupid money,” watching him defend her so fiercely, made my stomach turn. If it weren’t for my family sponsoring his education, he’d still be in some backwater town working on an assembly line. If I hadn’t begged my parents to increase his allowance, if I hadn’t constantly bought him luxury goods, he never could have crafted this image of a suave, well-off gentleman. But instead of gratitude, Nicholas resented the “smell of money” on me. And worse, he knowingly helped Holly with her plan to replace me, using my own family’s money to do it. The image of him holding Holly in my past life flashed in my mind. I immediately sent a text to my parents. Effective immediately, the company is to cease all financial support for Nicholas Hayes. From now on, he and Holly could be a power couple of part-time jobs. Seeing me still on my phone, Nicholas’s anger flared. “Samantha Crawford, do you feel no remorse at all?” “I can’t be with someone as unreasonable and domineering as you. If you know you were wrong, you’ll apologize to Holly right now and compensate her. Otherwise, I…” “Otherwise, you’ll what?” I asked, finally looking up from my screen. He thought he had me. He puffed out his chest. “If you don’t apologize, we’re breaking up!” The old Samantha would have caved instantly at the word “breakup.” After all, two years ago, he’d “saved” me from a couple of thugs, and I’d been so grateful I’d become his doormat. But after dying a bizarre and horrifying death, I was no longer that naive little girl obsessed with romance. “Fine. Let’s break up.” The words left my mouth easily. “But since we’re done, and since you despise my money so much, you can pay me back the forty thousand dollars you’ve spent of mine over the past two years. You can wire it to me now.” He tensed at my agreement to the breakup, but the moment I mentioned money, he relaxed. He was convinced I was just throwing a tantrum, playing hard to get. I’d always been so generous with him; he thought there was no way I’d ever actually ask for the money back. He put on a show of magnanimity. “Fine. I’ll give it to you. It’s not like I’m short on cash.” Holly, however, panicked. She still needed that money to imitate me. “No! Nicholas, you can’t give it to her! Who gives money back after a relationship ends?” she cried. “Besides, didn’t you spend money on her, too? You probably spent even more! You should calculate what she owes you!” Nicholas knew perfectly well what he’d spent on me, but he had to maintain his facade. “It’s fine, Holly. Samantha was my girlfriend. If she wants it, I’ll give it to her.” He shot me a look, a silent plea for me to play along and not humiliate him. The old me would have protected his fragile ego. The new me opened my phone. “Let’s see. In May of 2023, you gave me a single rose. In August, a pair of silver-plated earrings. In October, a ceramic bowl. That’s the grand total of your spending in our three-year relationship. I doubt it all adds up to even a hundred bucks.” I looked up at his stunned face. “Nicholas, would you like me to read a list of your expenses—paid by me—to the entire class? Or should I just post the bank statements in the group chat for everyone to see?” He froze, his eyes darting around. He realized I was serious, but he was too proud to back down in front of everyone. His face hardened. “It’s just forty grand,” he snarled. “I’ll transfer it.” He furiously tapped at his phone screen. “There. It’s sent. Now leave me alone!” He said it with such finality, but my phone remained silent. No notification. Holly, not realizing it was a bluff, snatched the phone from his hand, trying to cancel the non-existent transaction. She swiped frantically through his apps, a confused look on her face. “Nicholas, I don’t see a transfer record. Which bank did you use? Tell me, quick, so I can cancel it!” I almost burst out laughing. Nicholas’s face turned crimson. “Shut up!” he hissed, trying to drag her away. I stepped in front of them. “Nicholas, if you’re going to transfer the money, then do it. What’s with the act? I haven’t received a cent. Playing games with me? You look down on my money, but you sure seem to enjoy living off it, don’t you?” To prove my point, I held up my phone, cycling through my banking and payment apps, showing the empty transaction history to anyone who cared to look. He never thought I’d actually call his bluff, that I’d be willing to humiliate him so completely. “The network must be slow!” he stammered. “The money hasn’t gone through yet! I’ll… I’ll send it again.” This time, he actually did it. The electronic voice of the payment notification echoed in the quiet room: “Transfer of forty thousand dollars received.” An expression of profound pain crossed his face, but he still tried to play it cool. “See? I don’t care about your stupid money!” I nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across my face as I looked at my updated balance. “Great. Money’s here, and we’re done. We have nothing to do with each other anymore.” I turned to grab Kelen and leave, but he grabbed my arm. “You haven’t apologized to Holly for isolating her! You’re not going anywhere!” He had a point. I still needed to clear my name. Thanks to our frequent dinners in the private rooms of my family’s restaurants, I had security footage. I made a quick call, and a few minutes later, I dropped a series of video clips into the class group chat. “If you want to know why we don’t hang out with her anymore, watch the videos.” With that, I grabbed my friends and walked out. By the time we got to the salon, the group chat had exploded. 【OMG, how can someone be so shameless about being a freeloader?】 【Forget Samantha and her friends, if I knew someone like that, I’d run in the opposite direction.】 Seeing the tide turn against her, Holly posted a string of crying emojis, claiming I had a vendetta against her and that the videos were fake. But no one was buying it. Humiliated, she started spamming my phone with messages, demanding I “clarify” the situation. Nicholas, seeing his damsel in distress, joined in, sending me a barrage of texts. 【Samantha, I’m so disappointed in you. It was just a small disagreement. Did you really have to slander Holly like that?】 【You hurt her. You need to apologize, give me my $40,000 back, and send her another $10,000 as compensation. If you don’t, I will never forgive you, and we will never get back together.】 His audacity was so breathtaking it was almost funny. Did he really think I was his personal ATM? The whole incident triggered a memory. In my past life, whenever anyone asked Holly how she could afford new hairstyles, designer clothes, and expensive manicures, she always claimed she earned it through her part-time jobs. Even on my deathbed, I’d believed her. It was only after I died that I heard the truth from her own lips: she mocked me for being born rich while shamelessly bleeding me dry. My good mood soured. I sent him a one-word reply: Get lost. I was about to block him when a new notification popped up. An authorized payment alert. From the hair salon. I started to tremble, my hands shaking as I scrolled through my past payment history. Dresses. Lingerie. A box of condoms. The list went on and on. The earliest charge was from March. Two years ago. So they’d been cheating on me for that long.

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1 My first major case back in Weston Bay was my husband’s—for soliciting a prostitute. The file lay open, the black-and-white print a blur. “Captain Vance,” my subordinate Miller said, “this is Derek Croft, Weston Bay’s richest man, and his girlfriend. The city’s favorite couple—silver fox and ingénue. That age gap’s their whole appeal.” He smirked. “She called the cops on him yesterday as a joke. Lovers’ game.” I walked to the mediation room. Through the ajar door, I saw Derek on his knees, wiping a milk tea stain off his girlfriend’s shoe with his seven-figure suit. “Are you stupid?” she pouted. “I called the cops on you.” Derek gazed up, eyes adoring. “My little star, I’d give you my life.” The hallway lights flickered. My heart sank into darkness. If they wanted to play games with the law, I’d ensure he faced the consequences. … Clutching the summons, I turned to Miller behind me. “Take them to an interrogation room. By the book.” Miller froze, a troubled look crossing his face. “Captain… is that really necessary? You just got back, you might not know, but Mr. Croft is…” “I don’t care who he is,” I cut him off, my voice turning to ice. “Filing a false report wastes police resources and disrupts public order. He will be investigated. The law doesn’t have a VIP entrance.” Chastened, Miller mumbled a quick, “Yes, ma’am,” and pushed the door open to the mediation room. The commotion started instantly. Sienna’s voice was laced with indignation. “Why are you arresting us? I already told you it was just a joke!” Derek’s voice followed, not with anger, but with a tone of indulgent calm. “Just cooperate, Sienna. It’ll be over soon.” Their footsteps grew closer, and the two of them emerged. Sienna was still sulking, stomping ahead of him in a huff. “This is all your fault! I asked you to go shopping with me yesterday, but you had to have some stupid meeting. That’s why I got mad and called the cops!” Derek practically jogged to keep up, a fawning look on his face. “I’ll have my assistant buy out the entire new season from every designer. You can try everything on at home.” At this, Sienna turned her head, and I got a clear look at her. A delicate, palm-sized face, bright eyes, pearly teeth—she was, admittedly, a stunning girl. What caught the eye, though, was her mane of pink hair and a miniskirt so short it threatened to reveal the top of her thighs with every step. She was barely in her twenties, radiating a brazen, untamed vitality. She was from a different universe than someone like me, who lived in a uniform. A heavy weight settled in my chest, a dull, suffocating ache. Derek Croft. The man at the apex of Weston Bay’s social pyramid, the man to whom countless people bowed and scraped. And here he was, practically groveling to appease this girl. “Don’t be mad,” he cooed. “I’ll cancel my next meeting. We’ll go shopping, okay?” Sienna just huffed, but she slowed her pace. I watched them disappear into the interrogation room. The door clicked shut, sealing away their cloying intimacy. Miller approached me. “Captain, who should take the statement?” “You do it. Personally,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Get the reason for the call. I want every single detail.” Miller nodded and went inside. It wasn’t long before Sienna’s voice, thick with a need to show off, drifted through the door. “Officer, I told you, it was a joke. He’s always working, always busy with his company. Getting him to go to the mall with me is like moving a mountain.” “What good is a black card? So what if it has no limit? Can it help me try on dresses?” Miller must have asked about the solicitation, because the room went quiet for a few seconds. Then, Sienna’s voice returned, laced with a giggle. “Oh, that? I was just mad. A few days ago, he said he wanted to spice things up, so he tied my hands with his tie… I was just angry that he was only thinking of his own pleasure, so I said that to get back at him.” She paused, as if showing something off. “Look, you can still see the marks on my wrist. He looks so serious all the time, but really…” Her words grew more and more explicit. I couldn’t listen anymore. I turned and leaned against the wall, my mind a chaotic storm. Derek and I had been married for three years. His family was old money in Weston Bay; mine was deeply entrenched in the political circles of D.C. When we married, it was hailed as a merger of dynasties, a perfect match. And we played our parts convincingly, the model couple at every gala and charity event. He gave me tasteful, appropriate gifts; I handled his overbearing relatives. But only I knew the truth of our marriage: it was a cold, desolate wasteland. He was always reserved, detached, his face an unreadable mask. Even in bed, he moved with the detached efficiency of a man completing a task. Last year, I had fought tooth and nail for this transfer back to Weston Bay, leaving a core position at headquarters in D.C. for a captaincy in a local precinct. Anyone with eyes could see it was a demotion disguised as a promotion. But I’d been foolishly optimistic. I thought closing the distance might thaw the ice between us. What a joke. The first “gift” I received after sacrificing my career was a front-row seat to my husband’s performance of a lifetime—a raw, vibrant passion he had never once shown me. In the end, no charges were filed. The chief of police came down himself, wringing his hands. “Aurora, my dear… Mr. Croft is… well, he’s vital to the city’s economy. Can we just let this one go?” I said nothing, which was its own form of consent. The Croft family’s influence in Weston Bay was too deep. One false police report wasn’t nearly enough to keep him locked up. As I watched Derek carefully shield Sienna while helping her into his car, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to his mother. [I just saw Derek at the precinct. He was being questioned for soliciting a prostitute.] She replied instantly. [Aurora, you’re back? I’m sending the driver for you right now. Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you get the justice you deserve.] Half an hour later, I walked into the Croft family mansion to the sound of Derek’s father screaming at him. They knew about Sienna, of course, but had chosen to turn a blind eye. But for the situation to escalate to the police, and for me to be involved—that changed everything. The Croft family owed my family for their help in securing their foothold in Weston Bay years ago. Not to mention, Derek’s mother had practically lived in D.C. for a year to make our marriage happen. The moment she saw me, her face broke into a wide smile. She rushed over, taking my hand. “Aurora, you poor thing. You’ve been wronged. I will teach this bastard a lesson he’ll never forget.” Derek’s head snapped up. He instantly understood that I was the one who had tattled, and his eyes shot daggers at me. Before he could speak, his father’s voice boomed. “Apologize to Aurora this instant! And you will swear to me that you will break things off with that Sienna girl for good!” Derek’s chin shot up, his gaze defiant. “No.” “Sienna is the love of my life,” he declared. “No one is going to tear us apart!” His father trembled with rage. “What did you just say?” “If it weren’t for Aurora’s family in D.C., would the Crofts be where they are today? If you dare disrespect her, you are no son of mine!” Derek gritted his teeth, refusing to back down, but he didn’t argue further. He didn’t apologize, either. He just stormed towards the door. His father turned to me. “Aurora, go with him. Talk some sense into him.” I nodded and followed him out. Suddenly, Derek spun around, his hand clamping around my arm like a vice. He dragged me to the car, shoving me inside. The door slammed shut with a deafening bang. Before I could even buckle my seatbelt, he floored the gas pedal, and the car shot forward like a bullet. His eyes were webbed with red veins. “Aurora Vance,” he snarled, his jaw clenched. “You’ve got some nerve. Did you transfer back to Weston Bay just to spy on me? Wasn’t this sham of a marriage enough of a leash for you?” I rubbed my reddening arm, biting my lip to keep from speaking. Seeing my silence, Derek shot a contemptuous look at me from the corner of his eye. “And don’t you dare blame me for falling for someone else. Look at you. You walk around dressed like a goddamn nun, with a face so long it could trip someone. And in bed? Please. You’re like a dead fish, just one position, lying flat on your back.” “Sienna is younger, she’s more fun, she knows things you don’t. With her, I finally know what love feels like. What it feels like to be truly alive!” He was punishing me for telling on him, his words sharper and crueler than ever before. Each one was a shard of ice, stabbing into my heart, letting the blood flow freely. Three years of marriage, three years I’d spent like an idiot, hoping to warm his frozen heart, only to be rewarded with this humiliation. The shrill ring of a phone cut through my thoughts. I glanced at the car’s display. The caller ID—”My Little Star”—burned my eyes. He answered, and a tearful voice came through the speaker. “Derek, I cut my finger! It hurts so much!” Derek’s entire demeanor shifted. The rage vanished, replaced by sheer panic. He softened his voice, cooing into the phone. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, baby. I’m on my way. Just wait for me, okay?” He hung up, yanked the steering wheel, and screeched to a halt on the side of the road. “Out,” he commanded coldly. “We’re at least six miles from the city. You’re just going to leave me…” Before I could finish, he leaned across, unbuckled my seatbelt, and pushed open my door. “I said, get out.” I was shoved out of the car, stumbling a few steps before I found my footing. A second later, the door slammed shut. The black Maybach peeled away, disappearing into the night. The wind was a blade against my skin. I stood on the side of a desolate suburban highway with only 5% battery left on my phone. I frantically dialed the precinct, but the screen went black before the call could connect. I walked for what felt like an eternity, my legs heavy as lead, dark spots dancing in my vision. Finally, I couldn’t go on. I collapsed on the side of the road. When I woke up, the sterile scent of disinfectant filled my nostrils. I was in a hospital bed, an IV drip taped to the back of my hand. A doctor walked in, his expression complicated. “You’re awake.” “You’ve miscarried,” he said gently. “The pregnancy was already unstable, and walking for so long…” Miscarried? I froze. My fingers moved unconsciously to my flat stomach. There had been a child in there… a child who had left before I even knew he existed. The doctor sighed. “Get some rest.” The door closed, and I fumbled for my phone, plugging it into the charger. The moment it turned on, a news alert popped onto the screen: [WESTON BAY BILLIONAIRE DEREK CROFT MOBILIZES CITY’S TOP SURGEONS FOR GIRLFRIEND’S MINOR FINGER CUT!] The accompanying photo showed Derek cradling Sienna, his face a mask of profound concern. Sienna held up her hand, and the photo was zoomed in on a scratch so faint it was barely visible. My already shattered heart was pierced through once more. While he was comforting his precious love, I was lying on the side of a road, losing our child. I ripped the IV from my hand and stumbled out of the room like a ghost. At the end of the hallway, I ran right into them—Derek and Sienna. Derek’s brow furrowed instantly, his disgust unconcealed. “Aurora Vance, you’re like a goddamn ghost. You just won’t go away. You followed us to the hospital to fake an illness? I thought you were supposed to be some high-society lady. Since when did you stoop to these pathetic, desperate tactics?” Staring at him, my voice trembled. “I had a miscarriage.” Sienna’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Derek’s arm. “Derek! You told me you hadn’t touched her in forever! Where did this baby come from?” “You lied to me! We’re breaking up!” Panic flashed across Derek’s face. He pulled her into his arms, kissing and cooing. “Don’t listen to her, baby, she’s lying! I see her once a month, at most, for a stupid dinner. I don’t even touch her hand!” “My little star, you know I’m completely spent by the time I leave you. Where would I get the energy for anyone else?” After placating Sienna, he turned to glare at me, his tone dripping with venom. “Aurora, who do you think you are? The Virgin Mary? You get pregnant just by looking at someone? Have you no shame?” A small crowd had begun to gather, their whispers reaching my ears. “Who is that woman? She looks so put-together, why is she harassing Mr. Croft and Miss Sienna?” “Did you hear? Something about a miscarriage? Sounds like she was trying to trap him with a baby and is making a scene.” “Everyone knows Mr. Croft worships the ground Sienna walks on. This woman is delusional.” Their stares were like needles, piercing my skin, leaving me with nowhere to hide. A chill washed over me, but my mind felt like it had been struck by lightning. Last month, Derek had come to D.C. to see me. We had a few drinks with dinner. That night, instead of sleeping in the guest room as he always did, he had held me tight, murmuring “baby,” and “my little star” over and over, his voice hot against my ear. I thought the alcohol had lowered his defenses. I thought it was the beginning of our relationship finally thawing. It was after that night that I had made up my mind to transfer to Weston Bay, thinking we might actually have a chance at a real family. But now, seeing “My Little Star” on his phone, hearing the pet names he had whispered to Sienna countless times… it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. He hadn’t been calling for me that night. He thought I was Sienna. That one moment of warmth that had made my cheeks flush and my heart fill with hope was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. A farce. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach, and I had to grab the wall to keep from collapsing. Derek was still explaining things to Sienna, his voice so gentle it could wring water, a stark contrast to the venom he had just spat at me. Sienna finally stopped crying and walked over to me, a smug, insincere smile on her face. “Sweetheart, you really shouldn’t get so worked up.” “You can’t force feelings. Derek’s heart isn’t with you. You’re just torturing yourself by holding on.” I stared at her, my eyes cold as ice. She ignored my glare and continued, “To be blunt, in love, the one who isn’t loved is the real other woman. It would be better for everyone if you just walked away.” As she finished, she suddenly lifted the hem of her t-shirt, revealing a pink tattoo on her hip: “Derek’s Little Star.” Then she grabbed Derek, pulling up his shirt to show me the same spot on his body. There, on Derek’s hip, was a line of text: “Sienna’s Dog.” The words were so absurd, so glaringly painful. The Derek Croft who dominated the business world, whose gaze was cold enough to freeze hell over, had willingly branded himself for the woman he loved. My heart felt like it was being beaten with a blunt instrument, over and over, until it was just a numb, throbbing pulp. He was capable of this kind of wild, all-consuming love. Just not for me. Sienna smirked, dropping their shirts. Her fingers traced the tattoo on his hip, her voice a purr. “Derek says I’m the only one who can make him feel this way. Can you, sweetheart?” The churning in my stomach was unbearable. I turned to leave. But Sienna reached out, grabbing my arm. The moment her fingers touched my sleeve, she let out a piercing scream and threw herself backward, crashing into a medical cart. CRASH! Glass shattered everywhere. Sienna collapsed onto the floor, clutching her arm as blood streamed through her fingers. “Derek!” she cried, sobbing hysterically. Derek’s eyes turned to ice. He lunged at me, grabbing my collar. “Aurora, are you trying to die?” “Apologize to Sienna. Now!” I tore his hand away. “I didn’t push her,” I retorted. “Why should I apologize?” His face was a mask of fury. He roared at his bodyguards. “Slap her! Don’t stop until she apologizes!” Two men immediately stepped forward. One pinned my arms while the other swung. CRACK! The sharp sound echoed down the hall. My cheek exploded in fire. “Are you going to apologize?” Derek stared at me. I gritted my teeth, blood trickling from the corner of my mouth. “No.” SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The blows rained down on my face, each one harder than the last. My head was knocked to the side, then wrenched back, forcing me to watch the hand rise and fall, again and again. The crowd fell silent, too scared to even breathe. Lying in Derek’s arms, Sienna peeked up at me, a triumphant smirk hidden on her lips. After more than a dozen slaps, my face was swollen beyond recognition, and my vision began to blur. Derek raised a hand to stop them. His voice was glacial. “Last chance. Are you going to apologize?” I shook my throbbing head, blood dripping from my chin. “It wasn’t… me.” His eyes filled with a terrifying rage. He bent down, picked up a shard of glass, and grabbed my arm. In the exact same spot where Sienna was “injured,” he dragged the sharp edge across my skin. “Then let this pain be a reminder!” he seethed. “See if you ever dare to touch her again!” Blood welled up instantly, streaming down my arm. Without another glance at me, Derek scooped Sienna into his arms and walked away. The hallway was empty. I leaned against the wall, the sting on my face and the gash on my arm a roaring fire of pain. But it was nothing compared to the dead, cold silence in my heart. He would never believe me. My denials were worth less than a single frown from Sienna. Fine. Since he’s made his choice, he can’t blame me for being ruthless. My fingers tightened around the crumpled ultrasound report in my pocket. After a moment of silence, I pulled out my phone and dialed two numbers I knew by heart.

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1 When I married William Lowe, he had nothing but debt. For five years, I worked three jobs to pay it off while raising our son, Aster—never complaining, believing our struggles would lead to happiness. Last week, his company secured massive funding. We celebrated, thinking our good days had arrived. Then I saw him on financial news: dressed in a tailored suit, introduced as the “sole heir to a billion-dollar empire,” laughing with his “investor”—socialite Celeste Cheng. The headline read: Lowe Heir Completes Five-Year “Poverty Trial,” Proving His Mettle to the Board. At home, Aster played with a limited-edition robot—one I’d designed during sleepless nights for freelance cash. He looked up, his eyes cold. “Daddy told me everything. You failed the test, Mommy. You love money too much.” My throat tightened. “Aster… what?” “A noble woman doesn’t count pennies,” he recited. “You have a ‘small-minded perspective.’ Your love is cheap.” Every sacrifice—the burns from late shifts, the overtime dizziness—meant nothing to them. I reached for him, but he pulled away. “Don’t touch my robot. You can’t afford it.” On the table lay a divorce agreement. William’s signature was already on it, a flamboyant scrawl, as triumphant as his image on the news. Next to it was a check. My “severance pay” for five years of my youth, three jobs, and countless sleepless nights. The irony was that just last week, we had been celebrating in this very spot. “Anna,” he had said, “the hard days are over. I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.” Looking back, it was just the final line of his script before the test ended. My phone rang, the word “Hubby” flashing on the screen. I answered, numb. “You saw it?” William’s voice came through the receiver, devoid of any warmth. “Anna, our ‘poverty trial’ is over. Congratulations on making it to the end. But unfortunately, you’ve been eliminated.” “…A test?” I finally found my voice, but it was as dry as sandpaper. “Yes, a test,” he chuckled, the sound dripping with mockery. “I needed to prove to the board that I could attract a loyal partner and build a business from nothing, even at my lowest point. Celeste is my investor and my real fiancée. You were just a randomly selected ‘wife’ to complete this social experiment.” “So, the tens of millions in debt…” “Oh, that was just another way of saying ‘startup capital.’ How else could I test someone’s character under extreme pressure?” “William,” I said, each word precise, my nails digging into my palms, “you’re a monster.” “Am I? But this ‘monster’ is now the heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune. Anna, take the check and leave with some dignity. Don’t make me lose the last shred of respect I have for you.” He paused, then added a crueler blow. “By the way, Aster isn’t your son. He’s the product of an IVF procedure between Celeste and me. Your embryo was replaced. You were just an actor playing a role in his ‘social upbringing.’ Now, the real mistress of the house is coming home. Please move out of this ‘Lowe family’ house immediately.” “You told me the IVF failed because of exhaustion…” I felt as if I’d been plunged into an icy abyss. “Celeste and the Lowe family’s legal team will be there in half an hour to handle the handover. Remember, be graceful about it.” He wasn’t even listening. The line went dead. I held the phone like a red-hot iron. “Social upbringing”… So, even my right to be a mother was something they had given me, and then taken away. 2 I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to leave just like that. What was mine, I would take back, piece by piece, with my own two hands. The doorbell rang ten minutes earlier than William had said. They were impatient. I opened the door. Standing there was the same smiling socialite from the news, Celeste Cheng. Behind her were two men in suits, presumably from the Lowe family’s legal team. “Ms. Stone, hello.” Celeste’s voice was a velvet-wrapped knife. She didn’t act superior; instead, she looked at me with a sort of pity. “It must have been so hard on you these past five years. To be honest, you did a better job than I expected. Your acting was… very convincing.” She walked past me into the living room as if she owned the place. “Aster, darling, Mommy Celeste is here.” Aster immediately dropped his robot and ran into her arms like a kitten. “Mommy Celeste! You’re here!” Celeste expertly pulled a small box of Swiss candies from her Chanel bag, unwrapped one, and popped it into Aster’s mouth. “Of course, darling. Mommy Celeste promised you that as soon as Daddy’s ‘game’ was over, I’d come take you home. We’re going to Disneyland in Japan this weekend, how does that sound?” “Yay! I love Mommy Celeste the most!” Their intimate, natural interaction made them look like a real family. I was just an extra who had finished her scene and was supposed to exit the stage. My heart was too numb to feel any more pain. Holding Aster, Celeste glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the second-hand fabric sofa I had found at a flea market. She frowned slightly, as if she had seen something dirty. “William is too much. How could he let you live in a place like this, with such cheap furniture? This stuff is beneath him.” She turned to the lawyer behind her. “Mr. Lee, take a note. Have a cleaning company come later and throw all of this out. Nothing cheap belongs in William’s home.” “Of course, Ms. Cheng.” Every word she spoke was a precise negation of my entire five years of effort. I had scrimped and saved for our shared “future.” In her eyes, it was all just “cheap junk” that sullied her fiancé’s noble status. The lawyer, Mr. Lee, stepped forward and handed me a pen. “Ms. Stone, please sign the divorce agreement. A compensation of five million is the highest industry standard for a five-year ‘role-playing’ project. Mr. Lowe and Ms. Cheng are being very generous.” “Highest industry standard?” I repeated the words, the absurdity of it all hitting me. They had turned my life into a business transaction with a price tag. “Yes,” Mr. Lee said, pushing up his glasses. “Also, Ms. Cheng, in her kindness, has advised me to remind you not to cause any trouble. Any entanglement will be viewed by our legal department as a malicious provocation against the entire Lowe family. I trust you wouldn’t want to see those consequences.” His words were an undisguised threat. Celeste walked over, still holding Aster, a perfect smile on her face. “Ms. Stone, don’t misunderstand. We’re not threatening you. You’re a smart woman. You know how to make the right choice, don’t you?” She looked down at Aster. “Sweetheart, say goodbye to this… auntie. She’s leaving our home now.” Aster peeked out from her embrace. The eyes that once looked at me with such dependence were now filled with impatience and a chilling distance. “Mommy Celeste, can we go now? I don’t want to see her. Daddy says her poor-person smell will rub off on me.” Poor-person smell. Those words shattered the last shred of warmth in my heart. I looked at them, and suddenly, I laughed. 3 My laughter startled Celeste and Mr. Lee. They had probably expected tears, screams, hysterical curses, or pathetic begging. They had not expected laughter. “What are you laughing at?” Celeste’s brow furrowed again. “Nothing,” I said, my laughter dying down, my face as still as a stagnant pond. “I was just thinking, you two are very good actors as well.” I turned and went into the bedroom, pulling several storage boxes out from under the bed. I had bought them a few days ago, planning to organize our clothes for the new season, to welcome our “new life” after the hardship. “Well, well. Finally came to your senses? Ready to pack up and get out?” Celeste leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her voice dripping with scorn. I ignored her. Systematically, one by one, I began to organize my “evidence” from the past five years. Every bank statement from my three jobs over five years, printed out. My own credit card bills, and every single transaction detail from William’s “debt-ridden” supplementary card. Celeste’s expression shifted from mockery to confusion, and then to a sliver of alarm. “Anna, what on earth are you doing? You can’t possibly think you can extort more money with this pile of scrap paper? Let me tell you, it’s useless. We have the best legal team in the country.” I still said nothing. From a separate folder, I took out a thick stack of receipts. Then, I took out the final item: the purchase record and invoice for Aster’s limited-edition robot. The invoice was in my name. The payment was from my salary card. I placed the invoice gently on top of all the other evidence, like a final, damning seal on my five years of absurdity. When I was done, I closed the lids on the boxes. Three large boxes in total. There wasn’t a single piece of clothing, a single pair of shoes, or a single bottle of makeup inside. Only five years of my blood, sweat, time, and a life that had been trampled into worthlessness. I looked up at Celeste and Mr. Lee. “I’m taking these with me.” Mr. Lee clearly found my behavior incomprehensible. “Ms. Stone, these are records of shared household expenses. You have no right to take them unilaterally. And they cannot be used as a basis for demanding more compensation.” “Who said I was demanding more compensation?” I retorted. I looked at Celeste. She was staring at me as if I were insane, her lips curled in an undisguised sneer. “Incorrigible. Still only care about money. Anna, you’re a lost cause.” “Yes,” I nodded, admitting it frankly. “I am incorrigible. I do only care about money.” Because in this world, only money would never betray me. I dragged the heavy boxes of “scrap paper” to the entryway and put on my shoes. From beginning to end, I never looked at Aster again. I only took my ID, passport, bank cards, and these boxes, which were now more important to me than my own life. As I opened the door, ready to leave the “home” I had poured five years of my heart into, Celeste’s voice, not loud but clear enough for me to hear, drifted from behind me. “See, sweetheart? Mommy Celeste was right. A woman like that is not fit to be your mother. Her world revolves around money.” The moment the door closed, I heard their laughter.

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While my wife and her first love were on their honeymoon, I was lying in a hospital bed, being spoon-fed by her best friend. While she was tending to her sick first love, never leaving his side, her best friend bought me a private island to celebrate my birthday. A month later, at the company’s IPO celebration, my wife announced to everyone, “From now on, Roman will be taking over Liam’s position. Liam is transferred to Logistics.” I walked into my wife’s office. The moment she saw me, she sneered. “Save your breath. I’m not going to—” I cut her off with a smile, placing a letter on her desk. “You misunderstand, Ms. Monroe. I’m here to resign.” 1 My words stunned my wife, Isabella, who had been wearing an expression that clearly said, I knew you couldn’t handle it. “You… what did you say? Resign?” She snatched the letter, glanced at it, and then tore it to shreds. “Liam, are you trying to pull some kind of stunt with me?” she spat, her face contorted with fury. “Are you bitter because I gave Roman your job?” I looked at her, my hands spread in a gesture of helplessness. “You’re the CEO. Who you hire and fire is your call, isn’t it?” “Oh, is that so? Fine. In that case, I do not accept your resignation!” “I’m sorry, Ms. Monroe.” I met her gaze, my own expression placid. “Hiring is your prerogative. Quitting is mine.” I turned and walked away, ignoring the sound of Isabella’s furious roar behind me. Seven years. Seven long years. From the moment we started dating to the day we married, I had treated her like a queen. Had she forgotten who helped her through the brutal early days of her startup? I took out a $500,000 loan for her, pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into supporting her dream. I never once told her about the crushing weight of the daily repayments. Did she know that I was secretly living on instant ramen in a cheap, rundown apartment, working myself to the bone every single day? On the day the company went public, everyone got a bonus. Everyone except me. That night, she took me to her home. She told me that she was my bonus. That was the night I discovered she lived in a mansion. The half-million dollars I had scrimped and saved to borrow for her… it was nothing more than her pocket money. After we married, she bought a lavish estate to be our marital home. I thought, finally, the good days were here. But then, her first love, Roman, returned from abroad. The day he arrived, she was dressed to the nines, a fleet of ten luxury cars lined up at the airport to greet him. That evening, she booked the most expensive restaurant in the city and opened a bottle of ’82 Lafite. Over dinner, Roman marveled at her success. He wept crocodile tears over his own stalled career, lamenting how he envied my life now. Isabella hugged him tightly, cooing, “Don’t you worry, Ro. From now on, what’s mine is yours.” She sat with him, sipping glass after glass of red wine. Her eyes fell on the mountain of beer bottles next to my seat, and her brow furrowed in disgust. “Drinking beer in a place like this? So trashy.” I looked at her through a drunken haze, a self-deprecating smile on my face. “You’re right. I guess I just don’t have the palate for such expensive wine.” That night, she drove Roman home herself. I took a cab back alone. Worried, I called her. “Honey, did you guys make it home okay?” “We’re here. Look, I have to go run a bath for Roman. I’ll talk to you later.” 2 She hung up. Not a single word of concern for me, only impatience. She always told me she was a “career woman,” not good at showing she cared. The next day, Roman showed up at the office. In front of the entire company, Isabella announced he was the new Director of Advertising. It had taken me seven years of back-breaking work, of sacrificing everything, to reach that level. He had just walked in the door. On what grounds? “On the grounds that he’s an international talent with a degree from Cambridge. What are you?” she snarled when I stormed into her office. I pointed at myself, my body trembling. I had to take several deep breaths before I could speak. “What am I? Have you forgotten everything I’ve done for this company over the past seven years?” At my words, she slammed her hands on the desk and shot to her feet. “What you’ve done? Are you trying to pull rank with seniority?” Her words hit me like a physical blow. I froze. My eyes turned red with sorrow. Her eyes turned red with rage. I looked at my own reflection in her furious pupils, and I laughed. A hollow, broken sound. So that’s what it all amounted to. All my sacrifice, all my devotion… was just “seniority.” After work that day, Isabella announced a company dinner, booking out the entire exclusive Starlight Room. “Darling,” she purred to Roman, “tonight is your welcome party.” “I’m sorry, Ms. Monroe,” I whispered, stepping close to her. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll skip tonight.” The chronic stomach pain I’d developed over the years was so intense that a cold sweat had broken out on my forehead. She glanced at me and sneered. “Oh, stop pretending. I know you’re just bitter. From now on, just do whatever you want.” Then she linked her arm through Roman’s and walked away, laughing and chatting with him. I could feel the pitying stares of my colleagues. I lowered my head and smiled a small, broken smile to myself. Do whatever I want? The contempt and impatience in her eyes made it clear she saw me as nothing more than a buzzkill. Do whatever I want? A mocking smirk played on my lips as I watched the cheerful crowd depart, feeling like a complete outsider. My face was pale. I couldn’t stand any longer. Clutching my stomach, I collapsed to the floor. Suddenly, a panicked voice cried out. “Liam! Oh my god, what’s wrong?” I looked up. It was Eloise, Isabella’s best friend, who had been living abroad for years. “You… you’re back?” She rushed to my side and helped me up. “Where’s Bella?” Clutching my stomach, I managed to say, “They went out for a company dinner. I…” “A dinner? You’re in this much pain, and she just left you here?” I waved a dismissive hand, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. If you’re looking for her, she’s probably at the Starlight Room by now.” “The Starlight Room?” 3 Her brow furrowed at my words, but she said nothing, simply helping me downstairs. As I settled into the passenger seat of her sports car, I asked, puzzled, “Are you going to find her?” She started the engine, shook her head, and smiled at me. “No. I came back for you.” Twenty minutes later, we were at the hospital. I was diagnosed with a severe stomach ulcer. At Eloise’s insistence, I was admitted. Watching her bustle around, taking care of everything, I was deeply moved. “Here, have some soup.” She sat by my hospital bed, feeding me spoonful by spoonful. “Ahem, Eloise,” I started, “you said you came back for me, you…” She seemed to remember something and pulled an IOU from her purse. “This is…” I stared at the paper, stunned. “Heh. This is for that $500,000 you borrowed,” she said. “How do you have this?” Seeing my shocked expression, a triumphant look crossed her face. Then, right in front of me, she tore the half-a-million-dollar note into tiny pieces. “You—?” I never expected her to do that. She looked at me, her expression serious. “Now, the debt isn’t about money. It’s a matter of the heart.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was right. If she’d kept the IOU, she would have been my creditor. A simple financial transaction. But by tearing it up, she had transformed it from a monetary figure into a heavy, intangible debt of gratitude. They say the hardest debts to repay are the ones you owe your parents, and the ones you owe the heart. “How did you know about the loan?” I asked, my head bowed, my thoughts in turmoil. If anyone knew the true extent of my sacrifices back then, it was the woman sitting in front of me. She had tried to convince me to go abroad with her, but I chose to stay. Looking back now… “Thank you,” I murmured. She smiled and took my hand in hers. Just then, my phone rang. It was Isabella. “Liam, come and pick me up right now.” Hearing her commanding tone, I fought back a wave of rage. “I can’t,” I said coldly, and hung up. The phone immediately rang again. “Liam, have I been too nice to you? Get your ass over here, now. We’ve all been drinking.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Isabella,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, “am I your slave?” There was a stunned silence on the other end, followed by a furious shriek. “Liam, you get here right now, or you don’t bother coming in tomorrow!” I glanced at Eloise, then replied calmly, “Fine. I’ll come in tomorrow to handle my resignation.”

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We were in the thick of wedding planning, curled up on the couch watching a movie, when I felt Eric’s hand drift toward his pocket. He stopped himself, his fingers hesitating in mid-air before retreating to the coffee table to grab a mint instead. “Giving up smoking?” I asked casually. His fingertips paused on the candy. “You said you hated the smell, didn’t you?” he murmured with a faint smile. I tilted my head, studying him. “I’ve been trying to get you to quit for years. Why the sudden change of heart?” He avoided my gaze, unwrapping the mint with a soft crinkle of paper. “Someone told me… smokers die young.” The crinkling sound seemed to echo in the quiet room. “Who told you that?” I pressed, my eyes fixed on his profile. His movement hitched for a fraction of a second before he let out a relaxed laugh. “Who do you think? A doctor, of course.” 1 On the screen, light and shadow danced across a dramatic scene. Eric popped a mint into my mouth. The intense, cool flavor spread across my tongue, so sharp it made my eyes water. My fingers curled into a fist without me realizing it. The movie’s dialogue dissolved into meaningless noise, my focus entirely gone. The sweet, clean scent of citrus that clung to Eric’s shirt suddenly felt foreign, and I subtly shifted away from him. “Did you change your shower gel?” “Hm?” Eric glanced down at the now-empty space in his arms, his expression carefully neutral. “Just grabbed something random at the supermarket.” “You go to the supermarket by yourself now?” I let out a soft, skeptical laugh, looking him straight in the eye. A flicker of something—was it panic?—crossed his face before he composed himself, shrugging with forced nonchalance. “They opened a new one next to the office. A colleague dragged me along during our lunch break.” It was a seamless excuse, but Eric was never the type to be easily “dragged along.” He wasn’t a people-pleaser. I said nothing more, just snuggled back into his embrace. But the unfamiliar scent wrapping around me was a persistent, unsettling hum beneath the surface of our evening. All the little details I’d brushed aside began to connect, forming a thread that pulled my heart down, heavy as lead. Eric, who despised oranges, had bought calamansi-flavored mints. He’d switched his shower gel to a citrus scent—a fragrance so refined it was definitely not a generic supermarket brand. Later that night, when I used his phone to order takeout, the app’s top recommendation was a restaurant famous for its sweet and sour dishes. Eric hated overly sweet food as much as I did. The glass in my hand trembled, water spilling over my knuckles. The icy chill on my skin did nothing to quell the sharp, rising panic in my chest. Eric was cheating on me. He was cheating on me with a girl who smelled of citrus and loved sweet and sour food. 2 Eric stayed over at my place that night. After we made love, he fell into a deep, soundless sleep. Everything felt the same as always; even the scent on his skin had mingled with mine, becoming familiar again. But I couldn’t sleep. I stared at his phone, face down on the nightstand. It felt like an eternity before I summoned the courage to pick it up. The passcode was still our anniversary. I swiped it open. His call log was filled with work numbers. His most recent texts were in a group chat with colleagues, discussing a project. His photo album, aside from pictures of meeting slides, was full of the cherry blossom photos we’d taken in the park a few weeks ago. I checked his purchase history, his food delivery apps, his travel logs. I scoured every corner of his digital life and found nothing. Not a single crack in his story. I started to wonder if I was just overthinking things, my anxiety amplified by the stress of wedding planning. Then, my heart pounding, I took his car keys and crept downstairs. The car was spotless, the air inside clean and fresh. But the GPS history showed two frequently visited locations: Westwood Medical Center and an unfamiliar residential address. And then I saw it. On the passenger’s side, a faint, smudged footprint was pressed against the inside of the windshield. My mind exploded with fragmented images. They would have pushed the passenger seat all the way back. Maybe he would lean in to bite her earlobe while they were tangled together, just like he’d done with me moments ago… My nails dug into the leather of the driver’s seat, leaving shallow crescents behind—marks as invisible and damning as the footprint on the glass, a silent taunt. My knuckles were white. The scenes playing out in my head made me want to vomit. I had always thought my life was on a perfect, smooth track. For the first time, I understood what it felt like for your heart to turn to ash. 3 When I slipped back into bed, Eric, still asleep, instinctively pulled me into his arms. “Babe…” he murmured. That one word was all it took. Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the framed photo on our nightstand. In it, we were in our high school uniforms. Eric was grinning, his canines showing, his arms wrapped around a map where he’d circled our two hometowns. “Just wait,” he had said. “The straight line between us… it’s only going to get shorter.” I had even planned to surprise him at our wedding by changing from my gown into that same school uniform. I’d imagined the look on his face, his eyes red with emotion. But now… How could this happen? The question echoed in my mind. How could it be him? The boy who had loved me through college, grad school, and ten years of long distance without ever wavering. The man who always tilted the umbrella to cover me in the rain, who set all his passwords to our anniversary, who murmured my name in his sleep. How could he turn around and offer that same tenderness to someone else? For a decade, distance was an invisible thread connecting us. We grew on opposite ends, but our lives were always intertwined. We’d weathered so many storms together. The time I had a 104-degree fever, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing into the phone to him from across the ocean. The time he was mugged abroad and took three stab wounds to protect the ring he’d bought for me, only to brush it off as “just a scratch.” Six months ago, he’d secretly quit his high-paying job overseas and shown up at my office in a tailored suit, holding a bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite flower since high school. “I told you,” he’d said, lifting me up and spinning me around as I leaped into his arms, my dress flying. “The line was bound to get shorter.” We decorated our new home together. We booked the wedding venue. We told every friend from high school, every teacher, that we were finally getting married. So why, when we were just one step from the finish line, did he get lost? In that moment, I realized it wasn’t just the physical betrayal that gutted me. It was that he was changing, becoming “better,” for someone else. For all the years he’d catered to my every whim, the one thing Eric wouldn’t do for me was quit smoking. No matter how many times I pouted or complained about the smell, he’d just laugh and kiss me. “A man needs his vices,” he’d say. I couldn’t accept it. He had finally quit for “me,” but the real reason was another woman, one who probably said, “I don’t want to taste smoke when we kiss.” The feeling was like being stabbed by the person you loved most in the world. Ten years of our lives felt like shattered starlight, glinting with memories that could no longer be pieced together into a picture of love. 4 I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I told Eric I had a meeting across town and didn’t need a ride. Then I took a cab to the hospital that kept appearing in his GPS history. A woman’s intuition is a terrifyingly accurate thing. At a quarter to eight, Eric’s car pulled up to the main entrance. The girl who stepped out of the passenger seat had eyes as clear as a stream and a smile that lit up her whole face. As she waved goodbye, even the breeze seemed to carry that sweet, cloying scent of citrus. Back at the office, it took me less than an hour to find her profile on the hospital’s official website. Clementine Horberg. M.D., Resident Physician in the Respiratory Department. It didn’t take much more effort to find her social media. Like many medical professionals, she used it to share public health information. I scrolled down her feed until I found it. A post. She was in her white coat, holding up a pair of lung CT scans—one healthy, one not—clearly listing the dangers of secondhand smoke. At the end, she added a gentle reminder: “For the health of those around you, please avoid smoking in enclosed spaces.” The top comment, pinned for all to see, was from an avatar I knew all too well. The tone was sickeningly intimate. “Got the message loud and clear from Dr. C! All cigarettes have been trashed. Ready for inspection, boss!” It was followed by a little red flag emoji. Compared to the serious, professional tone of her post, his comment felt like the candy he now carried in his pocket: brazenly, unapologetically sweet. And then I remembered where I’d seen her before. Three months ago, Eric’s grandmother had been hospitalized for pneumonia. In the respiratory ward. I’d visited her several times. Clementine had been her attending physician. Eric had spent every day at the hospital back then. My mom had even praised him for it. “You picked a good one, Ava. Eric is such a devoted grandson.” Looking back, it was clear his devotion had been directed elsewhere. Other overlooked details now screamed at me. A few days ago, on his birthday, he’d received a flood of “Happy Birthday” texts from various boba tea chains. He only ever drank black coffee. He got a new, trendier haircut and started working out, claiming it was all to look good for the wedding. I had always believed Eric was the most trustworthy man alive. He let me look at his phone whenever I wanted, always told me where he was going, and his social media was a shrine to me. Our anniversaries were never forgotten. I had become so complacent that when I first felt a flicker of doubt, my immediate reaction was to question my own sanity. When my workday ended, Eric called. He said he was heading to the gym first. I kept my voice light. “What’s with the sudden fitness kick?” There was a slight pause on his end before he chuckled. “Got to stay in shape to keep up with you, right?” I laughed too, a hollow sound. I resisted the childish urge to ask, Keep up with me, or with her? After we hung up, I opened the smart watch app on my phone. He had probably forgotten that when we were long-distance, I’d given him the watch so we could see each other’s heart rates in real time. Right now, for someone who claimed to be “at the gym,” his heart rate was as flat and steady as a calm sea. I sent him a text. “I’m free tomorrow. Want to go get our pre-wedding health check-ups done?” It took him a long time to reply. When he did, the message was cheerful. “Of course, babe.” He even added a cute emoji. The forced pleasantries felt like a layer of plastic wrap, stretched tight over something that was slowly rotting inside. That was enough. I wiped the cold tears from my face. Better to rip off the bandage and face the ugly, broken mess underneath than to slowly suffocate in a lie. 5 The next day, I drove to pick up Eric. He was quiet the whole way, staring blankly out the window. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking garage of Westwood Medical Center that he snapped out of it. His head whipped around, his brow furrowed. “I thought we were getting our health check-up?” “What’s the difference where we get it done?” I met his gaze. “Didn’t you say the ones at the courthouse are just a formality? A big hospital will be more thorough.” I parked the car. He gripped my hand, his own slick with sweat, and didn’t move. “Ava,” he said, his voice strained. “I just remembered I had breakfast this morning. You’re supposed to fast for the blood tests, right? Maybe we should reschedule? Since we both took the day off, I could take you shopping instead. Or we could go to that new restaurant you wanted to try—” “We’re already here,” I cut him off, letting him hold my hand. I gave him a teasing, playful smile. “Eric, you don’t have some secret illness you’re hiding, do you? You seem awfully nervous.” “Of course not,” he forced a laugh, finally getting out of the car. As we walked toward the main building, Eric was glued to his phone, frantically typing. Seeing the undisguised panic on his face, I almost wanted to tell him that in a hospital this massive, with thousands of employees, the odds of running into one specific person were slim. Unless… I led him all the way to a consultation room before handing him his ID. I smiled brightly at him. “I already registered us.” My smile widened. “And look at that, what a coincidence. Dr. Clementine is on duty today… You remember her, don’t you? From when your grandma was here.” Eric’s gaze locked onto the nameplate on the door: Clementine Horberg, M.D. The color drained from his face. 6 I linked my arm through his and pulled him into the room. Clementine was writing in a patient’s chart. When she looked up, her eyes landed on Eric and froze. A blush immediately crept up her neck, and her eyes started to well up. Eric’s arm tensed under my hand. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her. “Dr. Horberg, hello!” I chirped, my voice warm and friendly. “Long time no see. I hope you remember us?” I continued, not waiting for an answer. “My fiancé’s grandmother was a patient of yours three months ago. You took such wonderful care of her.” Clementine blinked, quickly composing herself. “Of course. It’s my job.” She cleared her throat. “So, what seems to be the problem today?” I rested my hand on Eric’s arm, my smile perfectly serene. “We’re planning to start a family after the wedding, and since he was a smoker for so long, I was a bit worried about all the secondhand smoke I’ve inhaled. We wanted to get a thorough lung check-up.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “I actually saw your health awareness page online. Your advice on quitting smoking was far more effective than my years of nagging, I’ll tell you that.” I brought up the smoking deliberately, watching from the corner of my eye as Eric’s hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a tight fist. His eyes met Clementine’s for a fleeting second before they both looked away as if they’d been burned. Her pen slipped, leaving a dark blot of ink on the chart. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “Okay. I’ll order a CT scan and some blood work for both of you.” Noticing her red-rimmed eyes, I feigned concern. “Dr. Horberg, are you alright? Your eyes are so red. The flu is going around, you should take care of yourself.” “Ava, let’s not waste the doctor’s time,” Eric cut in, his voice tight. I shot him a playful, scolding look. “What’s wrong with you? I’m just showing some concern. It feels like fate, running into Dr. Horberg like this.” Eric opened his mouth, but no words came out. The air in the room was thick and suffocating. The silent, awkward tension was a net, trapping the three of us inside. And I watched, fascinated, as it slowly tightened. Clementine’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and resentment. “I just didn’t sleep well… You should go get your tests done. Come back for a follow-up once you have the results.” Eric’s face was ashen. He practically dragged me out of the room. I stumbled behind him, a cold, triumphant smile hidden on my lips. 7 The dramatic confrontation I had anticipated never happened. When we returned with our test results, a different doctor was in the consultation room. “Dr. Horberg wasn’t feeling well,” the new doctor explained. “She had to take the rest of the day off.” Eric’s face went white, his anxiety palpable. “See?” I said, feigning innocence. “I told you she looked sick.” He forced a weak smile. “Right. Well, it has nothing to do with us.” He pulled out his phone, his brow furrowed. “Ava, I have to go back to the office for something urgent. I can’t make dinner tonight.” “But you already bought tickets for the premiere tonight,” I pouted. Eric froze. Then, as if he’d made a firm decision, he leaned in and hugged me tightly. “Babe, you head home first. I’ll come pick you up before the movie starts.” Before I could reply, he was gone, flagging down a taxi at the hospital entrance. I didn’t bother following him. I knew exactly where he was going. I drove home alone. I changed into the dress Eric had bought me and spent an entire hour on my makeup, making sure every detail was perfect. Lately, our mutual friends had been acting strange, like they were all in on a secret. My best friend, Chloe, had insisted on dragging me to Tiffany’s “just to look” at engagement rings. At a game night, when it was my turn for “Truth or Dare,” the “truth” question was a ridiculously unsubtle, “Would you prefer a private proposal or one with all your friends?” When I’d casually mentioned a movie I wanted to see, Eric bought tickets for the premiere the very next day, telling me to keep the evening free no matter what. Everyone was buzzing with an anticipation they could barely contain. I wasn’t blind to it. I had a pretty good idea of what Eric was planning for tonight.

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I was with Noah when he had nothing, building his company from the ground up. Five years into our marriage, he cheated on me with an intern. When we met again, two years later, a deep, knowing smile spread across his face. “It’s been a rough couple of years for you, hasn’t it? If only you had been a little more obedient back then.” “Come back,” he said, his voice soft. “I told you, the title of Mrs. Peterson will always be yours.” Just then, a man who radiated the effortless grace of a genius investor wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. “Babe,” he murmured, “who’s this old guy?” The wine glass in Noah’s hand shattered. His voice trembled as he begged me to come back to him. 1 The day I found out Noah was cheating was painfully ordinary. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon. On a whim, I decided to make lunch and bring it to his office. When I arrived, a young woman was fast asleep, her head pillowed on his desk. The framed photo of us that usually sat beside his computer was now lying face down in a messy pile of documents, like a piece of trash. I tapped lightly on the desk. The girl frowned, letting out a soft, sleepy groan. “Stop it, old man. I’m tired.” I paused, then tapped again. She finally lifted her head, her eyes still clouded with sleep. “You must be Mr. Peterson’s maid, right?” “Maid?” She ignored my confusion, her gaze landing on the lunchbox in my hands. “Mr. Peterson’s in a meeting. Just leave it on the coffee table.” I placed the lunchbox on the table and sat down on the sofa. She stretched languidly, then casually opened the lunchbox and popped a piece of chicken into her mouth. She looked up at me again. “Why are you still here?” I watched her stuff her face, a faint smile on my lips. “I’m waiting for Noah.” … She ignored me again, turning her attention to the shredded potatoes in the container. After a few bites, she took out her phone, snapped a picture, and sent a voice message. “Old man, your maid brought you lunch. I tried some for you—it’s way too spicy. Doesn’t she know you have a sensitive stomach?” Noah returned shortly after, looking flustered and out of breath. “What are you doing here?” Before I could answer, the girl piped up, “She brought you lunch.” She stuck her tongue out at Noah, her face a mask of innocent charm. “I saved half for you, but honestly, your maid’s cooking isn’t that great. That place we went to the other day was so much better.” “What are you talking about?” Noah snapped. “She’s your sister-in-law.” Her mouth fell open in feigned surprise. “Sister-in-law? Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I just saw what you were wearing and thought you were the help.” I glanced down at my clothes—a simple white T-shirt and jeans, my hair tied back casually. It was true, I hadn’t put much effort into my appearance. She then extended a hand toward me, introducing herself as if nothing had happened. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. My name is Skylar, I’m a new intern here.” I had no intention of shaking her hand. Noah’s voice was sharp with impatience. “You talk too much. Get out.” She pouted, feigning hurt, and waved at me. “Bye, ma’am.” After Skylar left, the air in the room grew heavy. Noah was the first to break the silence. “She’s just a kid, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Don’t mind her.” He sat down in the spot Skylar had just vacated and shoveled a mouthful of rice into his mouth. “This is delicious. My wife’s cooking is getting better and better.” I sat there for a moment, thinking. Then I said, “Fire her.” “What?” “An intern who calls you ‘old man’ and sleeps in your office is disrespectful. Fire her.” “And,” I added, watching him use the same chopsticks Skylar had just used, a wave of nausea rising in my throat, “isn’t that… dirty?” Noah’s expression changed. He slammed the chopsticks down on the table. “I told you, she’s just a kid! Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” “Do you have any idea that she needs this internship for her degree? What’s she supposed to do if you get her fired? Can’t you be a little more forgiving?” Noah rarely lost his composure like this. In five years of marriage, he had always been so agreeable. We almost never had arguments this ugly. I was stunned into silence. His defense of Skylar was a sharp knife twisting in my gut. A sour, bitter feeling clogged my throat, the pain spreading through every nerve. I couldn’t say a word. After a long moment, I flexed my numb fingers, then swept the lunchbox off the table. I stood up and stormed out, slamming the door behind me. Outside, Skylar leaned against the wall, a triumphant, mocking smile on her face. 2 As the elevator doors closed, I stared at my reflection, a heavy feeling settling in my chest. Trapped at home all these years, I really had let myself go. Back when I was helping Noah scout locations and meet with clients, I used to put effort into my makeup and clothes. But once the company stabilized and I didn’t need to be out in the field anymore, I took a step back, content to be a homebody. On the rare occasions I went out, a quick swipe of sunscreen and lipstick was all I bothered with. I looked at my face in the mirror, at the tired, defeated woman staring back. I was no longer at an age where I could get by on natural beauty alone. The sun beat down on me, but it couldn’t burn away the frustration building inside. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and decided to do some damage with Noah’s credit card. I called my best friend, Ava, as I walked toward the mall. “A maid?” Ava was laughing so hard she could barely stand, leaning against the makeup counter where I was getting a makeover. “Is that girl blind? Seriously, if she doesn’t want her eyes, she should donate them. Rebecca, you were the campus beauty queen! Your skin is flawless. Even in a T-shirt and jeans, you’re miles ahead of her.” I let the makeup artist work her magic, brushing and blending powders on my face. The woman in the mirror was starting to look a little less pathetic. “It’s not what she said that bothers me,” I explained. “It’s just… a wake-up call. I need to make some changes.” I thought about Noah, eating the food I made for him while defending Skylar. He had always been so particular about boundaries, so clean. Yet he had used her chopsticks without a second thought. He was a neat freak, yet he had allowed her to turn his desk into a chaotic mess. In the places I couldn’t see, he had already changed so much. Halfway through our shopping spree, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Noah. A screenshot of a termination notice. [My dearest wife, I have followed your command and dismissed the irrelevant person. I was out of line earlier. I’m on my way home to kneel on a keyboard as penance.] 3 That evening, I returned home laden with shopping bags to find Noah busy in the kitchen. The dining table was pretentiously set with a few candles and two glasses of red wine. Hearing the door open, he peeked out. “You’re home, honey. Just a minute, your favorite tomato beef stew is almost ready.” I sat down on the sofa. He presented me with a beautiful box. Inside was a glittering diamond necklace. “Honey, I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you over someone so unimportant. I’m ready for my punishment.” I raised an eyebrow. “Any punishment?” “Any punishment.” I thought for a moment. “Transfer me fifty million.” He froze. In five years of marriage, this was the first time I had ever asked him for money. “What, you can’t?” If the man I had given my heart and soul to had a change of heart, I thought, then getting his money was the next best thing. He quickly denied it. “Of course I can. What’s mine is yours, right?” I just smiled, not answering. He was true to his word. After a quick call to his assistant, the fifty million was in my account. Earlier, while shopping with Ava, she had mentioned a student’s startup project at our old university. It had potential but lacked funding. I got the account information from her and transferred the money over. Better for me to fund a charity than for Noah to use it to support his new pet project. The food was served. As usual, Noah chattered on about his day at work. I chewed the beef in my mouth. It was tasteless. He had made this dish countless times, and I always cleaned my plate. Now, it was bland. Food, I realized, was like people. It could lose its flavor. We both tacitly avoided mentioning Skylar. After that day, he started coming home on time every evening, bringing me a bouquet of fresh flowers without fail. He would ask if I wanted to eat at home or go out. On weekends, we’d watch TV and play video games. He was spending more time with me than ever before. Everything seemed to be back to normal. Ava tried to reassure me. “Maybe it was nothing. The girl was just an opportunist trying to stir up trouble. If you let it get to you, you’re just falling into her trap.” I considered it. It was normal for a successful man like Noah to attract attention. Besides, Skylar was gone. We would probably never see her again. But I was wrong. … I was woken from my afternoon nap by a series of sharp, urgent knocks on the door. I opened it to find Skylar standing there, holding Noah’s jacket. “Noah forgot his jacket. It looks like it’s going to rain, so I brought it over for him.” I stared at her slightly rounded belly, a loud ringing in my ears. The world went blank, and I felt myself falling, falling into a bottomless pit. Outside, lightning flashed across the sky. The clouds had turned a dark, bruised purple. A storm was coming. It took me a long moment to find my voice. “What do you mean?” She cradled her stomach. “I’m pregnant. It’s Noah’s. He didn’t come home for our prenatal routine at lunch today, and the baby must have missed him. It’s been kicking me all afternoon, so I came to check on him.” My gaze traveled from her belly to her face. “You’re saying he sees you every day?” She looked at me with exaggerated surprise. “The man you share a bed with isn’t home at night, and you don’t even know?” “He’s always so busy with work, and then he has to run back and forth to take care of me and the baby. Sometimes I get hungry in the middle of the night, and he brings me food. He’s so nervous about every little thing the baby does.” She then looked me up and down with disdain. “Oh, why am I even telling you this? The joy of creating a new life with the person you love… a barren woman like you would never understand.” My heart seized. Pain and dizziness swirled together. I gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing, my stomach churning. Images of Noah’s recent attentiveness flashed through my mind. What I had thought was a return to normal, a rekindling of our love, was just a carefully orchestrated performance by a master of time management. While I was angry and sleeping in the guest room, he was putting on a show of reconciliation while secretly running to Skylar’s apartment night after night. And I had almost, almost forgiven him. I heard my own voice, trembling uncontrollably. “Skylar, what are you trying to say?” A slow, cruel smile spread across her face. She leaned in, looking down at me. “What, am I wrong? Noah told me himself. You’re just a hen that can’t lay eggs.” Ignoring my shattered expression, she eagerly stepped inside. “The mistress of this house will be me soon. Your taste in decor is terrible. It looks like the baby and I will have to redecorate when we move in.” I fought back the nausea, watching her feet tread across the living room floor, each step feeling like it was on my face. “Get out of my house.” She ignored my rage, glancing outside as if just noticing the weather. Then, surprisingly, she complied. As she reached the doorway, she suddenly rushed toward me, grabbing my hand and screaming, “Don’t hit me! Don’t hurt my baby!” Then, she threw herself down the front steps. My hand was still outstretched, my body trembling uncontrollably. The steps weren’t high, but Skylar lay on the ground, screaming in agony. A dark, crimson stain was spreading from beneath her dress. I instinctively moved to help her, but Noah, who had just run up from outside, shoved me aside. I stumbled back, my voice a pale, desperate whisper. “Noah, it wasn’t me…” He was already cradling Skylar, his bloodshot eyes filled with a hatred and rage I had never seen before. “You vicious woman! How could you? It’s just a child!” “Noah.” I ran after him. He turned and glared at me, his eyes like daggers, ready to tear me apart. I froze. He didn’t look at me again. He settled Skylar in the back seat, murmuring reassurances, and then sped away without another word. 4 A clap of thunder, and then the rain finally came, in huge, heavy drops. I don’t know how long I sat there, on the wet steps, before Ava rushed over as night fell, draping her coat over my shoulders. When Ava and I arrived at the hospital, Noah was at Skylar’s bedside, his eyes red-rimmed. Skylar was hysterical, throwing the bowl in her hands and screaming at me to get out. Noah pulled us into the hallway, his eyes cold and unfamiliar. “Rebecca, no matter what, the baby is innocent! How could you do that? If something happens to the baby, I’ll…” “You’ll what?” Ava’s voice was like ice, cutting him off. “What does the baby have to do with Rebecca?” “You shut your mouth.” Noah’s temper flared, and he yelled at Ava. “This is our family’s business! What right do you, an outsider, have to interfere?” He then sneered at me. “I told you not to hang around with her. She’s the one who corrupted you with her shameless, manipulative ways.” Slap. I hit him across the face, cutting off his vile words. “You don’t get to talk about my friends. Why don’t you explain why a fired intern is pregnant with your child, instead of lecturing me and my friend? Noah, how dare you be so brazen about your affair?” Noah’s face turned shades of purple and white, the fury in his eyes intensifying. “We’ll talk about this later. But I’m telling you, Rebecca, if anything happens to that baby, you’re a murderer!” He said it so loudly, so fluently, as if he had already condemned me a thousand times in his mind. My palm stung, but my heart felt like it had been squeezed, crushed, and then ground into the floor. Even breathing was an agony. Trying to clear up the misunderstanding, I forced myself to calm down and looked him in the eye. “I didn’t push her. She fell on her own.” He stared at me for a second, then laughed, his eyes filled with scorn. “Are you saying Skylar used her own unborn child as a pawn just to frame you? That she threw herself down the stairs?” “Yes.” “You’re still lying!” His tone shifted instantly. He grabbed my chin, his voice laced with fury. “Why would she pay such a high price just to frame you? Do you think everyone is a fool?” He was using considerable force, my jaw felt like it was about to break, but the pain in my heart was far worse. I closed my eyes in despair, tears of pain streaming down my face. They fell onto his hand, and he let go as if he’d been burned. Ava quickly pulled me into her arms. “You monster, Noah!” “Honey,” he said, his voice calmer now. “I already made an arrangement with Skylar. After the baby is born, we’ll raise it. I’ll give her ten million and send her abroad. We’ll cut all ties.” He slumped to the floor, his voice full of blame. “You’ll be the baby’s mother. You get to have a child without going through the pain of pregnancy. What more could you want? Why can’t you just be a little more patient, a little more tolerant?” It was a joke of epic proportions. My husband wanted me to be a mother to his and his mistress’s child, and he expected me to be grateful. What a magnificent gift. I leaned on Ava for support and looked down at him, my voice surprisingly calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” He looked up, shocked. After a moment, a small laugh escaped him. “A divorce? Have you forgotten you’re barren? Who do you think would want a woman who can’t have children?” I exhaled, my heart dead. “If you don’t agree, I’ll sue.” He was about to say more, but Skylar called for him from the room. He turned quickly. “Fine, if you want a divorce, you’ll get it. But don’t you regret it.” 5 Because she was brought to the hospital in time, Skylar’s baby was saved. The day I went to deliver the divorce papers, Noah was handling her discharge. “My ten percent stake in the company, sold to you at market value. We split the savings. I get the house, you get the cars.” Skylar, her face pale, muttered beside him, “She doesn’t even work, just sits at home all day. Can’t even have a kid. Why should she get half…” I looked at her like she was an idiot. “Why don’t you consult a lawyer about the legal consequences of adultery during a marriage?” Skylar shut her mouth, looking at Noah with a wounded expression. Noah looked down at the divorce papers on the table, his expression shifting through a range of emotions before he finally spoke. “Are you sure about this? You sell me your shares, and you lose your annual dividends.” “Rebecca, are you being naive? Even with half the savings, you’ll just burn through it. Without me, you’re nothing.” I stood there stubbornly, as if I hadn’t heard him, and held out the pen. “Sign it.” He stared at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and a strange, inexplicable pain. Skylar bit her lip and nudged him. “Noah…” He snapped back to reality and quickly signed his name. … Walking out of the hospital with the papers, I felt a sense of disorientation. Noah and I had been through so much, from college to our careers. Everyone had said we weren’t a good match, that I was marrying down and would regret it. Every time I wanted to give up, he would beg me, his eyes red, to just hold on a little longer, to wait for him. So I used all my resources, threw caution to the wind, and helped him build his business. When he finally made it, he treated me just as well as he always had. Everyone then said my gamble had paid off. It took us seven years to go from dating to marriage. It took him seven seconds to sign the divorce papers. My persistence had become a joke. My heart felt heavy, suffocated by the shards of my memories. I walked out of the hospital like a zombie. The sun was bright, but my fingertips were ice cold. “Rebecca!” I looked up numbly. Ava was standing in the sunlight, waiting for me. Behind her stood a handsome, charismatic young man. When he saw me, he spoke first. “Sister.” I was taken aback. The young man walked toward me. “Sister, I’m Sergio. Do you remember me?” I nodded numbly. Of course I remembered that captivating face.

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My ex-boyfriend’s exclusive new restaurant blew up. And so did his new girlfriend, the one he went public with less than a month after we broke up. Isabella Carbonari, a food blogger with a million followers. In her latest livestream, she was nestled in his arms, smiling with an air of effortless grace. “Honestly,” she said, “Noah’s success wasn’t just about talent. It was about shedding the dead weight from his past.” The comment section went wild. [She’s so wise!] [The idea that you owe your past anything is so outdated! You go, girl!] I silently closed the stream and pulled out a yellowed, old ledger. I snapped a photo and posted it to my socials with a simple caption: [Noah, remember the first pot I bought for our business? It was $12.99. Do you remember?] 1 The silence in my tiny studio apartment was broken only by the sound of instant ramen slowly bloating in its bowl. I was scrolling numbly through my phone when a local food blog’s post popped up. [This Year’s Breakout Star: Maison Noah and the Artistry of Chef Noah Wells.] In the photo, he looked sharp and confident in a crisp, white chef’s coat. I was about to scroll past it. But another notification immediately followed. Exclusive Interview: Rising-Star Chef Noah Wells and Food Blogger Isabella Carbonari on How the Right Love Breeds Success. I tapped on it. It was a photo of him with his arm around Isabella’s shoulders. They were standing in his restaurant, a space so meticulously designed it looked more like an art gallery. Good for him. In the article, Isabella was quoted as saying, “I simply opened a window for him, allowing him to see the vaster, more beautiful sky of the culinary world.” My phone buzzed. A message in my old college dorm group chat. Someone had cautiously tagged me. “Chloe, are you okay?” Below the message was a link to a livestream. I stared at it for a long, long time before finally tapping it. On screen, Noah was dressed in a tailored blazer, looking less like a cook and more like a celebrity. Isabella sat beside him. They really did look perfect together. The host was smiling. “Chef Wells, to have achieved so much at such a young age must have been incredibly difficult.” Before Noah could answer, Isabella took his hand. “He’s always been lost in his own world,” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “It’s just that before… no one truly understood him.” A wave of [Poor baby!] comments drifted across the screen. I watched, my face blank. Another message popped up in the group chat. [Chloe, turn this off. It’s just going to hurt you.] [What is Isabella trying to say? Who is she shading?] I typed back: [I’m fine.] Then I muted the group chat. The livestream continued. “So what was the catalyst?” the host asked. “What made you finally decide you had to open this restaurant?” Noah was silent for a beat. Again, Isabella answered for him. “I think it was finally finding someone who could walk beside him, not behind him.” “The right kind of love,” she mused, “makes you both better people.” The chat was now a waterfall of [OMG, relationship goals!]. I picked up my fork and lifted a strand of ramen. It had gone cold. It was disgusting. I put the fork down, ready to close the app. But just then, the host noticed a trending question from the audience. “Oh? A viewer is asking, we’ve heard that Chef Wells was in a very long relationship before this. Did that experience have any influence on your current success?” The studio fell quiet. Noah’s gaze seemed to travel through the camera, landing somewhere far away. I held my breath. Then, I saw Isabella smile. She leaned her head on Noah’s shoulder and said, in that same light, breezy tone: “Honestly, Noah’s success wasn’t just about talent. It was about shedding the dead weight from his past.” Dead weight. She was talking about me. In that instant, the livestream’s comment section completely lost its mind. 2 Noah sat beside her, head bowed, saying nothing. His silence was an admission. “She’s right! It’s all about growth!” “YES. This is the kind of self-aware queen we need.” “Some women are just anchors holding men back. Good for him for cutting the rope.” “Leaving you was the best decision he ever made!” I stared at the words on the screen. Every letter was a tiny, sharp needle jabbing into my eyes. I closed the livestream. The room was quiet again. I scraped the soggy ramen into the trash can. Then, I walked to my bed and knelt down, pulling a dusty old suitcase from underneath. I unzipped it. There was nothing of value inside. Just a few old clothes and a notebook wrapped in brown kraft paper. I picked up the notebook and blew the dust off its cover. I opened it to the first page. My own neat handwriting filled the lines. “Month X, Day X. First day in the new apartment. Rent is $600, first and last month’s plus security deposit. I paid. Noah said he’d pay me back.” I flipped to the middle. “Month X, Day X. Bought our first pot, $12.99. Noah used it to make me our first meal: scrambled eggs with tomatoes.” I turned the pages, one by one. For a long, long time. Finally, I closed the ledger. I took a picture of its simple, brown cover with my phone. And I posted it. I didn’t hide it from anyone. The caption was simple. “Noah, remember the first pot I bought for our business? It was $12.99. Do you remember?” It was like dropping a bomb into the quiet waters of my social circle. My phone started vibrating nonstop. Private messages from mutual friends, tags from my college group chat, one after another. “Chloe, is what you posted… real?” “HOLY SHIT, a $13 pot? A single dish at his restaurant costs more than that!” Soon, someone screenshotted my post and shared it online. #NoahsFirstPot The hashtag quietly crept onto the bottom of our city’s local trending topics. Noah’s call came almost immediately. His voice was tight, suppressing a rage that I could hear crackling underneath, along with a flicker of panic I didn’t miss. “Chloe, what the hell is this?” I said nothing. My silence seemed to infuriate him. “We’re over. What’s the point of dragging this out? Are you trying to make me look bad?” “Am I?” I asked softly. “By posting this, you’re trying to make everyone think I’m some ungrateful bastard, aren’t you?” He said it himself. I still didn’t speak. His breathing on the other end of the line grew heavy. He was losing his composure, that carefully constructed “dignity” of his finally cracking. “Chloe, don’t push it.” “Wasn’t the fifty thousand I gave you enough?” Fifty thousand dollars. He said it with such self-righteous indignation. As if he were shooing away a persistent beggar. I finally laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Noah, in your mind, were our five years together really only worth fifty grand?” “…” From the other end of the line, I heard Isabella’s voice, intentionally softened. “Noah, honey, don’t be angry. Don’t stoop to her level. It’s not worth it.” She sounded so magnanimous. And so grating. I scoffed and hung up the phone. The world went quiet. A few minutes later, my doorbell rang, sharp and insistent. It was Jenna, my best friend. She stormed in, holding two cold beers, and threw her arms around me. “Chloe! I just saw! That ungrateful son of a bitch! That user!” “How dare he call you?!” “And that Isabella woman, what a piece of work! Dead weight? She’s the parasite!” Jenna’s face was red with anger, shouting all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t be bothered to. She ranted for a long time. I listened quietly, handing her a beer. She took a long swig, then looked at me. “Chloe, don’t be sad. He’s not worth it.” I shook my head. “I’m not sad.” I looked at my phone screen. The hashtag had climbed a little higher on the trending list. Any last shred of hesitation I had vanished. Some debts can only be collected by yourself. 3 “Chloe, look at this,” Jenna said, handing me her phone. It was the latest scoop from a celebrity gossip account. [Sources confirm that popular food blogger Isabella Carbonari will be the special guest on the hit talk show ‘The Midnight Hour’ this Friday. She will exclusively share the love story between her and rising-star chef Noah Wells. The theme of the night: ‘How to Be the Wise Woman Behind a Successful Man.’] Jenna crushed the beer can in her hand. “Wise woman? My ass!” “What is she trying to do? Publicly execute you?” “She’s going to tell the whole world that she’s the smart one, and you were the foolish one who got left behind!” I stared at the post. The comment section was already a party. [Can’t wait! Isabella’s perspective on love is always so on point!] [Finally, a masterclass from Isabella! Taking notes!] [A wise woman teaching you how to pick a winner, hahaha.] And then there was a top-liked comment. [The ex-girlfriend is probably fuming right now. Too bad. People from different worlds are never meant to be together.] Jenna snatched the phone back. “Don’t look at it! It’ll just make you sick!” I nodded. “Yeah. I won’t.” After Jenna left, I was alone again. It was late, but I felt like I should eat something. Almost unconsciously, I opened a food delivery app. My finger scrolled for a long time before stopping on the page for “Maison Noah.” The picture of their signature dish, “Secret Recipe Braised Pork,” priced at $38, was beautifully shot. I placed the order. Half an hour later, it arrived. The packaging was exquisite—a black box with a gold-stamped logo. I opened it. The pork was arranged neatly, each piece cut to a uniform size. I picked one up with my fork and put it in my mouth. It was tender. The spices were overpowering, masking everything else. It was the taste of a restaurant—standardized, flawless, and impersonal. It wasn’t the taste I remembered. I put down my fork and looked out the window. It had started to snow. I remembered a winter night, a long time ago. The snow was coming down just like this. I had a terrible flu, a fever so high I couldn’t taste anything. We were living in a rundown apartment building with no central heating. Noah wrapped me in a mountain of blankets until I looked like a burrito. He was frantic. “Chloe, please, you have to eat something. You need your strength.” I shook my head. “Everything tastes like cardboard.” He thought for a long time. Then he rummaged through our things and pulled out a handwritten cookbook from one of my suitcases—one my mother had insisted I bring with me. “I’ll make you this,” he said, pointing to the words “Braised Pork.” That night, the single light in our tiny, one-burner kitchen stayed on all night. Lying in bed, I could hear him clumsily chopping meat, pouring oil, and then hissing in pain as the hot oil splattered on his skin. I could even smell the acrid scent of him burning the sugar on his first try. He tried again and again. Just as the sky was beginning to lighten, he walked to my bedside, carrying a steaming bowl of braised pork. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and there was a red mark on his cheek from an oil burn. “Chloe, try it.” “I followed your mom’s recipe. I don’t know if it’s right.” I was too weak to sit up, so he fed me, one spoonful at a time. It was strange. Even though the fever had stolen my sense of taste, I could clearly taste that bowl of braised pork. It wasn’t too salty, just a little sweet. The meat was so tender it melted on my tongue. It was the taste of my mother’s cooking. The taste of home. As I ate, tears started to fall. He panicked. “What’s wrong? Is it bad?” I shook my head, swallowing the piece of pork in my mouth. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.” … The memory receded like the tide. I looked at the takeout box in front of me. And I thought about how Isabella was about to go on national television and brand me as the “dead weight” on Noah’s path to success. She was going to redefine all my most precious memories as nothing more than the “mundane baggage of an unambitious woman.” I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes. My gaze hardened, shifting from sorrow to an unshakable resolve. You want dignity? I’m not giving you any. 4 The next morning, I called in sick to work. I found the contact information for the talk show online. When I called, the operator’s voice was formal and detached. “Hello, you’ve reached ‘The Midnight Hour.’” “Hello, I’d like to speak to your producer.” “Do you have an appointment?” “No.” “I’m sorry, but our producer—” “Tell him I’m Noah Wells’s founding partner from when he first started his business.” I paused, then added, “I saw that you’ll be having Ms. Isabella Carbonari on your show next week to talk about Mr. Wells’s success story.” There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. “Please hold.” A moment later, a sharp, savvy-sounding male voice came on the line. “Hello, this is Mark Wallace, producer for ‘The Midnight Hour.’” “Hello.” “And you are…?” “My name is Chloe Reed.” I could feel the breath catch on the other end of the line. He clearly recognized the name. “Ms. Reed, hello!” His tone immediately became warmer, more enthusiastic. “What can I do for you?” “I hear Ms. Carbonari will be sharing the inspiration behind Noah’s cuisine on your show?” “Yes, as Chef Wells’s… soulmate, Ms. Carbonari has a very deep understanding of his creative philosophy.” I smiled. “Your show values exclusivity and authenticity, correct?” “Of course. It’s the foundation of our brand.” “Good.” I spoke each word clearly and deliberately. “I know the real, never-before-told stories behind every single one of Maison Noah’s signature dishes.” “And I think your audience might be more interested in that than in Ms. Carbonari’s philosophy on love.” The line went completely silent. I could picture the expression on Mark Wallace’s face. As a media professional, he had to smell the massive, explosive potential of this story. After a full thirty seconds, he spoke again, his voice thick with suppressed excitement. “Ms. Reed, are you saying…?” “My meaning is simple.” “Give me a live video call-in. I’ll give you the ratings.” “Done!” Mark didn’t hesitate for a second. “Ms. Reed, our show is all about the truth! You can rest assured we will provide you with a fair and impartial platform.” “During the live show next Friday, we’ll set up a ‘Live Call-In’ segment. I will guarantee you at least ten minutes of airtime.” “Perfect.” I hung up. I looked out at the gray, overcast sky. But inside, I felt a calm I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I walked to the mirror. My face was pale, with faint dark circles under my eyes. My lips were a little chapped. This was me. The me who worked two jobs to pay off debts. The me who hadn’t bought new clothes in ages to save money. The me who, after the breakup, couldn’t be bothered to dress up for anyone. I stared at my reflection for a long time. Then, I turned and pulled open a drawer. From the very back, I retrieved a makeup bag lightly coated in dust. Noah had bought it for me a long time ago, with his very first paycheck from a part-time job. I opened it. The contents were still good. I took out the tube of Dior 999. I used to only wear it when we went to important dinners together. I twisted the lipstick open and looked at the person in the mirror. Then, slowly, carefully, I painted my lips a brilliant, commanding red. The person in the mirror, it seemed, had just come back to life.

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1 My five-year-old daughter needed emergency heart surgery, but my wife—the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, no less—was about to leave for her protégé’s academic symposium. I was on my knees, sobbing, begging her to save our daughter’s life. She hesitated, then refused. “A short delay in Sunny’s surgery won’t matter,” she said, her voice strained. “But this is a make-or-break moment for Patrick’s career.” She didn’t know that less than two hours after she walked out that door, our daughter would breathe her last in my arms. That night, her precious protégé posted on his Instagram story: “My hero and mentor, Dr. Reed, always there when I need her most, breathing new life into my career.” I was just… tired. So tired. It was time to let these two soulmates have each other. … “Evelyn, for God’s sake, open your eyes and look at our child! If we wait any longer, she’ll lose her only chance!” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “Is your daughter’s life worth less than some presentation by your favorite resident?” Evelyn’s gaze flickered away, but she wrenched her hand from my grasp. “Don’t you dare use our daughter as an excuse to be jealous, Liam. It’s not like we’re canceling the surgery. What could possibly happen in one day?” I stared at our daughter, Sunny, lying on the hospital bed, her breath as faint as a whisper. A tidal wave of rage and despair threatened to pull me under. Evelyn was a top specialist in her field; she knew better than anyone that every second we delayed was a gamble with death. We were literally in a race against the reaper. But Evelyn wouldn’t even glance at me kneeling on the cold, sterile floor. Her heart was set, her mind made up. She was leaving. Just then, as if sensing the finality of the moment, Sunny, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness, shed a single tear. It broke me. I lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Evelyn’s pants like a drowning man. “I’m begging you. For whatever our marriage ever meant, for our daughter… please, save her. After this is over, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll walk away and let you be with Patrick, I swear…” A small crowd had gathered at the door—Evelyn’s colleagues, a few wide-eyed interns. They were stunned into silence by the scene. They saw the little girl fading, they felt the tragedy unfolding, but no one else had the skill to perform this surgery. Only Evelyn. A sharp crack echoed in the room as her hand connected with my cheek. “How many times do I have to tell you? Patrick and I are just mentor and mentee! Is your jealousy so consuming that you’d stoop to slandering us in public?” “This symposium is critical for his future,” she hissed. “I have to be there.” Patrick, seeing his cue, began to put on a show. “Liam, I know this is a lot to ask,” he said, his voice thick with false tears. “But Evelyn is my guiding light in this field. This presentation… it means everything to me!” “But this is a life! Your own child’s life!” I roared, all dignity forgotten, clinging to Evelyn’s coat like a scrap of hope. “Please, just do the surgery. Give her a chance to live!” Amid the chaos, the sharp, piercing shriek of the heart monitor cut through the air. Sunny’s blood pressure was plummeting. I scrambled toward the bed, my world narrowing to the sight of my daughter’s chest heaving in short, desperate gasps. Evelyn seized the opportunity. She broke free from my grip, barked orders at a couple of interns to check on Sunny, and then, unbelievably, motioned for several of the experienced nurses to follow her to the symposium. In the end, it was just me, engulfed in an abyss of hopelessness, and two frantic, overwhelmed interns. “Stop making a scene,” Evelyn’s voice cut through my haze, cold and distant. “Her condition has been unstable for a while; this is to be expected. But this is Patrick’s last chance to get his fellowship recognized!” “Don’t overreact. This is normal. I’ll operate as soon as I get back.” With those final, impossibly cruel words, she was gone. I watched her and her entourage disappear down the hall, the sound of their confident footsteps a death knell. I made one last, desperate attempt, grabbing a passing doctor by the arm. “Please,” I begged, “please help my daughter.” The doctor looked pained, unable to meet my eyes. “Dr. Reed’s orders… The entire department has to be at the conference. Please don’t make this difficult for me…” From down the hall, I could hear their voices—Evelyn and Patrick, laughing about something. Here, in this room, my daughter’s breathing had changed. It was shallow, then deep, then stopped altogether for a few seconds before starting again. Cheyne-Stokes. I knew what it was. It was the sound of the end. Tears streamed down my face as I leaned in close, pressing my ear to her chest, trying to catch her last words. “Daddy,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “Does… does Mommy not want me anymore…?” I didn’t have the courage, or the right, to answer. All I could do was hold her, my body wracked with sobs. “Daddy’s here, sweetheart. Daddy will always be with you. You’re going to be okay, I promise.” And just like that, surrounded by my tears and the helpless apologies of two young interns, my five-year-old daughter’s life came to an end. It had been twenty minutes since Evelyn left. One of the interns, his face pale with guilt, looked at me. “We did everything we could…” A bitter, broken laugh escaped me. “You did. You stayed. You have more integrity than she ever will. For that… thank you.” The other intern, unable to hold it in any longer, spoke up. “Liam… Dr. Kent, he specifically scheduled the conference for today. And he made attendance mandatory for the entire department. I… I’m afraid this might have been intentional.” 2 The news didn’t surprise me. Not really. I just felt a profound emptiness as I numbly pulled out my phone and dialed Evelyn’s number. This was it. The last goodbye. As her mother, she deserved to see her… one last time. She rejected the call several times before finally picking up, her voice a furious whisper. “Liam, have you completely lost your mind? We’re supposed to have our phones on silent in here! Do you have any idea how important this is?” she hissed. “It’s like you’re actively trying to sabotage Patrick’s career.” I held Sunny’s hand, feeling the last traces of its warmth fade into the cold. My voice was quiet, but every word was laced with agony. “If you have a shred of humanity left, Evelyn, if you want to be able to sleep at night for the rest of your life, you’ll come back to the hospital now.” “How long are you going to hold our daughter over my head?” she snarled, and then the line went dead. The dam of my grief broke. I collapsed over Sunny’s small, still form and wept. The intern’s eyes were red. He placed a tentative hand on my shoulder. “Liam… Sunny was lucky to have you as a father.” “What Dr. Reed and Dr. Kent did today… it was beyond wrong.” I had always been a joke among the other doctors’ spouses. Some pitied me, the stay-at-home dad; others disdained me. Now, none of it mattered. I had nothing left to fear. With a trembling hand, I smoothed Sunny’s hair, her face so peaceful it looked like she was only sleeping. I forced the words out past the lump in my throat. “Get me the consent forms… for organ and tissue donation. If even one part of her can help another child live, see the world… then my Sunny didn’t die for nothing.” The remaining nurses looked on, their faces etched with a sorrow that went beyond professional duty. I signed the papers, and then the world went black. … When I woke up, it was dark outside. Evening had fallen. I fumbled for my phone. The screen lit up, and the first thing I saw was a new post from Patrick. It was a picture of him and Evelyn on stage, both in their white coats, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. They were beaming. The caption read: “Thank you to my incredible mentor for her unwavering support. She gave my career a new life when I needed it most!” A chill spread through my chest, colder than any winter night. I struggled to get out of bed. A nurse rushed to my side. “Mr. Hayes, please, you need to rest. The donation procedure is complete. Sunny… her body is still here. You can see her tomorrow, say your final goodbyes.” I thanked her softly. I couldn’t face it. Not yet. I just wanted to disappear. But fate is a cruel mistress. As I was leaving the hospital, I ran right into them. Evelyn and Patrick, returning from their triumph. Patrick was practically glowing, radiating smug satisfaction as he clutched a trophy for “Outstanding Young Physician.” My eyes locked on the gleaming gold in his hands. A butcher, who’d built his career on malpractice and academic fraud, lauded as a hero, all thanks to the woman beside him. And my daughter… my Sunny had to die for this. For this cheap, glittering prize. The irony was so sharp it physically hurt. A cold, bitter laugh escaped me. I wanted to launch myself at him, to tear that fraudulent smile off his face, but my body was a hollow shell, devoid of strength. This tragedy was my fault, too. I should have known, from the moment Evelyn started defending him, humiliating me for him, that she was no longer my wife. That she had stopped being a mother to our child. My refusal to let go had led to this. My presence instantly soured her mood. Her face hardened. “So, how was the big conference?” I sneered, the words tasting like ash. “Did you find a moment to announce your sordid little affair to the medical community?” Evelyn’s face flushed with anger. “You’re not an academic doctor, Liam. You could never understand how important today was for Patrick’s future.” Patrick, the master of theatrics, immediately put on his wounded expression. “Evelyn, please. I don’t want to see him misunderstand you because of me. He’s just lashing out because he’s worried about Sunny…” “If my presence is really causing this much trouble,” he added with a sigh, “I can just leave St. Jude’s and find a job somewhere else.” That was all it took. Evelyn turned on me, her voice sharp with fury. “Don’t you push it, Liam! Patrick was kind enough to operate on Sunny before. Are you really going to let your jealousy ruin the career of a brilliant surgeon like him?” Her words reignited my rage. “His ‘kindness’? You mean when he used our daughter as a guinea pig right out of med school? When his ‘mistake’ nearly killed her on the table and destroyed any chance she had of being cured?” The grief and fury were too much. I swayed, the world tilting around me. 3 Evelyn faltered, a flicker of guilt in her eyes. “He was just a resident then, his experience was limited… I just wanted him to get exposure to a rare case like hers.” Tears welled in my eyes. “You, her mother, a leading authority in the field… you let a rookie practice on our daughter?” Her voice hardened again, her brief moment of weakness gone. “Why can’t you ever stick to the point, Liam? All you do is use our daughter as a pawn in your jealous games. Have you no shame?” “I left two doctors with her, didn’t I?” she snapped. “Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?” She had spent this entire day, this entire year, propping up Patrick with her authority and reputation. She hadn’t spared a single ounce of genuine concern for me or for Sunny. How could she possibly know that our daughter was already gone? Patrick chimed in, his voice soft and defensive. “I was new then… Sunny’s condition was so complex. I didn’t mean to make a mistake during the surgery…” That was it. I couldn’t listen to another word from this monster who treated human life like a stepping stone. I lunged at him. But Evelyn was faster. She slapped me, hard, positioning herself between me and her protégé. “Liam, I have forgiven you time and time again for using our child as a weapon,” she seethed, “but if you try to destroy Patrick’s future, I will never forgive you!” My cheek burned, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in my heart. Evelyn knew. Of course she knew Patrick had screwed up. But she would always, always choose to believe him. She would protect him, even if it meant her own flesh and blood paid the price. Patrick shot me a look from behind Evelyn’s shoulder—a venomous, triumphant smirk. “Maybe Liam’s just jealous that I’m a doctor too,” he mused, twisting the knife. “So he’s trying to ruin my reputation with these lies…” I raised my tear-filled eyes and glared at him, a look that promised retribution. Evelyn sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. “Instead of building a career, you spend all your time obsessing over me. It’s pathetic, Liam.” The mention of my career, the one I’d put on hold for years to care for Sunny, made something inside me snap. “Shut up,” I roared, cutting her off. “You, of all people, have no right to judge whether I’m a good father.” She just stared at me, unmoved, as if I were merely a hysterical, jealous husband throwing a tantrum. She turned back to Patrick, her voice softening. “We’re civilized people, doctors. Let’s not stoop to the level of an uncultured brute like him.” She then fixed her cold gaze back on me. “Liam, I’m going to be mentoring Patrick for the next few months as he prepares for his fellowship. Don’t waste your energy on these pathetic games.” I watched them walk away, their backs straight and proud, and a mouthful of blood surged up my throat. It was the taste of pure, unadulterated heartbreak and rage. Sunny’s last, faint words echoed in my ears, a haunting refrain. Daddy, does Mommy not want me anymore? And I had done nothing. I had Sunny buried in a quiet corner of the cemetery. And Evelyn, true to her word, vanished. The promises she’d made to me, to our child, were forgotten, erased as if they’d never existed. In a strange way, I felt a sense of relief. My daughter didn’t need a mother like that to tarnish her memory. The texts from Patrick, however, kept coming. Taunting photos. Under the guise of an “academic retreat,” he and Evelyn were traveling the world. They made no effort to hide their affair, posing like a happy, carefree couple. Kissing in a hot spring one day, holding hands on a beach the next. But they no longer had the power to hurt me. I was already numb.

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We were in the middle of a reshoot for our wedding photos when my husband, Larry, suddenly suggested I change my hair color. I refused without thinking. “My boss is pretty strict about professional appearance. No bright or distracting colors allowed.” But he was already warming to his subject. “Just get that ash brown with hazel tones. Indoors, it looks like a soft brunette, I promise your boss would never notice! It would look amazing with your fair skin… even better after it fades a little…” My prolonged silence seemed to jolt him. The tender, gentle look on his face vanished in an instant. I stared at him, my voice flat. “Impressive. You’re quite the expert on what the young girls are into these days.” 1 Larry’s smile froze on his lips. “Ah, well, I happened to be looking into it for a research project.” But the way his thumb worried at his index finger gave him away completely. I’ve known him since we were kids running around in diapers; I could see his panic as clearly as if it were written on his forehead. I forced a smile, pretending it was just a casual question. “Is that so? Well, I need to get changed.” Larry let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stood up to leave. He moved so quickly he almost forgot his laptop, the one he treated like his second wife. I locked the door and immediately opened his laptop, clicking on his messaging app. Spotless. Clean as a whistle. Even his chat logs with a student from four years ago were still there. Yet my gut was screaming at me, a blaring alarm that something was deeply wrong. Just then, a notification popped up from his banking app. A charge for $188. An order from a flower shop. But Larry hated what he called “all that sentimental nonsense.” A morbid curiosity took over. I clicked on his transaction history, and a long, crimson list of charges filled the screen. A recurring payment of $459, $637—popped up on holidays… The first transaction was six months ago. I suddenly remembered him bringing home a bouquet of roses that day, claiming the shop was having a sale. The shop had a quaint, elegant name: The Bloom Room. A knock on the door made me jump. I quickly closed everything, changed my clothes, and opened it. Larry strode over to his laptop, and only after seeing that everything was as he’d left it did he smile at me. “I’ll wait for you outside.” While the makeup artist worked on my face, I searched for the flower shop’s name on Instagram. I couldn’t find a business profile, but I did find a personal account with the same handle, a page filled with sentimental quotes. The profile picture was of two hands coming together to form a heart. On one of those hands, I saw a ring. A ring I designed myself. A one-of-a-kind wedding band, our wedding band. The blood drained from my face. I dug my nails into my palm, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. I scrolled through the feed, and each post was a dagger to my heart. Under a sprawling oak tree, a red ribbon with two names tied to a branch fluttered in the wind. The caption read: He said he loves me, till death do us part. I guess we’ll let time be the judge. On a sun-drenched prairie, the two of them were nestled together, a hastily packed tent behind them: Witnessed by the sky and the earth, we are husband and wife. He promised he’d make up for everything he owes me. In a charming, rustic town, inside an old artisan shop, they were leaning in close, weaving a large, intricate lover’s knot: The owner said we look so much like a married couple, she asked us to be the shop’s promotional models. Of course, we said yes! I remembered how Larry had tossed aside the detailed travel itinerary I’d spent all night creating, scoffing that traveling was just “swapping one place you’re sick of for another.” He’d mocked me for wanting to “donate my GDP to other cities.” But here he was, the man who had used business trips as an excuse to travel the country with her. The most recent post was from this morning, posted in the dead of night: My stomach acted up in the middle of the night, and he dropped everything to come make me soup. It’s true what they say: the one who is truly loved can get away with anything! The accompanying photo showed a man’s forearm, sleeves rolled up, a pink apron tied around his waist. A few strands of long, ash-brown hair rested on his shoulder, a searing brand on my eyes. I thought back to this morning, to the exhaustion on his face when he came back from his “run,” carrying those specific, tiny croissants from that one bakery across town. How had he explained it away? “I know you love them, so I went to wait in line for you at dawn.” The pain was physical. The words and photos morphed into a thousand sharp blades, stabbing me over and over. Every little thing about Larry that had felt off suddenly made perfect, horrible sense. The man who always preached that “a gentleman stays away from the kitchen” had suddenly developed a keen interest in herbal soups and remedies. The small, unexplained cuts that would occasionally appear on his forearms. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I bolted for the restroom and retched, the tears finally breaking free, streaming down my face. Three years of marriage, and another woman’s mark was seared onto his heart. 2 After the photoshoot, I told Larry I had to go to the office and went straight to the airport instead. My destination: that hundred-year-old artisan shop in the charming, rustic town. Larry had often praised the exquisite craftsmanship of traditional arts. Thanks to him, even though the shop was hidden away in a winding alley, I found it without much trouble. Rows of tourist photos were displayed by the entrance. In the very center was a picture of Larry, his face radiating a gentle warmth. His eyes held a light I knew all too well, and the large lover’s knot in his hands obscured the lower half of the woman’s face beside him. Here, a thousand miles away from me, the love overflowing from his heart no longer needed to be hidden. I stood there for a long time, just looking, a faint smile on my face as tears streamed down my cheeks. The shopkeeper approached me cautiously. “Ma’am, are you alright?” I wiped my eyes. “This is my husband,” I said, my voice steady. “He passed away. I wanted to take the photo home as a memento.” The shopkeeper’s jaw dropped. Then, in a sudden burst of anger, she began pulling down several other decorative knots from the wall and shoving them into my arms. “They wove strands of their own hair into these! Talking some poetic nonsense about being bound together for eternity! Ugh, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that one!” “They even buried a bottle of wine in my backyard,” she fumed. “Said you have to prepare for a daughter’s future wedding day in advance!” They had told her they were a married couple, hoping to start a family. They had rented a pricey little cottage nearby, and every evening they would walk hand-in-hand along the river, always carrying candy to give to the children they met. They were so at ease, so natural, a perfect picture of a married couple. … Before I left town, I made one last stop at the salon where she’d had her hair dyed. The owner remembered them vividly, gushing about how Larry was the most patient man she’d ever seen, not once looking at his phone the entire time they were there. But on that exact day, I had been burning up with a high fever. I had called him over a dozen times, but there was no answer. He only called back in the middle of the night, saying he’d been busy with work, his phone on silent. He certainly was busy. Busy pampering his mistress behind his wife’s back. I took photos and recorded everything, then wiped away my tears and headed home. The moment he saw me, the kitchen knife in Larry’s hand clattered to the floor. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, and it took him a long moment to choke out my name. “Nikki?” I ran a hand through my hair and held out the lover’s knot. “Surprised?” His panic intensified, his voice trembling. “What surprise?” “The hair color you recommended, the artisan shop… they really are quite nice.” I tilted my head. “Why do you look like that? Did you do something to feel guilty about?” He instinctively looked down, unable to meet my gaze. But the thumb on his right hand was rubbing furiously against his index finger, the skin already turning red. I remained silent, my eyes locked on him. I wasn’t sure what I felt more—anger, or a desperate hope for something, anything. But after a long, tense silence, all he managed was a dry, “I’m tired.” In that instant, something inside me died. I dodged the kiss he leaned in for, muttering an excuse about a conference call, and fled the house. He stood there, stunned for a second, before rushing after me. “At least have something to eat first! I made that savory yam and pork porridge you like…” My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from him. “Come home early. Tomorrow is Grandma’s eightieth birthday.” I replied without emotion. “I’m staying at the office tonight.” A birthday celebration? Of course, I would go. But first, there was somewhere more important I needed to be. 3 The Bloom Room. It was ten o’clock at night, but the shop was brightly lit. Through the large glass window, I watched the girl inside. She was wearing a simple linen dress, her features delicate and pretty without a touch of makeup, possessing a sort of fragile, pitiable beauty. So this was the type Larry really liked. But when he was chasing me, he’d sworn he loved my bright, vibrant energy, that I was like a little sun that had warmed his heart. I shook my head with a bitter smile. A person’s heart can change, so why not their taste? She was cooing at a small puppy, talking to herself. She seemed to be smiling, but her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Coco, Daddy said he’s not coming tonight. Tomorrow is Grandma’s birthday, but he doesn’t want to take Mommy to see her.” “He’s hiding something from me, Coco. But Mommy is a coward. I’m too scared to pull back the curtain and see what’s there.” A few teardrops fell silently onto the puppy’s fur. Just like my completely shattered heart. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. “If you don’t pull it back, how will you ever know what’s hiding behind it?” The girl scrambled to wipe her face and offered a shy, flustered smile. “I’m so sorry, you had to see that. Welcome.” I fought back the ache in my own chest and feigned curiosity. “Is something wrong? Are you having a tough time?” Maybe it was the pitter-patter of the rain outside that sparked her desire to confide, or maybe the simple fact that I was another woman made her trust me. After a moment’s hesitation, her story came tumbling out. “My boyfriend and I have been together for six months,” she began, her expression troubled. “He’s so good to me—caring, attentive, and he’s not afraid to spend money on me. My mom doesn’t approve. She says a man his age—he’s eight years older—is either married or divorced. But last month, when my lease was up, he bought this flower shop for me outright. He said it was an engagement gift.” I thought my heart couldn’t break any further. But seeing the sweet, unconscious smile that spread across her face as she spoke, it felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, twisting it relentlessly. It was hard to breathe, but I forced myself to ask, “That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?” Lost in her own sorrow, she didn’t notice my distress. “Later, my parents said they wanted him to come over for dinner. But he refused, flat out. He always says he’s worried people will judge him for our age gap, so he never introduces me to anyone he knows. And the worst part is, tomorrow is his grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and he won’t let me go. No matter how upset I get, he just says he’ll pass along my well-wishes for me.” Her voice cracked. “Am I that much of an embarrassment to him? Or maybe… maybe I’m just his… mistress.” She choked on the last word, the shame clear on her face. So, just like me, she was another fool being played by Larry. I stared at the raw vulnerability on her face, and all the sharp, cutting words I had prepared suddenly felt hollow. In the end, I simply wrote down the address for the birthday dinner, left it on the counter, and turned to leave. The rain was coming down harder now. Suddenly, a familiar figure dashed past me. He was in such a hurry he didn’t even see me huddled in the shadows. “Claire, I’m so sorry I’m late!” I heard him call out. “Look, I had our picture made into a little desktop frame. Do you like it?” The girl’s voice, now filled with surprised delight, rang out. “It’s beautiful! When did you have this done?” “The other day, when I went to get my… my ID photo taken, I had the shop make it specially…” Rain streamed down my face, mingling with my tears. My car arrived. It was time for me to go.

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My daddy doesn’t love my mommy. All the other kids at preschool said their mommies and daddies slept in the same bed. Mine never did. Then one day, a group of bad men took us. Mommy managed to call Daddy. I heard his voice roaring through the phone. “Then just die already. And stop dragging that bastard child into your little dramas.” Mommy frantically tried to cover my ears. But I still heard it. On the seventh day, Mommy fell into a very quiet sleep beside me. The red water mixed with the dirt, and my stomach, growling with a hunger that made me see stars, crammed it into my mouth. It was bitter. Daddy was crying, begging me not to fall asleep. I reached up with my small, filthy hand to wipe his face, my tummy aching. “Don’t cry, Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m going to be a star, just like Mommy.” 1 The day the bad men tied me up, Mommy fell to her knees, her eyes swollen and red from crying. “Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Don’t hurt Lisa. She doesn’t know anything.” “Then you’d better call Mr. Vance,” one of them sneered. “Tell him it’ll take five million dollars to get you back.” Mommy stayed on her knees, her forehead touching the grimy floor as she pleaded. “He won’t come. I’m not worth five million. What about one million? I can get one million…” Before she could finish, a fat man slapped her hard across the face. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth into his hand with all my might. “Don’t you hurt my mommy!” The man flung me away and raised his boot to kick me. Mommy scrambled across the floor and threw herself over me, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Lisa…” she gasped. I don’t know how long he kicked her. After a while, Mommy started to throw up, just like I did when I was little and sick. But what came out was red water. It was bright and crimson, like a shiny red ribbon from a prize-winning project. So much of it. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest. “Mommy… Mommy…” I cried. “It’s okay, Lisa, baby. Don’t be scared…” The bad men shoved a phone at her again, yanking her up to answer it. “Go on. Beg him. Get him to pay up, and we’ll let you go.” Mommy’s voice was a shattered whisper. “Damien, I’ve been kidnapped. Can you please… can you save me and our daughter?” She was sobbing so hard she could barely speak, but Daddy’s voice cut through her like a razor. “Serena, can you stop the theatrics? You’d really stoop to lying about a kidnapping just to get my attention?” I tried to run to her, but another bad man held me tight, his hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams. Mommy’s pain seemed to deepen, her hand clutching her chest. “Lisa is your child, too.” Her voice was desperate. “These men are killers. If you don’t pay the ransom, we’re really going to die.” Daddy’s voice came through the speaker, clear and terrifying. “Then just die already. And stop dragging that bastard child into your little dramas.” I bit down, hard, on the hand that was silencing me. “Daddy!” I screamed. The screen went dark. I didn’t know if he heard me, or if he would come. Someone threw me to the ground and a sharp kick landed in my tummy. “Little runt.” Mommy fought against them, a wild animal protecting her young, and rushed to shield me again. “Don’t hurt her! Please, don’t hurt her…” she pleaded. “Just give me one more day. Just one day.” The men backed off. “One day. If you don’t have the money by then, don’t blame us for what happens next.” That night, I was freezing and burning up all at once. “Mommy, my tummy hurts…” I whimpered. She held me close, her arms a fragile shield. “It’s okay, Lisa, my sweet girl. Just hold on a little longer. Daddy will come for us.” Deep down, I knew Daddy hated us. But the light in Mommy’s eyes was already fading, and I couldn’t bear to be the one to snuff it out. “Really?” I asked, my voice small. “Really.” They threw another phone at us. I guessed Mommy was going to call my uncle. I remembered the last time we went to his house. He didn’t like me. He wouldn’t even let us inside. We stood on his porch for a long, long time, but the door never opened. The sun was so hot, and I was so thirsty, but Mommy looked so sad that I didn’t dare say a word. When we got home, Daddy and Mommy were fighting again. I tried to climb onto the kitchen counter to get a drink from the tap, but I slipped and fell. It hurt a lot. Daddy saw me. “You won’t even give a child a glass of water? You’ll do anything to get me to come home and fund your family’s projects, won’t you? You’re unbelievable.” Mommy scooped me up from the floor, tears streaming down her face. I knew she hadn’t stopped me from getting water. The front door slammed shut. Usually, when Daddy got that angry, Mommy would chase after him. But this time, she just held me on the sofa, her eyes searching my face. “Does it hurt, Lisa?” I shook my head. “Are you thirsty too, Mommy?” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t drink cold water anymore, okay? It’ll give you a tummy ache.” I nodded fiercely. The phone finally connected on the fifth try. Mommy’s face, which had been pale as a ghost, lit up with a flicker of joy. It was the same look I got when I saw Daddy come home. “Serena, are you ever going to stop bothering me?” 2 Mommy flinched but pushed on. “Victor, can you lend me five million dollars? I’ll pay you back in a few days.” “Ask Damien Vance for it,” he scoffed. “Three years ago, you handed him our company’s trade secrets. Don’t tell me he won’t even spare that much for you now.” The hand holding the phone trembled. Her voice was on the verge of breaking. “I understand why you hate me, but Lisa… she’s just a little girl. She’s been kidnapped. Can you please, please save her?” “Don’t try to play the sympathy card with me. You’ll say anything, won’t you?” he sneered. “She’s a Vance. The golden child of the Vance Corporation. Who would dare kidnap her? Call me again, and I won’t hesitate to drag up the past and take you to court.” He hung up. Mommy’s hand shook as she dialed again, and again, and again, until all she got was a busy signal. One of the bad men glanced at the phone. “You’ve got two hours left, Ms. Shaw. Don’t waste our time.” Mommy gave me a long, deep look. “Wait. Just… just give me a little more time.” This next call was answered almost immediately. “Ethan, can you lend me five million?” That name sounded familiar. I remembered Daddy gripping Mommy’s throat, his voice tight with fury. “What about Ethan Croft, then? When the Shaws were about to go under, you begged him for help, didn’t you? What exactly did you do for him?” Mommy just shook her head, trying to deny it, but that only made Daddy angrier. “Then tell me whose bastard child she is!” Mommy’s eyes found me then, and the tears started to fall. “I’ve already explained, nothing happened between us. Lisa is innocent. If this marriage is making you so miserable, we can get a divorce.” Daddy laughed, a chilling, humorless sound. “I paid a high price for you, Serena. Why would I let you go?” I stood frozen behind them as he ignored her struggles and dragged her into the bedroom. I heard her muffled cries of pain, but I couldn’t do anything. The door was locked. A long, long time passed. I eventually fell asleep, curled up against the door. When Daddy came out, he walked right past me without a glance. Mommy was slumped against the bed, sitting on the floor, looking like one of the flower buds from the preschool garden after a heavy rain. Her neck was covered in dark marks. When she looked at me, her eyes held an emotion I couldn’t understand. “Don’t be afraid, Lisa,” she whispered. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one who’s wrong.” Her words finally broke me, and I started to cry. The line on the phone was silent for a long time. Mommy’s voice was tense. “Three million. Three million would work. Ethan, please. I’m begging you.” His voice was softer than Daddy’s, but it felt even colder. “Begging? I begged you once, Serena. I begged you to come to me.” He paused. “Is Damien Vance short on cash? Or is this another one of your little plays, a scheme to let Vance Corp swallow up Croft Industries? Think about the past, Serena. You were never worthy of my love.” He hung up. Mommy was like a flower in the garden, her stem finally snapped by the wind. She was completely lifeless. I don’t know why, but a wave of sadness washed over me, deeper than the time my neighbor, Leo, said he didn’t want to be my friend anymore. It seemed like all the strength had drained out of her. One of the bad men picked up a heavy club and walked toward her. “Mommy!” I screamed. Her eyes flickered towards me, and she started struggling against the metal cuffs binding her hands. “I have jewelry, a lot of it. You know who I am… the Shaws are rich. I can go back, sell everything, and give you the money. Just let Lisa go. Please, send her home.” Her voice was a desperate rasp. “She’s so small. She’ll die here.” The man laughed coldly. “Like we care.” “Let you go? You think we’re that stupid?” “Time’s up.” And with that, the club in his hand came crashing down on her. She didn’t cry out this time. I knew it must have hurt terribly, but she didn’t make a sound. She just kept whispering for me to run. The club quickly turned red. Mommy slumped out of the chair and fell to the floor. I scrambled over to her, trying to shield her with my own small body. Red water and strands of her hair were matted to her face. I didn’t hesitate. I wrapped my arms around her. “You’re all monsters!” My sobs echoed through the empty, skeletal building. The bad men stood together, talking amongst themselves. “Looks like he’s really not coming.” “Can you believe it? The richest man in Port Sterling is so cheap and heartless he won’t even save his own kid.” “We got the call. They said to wrap it up. We gotta get out of here before it’s too late. Settle it on-site.” “Before we do… maybe we should have a little fun first, boys?” Their laughter was like the sound of monsters on TV, only so much scarier. Mommy’s eyes, clouded with red, were wide with terror. She kept shaking her head, trying to tell me to run. I just held her tighter, refusing to let go, my cries of “Mommy!” tearing from my throat. One of them grabbed me, lifting me up like a doll. “Too noisy.” I felt a sharp, searing pain in my neck, and as I heard Mommy’s final, terrified scream, the world went black.

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