The First Year The first year after Mike’s affair, I was a wreck. The nights were sleepless, the days filled with a gnawing sense of worthlessness. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, agree to a divorce. The Second Year Mike moved out. He said a two-year separation was legal grounds for divorce anyway. That winter, our son, Noah, came down with a vicious stomach flu in the middle of the night. I carried him out into a blizzard, his small body wracked with vomiting as I struggled to find a cab. I was alone, frantic, but somehow, I got us through it. The Third Year Noah wanted to travel for his summer vacation. Mike said he was too busy. So I gathered my courage, and the two of us boarded a plane to Japan. We rode the trains from one city to the next, just exploring as we pleased, lost in our own little world of adventure. The Fourth Year Mike and his mistress broke up. He called, saying he wanted to come back home. I just laughed. “No, thanks,” I told him. “This family is doing just fine without you.” 1 It wasn’t until Mike called to discuss the divorce proceedings that I realized it had been two whole years since he’d left. When I opened the door, the sight of him standing there felt surreal, like a ghost from a past life. He shifted his weight, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Can I come in?” I nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. In the entryway, he bent down, automatically opening the shoe cabinet for a pair of slippers. He froze. Inside, there was only one small pair for Noah. I handed him a pair of disposable shoe covers from a nearby hook. “Use these. I did a big clear-out a while ago. Threw out anything we didn’t need.” “Right,” he grunted, the displeasure evident in his tone. But what did he expect? The day he’d walked out with his suitcase, he had declared, “I’m never coming back.” Once a person is gone, their things are just junk waiting for the trash, aren’t they? A pot of tea I’d just brewed was steeping on the coffee table. Out of a sliver of politeness, I asked, “Want some tea?” He hesitated, and before he could speak, I remembered. “Oh, that’s right. You only drink coffee. I forgot.” I added, “The coffee machine’s long gone, sold it. So you’ll have to make do.” He flinched, a shadow of melancholy crossing his face. “It’s like I never even lived here.” I smiled, a sharp, humorless thing. “This isn’t your home, Mike. You found a new one a long time ago, remember?” 2 Mike and I were college sweethearts. He was gentle, a capable professional, and incredibly caring. Three years into our marriage, Noah was born. As a freelancer, my schedule was flexible enough to balance work and motherhood. With the help of our nanny, life wasn’t overwhelming. Better yet, whenever Mike came home, he’d dive right into household chores and playing with Noah. We were a happy little family of three, wrapped in a bubble of domestic bliss. I truly believed it would last forever. Then, when Noah turned three, things changed. Mike’s parents, who had been living in their old house, got into a bitter dispute with a neurotic neighbor and decided to move. They rented the apartment right next door to us. I wasn’t in a position to object; they weren’t asking to move in with us, after all. They were traditional, hardworking people. Mike’s mother insisted on cooking all our meals, calling us over every evening. His father adored Noah. “Claire,” he’d say with a broad grin, “you’re busy with work during the day. Why don’t you let us look after Noah? We can help.” Before I could even formulate a response, Mike jumped in. “Yes! That’s a great idea. It would give you a break, honey.” I swallowed the refusal that was on the tip of my tongue. I tried to reassure myself. They were educated, kind people. They meant well. And they were just next door; I could pop over to see Noah whenever I wanted. The new arrangement did free me up, giving me more time to take on projects. We had a few minor disagreements over parenting styles, but for the most part, we got along fine. Every evening, Mike and I would have dinner at his parents’, chatting and laughing, before taking Noah home for more playtime. Life was good. I settled into this new rhythm, thinking our happiness was secure. But then, Mike started to change. It began subtly. He developed a passion for fitness, often going out for long runs after dark. “I need to stay in shape,” he’d argue, full of conviction. “Otherwise, I’ll be an old man by the time Noah’s big enough to really play, and I won’t have the energy.” I found it amusing and let him be. Soon, his weekends started disappearing too. “The company’s been organizing a lot of team-building events lately,” he’d explain. “To boost morale.” The time he spent with me and Noah dwindled. But whenever he returned, he’d be buzzing with stories from his “retreats.” “You wouldn’t believe it, Claire. One of my teammates, she’s a real daredevil. Almost fell off a waterfall trying to win a challenge, but I grabbed her just in time.” I didn’t want to be a wet blanket, so I’d listen quietly. Company events were mandatory, I told myself. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a photo on his phone that I realized the “daredevil” teammate he was so proud of was a woman. And she was his regular partner for his night runs and gym sessions. I gently probed, my words veiled with caution. He just laughed, a booming, dismissive sound. “She’s married, for God’s sake. You’re letting your imagination run wild.” I felt foolish. After all these years, I trusted his character, his upbringing. He loved Noah, and with his parents living right next door, he wouldn’t dare do something so reckless. But I was too naive. And naive people get struck by lightning. When Noah was four, the truth finally hit me. He was cheating. With his female subordinate. And it had been going on for some time. 3 That day was, without a doubt, one of the worst of my life. An impulsive investment in gold futures had backfired spectacularly. A shift in global politics sent the market into a freefall, and in just twenty-four hours, I lost nearly thirty thousand dollars. To make matters worse, my biggest client, a long-term contract I had been counting on, called to apologize. “Sorry, Claire. The new procurement chief is insisting we only sign with large firms.” The double blow shattered me. Mike happened to be away on a business trip, so I was alone. I made an excuse to his parents and didn’t pick up Noah. Night fell. It was nearly eleven, and my stomach was burning with hunger, but the thought of food was nauseating. I curled myself into a tight ball in the dark space beneath my desk, the room lit only by the faint, dreary glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. I gnawed on my knuckles, my mind racing. How could I tell Mike about the money I’d lost out of sheer recklessness? How would I find a new client big enough to replace the one I’d lost? A swarm of ants seemed to be crawling under my skin. Finally, I decided to call him. He had a right to know about my failures. And deep down, I desperately needed his comfort. The phone rang and rang. No answer. I tried again. And again. Nothing. It was strange. At home, he rarely went to bed before midnight. Why wasn’t he picking up? A knot of panic tightened in my chest. What if something had happened to him? My hand trembled as I kept dialing. Five calls. Ten. Still nothing. On the twenty-second try, someone finally picked up. But the voice on the other end wasn’t talking to me. “A divorce isn’t that simple. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong.” My heart gave a violent lurch. It was Mike’s voice. I held my breath, my hand shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. Was this really happening? Was the man I had shared my life with for years cheating on me? Mike kept talking. “And my parents would never agree. The kid’s so young.” Then, another voice, a woman’s, laced with resentment. “So what about me? I can’t live like this anymore. I’m definitely getting a divorce.” Mike’s voice turned placating. “Don’t rush. Even if we do it, it’s not something that can happen overnight. Hey, why don’t we focus on our trip to the Bahamas? You book a nice hotel, I’ll pay for it.” The Bahamas? I suddenly remembered him mentioning a week-long business trip there. So, it was a romantic getaway with his lover. My heart twisted into a tight, painful knot. I felt like I was dying. I pressed a hand to my chest, gasping for air, forcing myself to keep listening to the intimate whispers between my husband and his mistress. When I heard him say, “I haven’t had feelings for her in a long time. It’s just… a sense of duty,” something inside me snapped. With a choked cry, I slammed the phone down onto the floor. The impact was so hard it sent a few books tumbling from the nearby shelf. The line went dead. I wrapped my arms around myself and sobbed, a raw, gut-wrenching sound that tore through the silent apartment. My mind was a blizzard of white noise. My gaze fell, unfocused, on a picture book lying on the floor. On the cover, the Little Mermaid was dissolving into seafoam under the sun. Just like my life. The beautiful, perfect life I thought I had, had vanished in an instant, bursting like a bubble, leaving nothing but dust and ashes. 4 Mike got home after midnight. I was waiting on the sofa, my eyes swollen and red from crying. I watched him with a cold, hard stare. He must have seen the call log on his phone. A tiny, desperate part of me still hoped he would panic, that he would rush to my side and stammer out an explanation, telling me it was all a terrible misunderstanding. But he just stood there in the doorway, his composure unnervingly intact. “I must have hit the answer button by accident,” he said calmly. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.” Then, silence. A long, heavy silence that said everything. I was trembling with grief. I swallowed the bitter acid rising in my throat. “Why?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “How could you do this to me? To Noah?” He stared at his feet, refusing to meet my eyes. Still silent. A wave of hysteria washed over me. I lunged at him, my hand connecting with his cheek in a stinging slap. “You’re a monster, Mike.” I ran to our bedroom and yanked out a suitcase. “If that’s your attitude, then there’s nothing left to say. I’m taking Noah to my parents’.” That finally spurred him to action. He moved to block my way. “It’s late. Don’t do this now. It’s not that I don’t want to talk, I just… I haven’t figured out how to tell you.” I looked up at him, my vision blurred by a fresh wave of tears. The truth was, we both knew my threat was an empty one. My parents’ house was not a sanctuary I could run to. My mother’s chronic illness meant she couldn’t handle such a shock. Once, after a fight with Mike, I’d vented to her on the phone, rashly saying, “I can’t take this anymore, I want a divorce.” The next morning, my dad called, his voice tight with anger, telling me my careless words had kept my mom awake all night and landed her in the hospital with heart palpitations. After that, I knew. They were not my safety net. Packing a suitcase was just a desperate attempt to force his hand, to make him show some kind of remorse. But what did I want him to say? What was the next step? I had no idea. My mind was a toxic swirl of resentment and hatred. I kept thinking this had to be a nightmare, that I’d wake up and everything would be as it was. But it wasn’t a nightmare. We slept in separate rooms that night. I tossed and turned, my thoughts a tangled mess, endlessly asking myself why. What did that woman have that I didn’t? What had made Mike forget about his family? And why, even after being caught, did he not even bother to lie to me? I was terrified to realize that exposing the affair didn’t automatically grant me the power to fix everything. His heart had already strayed, and there was no pulling it back. 5 We sat on the sofa, a cavern of silence between us. Mike scrubbed a hand over his face, his expression weary. “I don’t know how it got to this point,” he began, his voice low. “Maybe it’s because after Noah was born, all your attention was on him. Or maybe after my parents moved next door, I felt like someone else was sharing the load, so I just… started looking for ways to escape.” He continued, “With her… it just sort of happened. She moved here from out of state, she has two kids, a small house, lives with her in-laws… she wasn’t happy and started confiding in me. At first, I was just being a supportive boss. But then…” He trailed off, unable to finish. I didn’t want to hear the sordid details. “So what’s your plan now?” I asked, my voice sharp and loud to cover the trembling in my heart. “Divorce me and marry your soulmate from the office?” I was terrified he would say, “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” In that moment, I was utterly lost. It wasn’t just about the shattered love; it was about the cold, hard reality of my life. I was a freelancer, yes, and my time was my own. But when deadlines loomed, I needed help with Noah. Having my in-laws next door these past few years, I’d forgotten what it was like to rely on a nanny. If we divorced, could I even afford one on my own? They cost a fortune. And what about my biggest client, the one I had just lost? If I couldn’t replace that income, how would I support Noah and myself? Child support? How much would that even be? How would we split the house? And if he married that woman, would he just forget about Noah completely? What if Noah got sick, or needed something for school? Could I handle it all alone? Mike was silent for a long time. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Before you found out, I hadn’t thought about divorce.” “And now?” I pressed. He remained silent. A sharp pain shot through my head. The sleepless night had triggered a migraine. He noticed my distress, stood up, and went to the kitchen. He came back with a glass of water and a painkiller. “You should get some rest,” he said, handing them to me. “I’m going to check on Noah.” He was running away from my question. He left the apartment quickly. I closed my eyes, a vast, desolate emptiness spreading through me. I had no idea where to go from here. 6 In the days that followed, we both avoided the subject, a silent, mutual pact of evasion. A fire of unspoken rage burned inside me, but I was too afraid to let it out, terrified of a conclusion I wasn’t ready to face. Mike went to work and came home every day, acting as if nothing had happened. He stopped his night runs and weekend “team-building” trips. I continued to work from home, taking on projects and bringing Noah home from my in-laws’ whenever I could. We still had dinner at their place every evening, managing to make small talk about Noah for their sake. But back in our own apartment, we would sit on opposite ends of the sofa, with our son as the silent buffer between us, a world apart. Often, I’d wake up alone in the middle of the night, convinced it had all been a bad dream. But the empty space beside me in the bed was a cold, hard reminder that it was real. I’d lie there, tears silently streaming down my face, until the dawn broke. There is no greater torture than being forced to stand at a crossroads, with no idea which path to take. It seems like you have options, but every road is shrouded in fog and lined with thorns. My in-laws must have sensed the tension. They started taking Noah out on weekends, leaving Mike and me alone in the suffocating silence of our home. He reverted to his old, helpful self, quietly doing chores alongside me. When we were done, I’d brew a pot of tea and put a movie on the projector screen. He would sit on the other end of the sofa, his eyes fixed on the screen, though whether he was watching or just lost in thought, I couldn’t tell. Only the intermittent glow of his phone on the cushion beside him would cause his gaze to flicker. He’d just stare at it, never picking it up. I knew he was torn, caught between his family and the woman on the other end of that phone. And I was in my own agony, hating my weakness, my inability to make a clean break. I was still waiting for a man who had betrayed me to choose me, pathetically hoping life could just rewind to the way it was. But he wouldn’t even give me that.

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Married for three years, and my husband, Owen Vanderbilt, had never once touched me. So I slipped into a lace nightgown, painted convincing bruises onto my skin, and sent him a carefully staged photo of myself asleep in bed, taken from the perspective of a lover. The text was simple: “She’s incredible, man. You should divorce her. Give her to me.” I imagined Owen would be disgusted, furious. He would cast me aside like the cheap imitation of my sister he’d always treated me as. I thought, finally, this would be the end. 1 My older sister, Amelia, was in Europe, celebrating her own third wedding anniversary. When she asked what gift I wanted, I asked for an untraceable, prepaid SIM card from overseas. Holding that small piece of plastic in an empty, anonymous hotel room, I let out a long, tired breath. Then I changed into the delicate lace nightgown I’d bought specifically for this purpose. In the mirror, I carefully created a constellation of love bites across my collarbone and neck—the angry, possessive marks of a man lost to passion. I tore one of the thin straps of the nightgown, as if it had been ripped in a moment of frantic desire. Finally, I smeared my perfectly applied lipstick, giving it a just-kissed, blurry edge. I mussed up the other side of the bed to make it look slept in, then lay down and closed my eyes. The camera was on a timer, positioned to look like someone else was taking the picture. Three… two… one. The woman in the photo looked blissfully unguarded, lost in a deep, satisfied sleep after a night of passion. I stared at the image for a long time, my mind conjuring Owen’s reputation in the business world. They called him the smiling tiger, a ruthless capitalist who devoured his competition without a second thought. All I knew was the cold, indifferent mask he wore for me. His warmth, his affection—all of it was reserved for my sister. I was prepared for the worst. Even if he felt nothing for me, no man could tolerate such a blatant betrayal. He would retaliate, of course. But in the end, he would be so disgusted he would have no choice but to divorce me. And a divorce was all I wanted. I closed my eyes and hit send. The taunting message—“She’s incredible, man. You should divorce her. Give her to me.”—appeared on his screen, along with the photo. Delivered. 2 Two seconds later, a reply came. Owen: Who is this? I took my time changing, stretching out the silence, savoring the moment. Was he losing his mind? The golden boy, the man who had been perfect his entire life, was now at the mercy of an anonymous tormentor. At the mercy of me, the woman he’d held in the palm of his hand like a powerless doll for three years. It was a small, sweet taste of victory after an eternity of suffocation. As I slipped into my normal clothes, two more messages came through. Owen: Don’t bother with a cheap AI face swap. State your purpose. Owen: I suggest you tell me everything right now. If you do, I might leave your body in one piece. I chuckled. Me: Not sure if it’s AI, Mr. Vanderbilt? Why don’t you ask your wife? The marks on my baby’s neck won’t fade that quickly. (＾ｖ＾) I was bold because I knew he was in the middle of a crucial business negotiation overseas. He wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks. Suddenly, my personal phone rang, jolting me. It was Owen. The ringing was frantic, insistent. I stared at the screen, letting it go to voicemail. It immediately started ringing again. He was truly furious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was walking a tightrope over a canyon. Me: Stop calling, Mr. Vanderbilt. We went five rounds. Your wife is exhausted. The calls stopped. My phone fell into a dead, ominous silence. I switched back to the burner phone. Me: I’m not trying to break you up, Mr. Vanderbilt. Your wife and I are in love. Be a gentleman and let her go. It’s not a good look for a man like you to be cheated on so publicly. No reply. My hands trembled as I threw the torn nightgown into the trash can. I checked out of the hotel and drove back to our sterile, modernist mansion. The maids were cleaning, the house was quiet—as if nothing had happened. I showered and went to sleep. In the pale light of dawn, I was woken by the roar of an engine and the screech of tires outside my window. Before I could fully process it, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Beth, open the door.” His voice was deep and controlled, but a raw, frantic edge bled through. A bucket of ice water seemed to dump over my head. I was wide awake and freezing. It was Owen. 3 My mind raced. How could he be back? I was just a stand-in, a tool. Why would he drop everything for me? Another knock, three sharp raps, the sound of a man exercising immense self-control. “Beth,” he said, his voice faster now. “I need to see you.” I sat up, my mind a blank slate of panic. I had to be convincing. I took a deep breath, forcing a sleepy, annoyed tone into my voice. “Owen? I… I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be out in a minute.” I scrambled into the en-suite, turned on the shower, and stared at my neck in the mirror. The marks I’d made with the rim of a bottle were a deep, angry purple. I had been too thorough. There was no way foundation could cover this. But I had to try. A guilty person’s first instinct is to hide the evidence. Owen was no fool; I had to play my part perfectly. I wet my hair to look like I’d just showered, then pulled on a black, high-necked dress that covered me from my wrists to my chin. I placed a small bandage over the one visible mark peeking above the collar. I practiced a look in the mirror: guilty, but trying desperately to appear nonchalant. It was perfect. He would be disgusted. He would demand a divorce and tell me to get out. I opened the door. He was sitting on the sofa, his brow furrowed, his eyes closed. He was pale, a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. His expensive watch was missing, as were his cufflinks. One hand clutched his phone, the other rested on the armrest, the knuckles raw and bleeding from four deep gashes. It looked like he’d punched something. Repeatedly. He hadn’t even bothered to bandage them. “Owen,” I said. “What are you doing back so soon?” He opened his eyes. His pupils were black holes. He rose from the sofa and walked toward me, his movements unnaturally slow for a man who had just flown across the world in a blind panic. I instinctively took a step back, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. His eyes locked onto the bandage on my neck, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. “Did something happen?” I asked, my voice tight. He didn’t answer. His fingers, cold as ice, hovered over the bandage. I braced myself for him to rip it off, to expose my lie and then, in a fury of humiliation, to tear up our sham of a marriage contract. I trembled, closing my eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But his fingers only rested gently on the bandage. “How did this happen?” he asked, his voice strangely calm. I feigned a flustered look. “I… I cut myself on a piece of paper last night.” “A piece of paper,” he repeated slowly, blinking. “What were you doing last night?” His fingertips slipped under the collar of my dress. One sharp tug and he would see everything. I swallowed hard. “I went out. For a deep conditioning treatment for my hair.” His breathing grew heavy. He stared at me, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to devour me whole. His hand tightened on my collar, pulling me off balance until I was stumbling into his chest. I threw my hands up to stop him, but his other arm snaked around my waist, a band of steel, squeezing tighter and tighter, as if trying to crush the anger out of his system. My strength failed, my arms going limp against his chest. He moved closer, inch by agonizing inch. “Owen, no,” I whispered, not knowing what he intended, only that it felt dangerous. My mind was white noise, my voice a pathetic, shaky plea. “Please, don’t touch me.” He froze. After a few seconds, he slowly withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist. His face was a mask of grim fury. It was only then that I realized what I had said, what it must have sounded like to him: I’m scared of you. Don’t touch me. Please. “I’m assigning you two bodyguards,” he announced, his voice flat and detached. “They will accompany you whenever you leave the house. For your safety.” Then he turned and walked away without another word. As the sound of his car engine faded, I stood in the silent room, completely bewildered. He wasn’t going to punish me? How was that possible? 4 I was under constant surveillance. For five days, I couldn’t get near the burner phone. Owen, for some inexplicable reason, wrapped up his overseas business in record time and returned. Once he was back, the security eased slightly. I finally had my chance. I sent a message from the burner. Me: A bit of an overreaction, isn’t it? So she cheated. Just get a divorce. You don’t have to lock her up. He replied almost instantly. Owen: She didn’t cheat. I trust her. Beth isn’t the kind of person who would do something like that. I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. How could he possibly know what kind of person I was? He had never shown an ounce of interest in me. I pushed forward, adding fuel to the fire. Me: You don’t know your wife as well as I do, Mr. Vanderbilt. Me: She has three moles. One on her ribs, one next to her navel, and one… lower. When I connect them with my finger, tracing a line down her skin, she shivers uncontrollably. Me: But you’re her husband. You must have known that already, right? After three years of marriage? The last line was pure venom. He had never touched me. CRASH! A loud bang echoed from upstairs. From his study. I flinched, quickly hiding the phone. The crashing sound came again, several more times. Then I heard his footsteps on the stairs. “Have someone clean that up,” he told the butler, his voice strained. “And order a new computer.” His footsteps grew closer. I was certain he was coming to tear me apart. I dove under the covers, pretending to be asleep. The lock on my bedroom door had mysteriously broken after his return. He turned the handle. Seeing the dark room, he remained silent. But in the stillness, I could hear his ragged breathing, his frantic, uneven heartbeat. I wondered if he could hear mine. He walked to my bedside. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel his gaze, sharp and hot, fixed on my stomach, as if he were debating whether to confirm his suspicions. Don’t move. Breathe steadily. Keep acting. I remained perfectly still. Suddenly, the mattress dipped beside me. He lay down on the bed. That cold, burning gaze never left me. I clenched my jaw. In for a penny, in for a pound. I had to push him further. As if in a pleasant dream, I turned over, snuggling into his side. He stiffened. The intense gaze on me softened. “Honey…” I murmured, as if talking in my sleep. Owen went completely rigid. I pressed my advantage, wrapping my arms around him, my voice a syrupy sweet whisper. “Honey, hold me.” I expected him to be furious, to shake me awake. I had never called him that. He knew I was talking to someone else. But he didn’t. He stared at me, his grip on my arm tightening until I was sure he would break it, his whole body trembling with rage. But when I let out a soft whimper of pain, he forced himself to relax his hold. He cupped the back of my head, pulling me closer. He kissed my hair. Then, his hand began to stroke my back, a clumsy, gentle gesture meant to soothe me back to sleep. “I’m here,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Honey’s holding you.” I froze. This bizarre calm was a new level of insanity. Owen was a brilliant, logical man. He should have known from the first text that I was having an affair. He should have drafted divorce papers to avoid a scandal, forced me out with nothing. Instead, he denied it, again and again, with a frantic, stubborn desperation. And now he was trying to steal the sweet nothings meant for another man. What was he doing? Thinking I was asleep, he gently lifted the blanket. His finger traced a line along my ribs, searching for the moles. He found them, his fingertip cool against my skin. The touch was light, feather-soft, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me. I hadn’t known—I had made it all up—that being touched there would feel like that. I shuddered violently, the pretense almost impossible to maintain. I tried to pull away, but he stopped, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me flush against his body. He held me so tightly I could feel the frantic, powerful thrum of his heart against my own ribs. “You’re mine,” he whispered into the darkness. “And I am yours.” He was completely unhinged. He had abandoned all logic, all reason, and become something primal. A possessive beast. It was as if he believed that by trapping me in his den, he could make me his property. He had objectified me, objectified himself. We weren’t two humans with fragile souls; we were two iron locks. And with a ‘click,’ we were bound together. In the darkness, I opened my eyes, staring at his face in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window. He was truly, terrifyingly insane. I finally drifted off, my dreams filled with the memory of three years ago, of me begging him to let me go. “I don’t owe you anything!” I had screamed. He had looked at me with those cold eyes and said, “Yes, you do. Your sister ran out on our wedding. You will spend the rest of your life paying her debt. I will never let you go.” I woke up, and he was gone. The bed beside me was neat and cool, as if he had never been there at all.

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Nine months of pregnancy, a textbook delivery expected any moment. But my husband Kenny’s friend, Dr. Chloe Shaw, made a fatal mistake. Instead of the labor-inducing drug I needed, she administered the one that terminates a pregnancy. While I was hemorrhaging on a hospital bed, my miscarriage becoming a trending tragedy on the news, Kenny was spotted at a downtown food truck, grilling steak skewers for Chloe. The entire city was waiting for me to explode, to tear them apart in a public spectacle. I did nothing of the sort. When I confronted Chloe, she gave me the full “career woman” sermon, smoke curling from her lips. “You think the world revolves around men and petty drama, don’t you? Some of us have more important things to do than bicker over who’s sleeping with whom.” She was all cool confidence. “Your husband is the one chasing me. I don’t believe in love, and I certainly don’t waste my time on jealousy.” She promised she would cut things off with Kenny. But when I returned home that night, Kenny was waiting. His eyes were bloodshot as his hands closed around my neck, squeezing. “What did you say to her?” he snarled, his voice a low growl. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort it takes me to calm her down after one of your little scenes?” … When my assistant reported this to me over the phone, I actually laughed. Kenny, the immaculate, obsessive Kenny, who claimed to have a crippling germaphobia, wouldn’t even touch me without me first going through a full cleansing ritual. Now he was slumming it at a greasy food truck, getting smoke and char on his designer clothes for her. “Keep me updated,” I whispered, my voice tight, my fingernails digging so deep into my palm I didn’t even feel the skin break. I was about to hang up when a nurse bustled into my private room, a clipboard in her hand. “Mr. Heston sent this over,” she said, her tone brisk and dismissive. “It’s a liability waiver. You need to sign it, confirming your miscarriage was the result of you taking unprescribed medication against medical advice.” My child was Kenny’s child, too. And he wasn’t just letting the killer get away with it. He was helping her bury the evidence, to scrub Chloe’s hands clean of our baby’s blood. My knuckles went white as I gripped the papers. I looked up at the nurse, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady. “Do you know who I am?” She scoffed. “I don’t care who you are. Dr. Shaw has Mr. Heston in her corner. I suggest you sign the papers and stop making trouble. It’ll be better for you in the long run.” When I didn’t move, she had the audacity to grab my hand, trying to force the pen into my fingers. “Stop!” A senior doctor rushed into the room, blocking the nurse’s path. His face was pale. “Are you insane?” he hissed at her. “This is Ms. Elara Vance. She is the primary benefactor of this entire hospital. Her family has invested tens of millions. Do you want to be blacklisted from every medical institution in the country?” The nurse’s condescending smirk vanished. She dropped to her knees, her forehead hitting the polished floor with a sickening thud, the pride she wore moments before now trampled into dust. The senior doctor tried to smooth things over, suggesting a woman of my stature shouldn’t concern herself with such trivial matters. The matter was trivial. But my business with Kenny Heston was anything but. He didn’t call once during the week I was in the hospital. Not a single text. The day I was discharged, I went to find him. At Chloe’s apartment. It was in a grimy, rat-infested alley on the forgotten edge of the city. Yet Kenny, the man who preached about hygiene and purity, had apparently been living here for a week. The door was wide open. Chloe was leaning against the frame, smoking a post-coital cigarette, her eyes hazy. She saw me and her lip curled in a sneer. “Of course. The second you hear he’s with me, you come running to make a scene,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Is your entire life just about a man? Would you just shrivel up and die without one? You’re an embarrassment to women everywhere.” She tapped her own cheek, a gesture of disgust aimed at me. I smiled. A flick of my wrist and this woman would be fired. Another, and she’d never work in a public institution again. She wasn’t worth my time. I cut straight to the point. “Where is he?” Kenny emerged from the dim apartment, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. And in that instant, a cryptic social media post Chloe had made a week ago suddenly made perfect, sickening sense. “Some men are lions. This one’s a dragon, and he needs taming.” Any lingering hope I had withered and died. The betrayal was no longer a suspicion; it was a certainty. When he saw me, Kenny jolted awake, instinctively covering himself. His expression screamed, Property of Chloe Shaw: Do Not Touch. It was a far cry from the man who used to whisper in my ear during our most intimate moments. “Elara, you’re so soft, so perfect. I love you so much I’d die for you…” I closed my eyes, letting that memory turn to ash. When I opened them again, they were clear. “I want a divorce.” Kenny froze, then, unbelievably, he smirked and leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t be dramatic. Can’t you see what this is? I’m just… practicing.” “You just had a miscarriage,” he continued, his tone patronizing. “Your body is weak. I can’t risk hurting you if I lose control. I have to practice my technique on someone else.” Yes, he was a man who lost control. The angry, possessive marks covering Chloe’s body were a testament to that. Chloe, having finished her cigarette, blew a final plume of smoke in his direction. “So little masculine energy,” she drawled. Kenny’s body went rigid. He violently shoved me away. “You want to do this?” he spat, his voice turning ugly. “I work my ass off to provide for you, and I can’t have a little fun? You sit at home all day doing nothing, and instead of being supportive, you hound me? With your status, what would you even do without me? If you learn to behave, maybe I’ll find time to come home on Sundays.” Chloe chimed in, pointing a finger at me. “You chose to be a housewife. You should know your place. If you’re going to live off a man, you exist to please him. You don’t get to ask questions.” Kenny nodded eagerly. “Chloe gets it. She’s a modern woman. We have more in common.” Looking at this stranger before me, a cold fire ignited in my chest. I kept my voice steady, dangerously calm. “Is that your final answer?” He frowned. “What do you mean?” I ignored him and dialed my assistant. “Terminate our partnership with Heston Corp. Liquidate all our shares, dump them at a loss if you have to. I want their credit lines frozen and their capital chain shattered by morning.” My assistant, the consummate professional, didn’t ask why. “Yes, Ms. Vance. It will take a few hours to execute.” The small apartment fell silent. Then, Kenny and Chloe burst into hysterical laughter. “Are you insane?” Kenny wheezed. “You think Heston Corp is some street-side taco stand you can just wish out of existence? Go home and do the dishes, Elara. Stop daydreaming.” They took turns mocking me, their words a duet of derision. Finally, Kenny shoved me toward the door, telling me to go home and wait for him. They didn’t believe me. But the countdown to Heston Corp’s demise had already begun. I went home, packed a single bag, and left the house I had shared with him for ten years without a backward glance. That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. I woke the next morning to a new viral story about Kenny. At dawn, he had posted a video. In it, he was kneeling on a bed of nails, tearfully listing his “sins” and begging Chloe for forgiveness. It was a pathetic, groveling performance. The public, however, didn’t see it as a lover’s quarrel. They saw it as a reflection of my cruelty. He was a powerful CEO, and I had supposedly driven him to this public humiliation over a petty jealousy. The comments were brutal. “Does she have to air their dirty laundry in public? One woman’s fit of pique is ruining a good man’s reputation.” “To be this much of a failure as a wife… pathetic.” I didn’t understand the vitriol until Kenny stormed into my hotel room. He didn’t say a word. He just lunged, his hands clamping around my throat, his eyes blazing red. “You couldn’t just let it go, could you?” he seethed. “Just because of a few steak skewers, you had to threaten Chloe, leak the malpractice story, and ruin her career! Was it worth it?” “Do you know how she’s been? A complete wreck! I can’t even console her anymore!” So that was it. His rage wasn’t about his reputation; it was because his mistress was upset. He saw the confusion on my face and threw a stack of photos at me. They were gruesome, bloody pictures of a slaughtered cow, knives stuck in it at grotesque angles. “Since you hate beef so much,” he hissed, “I’ll make every cow in this city suffer!” “I didn’t send those to her,” I said, my voice hoarse. He didn’t believe me. “It’s gone too far. You’re going to the press. You’re going to confess that you caused your own miscarriage by taking illegal drugs. And you’re going to apologize to Chloe in front of the entire country.” “I will not apologize for something I didn’t do.” For a split second, I saw murder in his eyes. He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile, and produced a small, ornate box from his coat. My baby’s urn. “If you don’t do as I say,” he whispered, “this little box might just slip and fall. It would be a shame for it to shatter, wouldn’t it?” My vision narrowed. “How… how do you have that?” “That doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is your answer. Will you apologize, or not?” My body trembled. I stared at the urn, a wave of helpless, sickening despair washing over me. I had lost. “Fine,” I choked out. “I’ll do it.” He didn’t care that our child was dead. He didn’t even care enough to respect his ashes. For Chloe, he had become a monster. I remembered then. The car crash I’d had a year ago; he was too busy attending Chloe’s promotion ceremony to sign my emergency surgery consent form. The ultrasound appointment he’d missed; he was in the gastroenterology unit next door, getting his stomach pumped because he’d eaten pork, a meat Chloe found “disgusting.” He had remade his entire life for her. And he would unmake mine to keep her happy.

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Cathy, my fiancé Ethan’s true love, saved his father with a bone marrow donation. The Northwood family didn’t just thank her—they worshipped her. She became their saint; I became the stain on their perfect story. While she was celebrated as the “Angel of Ashton City,” showered with mansions and luxury cars, I lay in my room, coughing blood, my back covered in deep purple wounds. While she glowed with health, I could barely stand. When I needed medical care, our joint account had been emptied—to buy Cathy designer handbags. When I showed them my donation certificate, their gratitude turned to rage. “Cathy risked her life,” Ethan’s mother snarled, slapping me. “You’re a disgrace.” I died on their engagement day, hearing the celebration through hospital walls, my heart full of hate. Then I woke up—reborn—on the day the hospital called to say I was a match for Ethan’s father. This time, I’d choose differently. This time, I’d marry the one man the Northwoods feared most: their sworn enemy, the blind CEO they’d ruined. 1 The sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital corridor filled my lungs. The single sheet of paper in my hand, the report confirming the “successful bone marrow match,” felt as heavy as a tombstone. The memory of that thick needle piercing my spine, again and again, sent a phantom shock of pain through my nerves. I smiled. Then, before the doctor’s astonished eyes, I tore that single sheet of paper—the one that held the Northwood dynasty’s fate—into a shower of confetti and tossed it into the trash. I swiped open my phone, blocked the hospital’s number, and deleted it. My fingers flew across the screen, dialing a number I had only ever seen in headlines of the financial news. A name I had admired from afar but never dared to approach. Edward Howell. The heir to Howell Industries, the man whose empire and eyesight had been destroyed by the Northwoods’ machinations. The line connected almost instantly, met with a wall of dead silence. I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Mr. Howell,” I began, my voice steady, “my name is Sophia Hayes. I’m Ethan Northwood’s fiancée. I have the core project data and fatal security vulnerabilities for Northwood Industries for the next three quarters. I want to make a trade.” His breathing on the other end remained calm, as if I’d just offered him the weather report. “What kind of trade?” “Marry me,” I said, each word a deliberate, sharp-edged stone. “I’ll be your wife, and this corporate intelligence will be my dowry. I have only one condition: give me your protection and your resources. I want to see the House of Northwood burn to the ground.” The silence on the other end stretched for a full thirty seconds. I thought he was going to hang up, dismissing me as a lunatic. Finally, he spoke. His voice was a low, resonant baritone. “City Hall. Thirty minutes.” The line went dead. It was all business, cold and efficient, without a single wasted word. Holding the freshly printed marriage certificate—the paper a startling, almost violent shade of red—was the first moment this new life felt real. That afternoon, my phone rang. It was Ethan, his voice crackling with an unfamiliar fury. “Sophia! Where the hell have you been? We found a match for my father, but the hospital said they can’t reach you!” “Oh,” I replied, my tone placid. “I was busy. I got married.” “What?!” His roar nearly shattered my eardrum. “Are you insane, Sophia? What kind of game are you playing at a time like this? Get your ass back here, right now! Don’t you forget who pays your bills and gives you the life you have!” A small, cold laugh escaped my lips. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Ethan. My name is Sophia Hayes. And as of this morning, the name next to mine on a marriage certificate is Edward Howell.” The other end of the line fell dead silent. Then, his mother snatched the phone, her voice a shrill shriek. “You venomous bitch, Sophia! Are you trying to kill us all? How could you marry that blind cripple? You ungrateful viper!” I hung up. I’d heard enough. Less than an hour later, Ethan’s retaliation came. He called an emergency press conference. In front of the cameras, he looked haggard, his face a mask of profound sorrow. “My fiancée, Sophia Hayes,” he began, his voice breaking, “in a fit of pique, has chosen this moment—the moment she learned my father’s life was in her hands—to not only refuse to donate her bone marrow, but to spitefully run off and marry my greatest business rival.” He paused, letting the tragedy sink in, his eyes pleading with the cameras. “I cannot fathom how a person can be so cold, so heartless. To put a petty grudge before a human life… I stand before you today to apologize. To apologize for my father’s fate, and for ever loving such a treacherous woman.” It was a masterful performance. The narrative of the devoted son, betrayed by a cruel fiancée, exploded across the internet. I became the villain: cold-blooded, vindictive, monstrous. I stared at the news on my phone, calmly adding this new, public hatred to the very top of my revenge list. The Howell estate was as dark and imposing as a fortress. The moment I stepped through the gates, I felt the suffocating weight of its history. A butler, a man well past fifty, intercepted me. His demeanor was polite, but his eyes were filled with undisguised suspicion. “Miss Hayes,” he said stiffly. “Mr. Howell is waiting for you in his study. Your luggage will be brought to the guest room after it has been… sanitized.” I nodded, saying nothing, and walked toward the study. Edward Howell sat behind a massive oak desk. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses that obscured the upper half of his face, yet I could feel his gaze on me, sharp and analytical. The silence in the room was a physical presence. My ex-fiancé, Ethan, had never commanded this kind of intimidating power. After a long moment, he finally spoke. “The Northwood project vulnerabilities. I want the details.” I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I walked closer, stopping just before his desk. “Mr. Howell, have you been experiencing increased pressure behind your eyes recently? Accompanied by intermittent migraines and nausea?” His head tilted toward me. I couldn’t see his expression, but I knew his guard was now fully raised. “What are you trying to say?” “They’re classic side effects of the kind of nerve damage you sustained. Medication only offers temporary relief,” I said, weaving my own past agony into a plausible fiction. “A… friend of mine went through a similar ordeal after a bone marrow transplant. She discovered that applying gentle pressure to specific acupressure points around the orbital bone, combined with a warm compress, can significantly alleviate the nerve pain. Would you like to try?” Edward remained silent. The butler, however, stepped forward. “Miss Hayes! Mr. Howell’s health is managed by a team of the world’s leading specialists. Your input is not required!” I ignored the butler, my focus entirely on Edward. “And yet, those leading specialists haven’t cured your blindness, have they? My method is risk-free. It will only take five minutes.” Another long, tense silence stretched between us. Finally, he gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. I moved around the desk to stand behind him. Drawing on the muscle memory of a thousand nights spent soothing my own pain, I found the pressure points with practiced ease. The moment my fingertips touched his temples, his entire body went rigid. I paid it no mind, applying a steady, gentle pressure. Five minutes later, I withdrew my hands. “How do you feel?” He didn’t answer. He simply waved a hand, and the butler, understanding the silent command, bowed and exited the room, closing the heavy doors behind him. We were alone. “The resources you asked for, you’ll have them,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “The study downstairs is yours to use. What you can unearth is up to you.” It was the first seed of trust. That night, using the limited access he’d granted me, I anonymously packaged the core code vulnerabilities of “Starlight Innovations,” a key subsidiary of Northwood Industries, and sent it to a handful of the most aggressive financial news outlets. In my past life, that same vulnerability had cost the Northwoods nearly a billion dollars. The next morning, the news broke. Starlight’s stock plummeted the second the market opened, triggering a massive panic sell-off. Ethan’s first call was to Cathy. He had no idea his phone was now bugged, courtesy of my new husband’s resources. “Cathy, baby, don’t worry,” he said, trying to sound confident. “This is nothing. It’s obviously that blind bastard Edward Howell, trying to play dirty. Does he really think these cheap shots can take me down? He’s pathetic!” On the other end, Cathy’s signature sweet, innocent voice was a balm to his ego. “Ethan, please don’t be angry. I know you can handle this. But… about Sophia… now that she’s married to him, do you think she’ll tell him things? About our family?” “Her? What does she know?” Ethan scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. “She’s a brainless socialite who only knows how to shop. I’m just using her to piss off Howell. She’s a useless pawn in his house now, nobody cares about her. You’re the one that matters, Cathy. You just focus on getting strong. Dad needs you.” I listened to their conversation, a cold smile touching my lips as I switched off the recording. A useless pawn? Excellent. A hunter’s greatest advantage is prey that feels perfectly safe. As I had predicted, Ethan’s father’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse a few days later. The Northwood family was thrown into chaos. I “helpfully” arranged for an anonymous tip to be sent to them, along with a forged lab report suggesting that Cathy was, in fact, a potential match. Instantly, all their hopes, all their pressure, landed squarely on Cathy’s slender shoulders. Soon, the news was all over the society pages: The Northwoods were hosting a grand charity gala to thank the community for its support, and to publicly honor the “great sacrifice” of their savior, Miss Cathy. I saw the announcement and knew their plan immediately. They were building a public altar, a stage of moral high ground from which Cathy could not possibly descend. They would force her hand in front of the entire city. It was a magnificent play, a drama of “selfless love.” I contacted the team Edward had assigned to me. “I want you to fan the flames. Make the story go viral. The headline should be: ‘#Angelic Beauty to Donate Again for Love; Northwood Heir Pledges His Life in Gratitude#’” “I want every person in this city talking about it. I want every camera, every microphone, pointed directly at Cathy’s innocent, perfect face.” Edward’s resources were formidable. Overnight, Cathy became a legend. A living saint, willing to risk her own health for the man she loved. On the night of the gala, I arrived on Edward’s arm, dressed to kill. My appearance silenced the room. Ethan and his mother stared at me, their eyes like daggers. “You have the audacity to show your face here?” his mother hissed, her voice a low, vicious snarl. “You’ve shamed our entire family! Look at Cathy, and then look at yourself. You’re not fit to even breathe the same air as her!” I ignored her, gliding directly toward a pale, visibly anxious Cathy, who was clinging to Ethan’s arm. “Cathy, congratulations,” I said, raising my champagne flute with a brilliant smile. “Soon to be the next Mrs. Northwood. The whole city is calling you an angel. It’s all so moving. It makes a selfish, ordinary person like me feel quite inadequate.” The color drained completely from Cathy’s face. Her knuckles were white where she gripped Ethan’s jacket. “Sophia… please don’t say that… I… I’m just doing what I have to do.” Ethan pulled her protectively behind him, glaring at me. “That’s enough, Sophia! Cathy is still recovering. Stop tormenting her and get out!” The show was about to begin. Ethan took the stage, delivering a heart-wrenching speech about Cathy’s “noble sacrifice.” The spotlight found her, and a hundred cameras zoomed in. She was trapped. To refuse now would be to admit she was a fraud, a heartless performer who would let a man die. With tears in her eyes, she nodded meekly amidst a thunderous, adoring applause. “I… I’ll do it.” The room erupted. But the climax came during the “formality” of the pre-donation physical. To demonstrate the authenticity of the event, the Northwoods had brought in notaries and a medical team to perform a preliminary screening on stage. The result came quickly. The doctor, holding the report, looked deeply uncomfortable. “Mr. Northwood… I’m sorry,” he announced to the silent, expectant crowd. “But according to this preliminary screening, Miss Cathy’s physiological markers, especially her hematopoietic stem cell activity, are completely unsuitable for donation. A forced donation would not only be useless to the patient, it would pose a grave danger to Miss Cathy’s own life.” The ballroom fell into a stunned, absolute silence. The collective gaze of the city’s elite shifted from adoration to confusion, then from confusion to suspicion. A woman who wasn’t even a viable donor had put on a city-wide spectacle of self-sacrifice? The Northwood family’s grand gesture had just become a city-wide joke. Their reputation was in tatters. Later that night, I saw them in the parking garage. For the first time, I saw Ethan shove Cathy’s hand away from him. “Why didn’t you say anything?!” he raged. “Why let it get this far if you knew your body couldn’t handle it? Now my entire family is a laughingstock because of you!” “I… I thought I could… Ethan, I really wanted to save your father…” she sobbed, her tears flowing freely. But the damage was done. Once a crack appears in a perfect facade, it can never be truly repaired. The Northwoods’ public humiliation was a delightful overture to my symphony of revenge. But they weren’t finished. Desperation turns men into beasts. A week later, I was reading in the garden of the Howell estate when a sharp pain exploded at the back of my neck. My world went black. I don’t know how long I was out. When I woke, the acrid smell of disinfectant filled my nose, making me gag. I was lying on a cold, metal table. My wrists and ankles were bound tightly with thick leather straps. The blinding, shadowless lamp of an operating room glared down at me. Several figures in surgical masks and white coats surrounded me, their eyes cold and clinical, as if looking at an object, not a person. The door to the room opened. Ethan and his mother walked in. The charming, grief-stricken mask Ethan wore for the public was gone, replaced by a look of crazed, venomous hatred. His mother, the once-immaculate socialite, looked utterly deranged. “You’re awake, you worthless bitch,” she sneered, stepping forward and striking me hard across the face. “Did you think marrying that blind man would save you? You were born because of us, and you’ll die for us! Your life belongs to the Northwoods!” I didn’t struggle. I just stared at Ethan. He walked slowly to my side, a file in his hand. He slapped it onto my chest. It was my original, authentic bone marrow match report. They had found out. “Sophia,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, a stark contrast to his mother’s shrieking. “I never imagined. You’ve been playing us from the very beginning.” There was no guilt in his eyes, only pure fury at my deception. “The one person who could have saved my father… it was you all along.” He leaned in, his face inches from mine. “You had a good laugh, didn’t you? Watching us beg Cathy, watching my family become a joke. You must have enjoyed that.” I stared back at him, my silence fueling his rage. He bent closer, his lips brushing my ear, his whisper a venomous secret. “You wanted revenge, didn’t you? Well, now you’ve got it.” He straightened up and addressed the surgeon. “Prepare for live extraction.” The doctors moved without hesitation, picking up the long, brutally thick aspiration needles that had been laid out in preparation. My heart seized. The memory of that agony, of being pierced over and over, flooded my senses, and I began to struggle violently, the leather straps cutting into my wrists. “No… you can’t…” Ethan slammed his hands down on my shoulders, his grip like steel, threatening to crush my bones. His face was twisted into a mask of cruel, ecstatic triumph. “Oh, we can,” he said. “This is how you will atone, Sophia. As the former daughter-in-law of this family, this is your penance.” He pointed at me, a grand gesture to his mother, to the doctors, as if presenting a holy sacrifice to a dark god. “Her purpose, her entire value from this day forward, is to be my father’s medicine. We will use her marrow to save his life. It is her sacred duty. Her redemption.” One of the doctors approached, the needle glinting under the surgical lamp. He lowered it toward my back. The cold tip of the needle pressed against the skin of my lower back. I could feel its sharp point seeking the gap between my vertebrae. Despair, thick and suffocating, wrapped around me. My life’s only purpose, it seemed, was to be a medicine.

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I was just about to pack up my food truck for the night when a girl who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Beverly Hills mansion walked up to my counter. “Ma’am,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’d like to order one hundred servings of your pad thai.” Before I could even open my mouth, a barrage of glowing text scrolled across my vision, like captions only I could see. [Ugh, this bitch is so annoying. She actually tracked down the male lead’s mom.] [Can’t shake the main girl’s position in the family, so now she’s trying to steal her boyfriend? So predictable for someone from the sticks. So manipulative.] [Even if our girl Chloe is the fake heiress, she’s still the family favorite. This scheming nobody can try all she wants, but Aiden won’t even look at her.] [Besides, Aiden is so proud. His mom would never accept charity like this.] [Waiting for the mom to tell her to get lost!] Oh, really? That’s not something you say to a small business owner. I paused my cleanup, my hands hovering over a stack of takeout containers. A wide, accommodating smile spread across my face. “Hi, honey. You must be new here. How about I whip you up one serving first, on the house? You can try it before you commit.” 1 The girl, Audrey, hesitated, glancing back at the sleek black car waiting for her by the curb. “No, that’s okay. I should probably just take them to go.” “Nonsense. Pad thai is always best fresh off the wok,” I insisted, wiping my hands on my apron and pulling back the cloth covering my prepped ingredients. “Besides, a hundred servings? That’s going to take me a while, Audrey.” “Actually, I don’t…” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. “Wait, how did you know my name?” Before she could protest further, I had gently but firmly guided her to one of the small plastic stools in front of my truck. A moment later, she looked down at the gold-embroidered name tag on her private school blazer and gave a small, wry smile. Audrey. I’d heard that name just a couple of hours earlier. “Did you guys see what Audrey was wearing today? It’s hilarious. She makes a Chanel jacket look like something from a thrift store bin.” “I still can’t believe she’s the real McDonnell daughter. With that mousy look and zero personality? Chloe could show up in a potato sack and still outshine her.” “She’s not just plain, she’s miserable. Stalks around with that kicked-puppy look all day, like we’re the ones making her life hell.” “She’s just trying to play the victim to get Aiden’s attention. My mom always says people from the countryside are the most manipulative.” “Poor Chloe, though. I heard Aiden got into a fight with her today. I bet it was Audrey, stirring up trouble behind the scenes…” A gaggle of girls from the prep school across the street, sipping on their boba teas, chattering with a casual cruelty that didn’t belong to their age. And Audrey, the supposed villain of their story, was now sitting with her back to me, meticulously straightening the stack of napkins on the counter. I sighed and brought the steaming plate of noodles over to her. “Honey, you’ve got an ink stain on your jacket,” I said, gently patting her shoulder. “Let me help you with that.” Audrey froze, craning her neck to see the back of her blazer. I placed a hand on her arm. “You eat. I’ll take care of it. It’ll only take a second.” Our eyes met, and something in my expression must have registered. Her eyes reddened, and she looked down, whispering a quiet, “Thank you.” I took out a small tube of hand cream, dabbing the lotion onto the pristine white fabric of her school uniform. There, scrawled in glaring red permanent marker, was a single, ugly word: SLUT. The invisible text appeared again. [What’s going on? Is the mom a saint or something?] [Why is she helping her? Audrey does way worse things to Chloe later on.] [Wake up, lady! Chloe is your future daughter-in-law! Are you trying to push your own son into a pit of fire?!] 2 Ever since my son turned eighteen, these strange captions started appearing in my field of vision. From them, I’d gathered that I was living inside a young adult novel, a cliché “switched at birth” story. And my son, my wonderful Aiden, was the male lead—the poor but brilliant and aloof scholarship kid. As the story goes, the two heroines, the real heiress Audrey and the fake heiress Chloe, were locked in a battle to the death for Aiden’s affection. Audrey, cast as the wicked antagonist, used every dirty trick in the book to frame Chloe. In the end, she reaped what she sowed: her family disowned her, Aiden lost all sympathy for her, and she ended up destitute on the streets. A truly miserable fate. The captions insisted that by being kind to Audrey, I was setting my own son up for disaster. But from where I stood, the only ones getting hurt in this whole mess were the two girls. Audrey’s ending was a given. But Chloe would have to live with the guilt of having, however indirectly, caused the downfall of her adoptive parents’ biological daughter. They called it a “female-centric power fantasy,” but at its core, it was just another story pitting women against each other for a man’s attention. Even a “boy mom” like me could see the tragedy in that. Muttering under my breath, I scrubbed at the stain until the red letters faded into a pale, indistinct smudge. I went back to my station. Audrey had finished her noodles. She thought for a moment, then hesitantly pulled two crisp hundred-dollar bills from her backpack and placed them on the counter. She took a deep breath. “Ma’am, your pad thai is delicious. Please, keep the change.” My face remained impassive. “It’s not enough.” Audrey flinched. “Is pad thai from a food truck outside a private school really this expensive?” I tapped the side of my wok with a spatula, a sly grin spreading across my face. “What, you don’t want the other ninety-nine servings?” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “You know, Aiden helps me pack up every single night.” 3 At the mention of Aiden’s name, Audrey’s face flushed a deep crimson, the color spreading all the way to the roots of her hair. “I… You… Ma’am, it’s not what you think…” She clutched the corner of her shirt, looking like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. This was supposed to be a wicked antagonist? She looked like any other teenage girl with her first crush. I decided to tease her a little, clutching my chest in mock despair. “Oh, so I was mistaken. My apologies.” I sighed dramatically. “I suppose it makes sense. A boy from our circumstances… he’s not good enough for a young lady like you.” “And that kid, always with that long face, so stubborn and moody. I bet he’s not very popular at school, is he?” “That’s not true!” Audrey blurted out, cutting me off. “Aiden is a brilliant student! He’s an amazing person. Everyone likes him!” I raised an eyebrow. The male lead halo effect, of course. “And… and he’s a really kind person,” she continued, her voice gaining confidence. “The first day of P.E., I didn’t know we had to bring our own gym clothes. He lent me his, and he got punished for it—had to run five laps around the track.” “And another time, someone tripped me in the cafeteria, and my lunch went everywhere. He was the one who gave me napkins and helped me clean it all up…” It was like a dam had broken. The more she talked, the redder her face became, her eyes sparkling with a bright, innocent light. But the invisible captions remained merciless. [So he was nice to you, and you repaid his kindness by falling for him? This girl is obsessed.] [Aiden only helped you because you’re Chloe’s ‘sister.’ And you turn around and try to steal her man. What a snake.] One lone comment tried to defend her, but it was quickly buried. [That’s a bit harsh. The antagonist doesn’t even know Chloe and the male lead are a thing at this point…] So that was it. I pulled my gaze back to the present. Audrey, realizing she’d said too much, stood up awkwardly, about to say goodbye. Just then, a familiar voice cut through the evening air. “Hey, isn’t that Mr. Henderson’s car? I told him he didn’t need to wait for me today.” The next second, Aiden and Chloe were walking towards us, side by side. The boy, cool and handsome. The girl, bright and elegant. Standing together, they looked like the cover of a teen romance novel. But the girl next to me, Audrey, instantly tensed, her eyes turning wary and cold. 4 “Audrey?” Chloe hesitated for a fraction of a second when she saw her, but she recovered quickly and offered a greeting. Her eyes flickered between me and Audrey, and then a polite, practiced smile settled on her face. “Audrey, how did you know about this place? I haven’t even had a chance to tell you! Mrs. Jacobs’ pad thai is the best…” Audrey flinched, as if surprised that Chloe knew me so well. She looked down, her expression darkening, but her voice was laced with an icy self-mockery. “If you can come here, why can’t I?” Standing slightly behind her, I could see Audrey’s hand gripping her backpack strap, her knuckles white from the force. Chloe, sensing the hostility, stopped in her tracks, her smile faltering. Aiden frowned and instinctively took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Chloe. At this, Audrey’s face grew even paler. Without another word, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and bolted towards the waiting car. The captions scrolled wildly. [This is it! The first showdown! The evil antagonist is about to start targeting our girl!] [YES! I love how the male lead protected her! The antagonist must be dying inside right now.] [Well, she can’t compete with Chloe in any way. Her own parents don’t like her, the boy she has a crush on doesn’t like her. I’d be losing my mind too.] Chloe looked mortified. “Mrs. Jacobs, my sister… she just transferred here. She’s still getting used to things. If she comes by again, please… look out for her.” She then gave me a small, sincere bow. I shook my head. “It’s alright. She’s a good kid.” Just a few minutes earlier, while Audrey was eating, a stray dog had wandered up to the truck. He was a regular, a smart old mutt who always showed up around closing time to help me with any leftover sausage and pork. But with a customer here, I had to shoo him away. As I was grabbing a broom to wave him off, Audrey spoke up. “Ma’am, can you give him a couple of sausages? I’ll pay for them.” The dog, delighted with his treat, wagged his tail so hard it became a blur. Audrey watched him as she ate, a small smile playing on her lips. “I used to have a dog back home,” she told me. “A big golden retriever. I called him King. He loved sausages too.” “I haven’t seen King in a long time.” As she spoke, her voice grew quiet. I started clearing the counter. Even though she’d used a disposable plate and fork, she had placed them neatly to one side. She liked animals. And she was a little bit obsessive-compulsive. Could a girl like that really be capable of disfiguring and kidnapping another girl? “Let me help you with that, Mrs. Jacobs.” Chloe came over and naturally took the trash bag from my hands. I felt a pang of confusion. As the novel’s heroine, Chloe was nearly perfect. Raised in wealth and privilege, she wasn’t arrogant or spoiled. Instead, she was thoughtful, kind, and sincere to everyone around her. Girls that beautiful and well-off were often targets of jealousy, but in all the gossip I overheard, no one ever had a bad word to say about Chloe. Was the bitter, life-and-death rivalry between these two girls really just about… love? I glanced at Aiden’s handsome profile and began to seriously consider the feasibility of transferring him to another school. But I soon discovered I was wrong. Two weeks later, at their school’s coming-of-age ceremony, I witnessed the real reason for the hatred that would grow between the real and fake heiress. 5 The weather that day was perfect. The girls were all in their meticulously chosen formal dresses, a garden of blooming flowers, the air thick with the scent of perfume. And Audrey and Chloe were, without a doubt, the main event. The two sisters wore matching designer gowns, one pink, one blue. Chloe was the center of attention, her pale pink satin dress making her look like a delicate, blooming camellia. A little princess, cherished and adored. Audrey’s dress, on the other hand, looked like it had been hastily made. The length was wrong, and the royal blue color was too mature for her age. She was hiding in a corner, trying to read a book. I walked over, about to say hello. Suddenly, a shriek erupted from the crowd behind me. “Chloe, your dress is torn!” I turned to look. The side seam of Chloe’s gown had somehow come undone, exposing a long strip of her skin, even the edge of the adhesive bra she was wearing underneath. She crumpled to the floor in humiliation, her face so red it looked like it was bleeding. The scene descended into chaos. Girls shrieked, some rushing to shield Chloe, others scrambling to find a spare jacket. A few of the boys, with leering smirks, started to pull out their phones, hoping to sneak a picture. I frowned, about to step in. But Aiden burst into the room at that moment, shrugging off his suit jacket and quickly wrapping it around Chloe. His eyes were blazing with anger. He shot a warning glare at the boys in the corner, who sheepishly put their phones away. The immediate crisis was averted. But then, a girl with chestnut curls spoke up, her voice worried. “What are we going to do? Chloe can’t walk the red carpet in a boy’s jacket.” “Maybe we can have the chauffeur bring another dress?” Chloe, her face pale, shook her head. “There’s no time.” Everyone looked around helplessly. They were all in formal gowns; no one had a spare coat. Just then, Audrey, who had been standing on the outskirts of the crowd, spoke up, her voice barely a whisper. “I have a sewing kit. I can fix the seam.”

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On the day of my birthday gala, the pink Rolls-Royce my father gave me was smashed into a twisted wreck by my stepsister. When the paramedics arrived, my stepsister, Sylvia, was clinging to life, her voice a desperate whisper. “Claire… I’ll never dance again, I promise! Please… don’t crush my legs…” In that single moment, I became public enemy number one. My stepmother fell to her knees, begging me to spare them. My father, his face a mask of pure disappointment, disowned me on the spot. And my fiancé, Carlisle, didn’t just call off our engagement—he dragged me into his car, shattered my ankle with a golf club, and personally delivered me to the police station. “You monster,” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “Why don’t you just die!” The police arrested me for aggravated assault. Five years in prison. I was beaten more times than I could count, until there wasn’t a single inch of my skin left unmarred. They even forcibly removed one of my kidneys. Just as they’d wished, I was finally dying. And only then did they regret it. They came to me, weeping. “Claire, we’re so sorry. Whatever you want, we’ll give it to you. Anything.” 1 Five years. Nearly two thousand days and nights. I stood outside the prison gates, wearing the same sweater I had on the day I was incarcerated. It hung on me like a burlap sack, a hollow shroud over a body that was nothing but sharp bones and a tapestry of scars. The world outside felt vast and terrifying, and I was frozen, unsure of where to even take my first step. Before I could process my freedom, a dark car screeched to a halt beside me. Hands grabbed me, a cloth bag was thrown over my head, and I was shoved inside. The car sped off, eventually delivering me to an exclusive, dimly-lit lounge. The bag was ripped from my head, the sudden light stinging my eyes. Before I could get my bearings, a slick voice cut through the haze. “Well, look who’s awake.” I looked up. CRACK. A man’s hand connected with my cheek. The pain was a searing flame, but it was nothing compared to the cold, predatory gaze I felt boring into me from a shadowy corner of the room. The man who’d slapped me grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “Tsk, tsk. Dressed so heavily in the middle of summer?” He leaned in, his breath foul. “Ugh, you’re hideous. Where did they even find you?” He then spat on my face. “Disgusting.” With a final shove, he sent me sprawling to the floor. I swallowed the pain, scrambled to my knees, and hid my face in the high collar of my sweater. My voice came out as a raw, panicked rasp. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. It was my fault.” I thought if I begged, if I groveled, they would let me go. “Miss Evans,” a voice, cold as a tombstone, echoed from the dark corner. “I must say, five years have certainly changed you. The notoriously arrogant Claire Evans has learned to kneel.” The entire room fell silent, all eyes turning to watch the unfolding drama. My body trembled uncontrollably. I tried to shrink further into my collar, to disappear. The figure in the corner rose and walked toward me, his expensive leather shoes clicking softly on the marble floor. He stopped a single foot away, and the very air around him seemed to drop ten degrees, a chilling frost that threatened to suffocate me. I forced myself to look up, my gaze meeting his. It was Carlisle. His eyes, once warm, were now pits of black ice, filled with nothing but disgust and a deep, simmering hatred. “Long time no see, Miss Evans,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’ve… changed.” The formal address sent a shiver down my spine, draining the blood from my face. Suddenly, his hand shot out, his fingers clamping around my jaw. I flinched, my eyes wide with terror, but it was too late. I was trapped in his unyielding gaze. “Tsk. This face of yours… it’s truly repulsive,” he sneered, his grip tightening, his thumb digging cruelly into my cheek. “But you deserve it. You’re a viper, Claire. To do that to your own sister… After what you did to Sylvia, a ruined face is the least you deserve.” A murderous glint flashed in his eyes, and for a moment, I thought he would crush my jawbone. I didn’t hurt Sylvia. I didn’t do it. The words burned in my throat, but I choked them back. I had screamed them a thousand times five years ago. No one believed me then. No one would believe me now. “Cough…” Carlisle stared at me, his expression cold and unforgiving. Then, he abruptly released me, letting me collapse onto the floor like a discarded doll. 2 Carlisle pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped the fingers that had touched my skin. He tossed the soiled cloth onto my body with contempt. “She’s all yours,” he announced to the room with a light, dismissive laugh. “Have fun.” And with that, he turned and walked out of the suite without a backward glance. In the dim, amber light, hands grabbed me again, dragging me toward a large, circular sofa where several men were lounging, each with one or two women draped over them. “Lift your head,” one of them commanded. I remained still, my face hidden. A hand tangled in my hair and yanked my head back, forcing my face into the light. It was a gaunt, sallow mask, crisscrossed with scars. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” the man barked. “Whoa! She’s terrifying! So damn ugly,” another man exclaimed. “Who’d want to touch that? Seriously, what was Carlisle thinking? You wouldn’t even pick this up off the street.” My shoulders shook, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. “Please, sir, just let me go,” I pleaded. “I’m filthy. You don’t want to dirty your hands on me.” “At least she knows her place,” a portly man with a greasy face chimed in. He squinted at me. “You’re Claire Evans, aren’t you?” The room went quiet for a beat, then erupted in whispers. “Claire Evans… the one who went to prison.” “That’s her? The spoiled heiress of Ashton City?” “Damn, time is a cruel mistress. Look what it’s done to you, Miss Evans.” “Mr. Wallace, how can you even tell it’s her when she looks like… that?” So, the portly man was Mr. Wallace. “The way Carlisle treated her, but still called her ‘Miss Evans’… it has to be her,” Wallace said, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He rose slowly and walked toward me. He reached out as if to pat my head, and I instinctively recoiled. His other hand shot out, grabbing my hair and forcing me to look at him. “Well, Miss Evans,” he purred. “This just got a lot more interesting.” He gestured to a full bottle of whiskey on the table. “Here. Drink this whole bottle, and maybe… just maybe, I’ll let you walk out of here.” I stared at the bottle. I couldn’t. The empty space where my left kidney used to be screamed a silent warning. If I drank that, I would die right here. If I refused… maybe I’d have a chance to live. “No, please, I can’t,” I begged, dropping to the floor and bowing my head frantically. “Mr. Wallace, I’m begging you, please let me go. I can’t drink it, please, I’m begging you…” “Alright, alright, we won’t drink,” he said with a sickening smile. “If you won’t drink, we’ll just have to find another way to have some fun.” He waved a dismissive hand at the others. Understanding the signal, they quickly and quietly filed out of the room. Soon, it was just me and Mr. Wallace. He began to laugh, a low, guttural sound, as he stripped off his jacket and tie. His eyes, alight with a feverish glow, fixed on me as he advanced. My blood ran cold. I scrambled backward, using the arm of the sofa to pull myself to my feet. “Stay away from me!” “Oh, I love it when you struggle, Miss Evans,” he sneered. “Come on, show me some of that fire you had when you turned me down all those years ago.” In a panic, I grabbed anything I could reach—glasses, ashtrays, coasters—and hurled them at him. But it was useless against a healthy man. In three long strides, he was on me, pinning my arms. I opened my mouth and sank my teeth into his fleshy, oily hand. He roared in pain and flung me away. My body slammed against the cold marble floor. Before I could even try to get up, he was on top of me, his weight crushing me, his hands tearing at my clothes. I went feral, scratching, clawing, biting, fighting with the last vestiges of my strength. Enraged by my resistance, he grabbed a nearby wine bottle and brought it down hard on my head. The world exploded in a flash of light, then spun into a nauseating vortex. I went limp, feeling my life slipping away. But I can’t die, a voice screamed in my mind. Not until I’ve cleared my name. I can’t die! Just as my eyes were about to close for good, the suite door burst open. A blinding light flooded the room, and a silhouette rushed in, sending my attacker flying with a single, brutal kick. 3 I woke up in a sterile white hospital room. Sylvia was beside my bed, sitting in a wheelchair. Carlisle stood protectively behind her. Noticing I was awake, Sylvia leaned forward, her face a perfect portrait of concern. “Claire, you’re finally awake! How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” If I hadn’t lived through the hell she’d created, I might have actually believed her performance. “I heard you were released and I rushed to find you,” she continued, her voice soft with fake sympathy. “I can’t believe they took you to a place like that… to hurt you.” “Claire… why aren’t you saying anything?” I just stared at her, my gaze unwavering. “Sylvia,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I gave you everything you ever wanted. I treated you like a real sister. Why did you frame me?” “Claire, what are you talking about?” she said, feigning shock. “It’s all in the past. It’s okay, sister. I’ve already forgiven you.” I wasn’t asking for forgiveness. I was demanding an answer. “Why,” I repeated, my voice rising with an anger I couldn’t contain, “did you frame me?” Sylvia flinched as if I’d struck her, and tears immediately welled in her eyes. “Claire, I can forgive you for the harm you caused me, but why can’t you just let it go? Why do you have to keep insisting on this?” Carlisle immediately stepped forward, shielding her. “Claire, that’s enough! Don’t push your luck. Sylvia is willing to forgive and forget, and you’re still trying to force her to admit to something she didn’t do?” He glared at me. “The evidence spoke for itself. Did five years in prison teach you nothing?” Sylvia tugged on his sleeve. “Carlisle, please, just stop. It’s okay. I… I just want to be alone for a while. Let’s go.” … That evening, Sylvia returned, alone. She wheeled herself to my door, glanced down the hallway, and then quietly closed the door behind her. In her lap was a container of food. “Sister,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet. “I brought you some sushi from your favorite place. Won’t you have some?” I said nothing, just watched her, my eyes burning holes into her. She met my gaze, a slow, malicious smile spreading across her face. “No? Not even a bite?” She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Tsk. Fine. Yes. I did it on purpose. I framed you.”

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It was the seventh year since I’d framed my girlfriend and sent her to prison. On a freezing winter day, I was found in the streets, my legs mangled, my body naked, begging in the pouring rain. The onlookers cheered. “It’s karma! He knocked up Amelia Hayes and refused to take responsibility. Then he ran her over with his car to force a miscarriage.” “Even worse, after tossing her a check for a hundred and fifty grand at the hospital, he turned around and sued her for extortion, getting her locked up.” “About time, though. Amelia should be getting out soon. I heard some big shot from the city’s elite circles is picking her up from prison himself. Probably going to get justice for her.” That night, I was dragged to the outskirts of town. I was forced to watch as my parents’ throats were slit, their blood draining onto the cold ground before my eyes. The next morning, I cradled their lifeless bodies, tears of blood streaming down my face. There were some things I had planned to take to my grave. Now, I regretted that decision. 1 A well-known social justice blogger paid for my parents’ funeral. In return, I finally agreed to let him film me. In front of the camera, my twisted fingers held up my ID. “Hello, everyone. I’m the monster, Laurent Cross. The truth is, there’s more to what happened all those years ago. Today, I’m here to formally report the powerful socialite, Jacob Croft…” As soon as I sent the recorded video and all the evidence to the blogger, I got a message back from him. “Give me three days. I swear I’ll get this video trending. I’ll get you justice.” I clutched my battered old phone, a bitter, helpless smile on my face. Justice didn’t matter anymore. But there was one last thing I needed to tell Amelia. BANG! The iron door of my hovel was kicked open by the local gang leader. Before I could even turn, he grabbed me by the hair and started slapping me, left and right. “Where’s today’s take?” He held out his hand, his face a grotesque mask of menace. A wave of terror washed over me. I curled into a ball on the floor, my head in my hands, trembling and begging for mercy. “Spike, I’m sorry, please don’t hit me. This is all I made today.” My blood ran cold. My numb fingers fumbled in my pockets, finally pulling out all the money I had. A few dimes, some quarters, a couple of dollar bills. All told, it was barely twenty bucks. Ever since I fell into Spike’s hands, my daily quota was five hundred dollars. Anything less earned me a beating. After all these years, I was terrified of him. As expected, Spike was not pleased. The veins on his forehead bulged. He beat me with a wooden stick, then slammed my head to the ground, his knee pressing into my stomach, pinning me down. Then he unzipped his pants and urinated all over my face. The stench was so foul it made me gag. Before he left, he glanced dismissively at my mangled legs. “Never thought the great Laurent Cross, the heir to the Cross fortune, would end up like this. Sacrificing your own legs just to keep Amelia’s parents in that fancy nursing home, becoming my personal beggar.” “Too bad,” he sneered. “You lost your legs for nothing.” I froze, a seed of doubt planting itself in my mind. Before I could process his words, the old man who tended the local cemetery came running in, his face panicked. “That plot of land on the outskirts, the one with the graveyard… it’s been bought out for development! They’re starting construction now! They’ve already dug up your parents’ graves!” My eyes instantly turned red with fury. I ignored the filth and pain, clawing my way out of the shack as fast as I could. My parents were buried in a small, private plot owned by the villagers, where old burial traditions were still honored. By the time I got there, their bodies had been unearthed, dismembered, and tossed carelessly aside. The other graves remained untouched. “Stop! Who are you? Who told you to do this?” My face was ashen with rage. I picked up a rock and hurled it at the still-operating excavator, then pounded my fists against the hard, unforgiving ground. I hated my own powerlessness. I hated the injustice of the world. My parents had been good people their whole lives. They’d never hurt a soul. Why couldn’t they even rest in peace? “I did.” A clear, female voice sounded from behind me. Amelia stood there, looking down at me, her eyes filled with an endless, burning hatred. I stared at her, stunned, my fingernails digging into my palms. The bitter, suffocating feeling in my chest was becoming unbearable. She used to be beautiful like a spring blossom, vibrant yet gentle. Now, her beauty was sharp and cold, like a shard of ice. I knew she was here for revenge. She shot me a venomous glare, then lifted her foot, bringing the four-inch heel of her designer shoe down hard on my twisted, mangled fingers. “Argh!” A searing pain shot through me, turning my face white. My body trembled uncontrollably. I could almost hear the bones in my hand snapping. “Laurent Cross,” she hissed, “you never thought I’d get out, did you? You ran me over, killed my baby, framed me, and threw me in prison, all for your own sick pleasure.” “Today, in front of your parents’ corpses, you’re going to get a taste of what it feels like to be humiliated!” She gave a meaningful look to Jacob Croft, who was standing behind her. Jacob clapped his hands lightly, a wicked smile playing on his lips. Immediately, the construction crew gagged me with a dirty rag and dragged me over to my parents’ bodies. They tore off my clothes and began to whip me, filming the entire thing… “Mmph! Mmph!” Despair and rage consumed me. My eyes, wide with fury, were locked on her as I fought for the last shreds of my dignity. When it was over, I was tossed aside like a piece of trash, left to die. And all I could see were the faces of my parents, their eyes wide open in an eternal, silent scream. “Is that all you can take, Laurent? Do you have any idea what I went through in prison?” “No, you don’t. How could a heartless monster like you, who could even kill his own flesh and blood, possibly understand?” Amelia shrieked, her voice raw with a year’s worth of pent-up hatred. She grabbed a bag of salt and poured it over my open wounds, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across her face. I was in so much pain my face was completely white. Silent tears streamed from the corners of my eyes. My gaze was empty, dead. “I didn’t… back then… I had no choice…” 2 Back then, my family’s sworn enemy, Jacob Croft, had come for us. He swore that he would destroy everything I held dear. I thought the Cross family was powerful enough to stand against the Crofts. But I never imagined Jacob would forge alliances with the city’s criminal underworld. In just six months, he had completely erased the Cross family name from the city’s elite circles. At the time, Amelia and I were about to have our baby. For her safety, I planned to send her away in the middle of the night. But as soon as we got in the car, I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, someone had already taken my car, impersonated me, and run Amelia down. The fetus was forced out, a bloody, mangled mess. It was a horrifying sight. I knew it was a warning from Jacob. In a moment of cold, desperate clarity, I decided to play along, to let her believe the worst of me so she would hate me and stay away. But I still gave her a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, disguised as a breakup settlement. After that day, Jacob had his men watch me around the clock. I couldn’t go anywhere. By the time I was finally released, I learned that Amelia had been charged and sentenced to seven years in prison, based on a complaint that bore my forged signature. By then, the Cross family had lost all its power. All I could do was blame myself. Then, her parents were suddenly poisoned and fell into a vegetative state. Jacob used them as leverage, threatening to have them thrown out of the nursing home unless I did as he said. He forced me to lie down in the middle of the road and let a semi-truck run over my legs. Once wasn’t enough. He made the driver do it again, and again… until my legs were completely severed, a mess of flesh and bone. Only then was he satisfied. He had his men dump me with Spike, to be tortured for the rest of my days. I was terrified. I thought that by keeping the truth from Amelia, I was protecting everyone. But the moment she was released, she was manipulated by Jacob. She murdered my parents in cold blood, and now she was desecrating their graves. I finally realized how terribly wrong I had been. “No choice?” Amelia interrupted me impatiently. “You didn’t have a choice? You’re just scared of my revenge. Well, you just watch. What I have in store for you is far from over.” She pointed at my parents’ corpses, a strange, twisted smile on her cold face. “Watch closely. I’m going to feed your parents’ bodies to the dogs, as an offering to the spirit of my dead child.” “No! You can’t! My parents are innocent! They even…” My eyes widened in terror. Jacob’s eyes flickered. He kicked me hard in the chest, the pain stealing my breath and silencing my words. He shot me a mocking glance, then turned to Amelia with a gentle smile. “Amelia, even if his parents did poison yours… didn’t your mom and dad tell you when they woke up yesterday that I was the one who saved them? Let it go. An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.” At his words, Amelia’s eyes reddened. She fell into his arms, her voice choked with emotion. “Jacob, thank you. I see now that you’re the one who’s always been there for me.” My eyes widened in disbelief. Amelia’s parents knew! They knew that my parents had done everything in their power to get them to the hospital after they were poisoned. Why would they lie to her and say Jacob had saved them? Suddenly, Spike’s words from earlier echoed in my mind. A deep sense of unease settled over me. I felt like I was trapped in a meticulously woven web. And I was already like this… why was Jacob still lying to Amelia? What did he want? Then I saw it. The way he looked at her. There was an unmistakable, possessive affection in his eyes. Could it be that he… for Amelia… Realizing the truth, I fought through the sharp pain in my chest and forced the words out. “You’re lying! The ones who saved Amelia’s parents were—” “That’s enough, Laurent!” Jacob cut me off, his voice sharp with annoyance, but still laced with that sickeningly false sincerity. “I’m trying to calm Amelia down. Are you trying to add fuel to the fire?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I started to crawl toward Amelia, desperate to tell her everything. But Jacob stepped in front of me, his foot coming down hard on my shattered hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Amelia won’t really do it. Even though you killed her child, she’s not the type to desecrate the bodies of the elderly.” The pain was excruciating. I shoved him with all my might, and he stumbled backward, falling into the pit the excavator had dug earlier. “Jacob!” Amelia cried out, rushing to help him up. Her face was flushed with anger. She glared at me, her voice a low, venomous hiss. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve already ruined my life? Now you’re trying to hurt Jacob, too? You’ll see what happens when you dig your own grave!” She shot me one last, cold look and made a phone call. A sense of dread washed over me. Ten minutes later, a small girl, no older than six or seven, was brought to the site. “Now you can watch,” Amelia said, her voice devoid of emotion, “as your sister dies in front of you.” She gave a signal, and a car sped toward the little girl. “NO!” I screamed, my voice a raw, desperate cry, my vision turning red. The one thing I had wanted to tell her was that this little girl… was our daughter. 3 The fetus that had been forced from her body that day had, by some miracle, survived. To protect her, my family had claimed she was my younger sister. The car struck the child, and she collapsed in a pool of blood, barely breathing. Jacob shot me a look that was a mixture of amusement and contempt, then picked up my daughter and tossed her in the trunk of his car. “Amelia, this one’s on her way out,” he said nonchalantly. “Let’s not let her go to waste. I can use her as a human specimen for my collection.” “Fine,” Amelia agreed without a second thought. She turned and got into the car with him, leaving me behind. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I let out a crazed, desperate roar and started to crawl after them. The sharp gravel on the ground tore at my skin, leaving a bloody trail, but I didn’t dare stop. “Amelia! She’s our daughter!” The news of Amelia’s release from prison had become a media sensation. The tragic story of what had happened seven years ago was dredged up again, and I became a reviled figure, a monster everyone loved to hate. Passersby recognized me on the street, beating and cursing me as I dragged my broken body toward the hospital. By the time I reached the entrance, I was fading in and out of consciousness, my face as white as a sheet. I saw Amelia walk out of the hospital, empty-handed. The unease in my heart spread through my entire body. I forced myself to stay awake, crawling to her feet and looking up at her with what little strength I had left. “Amelia… the child… where is she? What happened back then… it’s not what you think. The truth is…” “Shut up,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “Scared now, are you?” Her eyes, filled with malice, scanned the street and landed on a large, discarded ceramic vat. A dark, sinister idea seemed to take hold of her. The onlookers, following her gaze, understood her intention immediately. A few of the more eager ones pulled off their own filthy socks, stuffed them in my mouth, and lifted me up, dumping me into the vat, leaving only my head exposed. Amelia watched, her face impassive, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. “Thank you all for your support,” she said to the crowd, her voice ringing with a newfound confidence. “Things are different now. I have powerful friends. No matter how you choose to humiliate him today, no matter how far you take it, I have the power to clean up any mess.” She gave Jacob a look filled with adoration, then bowed deeply to the crowd. Everyone knew what that meant. With Jacob Croft backing her, they could kill me, and no one would ever be held accountable. “Mmph! Mmph!” All I could think about was my daughter’s safety. I thrashed around in the vat, trying to make any sound I could to get her attention. But she didn’t spare me a single glance. She just turned and got into the car, driving away. Jacob shot me a malicious look, then whispered something to the men who had put me in the vat before getting into the car and following her. That night, they sawed off both of my arms. They filled the vat with snakes and scorpions and other venomous creatures, torturing me for three days and three nights. When I was barely breathing, Jacob appeared. He pulled the gag from my mouth. “Laurent, you really have lost everything, haven’t you? To be destroyed like this by the woman you love.” “I bet you don’t even know,” he continued, a cruel smile on his face. “It was me who knocked you out. It was me who drove your car and ran Amelia over. And it was me who forged your signature to send her to prison.” I had already figured out most of what he was saying. But his next words hit me like a physical blow. “Actually, Amelia’s parents were never poisoned. All it took was a few well-placed words from me, and they were more than happy to play along with my little charade to get revenge on you. The one driving the truck that ran over your legs? That was Amelia’s father. He was just getting even for his little girl.” “And do you know why I sent her to prison, only to be the one to get her out? Because I needed to sever all her ties, to break her completely. Only then, when she was at her most helpless, would she let me in, would she let me control her.” I met his gaze, my own eyes filled with a cold, mocking light. “You can’t fool me, Jacob. You’ve fallen in love with her. You sent her to prison to cut her off from everything she knew, so that when she was at her lowest, she would cling to you like a lifeline.” “If she ever finds out that everything she’s suffered was because of your twisted, obsessive love… do you think she’ll hate you?” My words struck a nerve. For a fleeting moment, I saw panic in his eyes. But he quickly composed himself, his face twisting into a hideous grin. He grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open. He raised a small knife and plunged it into my mouth, slicing off my tongue. “Hmph. If you can’t talk, how will she ever know?” A warm, metallic liquid filled my mouth. An unbearable pain consumed me, threatening to swallow me whole. But I held on, clinging to consciousness, desperate to find out what had happened to my daughter. “Jacob? How is he?” Amelia’s voice, filled with concern, came from the end of the alley. Jacob’s body tensed. He quickly tossed the knife aside, wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of his hand, and then clutched his own hand, letting out a pained cry. “Ah!” “Jacob! What’s wrong?” she cried, rushing to his side. Jacob bit his lip, sucking in a sharp breath. “I was just trying to give him something to eat. I guess he’s still angry about his ‘sister.’ He took it out on me… he bit me.” Amelia looked up and saw the blood around my mouth, then looked at the bloody marks on the back of his hand. Her face contorted with rage. I could only shake my head helplessly, silent tears mixing with the blood in my mouth. “Laurent Cross, I’m going to kill you!” she shrieked. She ordered her men to take the vat, with me still inside it, and throw it into the river to drown me. I was terrified. My breath came in ragged gasps. I thrashed against the sides of the vat, my eyes pleading with her. I tried to tell her, with every fiber of my being, that the girl she had run over was our daughter, that this was all Jacob’s sick game. But she ignored my frantic movements. As the vat was submerged, the last thing I heard was her cold, detached voice. “Jacob, that girl is still breathing. But the people at your lab said that for the best vascular specimens, it’s better to use a live subject. I don’t understand any of that, so I’ve already sent her over.” “Thank you, Amelia,” Jacob replied, his voice smooth as silk. “Thank you for putting aside your personal feelings and providing the girl’s body for study. This will be an invaluable contribution to clinical medicine.” In that moment, the last thread of hope that had kept me alive snapped. I closed my eyes in despair and let my consciousness slip away.

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Browsing my phone at work, I stumbled upon a forum post: [“Accidentally pregnant but not done partying. How to abort AND make my husband love me more?!”] The top reply chilled me: [“Frame an intern—preferably one with a new car (money + naivety). ‘Borrow’ it during lunch, take the pill in her car, then blame her. Guaranteed compensation + husband’s sympathy.”] OP liked this. I scoffed. Use protection if you’re not ready! But ruining an innocent life? Pathetic. As I went to report it, my coworker suddenly asked: “Ashley… your new car’s in the underground garage, right?” 1 I looked up instinctively. “Oh, yeah, Brenda. It’s in our company’s designated parking area.” Brenda smiled sweetly. “You’re so lucky. All our company spots were taken, and the last one was actually reserved for me. But I decided not to buy a car for now, so I let them give the spot to you.” “Oh, wow, thanks so much for that! But isn’t it inconvenient for you not to have a car?” Brenda covered her mouth with her hand, letting out a delicate laugh. “My husband drops me off and picks me up every single day. It’s not inconvenient at all!” “I see. You two must have a great relationship!” At my words, Brenda let out another one of her signature dainty giggles. I kept a fake smile plastered on my face, but a layer of goosebumps had already broken out on my arms. I’d only been an intern here for a week, but I’d already gotten a read on everyone’s personalities. Brenda was the office’s resident “spoiled wife.” She couldn’t go three sentences without mentioning her husband. I had no interest in continuing the conversation. I glanced at the time, grabbed my phone, and headed for the elevator. But as soon as the doors opened, I saw Brenda standing inside, clutching a pillow and a small blanket, a wide smile on her face. “Perfect timing. I was just waiting for you!” I was confused. “What? Waiting for me? Do you need something?” She just gave me a mysterious smile and said nothing. I was baffled but didn’t press the issue. My mind, however, couldn’t stop replaying the forum post from this morning. No way. It can’t be. Am I really that unlucky? Did I stumble upon the real-life version of that toxic poster? Just then, the elevator dinged. “First floor.” Brenda walked out, still holding her things. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. I was just overthinking it. But just as I relaxed and started scrolling through my phone again, a foot suddenly jammed into the gap of the closing elevator doors. “Wait, wait!” I flinched, and my head snapped up to see the doors slide open again, revealing Brenda’s face. She was holding the pillow and blanket in one arm and a bag of takeout in the other. “That delivery took forever!” she complained. I eyed her cautiously. “Brenda, where are you going with all that?” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to take my lunch nap.” “But…” I started, but was cut off by another ding. The doors opened. “Basement Level 1.” Brenda immediately stepped out. “Come on!” I couldn’t help but ask, “Brenda, I thought you didn’t have a car. Where are you going to nap?” She turned around and gave me a look like I was the stupidest person on earth. “In your car, of course! Now hurry up, it’s boiling down here. Go turn on the A/C.” I stopped in my tracks. “My car?” 2 Brenda didn’t stop walking, heading straight for my EV. “Yes, your car.” I hesitated for a moment before speaking, putting extra emphasis on my words. “Right. So, this is my car.” She slapped the takeout bag onto the hood of my car. “Yes, yes, I know it’s your car. Just open it!” I frowned. Remembering I was just an intern, I took a deep breath and tried to be patient. “Brenda, doesn’t everyone usually nap in the office breakroom? Besides, my car can’t fit two people.” Brenda pouted. “The breakroom is so loud and uncomfortable. You’re the only one in the office with an EV. They’re perfect for sleeping in!” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “If you sleep in my car, where do I sleep?” “You can sleep in the breakroom. You’re an intern! It’s a great chance to bond with everyone!” she said, as if she were doing me a favor. “I’m only telling you this because I feel sorry for you. You don’t have to thank me too much. Just buy me lunch tomorrow.” Before I could protest, she snatched the key card from my hand and unlocked the car. She plopped herself into the passenger seat, takeout in hand. “Ugh, how do you adjust this seat?” she muttered, her fingers poking and prodding randomly at my center console. The screen flickered on and off as she mashed the buttons. Defeated, I got into the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat for her. Once she was comfortable, Brenda placed the container of spicy, garlicky noodle soup directly on my center console. “You need to get one of those little tray tables for tomorrow. This is so inconvenient for eating!” The moment she opened the container, a thick, pungent cloud of chili oil and garlic filled the entire car. I immediately snatched the lid and put it back on. “Brenda, this is a small space for sleeping. Eating something with such a strong smell isn’t really… appropriate, is it?” Brenda glanced around, thought for a second, and nodded. “You’re right. It is a bit inappropriate.” Hearing that, I relaxed slightly. At least she was capable of reason. But just as I was about to speak again, Brenda cut me off. “This car of yours is just not set up right. No tray table, no proper drink holders… and I need to watch my shows when I eat. You have hardly any apps on this giant screen. Do you have memberships for Netflix, Hulu, and Max?” “The show I’m watching now requires the premium tier. Here,” she said, holding up her phone with a QR code displayed. “Scan this and sign me up for the yearly plan. It’ll be more convenient for me.” I almost laughed out loud from sheer disbelief. “Only your husband would tolerate you eating, sleeping, and watching TV in his car. And newsflash, I’m not your husband.” Brenda seemed completely oblivious to my sarcasm. Instead, she gave me a bashful smile. “Oh, you could never compare to my husband. He’s the best, best, best person in the world!” “But, even though you’re not as good as him, I’m willing to give you a chance. A chance to upgrade your car. I’ll come back tomorrow to check on your progress!” With that, she slurped up a mouthful of noodles from the container. I watched in horror as a splash of oily broth flew out and landed squarely on my center console. I was at my breaking point, ready to explode, when Brenda suddenly clutched her stomach. 3 I froze. The forum post from that morning flashed through my mind. A knot of anxiety tightened in my gut. “What’s wrong?” I blurted out. “Are you feeling sick?” Brenda just rubbed her stomach and smiled. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing. I probably just ate too fast.” She went back to shoveling food into her mouth. But when she glanced up a moment later, I caught a fleeting, smug smirk on her face. What is she smiling about? A strange, unsettling feeling crept over me. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I could not let her sleep in my car. So, I waited. When she finished eating, she’d have to get out to throw away the trash, right? The moment she stepped out, I’d lock the doors. That would solve the problem. Her table manners were atrocious, but she was a fast eater. In no time, the container was empty. I watched her drink the last of the broth and start packing up the trash, my hand poised over the lock button on my key card. She wiped her mouth, let out a loud burp, and picked up the bag. My finger was literally on the button. But instead of getting out, she held the bag of trash out to me. It took me a second to process. “…What’s this for?” “Throw it out,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t you have any common sense?” “…You want me to throw it out?” “Duh. Should I do it?” Brenda said incredulously. “When I’m in my husband’s car, I never have to throw out the trash. He always does it for me.” I was genuinely flabbergasted. “Brenda, I’m not your husband.” “I know that. And even if you wanted to be, I wouldn’t give you the chance. My husband would go crazy, hehe!” I had never felt so exhausted trying to communicate with another human being. So this was the infamous “spoiled wife.” It was clear she had no intention of leaving the car. My brain kicked into gear. I started the car. “Brenda, I just remembered I have to run an errand. The sun is blazing out there, and it’ll take me at least an hour. You should probably just go back to the office to sleep.” Brenda was completely unbothered. “I’ll just sleep here. You drive, I’ll sleep.” She slipped on an eye mask and immediately lay back. Fine. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, I’d have to take matters into my own hands. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and shot out of the underground garage. It was a sweltering August afternoon, hot as a furnace outside. I pulled up a map and found a shopping plaza with only outdoor parking. I chose a spot with zero shade, directly under the scorching sun, and got out. Sure enough, ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Brenda. “When are you coming back? It’s an oven in here!” I took a long, cool sip of my iced tea. “Oh, sorry, Brenda,” I said, my voice dripping with fake apology. “It’s going to be at least another half hour over here. Maybe you should just head back on your own!” I heard her hang up with an angry huff, and a smile tugged at my lips. That should get rid of her for good. But when I got back to the office, my coworkers were giving me strange looks. Before I could figure out why, my phone buzzed. I looked down. The forum post had been updated.

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I was reborn. In my past life, I was acknowledged by the wealthy Torrence family, my birthright restored. To compete for favor against the fake heiress, a girl named Celeste, I worked tirelessly, only to have all my efforts pave the way for her success. The business deals and connections I secured for the Torrences all became hers after I died in a car crash. My soul lingered, unwilling to move on, and followed the family back to their mansion. There, I overheard Celeste’s monologue and finally understood. We were living in a novel, a story where she was the cherished protagonist, surrounded by doting admirers. And I? I was nothing more than a foolish side character, a moth trying to outshine the moon. But I was reborn. Twenty years in the past, back in my mother’s womb, with seven days left until my birth. I clenched the umbilical cord in my tiny fist. So what if she’s the protagonist? Last time, I was brought into the Torrence family too late. I didn’t have enough time to develop. This time, I’ll start grinding from the womb. I refuse to believe I can’t out-grind her. Round One: Physical Fitness. I couldn’t see a thing, but that didn’t stop me from my daily exercise regimen, a constant battle against amniotic fluid and the umbilical cord in my cramped little world. After three days, my mother couldn’t take it anymore. She demanded another ultrasound, convinced she was carrying either a monkey or a mythological demon baby. The doctor, listening to my mother’s complaints, fell into a brief moment of self-doubt. “So, you’re saying the baby starts kicking at nine in the morning and stops precisely at five in the evening? Oh, and takes a break for lunch and a nap?” “A nine-to-five schedule, still in the womb? That’s more disciplined than we are!” Despite his skepticism, the doctor performed the check-up. The results left him speechless. “Mrs. Chen, your baby is not only healthy but incredibly smart!” “In your previous scans, the baby was in the wrong position, with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. But now, not only has the baby corrected its position, but it has also untangled the cord all by itself!” … “What? Untangled the cord by itself?” “A baby this smart before it’s even born? Is this a genius?” “Genius? Just lucky, I bet!” That last, sour-toned voice sounded familiar. It sounded like Celeste’s mother. Were Celeste and I really being born in the same hospital? My suspicions were confirmed that night when Celeste’s mother was moved into my mother’s room. Compared to my mother’s solitude, Celeste’s mother was the center of attention, a constant stream of visitors flowing in and out. Sipping on some expensive nutritional supplement, she turned to my mother with a look of faux concern. “Anna, why are you here all alone? Isn’t your husband with you?” My mother forced a smile. “He’s busy with work. I can manage.” She was lying. At this point in my life, I didn’t have a father. My mother was a small-time influencer whose life goal was to marry rich. At twenty-five, she’d finally succeeded in climbing into the bed of a wealthy heir at a company party. The good news: she hit the jackpot on the first try. The bad news: she didn’t get a good look at which heir it was. In my previous life, it wasn’t until I was eight, after a routine blood donation, that the Torrences discovered I was their long-lost bloodline. Knowing Celeste was in the womb right next door only fueled my competitive spirit. Besides my non-negotiable hours of fetal movement, I absorbed information in every way I could. I listened intently to the seven o’clock news broadcast in the hallway, and I analyzed the conversations of the pregnant women, their families, and the medical staff, deducing their personalities and interests. My mother quickly adapted to my nine-to-five routine and my penchant for eavesdropping. She started making the rounds to other maternity rooms, her pregnant belly leading the way. Not only did she become a familiar face in the obstetrics department, but her physical stamina also improved significantly. A week later, both our mothers went into labor at the same time. The maternity ward was a flurry of activity as they were wheeled into adjacent delivery rooms. “Aaaah!” Screams echoed from the next room. My mother, chewing on a piece of chocolate a nurse had given her, felt a little awkward. She was just about to let out a token scream of her own when she felt a sudden release. The doctors and nurses stared in disbelief at the tiny, wriggling bundle on the bed. It took them a moment to recover. “She’s… she’s born already??” “Anna, how did your baby come out so fast? Do you have some kind of secret?” My mother’s five-minute delivery broke the hospital record, making her an overnight celebrity. Expectant mothers flocked to see her, hoping to catch some of her “good labor luck.” Holding me, my mother beamed with pride. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t even have a chance to push, and she just came out.” “You mean the baby delivered herself? That’s one smart kid!” “Well, a baby who can untangle her own umbilical cord has to be smart, right?” And so, following in my mother’s footsteps, I became a little celebrity myself. Every day, pregnant women would come to visit, bringing toys and holding me up to their bellies so I could impart some wisdom to their unborn children. Wisdom, I had none to give. But I smiled at every single person who came to see me. In the womb, there were limited ways to compete. But out here? The possibilities were endless. Looks, personality, public appeal—it all started from infancy. “She has such a wonderful temperament! She smiles at everyone, like a little angel!” “Totally. This one is definitely here to repay her parents. You’re so lucky, Anna. Not like the woman in the next bed…” I was just drifting off to sleep, but my ears perked up at that. The woman in the next bed? That would be Celeste’s mother. It was strange. She had gone into the delivery room at the same time as my mother. It had been two days. I could already open my eyes and smile at people, and they still weren’t back. Even a difficult birth shouldn’t take that long, right? My mother knew about my eavesdropping habit from the womb. The second I stirred, she knew what I wanted to know. “Are you talking about Mrs. Thorne? What happened to her? Did she have a difficult delivery?” “You have no idea. Just like you, the cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck, and it was in the wrong position. I heard she lost a lot of blood during labor. She was in there for a day and a night, and she’s still in the ICU.” “That’s awful! Why didn’t she just have a C-section?” “She refused. Insisted that a natural birth produces a smarter child. She wouldn’t even take an epidural. Just endured it all.” My mother’s face paled. She hugged me tighter, her heart pounding with fear. “Oh, my sweet girl. I’m so glad you didn’t make me suffer like that.” Three days after I was born, my mother, carrying a suitcase in one hand and me in the other, moved into the hospital’s postpartum care center. There, my self-discipline reached a whole new level. 7 AM: milk, exercise, vocal practice. 10 AM: milk, nap to the sound of classical piano. 12 PM: milk, nap to the sound of the news… Appearance and physique were strictly managed. Intellect, morals, physical fitness, and artistic ability—nothing was neglected. Another half-month passed. I thought I wouldn’t see Celeste again until we were three or four, but to my surprise, her mother became my mother’s roommate once again. And this time, she wasn’t just accompanied by her own family. The Torrence family matriarch was with her. I saw that familiar, kind face, and even though I knew it was too early to speak, I couldn’t stop the first sound of my life from escaping my lips. “Nana!” My single word silenced the crowded, noisy room. Every head turned to look at me. “Did that sound just come from… the baby?” “No way. She’s only been born for half a month. A baby can’t talk at two weeks old.” “But there are only two babies in this room, and that was clearly a baby’s voice. If it wasn’t her, could it have been the other one? I heard that one is so weak she can’t even suckle properly. There’s no way she could make a sound that loud.” Celeste’s mother stared at me, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and jealousy in her eyes. I glanced at the sickly-looking Celeste in her arms, then turned my attention back to Mrs. Torrence, a chubby-cheeked smile spreading across my face. “Nana!” If the first “Nana” was an accident, the second one sent a tremor through the old woman’s heart. “Is… is she calling me Nana?” “Oh, you sweet child… let Nana have a look at you… tsk tsk, those chubby little hands, those big eyes… you’re as beautiful as I was as a little girl!” With two simple words, I had charmed the grandmother who had yet to hold her own granddaughter, turning her into a doting fool. She immediately slipped a jade bracelet off her wrist and gave it to me. My mother, though just an influencer, knew quality when she saw it. The sight of that bracelet almost made her drop to her knees. “Take it. I feel a connection with this child.” Mrs. Torrence held me, unwilling to let go, her eyes glued to my face. She had completely forgotten that she was here to visit the wife and child of her husband’s subordinate. Celeste’s grandfather had been a Torrence family loyalist since his own father’s generation. Her grandfather, an aide to Mr. Torrence Sr., had died taking a bullet for him. As a result, Mr. Torrence had raised Celeste’s father like a son. When he grew up, Celeste’s father became the secretary to the eldest Torrence son, Alistair—my as-yet-unmet biological father. Because of her family’s connection to the Torrences, Celeste was a frequent visitor to their home, practically a young lady of the house herself. When she was four, her mother passed away, and the Torrences officially took her in, making her the true young lady of the Torrence family. This meant that if I wanted to steal Celeste’s place in their hearts, I had to be acknowledged by the family before I turned four. Time was of the essence. I looked at the smiling, kind-faced Mrs. Torrence, squeezed her hand, and snuggled my face, which was starting to ache from smiling, into her embrace. Mrs. Torrence’s heart melted. “Oh, my sweet girl, you like Nana so much? Can you say it one more time for me?” “Nana!” “Oh, my little darling. Nana will come see you every day, okay?” Seeing this, Celeste’s mother’s face turned white with rage. She looked down at her own frail daughter and, with a ruthlessly, pinched her leg hard. Celeste finally let out her first cry. “Waaah—” It was a weak, mosquito-like sound. Though inwardly furious at her daughter’s lack of performance, Celeste’s mother put on a smile and brought her closer to Mrs. Torrence. “Madam Torrence, Celeste wants you to hold her too.” When Mrs. Torrence first arrived, she had felt sorry for Celeste and her mother, thinking she should comfort them. But after holding me and playing with me for a while, she looked at Celeste and saw only a small, sallow-faced baby, her face wrinkled from crying. Her interest instantly vanished. “The child is too weak. It’s better to keep her bundled up and let her rest. Don’t move her around too much.” Celeste’s mother’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. For the next few days, Mrs. Torrence came to see me every day. Since I had started talking, I would occasionally let out other words, like “Mama,” “Auntie,” and “Sissy,” charming all the new mothers and nurses in the center. Except, of course, for Celeste’s mother. But she was a master of disguise. “Anna, what do you think of this outfit? Wouldn’t Nina look adorable in it?” “Anna, have you thought about which preschool to send Nina to? I heard there’s a great new bilingual school nearby…” “Anna, our girls have such a connection. Why don’t we make them god-sisters?” My mother was a simple, vain woman with a natural weakness for the wealthy. So, even though Celeste’s mother was only the wife of the Torrence CEO’s assistant, my mother saw her through a thick filter of wealth and prestige. With Celeste’s mother’s deliberate attempts to get close, my mother soon treated her like a long-lost best friend. I pretended not to notice, continuing my daily routine of exercise, study, reading, and listening to music. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get away from this woman. It was just that my mother’s standing in her own family was so low that no one had come to visit her since I was born. Going home for postpartum recovery was not an option. As for changing rooms, I had considered it, but quickly dismissed the idea. My mother was completely caught up in the fantasy friendship Celeste’s mother had created for her. No matter what I did, she wouldn’t even think of moving. Besides, I needed Celeste and her mother as an excuse to continue building my relationship with Mrs. Torrence. Since I couldn’t get away from her, I had to stay on high alert. A few days later, my fears were realized. “Anna, this is a special formula my husband brought back from Australia. It’s great for boosting a baby’s immune system. Don’t you think Celeste looks much healthier these past few days?” “You were saying your milk supply is low. Why don’t you give some to Nina?” After half a month in the care center, sustained by a variety of expensive supplements, Celeste was indeed looking much better. My mother, completely unsuspecting, naturally accepted the offer. My instincts screamed that Celeste’s mother was up to no good. When my mother brought the bottle over, I turned my head away, refusing to drink no matter how much she coaxed me. Embarrassed, my mother explained to Celeste’s mother, “Nina’s never had formula before. She’s probably not used to it.” “It’s okay for a child to be fussy, but as a parent, you can’t indulge her. Anna, if your milk supply is low and Nina doesn’t learn to drink formula, she won’t get enough nutrients.” Celeste’s mother’s tone was earnest, as if she truly had my best interests at heart. “How about this? Mix the formula with your breast milk in the bottle. Start with a small amount and gradually increase it. That way, Nina will get used to it.” “You can do that? Okay, I’ll try it. You’re so smart, Sharon.” Looking at my mother’s foolishly grateful expression, I knew I was in trouble. I had to find a way to break this spell. The next day, when my mother approached with the bottle, I didn’t push it away. Instead, I played with it, taking a small sip every now and then. It was unusual, but at least I was drinking. My mother was relieved. Celeste’s mother also seemed to relax. But no one expected that by the time Mrs. Torrence came to visit, I still hadn’t finished the bottle. When Mrs. Torrence took me in her arms, I knew it was my chance. I opened my mouth and started to retch, my body convulsing, my eyes rolling back in my head. Mrs. Torrence’s face went white with terror. She immediately had someone take me for a check-up. The results came back normal. That wasn’t surprising. This was the 21st century. Celeste’s mother wasn’t stupid enough to use a poison that would be easily detected. But she never dreamed that I would bring the half-empty bottle of milk with me. When the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me, they tested the milk in the bottle as a last resort, just to be thorough for the Torrence family. And that’s when the truth came out. “The milk is mostly breast milk, but it contains a small amount of formula. The problem seems to be with the formula.” “We’ve analyzed it carefully. There’s lead in the formula. The dosage is small, so it wouldn’t cause any noticeable effects in the short term. But long-term consumption would inevitably lead to cognitive and intellectual impairment in an infant.” I knew there was something wrong with the formula, but I never imagined she would be so ruthless. A little bit of favor from Mrs. Torrence was enough to make her try to poison me. If she ever found out I was the true Torrence heiress, she’d probably try to kill me. Mrs. Torrence, of course, came to the same conclusion. She made a single, cold phone call.

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I’d just gotten back from two weeks of shredding the slopes in Aspen with my best friend. Around midnight, my phone rang. Someone told me to move my car. Half-asleep, I figured it was a prank call, mumbled “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” and went back to sleep. A few minutes later, a man claiming to be a cop called. “Move your car immediately, or we’re having it towed.” All sleepiness vanished in an instant. But my car was parked in my own designated spot. Where was I supposed to move it to? 1 The man’s voice on the phone was a raw, angry bark. “You parked in the wrong spot. Move it, you hear me?” I frowned, my patience worn thin from two weeks of travel and being woken up in the middle of the night. “You must have the wrong number. I’m in my own parking spot. Where am I supposed to go?” “Your spot? I’ve been parking here since the day I moved in. You better move that piece of junk, or I’m not responsible for what happens to it.” His words sent a shiver of doubt through me. What if I really had parked in the wrong place? I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys, and headed down to the parking garage. The moment I approached, a burly, menacing man pointed a thick finger in my face and started screaming. “You goddamn bitch! Shameless slut, you dare take my spot? You got a death wish or something?” The sudden torrent of abuse stunned me. Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and involuntary. But then I looked up and saw the number painted on the concrete wall: B3502. My spot. A wave of humiliation and rage washed over me. “Say that again,” I said, my voice shaking. “Whose spot is this?” The man’s fleshy jowls quivered with fury, his finger still aimed at me like a weapon. Spittle flew from his mouth, landing just inches from my feet. “Are you fucking stupid? Get your piece-of-shit car out of my spot, now! Don’t think I won’t hit you just because you’re a woman.” His sheer belligerence ignited my own anger. “Watch your mouth. And for the record, this is my spot. I’m parked here legally. Why should I move?” He sneered, his eyes bulging. “Screw you, you worthless cunt. I’ll say whatever I want. Now move the damn car before I smash it to pieces.” I clenched my jaw, tears blurring my vision. “I told you, this is my spot. You have no right to make me move.” He brought his heavy boot down on my car door. A sickening thud echoed through the garage, leaving a deep dent in the metal. “My right is that I’m your fucking boss right now. Are you moving it or not? The next kick lands on you.” I glanced up at the security camera mounted on the ceiling. “No,” I said, my voice dripping with fury. “Go ahead. Try it. I’ll make sure you rot in a cell.” He spat on the ground, a disgusting glob of yellow phlegm landing on my shoe. “Ooh, a tough little bitch, are we? Fine. I won’t kick you. I’ll just smash your car.” He stomped over to his own vehicle, a massive black Mercedes, and returned a moment later with a baseball bat in his hand. “Last chance. Are you moving the car?” “No.” He raised the bat with a savage grin. “It’s illegal to hit you. But it’s not illegal to smash a piece of junk parked in my spot.” CRUNCH. CRACK. SMASH. He brought the bat down again and again, caving in the front of my car. The thunderous noise set off a sickening chorus of car alarms throughout the garage. A security guard came running, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on? What are you two doing in the middle of the night?” 2 Seeing the guard, the tears I’d been holding back finally streamed down my face. The bully, Frank, beat me to it, smoothly offering the guard a cigarette. “Hey, man, sorry about the noise. It’s this little bitch here. Parked in my spot and refuses to move. Stubborn as a mule. You know how these young women are, think they’re princesses and the whole world has to bow down to them.” The guard saw the premium brand of the cigarette and a greedy grin spread across his face. He tucked it behind his ear for later. Then he turned to me, his expression all stern disapproval. “Miss, if you’re in someone else’s spot, just move. There’s no need to make a scene. You young girls are all the same, spoiled rotten. Not everyone in this world is going to coddle you just because you’re a woman. Now move your car and stop causing trouble.” I stared at him, a fire blazing in my chest. “One cigarette is all it takes for you to throw fairness out the window? This spot is mine. Why the hell should I move?” The guard hesitated for a second. Frank scoffed. “She’s a fucking liar. I’ve been parking here since I moved in. How come I’ve never heard it was your spot? Besides, you drive a cheap piece of junk like that, you think you can afford a parking spot that costs more than your car? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The guard’s eyes flickered between my old, beat-up sedan and Frank’s gleaming Mercedes. It didn’t take him long to make up his mind. “Come on, lady, it’s the middle of the night. Just move it and be done with it. You’re keeping everyone awake over nothing. How can you be so selfish? Look, there are plenty of empty spots over there. Just park in one of those.” “I told you, this spot is mine. I bought it. I’m not moving.” “Oh, so you want to play it that way, huh?” Frank’s face turned purple with rage. He raised the baseball bat again. “You asked for this. I’m going to turn this heap of scrap metal into a fucking pancake.” With a roar, he began smashing my car with a terrifying, relentless fury. I just stood there and watched, my face a cold mask. He went on for a full half-hour, until there wasn’t a single panel on my car left undamaged. “Hello, I need to report an assault. Someone just destroyed my car and…” I had just raised my phone to my ear when the baseball bat swung through the air and connected with the side of my head. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My world went silent, replaced by a high-pitched ringing. Something warm and wet trickled from my nose. I touched it. Bright red blood. Frank froze, his eyes wide with panic. He dropped the bat. “God damn it, my lucky day. Fine, don’t move it. Fucking bad luck, wasting my time.” The world swayed around me. I slowly crumpled to the ground. The sounds around me seemed muffled, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. The guard waved a hand in front of my face. “Miss? Miss, are you okay?” When I didn’t respond, he panicked and ran. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, then called for an ambulance. 3 When the police arrived, I vaguely remember trying to explain what happened. Then, I blacked out. When I woke up, it was noon the next day. The doctor told me I had a severely perforated eardrum. The tear was so large it would require surgery to repair. I also had a concussion and needed to rest. After the doctor left, two police officers came in to take my statement. “Didn’t I tell you everything last night?” I asked, confused. The officer shook his head. “You were mostly crying and just kept saying a big man hit you. We didn’t get any other useful information. And the security camera for that area was broken.” My heart sank. The management in my building was usually pretty good about maintenance. How could the camera just happen to be broken? “Was it just that one camera?” The officer nodded. “The property manager thought it was strange too, but that’s the situation. Do you know the man who attacked you?” I shook my head. “Wait. There was a black Mercedes parked next to my spot. It belongs to him. Maybe you can identify him through the car.” “Okay, we’ll look into it. Is there anything else?” I remembered the security guard. I told the police everything. 4 A few days later, the police informed me they couldn’t find the Mercedes in the garage. They couldn’t find the security guard, either. “Are you sure you remember correctly?” one of them asked. I shook my head. How could I forget? The events of that night were burned into my brain. They replayed in my nightmares, waking me up in a cold sweat. Two weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. The first thing I did was go to the property management office. “Who was the security guard on duty for Building 7 on the night of July 8th?” A young woman with a bob cut helped me. She checked the records. “That was Leo. Do you need to see him?” “Yes,” I nodded. A few moments later, a slightly overweight man walked in. “You were looking for me, ma’am?” I looked at him, and my stomach dropped. It wasn’t him. The guard that night had been tall and skinny, with sly, calculating eyes. “Were you the only one on duty that night?” The man looked annoyed. “One guard for the night shift isn’t enough? What is this about, anyway? The cops have already asked me eight times.” I lowered my head and mumbled an apology. I walked out of the office, feeling completely defeated. Just as I was leaving the building, I saw him. The bully. The man I had been searching for. I calmly dialed the detective in charge of my case and began to follow him, keeping my distance. I waited for him to get on an elevator, then watched the numbers light up. Luckily, he was the only one inside. The elevator stopped on the 18th floor. Our building has two apartments per floor. It wouldn’t be hard to find him. The police arrived shortly after. We went up to the 18th floor and knocked on the first door. An elderly woman answered. After a few questions, she confirmed she was home alone. That meant he lived in the other apartment. My heart pounded as I pressed the doorbell. It rang and rang, but no one answered. My hope began to fade. Unwilling to give up, I held the button down, letting it buzz incessantly. Finally, there was a noise from inside. “Who the hell is it? In such a goddamn hurry to die? Ringing and ringing, you got a problem…” The door flew open. The man froze when he saw us. He recovered quickly, a greasy smile spreading across his face. “Officers. What can I do for you?” “Where were you at 3:30 AM on July 8th?” The man, Frank, scratched his head, putting on a look of simple-minded confusion. “I was at home, sleeping. Why? Did something go missing? Was there a murder?” The officer’s face was grim. “Can anyone verify that?” Frank was smug. “Sure. My wife.” He yelled into the apartment. “Honey, come out here! The police have some questions. We’re law-abiding citizens, gotta cooperate, right?” As he spoke, he shot me a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. “Coming.” A woman, just as large as Frank, emerged from the apartment. “What’s wrong? My husband was home with me all night.” “We haven’t even asked a question yet,” the officer pointed out. “How do you know what we’re here about?” 5 Frank’s wife froze for a second. The color drained from his face. Then she laughed, a little too loudly. “Oh, I heard you from the other room. Weren’t you asking where he was on the night of the 8th? What happened?” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I pointed at Frank, my voice shaking with rage. “Stop pretending! You’re the one who called me in the middle of the night, and when I wouldn’t move my car, you smashed it to pieces and hit me with a baseball bat! You ruptured my eardrum!” Frank clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. Oh my, who would do such a terrible thing to a young lady? That’s just awful. I feel for you, really. Too bad we can’t find the guy who did it.” His wife was even worse, rolling her eyes at me with contempt. “Listen, girl, I’m not trying to be mean, but why did he hit you and not someone else? Maybe you should think about what you did wrong. Sometimes, if you’re not such a bitch, you don’t get hit.” She covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, sorry. I’m just a little too honest. No offense.” The officer glared at her. “Are you certain your husband was home at 3 AM on July 8th? This is an official inquiry, and we are recording. Lying to an officer is a crime.” Frank’s wife, clearly confident we had no proof, stood her ground. “Don’t worry, officer. We’re good, law-abiding citizens. We would never commit perjury.” “Alright then.” The officer sighed. “We’ll need to see your IDs for our report.” The couple reluctantly handed them over. After we left, the officer told me, “We’ll run a check on any vehicles registered to them. In the meantime, please be careful.” I nodded weakly, all hope draining away. Even if they found the car, what then? People like them would never admit to anything. But a bitter sense of injustice churned in my stomach. Was the victim supposed to just take it, while the attacker walked free? Agitated, I found myself walking down to the parking garage. I stared at the mangled wreck of my car sitting in its spot, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. It wasn’t an expensive car, and it was a few years old. But I could never bring myself to replace it. I had saved for so long to buy it after graduation. It was my first major purchase. Even later, when I had enough money for a house and a much better car, I couldn’t part with my old partner, the one that had been with me from the very beginning. I ran my hand over the dents and gashes, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. Suddenly, a small light on the dashboard flickered. It was as if my old friend, my silent companion of so many years, was trying to say hello. My mind exploded. How could I have been so stupid? My dashcam. It recorded 24/7. And I had cloud backup, with storage for up to 90 days of footage. 6 I practically flew back to my apartment, memory card in hand. Before I could even plug it in, I got a friend request on my phone. The profile picture was of Frank. The message read: “Accept. Urgent.” My hands trembled as I accepted. Was he here to apologize, knowing about the dashcam? I was wrong. He was here to gloat. “Sucker. You deserved it.” “That’s what you get for taking my spot.” “What’re you gonna do? Cry to the cops again? They can’t do shit without proof. Bet you’re pissed.” My fingers flew across the screen, my knuckles white. “The law has a long arm. You just wait.” He sent back a rolling-eyes emoji. Then came the final, infuriating message. “Hahaha, stay mad. Go on, try and get me arrested. I’ll be waiting. And I know that spot is yours now. Soon as you move that piece of junk, I’m parking there again. Thanks for buying me a parking spot, bitch!” He followed it up by spamming me with a dozen GIFs of a smirking man saying “Thank you!” Then, one last taunt. “Come on, little slut. Call the cops again. I’ll be right here at home, waiting for them to come get me. ;)” “Okay.” I sent the single word, a cold smile on my face, then blocked him. He was so brazen because he knew the number and the social media account were untraceable burners. Fine. I didn’t need trash like him cluttering up my phone anyway. I took a deep breath, plugged the memory card into my laptop, and found the video from that night. “You goddamn bitch! Shameless slut, you dare take my spot? You got a death wish or something?” “She’s a fucking liar. I’ve been parking here since I moved in… Besides, you drive a cheap piece of junk like that, you think you can afford a parking spot that costs more than your car? You’ve gotta be kidding me!” … “You asked for this. I’m going to turn this heap of scrap metal into a fucking pancake.” “God damn it, my lucky day. Fine, don’t move it. Fucking bad luck.” Every frame, every word was captured in crystal clear quality. The video and audio were perfect. I made a copy, grabbed the original memory card, and headed straight for the police station.

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