My right hand was deliberately smashed by a rival. My father — one of the country’s top hand surgeons — falsified the injury assessment. At the police station, he spoke with complete conviction, dismissing the deliberate attack that destroyed my career as “soft tissue contusion from an accidental fall.” All because that girl’s mother was the woman he’d been in love with for half his life. When I confronted him, my father looked me dead in the eye, righteous as ever. “As a physician, I deal in objective facts. I can’t exaggerate an injury just because you’re my daughter — that would be framing an innocent person.” “Anya is about to compete in an international piano competition. A criminal record would ruin her life. Can’t you show a little compassion?” I watched Anya and her mother walk out of the police station, smug and untouched. And I smiled. I reached into my bag and pulled out the document I’d prepared — a formal declaration severing our relationship as father and daughter — and threw it in his face. “Since you’re so committed to your medical ethics. Since you love being the good guy so much.” “Then I hope when you’re old, your precious first love is there to see you through the rest of your days.”

My father didn’t read the declaration. In his eyes, it was nothing but a jealous tantrum. “Emma, are you done throwing your fit?” He picked the paper up off the floor, didn’t even glance at it, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash. “Mrs. Shen is hosting a dinner at the Prestige Club tonight. You’re coming with me.” “Anya will be there too. It’s a good chance to clear the air and put all this behind us.” I stared at him, disbelief written all over my face. Put it behind us? My right hand was shattered. I couldn’t even lift a cup. The person who did it had just walked free. And he wanted me to go celebrate with her? “I’m not going.” Three words, flat and cold. I pushed the door open with my good hand. Behind me, my father’s voice followed — barely containing his fury. “Emma! Why do you have to be so cruel?” “Mrs. Shen raised Anya alone. It wasn’t easy. She practically begged me to come to this dinner.” “If you don’t show up, you’re disrespecting me. You’re as good as destroying that woman and her daughter.” I didn’t look back. I walked fast, down the corridor and out into the open air, away from him. Outside the police station, the night wind cut through me. My bones ached. My mother’s car was parked at the curb. She saw me and rushed over, eyes red and swollen, wringing her hands. “Sweetie, what happened? Did they open a case?” Looking at this woman — who’d spent her whole life swallowing her pain inside that house — I felt something hollow open up in my chest. “No case. They ruled it accidental.” My mother froze. Tears spilled down her face. “How… your father said he’d make sure Anya faced consequences. How can they call it an accident?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Mom. Your husband is a top authority in his field.” “If he says it’s an accident, then it’s an accident.” “Even if the person just crushed his own daughter’s hand.” My mother twisted her fingers together, visibly uncomfortable. “I… I’m sure your father had his reasons.” “That woman — she did save his life once, all those years ago…” “Stop.” I cut her off. “Take me to the hospital. I need nerve repair surgery.” My mother hesitated, glancing at her phone. “The thing is… your father just texted. He wants us both to go straight to the Prestige Club.” “He said if we don’t show up tonight, he’ll cut off my allowance.” I looked at her. Forty-five years old. Living like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin. Every cent she had came from my father. She didn’t even dare raise her voice at him. “Then you can go.” I took out my phone and called a rideshare. “I’ll get there myself.” “Emma, please don’t—” She reached for me. I stepped back. “Mom. If you still want to be my mother, don’t go to that dinner.” “If you go, then as far as I’m concerned, you never had me.” The car arrived. Through the window, I watched my mother standing on the curb, torn. Then she sighed, turned around, and got in her own car. Heading toward the Prestige Club. I closed my eyes. The tears finally came. This was my family. A father drowning in a love that wasn’t meant for us. A mother too weak to swim against the current. And me — the unwanted sacrifice caught in the middle. — Back at the hospital, I’d barely lay down when my phone started buzzing nonstop. On Instagram, Anya had posted a nine-photo spread. She was in a designer gown, seated at a grand piano that probably cost more than most people’s apartments. My father stood behind her, smiling — warm, paternal, like something out of a catalog. The caption read: “Grateful for Dr. Lin’s integrity, and for my mom’s love. Real talent doesn’t bow to rumors. Cheers!” Integrity? Real talent? Go to hell. I tapped the comments. All her socialite friends, falling over themselves. “Anya, you’re amazing!” “Dr. Lin truly put principle over family — respect!” “Whatever happened to that girl who played piano like she was punching it? She couldn’t even make it to toast her?” Anya replied: “Probably home losing her mind, lol lol lol.” I stared at the screen. My good hand clenched into a fist. Then a new notification popped up. A money transfer. From my father. Amount: $200. Note: “Stop acting out. Get yourself some vitamins. I’ve already told Mrs. Shen she doesn’t need to cover your rehab costs — they’re preparing for an international tour and expenses are tight. Try to be understanding.” I read it twice. My stomach turned over. I wanted to be sick. I threw my phone at the wall. —

I spent three days in the hospital. My father didn’t visit once. Instead, Mrs. Shen — Sandra Shen — showed up. She brought a box of discount cookies that were nearly expired. She was dressed in a simple but well-tailored dress, standing at the door of my room with her signature wounded expression. “Emma, sweetie. Just came to check on you.” She set the cookies on the bedside table and smoothed her hair. “Anya’s been under so much pressure with the competition. She accidentally hurt your hand.” “I’ve already had a serious talk with her.” “And your father helped clear everything up. So we’re even now, right?” Even? I looked at that cheap little box of cookies and almost laughed. “My hands could play Chopin. And you think they’re worth a box of clearance cookies?” Sandra’s expression flickered. Then the smile came back. “Oh, Emma, don’t be like that.” “When your father had that malpractice incident years ago, it was me who took the fall for him. Remember that.” “A person has to have some conscience. Your father understands that — that’s why he’s so reasonable.” “Besides, your family is well off. You’re not exactly hurting for the rehab money, are you?” “My Anya is performing at Carnegie Hall. She cannot have a criminal record following her around.” In that moment, I finally understood the expression shameless and unstoppable. These people were leeches. And my father was the fool who’d been baring his neck for them — and complaining the blood wasn’t flowing fast enough. “Get out.” I pointed at the door. “Take your cookies and get out.” Sandra’s smile collapsed. “You have no manners whatsoever. No wonder Anya can’t stand you. You need to be taught a lesson.” She muttered all the way out, cookies in hand. Right before the door closed, she threw one spectacular eye roll. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. That afternoon, the head nurse came in with a billing statement. Her expression wasn’t good. “Emma, your account is in arrears.” “If you don’t make a payment, tomorrow’s secondary nerve reconstruction surgery will have to be cancelled.” I went still. “Arrears? My father — Dr. Lin — didn’t pay?” The head nurse shook her head. “Dr. Lin called yesterday and withdrew the $20,000 prepayment.” “He said… he said the other family urgently needed the money to purchase a limited-edition antique violin, and he was lending it to them in the meantime.” “He said you should cover it yourself for now.” Something snapped inside me. Clean and final. He withdrew my surgery money — to buy an instrument for the person who destroyed me? What kind of father does that? My hands were shaking as I borrowed the nurse’s phone to call him. It rang for a long time before he picked up. From the background came the lilt of a violin, and my father’s easy, relaxed laughter. “Hello? Who’s this?” “It’s me.” A brief silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice, impatient. “Emma? Where’s your phone? Why are you calling from a strange number?” “Richard. You withdrew my surgery funds.” I used his first name. “Is that how you talk to your father?” His voice climbed a few notes. “Sandra and Anya are about to go on tour and they need to look the part.” “You’re resting in the hospital — that surgery can wait a few days, it’s not going anywhere. So I moved the money to help them out temporarily.” “You still have money from your performances, don’t you? Use that.” “Don’t be selfish. Learn to be happy for other people.” Happy for other people? He was breaking my fingers one by one to roll out a red carpet for someone else. “That surgery is my only chance to save my right hand!” I screamed into the phone. “The doctor said if we miss this window, I will never play again!” “You gave the money to Anya for a violin? Are you out of your mind?” From the other end, Sandra’s voice drifted in, theatrical and soft. “Oh, Richard, if Emma really needs it urgently, we can hold off on the violin for now…” Then my father’s voice, firm and decided. “Sandra, don’t listen to her. She’s being dramatic.” “These local doctors love to scare people — it’s never as serious as they make it sound.” “The performance is what matters. Anya is on the verge of being scouted by the Royal Academy. She needs a proper instrument.” “Emma, figure it out yourself. Don’t bother me with this.” Click. The line went dead. —

I stood there holding the phone. Frozen. The head nurse looked at me with something like pity. “Emma… maybe you could call your mom?” My mom? The woman who had to log every grocery receipt and get it approved? I shook my head. “It’s okay.” “Please start the discharge paperwork.” “But your hand—” “I’m not getting treated.” If the world was going to be this rotten, I didn’t have to keep pretending to be a good girl. I went home once — while no one was there. I packed everything that was mine. Except for the written declaration severing ties with my father. That I left behind. My rare vinyl records. My formal gowns. Every gold medal I’d earned since childhood. All of it went up on eBay. Priced to sell. Cash only. With that money, I rented a small apartment in the next town over — one with an elevator. Then I found a private rehabilitation center. I’d missed the optimal treatment window. I’d never play technically demanding pieces again. But the doctor said with enough hard work, I could regain basic use of my hand for everyday life. I used to be the national youth piano championship winner. Now I was someone who couldn’t hold a fork without trembling. But I didn’t cry. I’d cried all my tears out that afternoon. There was nothing left. — Half a month later. I was in the middle of rehab, sweating through grip exercises with a silicone ball. The door to my room swung open. My father walked in with Anya and Sandra. The three of them moved like they owned the place. His face was tight. He was holding a document. “Emma! What are you doing hiding out here?” “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” I ignored him. Kept squeezing the ball, jaw clenched. Every squeeze felt like tearing something loose inside my hand. Anya was chewing gum, bored out of her mind. “Told you she was hiding, Dr. Lin.” “So dramatic. It’s just a hand injury. It’s not like she’s dying.” My father dropped the document on my bedside table with a slap. I glanced at it. Voluntary Waiver of Liability. For the competition organizing committee. “Word got back to the committee that Anya hurt someone. They’re threatening to revoke her entry.” My father said it like he was stating obvious logic. “If you sign this — admit that you hurt yourself accidentally — they’ll reinstate her spot.” “Anya is on the verge of winning gold. You can’t let something this small ruin her future.” I hurt myself. I stopped moving. I turned and looked at him. “She waited until I wasn’t looking and brought a solid wood piano lid — dozens of pounds — crashing down on my hand.” “And you’re calling that me hurting myself?” “Dr. Lin, how do you even say that out loud?” His eyes shifted for just a second. Then the authority snapped back into place. “If you say it happened that way, then that’s how it happened.” “I’m the certified expert. I know how to handle these things.” “Sign it. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” Sandra chimed in helpfully from the side. “Exactly, Emma. We’re practically family. Why make everything so tense?” “If Anya gets banned, how is she supposed to have a career?” “Why do you have to be so vindictive?” I looked at the three of them. And suddenly the whole thing felt almost absurd. “And if I don’t sign?” Anya spat her gum on the floor, crossed the room, and shoved me — hard. I was already off-balance. I hit the ground. My right hand caught the floor. The pain was blinding. “Ahh—” I cried out. My father flinched, started instinctively toward me. Anya stopped him. “Don’t baby her, Dr. Lin.” “She’s faking.” “Emma, listen to me. You’re signing this today whether you want to or not.” “Every time I see you, I’ll make you hurt. Every single time.” She raised her foot — in heels — directly over my bandaged right hand. “Stop!” —

My father finally spoke up. Not to protect me. To protect himself. “Anya, keep your hands to yourself. There are cameras in here.” He pulled Anya back and looked down at me from where I lay on the floor. “Emma. I’m asking you one last time. Are you signing or not?” “If you don’t sign, don’t expect another cent from me. Ever.” “And don’t bother coming home.” I was on the floor, soaked in cold sweat from the pain. But I started laughing. “Home?” “The home where my surgery money was handed to the person who broke my hand so she could buy a violin?” “The home where my own father lied for the person who attacked me?” “Richard. Did you forget?” “I already cut ties with you.” With my left hand, I pulled a backup phone out of my pocket. The screen showed it was recording. “Anya shoving me just now. All of you pressuring me to sign a false statement. I got it all.” “This time, I’m not letting any of you walk away from this.” My father’s face went white. “You… you set me up?” I pushed myself up off the floor, inch by inch. Like a hawk with a broken wing — but with the eyes of something far more dangerous. “You taught me, Dad.” “A physician deals in objective facts.” My father panicked. He was one of the top specialists in the country. He knew better than anyone what reputation was worth. Anya shoving me — causing a second injury. Combined with audio of them pressuring a victim to sign a false statement and admitting to falsifying the original assessment. If any of this got out, his career was finished. “Emma, give me the phone.” His tone softened. Trying to use family as leverage. “We’re family. We can talk this through.” “Anya just has a short temper. She didn’t mean it.” I watched his hand reach toward me. “Grab the phone, Anya.” Sandra’s voice cut across the room. Anya lunged for it. I’d been ready. I hit send. The file went straight to cloud storage — and simultaneously to several prominent music journalists I’d already contacted. “Too late.” I dropped the phone on the floor. “It’s already out.” Anya stomped it to pieces, then grabbed my collar. “You little—you set me up?” Then the door burst open. Security flooded in, followed by my attending physician. “Hey! What the hell is going on in here!” The doctor took one look at me on the floor — blood seeping through the bandaging — and went pale with fury. “She’s in recovery. This is deliberate assault!” “Call the police. Right now.” The police arrived fast. It was a hospital — a public space — and the conduct was flagrant. Anya was cuffed on the spot. Sandra threw herself on the floor, wailing that I was trying to frame them. My father stood in the corner like a statue someone had forgotten to animate. He looked at me. No guilt in his eyes. Only the stunned, burning anger of a man who’d been defied. “Emma. You’ve deeply disappointed me.” His voice was hoarse, but he was still trying to hold onto that tone — authoritative, above it all. “Is this you destroying Anya? Destroying your own father?” I climbed back into my treatment chair. The nurse came over and rewrapped the bandaging. Blood seeped slowly through the gauze, blooming like something ugly. I looked up at him. My voice was perfectly calm. “Dad, it’s not me that’s destroying you.” “It’s your greed. Your favoritism. And that self-righteous idea you have of what ‘integrity’ looks like.” I paused, like I was just reminding him of something routine. “Also — while you still have a license, find yourself a good lawyer.” “I’m going all the way with this.” — That night, the video went viral.

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The day I received the Outstanding Young Entrepreneur Award, I stared into the camera and said what I’d been holding back for years. “Grateful to her? No. The driving force of my entire life has been the refusal to end up like her.” The host awkwardly held the microphone toward me. On the screen behind us, a live feed showed my mother, Linda, slouched on the couch picking at her feet while playing video games. I went home and dropped the trophy on the coffee table. I stood there in the cold silence, staring at the takeout containers littering the floor. “Linda, can you at least get a job? Sweeping streets, anything.” She kept her eyes on the screen, thumbs working the controller. “Sweeping streets sounds exhausting. I’ve got a daughter to support me — why would I work? Ugh, I died again. Top up my account, would you? I need sixty bucks for the battle pass.” A mother like that? I was done with her. I dropped the crystal award — the one engraved with Outstanding Young Entrepreneur — straight into the trash can. Right in front of Linda. It hit the bottom with a sharp crack. Linda was buried in the couch, her flannel pajamas stained with grease at the collar, her hair a tangled mess. She didn’t even turn around. Her fingers kept pressing buttons on the controller. On the screen, a little pixel character ran into a wall, died, and respawned. Over and over. “Ellie, honey,” she said, eyes still fixed on the screen, voice thick and unfocused, “if you don’t want it, you don’t want it. Why all the drama?” “Oh, and this month’s allowance still hasn’t come through.” “My premium subscription expires tonight.” I laughed — the kind of laugh that comes out when you’re too angry for words. My chest heaved. “Linda, you make me sick.” I grabbed my bag and slammed the door behind me. The deadbolt clicked shut. Inside, the apartment went still. I didn’t go far. I stood in the hallway catching my breath. It was quiet in there. No shouting after me. No sounds of things being thrown. Just the tinny loop of game music bleeding through the wall. On the other side of that wall — The moment the door slammed, Linda’s controller slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. The hands that had been pressing buttons were curled inward now. Her knuckles were swollen and misshapen, trembling. She tried to bend down to pick it up, but her back seized and she slid off the couch entirely, hitting the floor hard. “Hss—” She sucked in a sharp breath. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. The takeout containers spread across the floor smelled of rot. She moved through the garbage, arm stretched out, reaching for the pill bottle wedged under the coffee table. The bottle rolled a few inches further away. Linda closed her eyes. Tears ran down the creases at the corners of her eyes and disappeared into her hair. “Ellie…” she murmured, barely audible. “Mom’s useless… I’m sorry…” — I checked into a five-star hotel in the city center. I lay on the king bed and didn’t sleep a single hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Linda’s back. The mother in my memory always wore blazers and heels. She’d been the top sales rep at her company. She was the one who could scoop me up with one arm and spin me around. Back then my father was still around — but he was a compulsive gambler. Every time debt collectors showed up at the door, Linda would drive them off with a broom, then pull me out of the corner where I was hiding and hold me close. “Ellie, don’t be scared. Mom’s here.” Later, he cleared out every dollar in the house. He maxed out Linda’s credit cards. Then he ran off with another woman. That night, Linda held me and cried until morning. The next morning she made me breakfast with red-rimmed eyes and said: “Ellie, from now on it’s just the two of us.” “Mom is going to give you a good life. I won’t let you make the same mistakes I made.” To pay off the debt. To keep me in private school. Linda worked three jobs at once. She sold insurance. She sold real estate. She washed dishes at a diner late into the night. I remember one winter, her hands were covered in chilblains — the cracks raw and weeping — and she still came home smiling with a keyboard for me. “Girls need grace. Hands are for playing piano, not washing dishes.” That version of Linda was the light I carried inside me. She was the person I swore I’d spend my whole life paying back. Then everything changed the year I was a senior in high school. I came home from school one afternoon and found out she’d quit her job. She was lying in bed. She looked at me and said: “I’m tired. I’m done.” “Ellie, you’re grown now. You’re on your own. Mom’s going to start enjoying her life.” At first I told myself she just needed rest. But one month passed. Then two. Then a year. She never looked for work again. She fell into video games. The apartment turned into a mess she never touched. When debt collectors came, she just shrugged. “No money. Come back when I’m dead.” In the end it was me, working part-time around my classes, chipping away at the interest payments one by one. I got into a top university. I came home with the acceptance letter, hoping to see relief on her face. She stared at the TV screen. “Oh, you got in? Good.” “Don’t forget to take care of me once you’re making money. It wasn’t easy raising you, you know.” My phone buzzed. —

A voice message from Linda on Snapchat. I frowned and opened it. “Ellie, honey, the hotel comfy?” “So… since you’re not coming home… can you transfer this month’s allowance over?” “It’s urgent. There’s a limited skin in the game store, goes away at midnight.” I took a deep breath and typed back: “Linda, go ahead and waste away in that game for the rest of your life.” Then I transferred five hundred dollars with a note: [Buy yourself a coffin.] A second later, I blocked her. What I didn’t know was that on the other end of the call, Linda looked at that transfer notification and tugged the corner of her mouth into a small smile. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the screen — a phone with no games installed on it at all — and opened a delivery app. She placed an order for a box of painkillers and a pack of adult diapers. Account balance: $23.50. “That’s enough… two more days…” She said it softly to herself, then tried to roll over. A bolt of pain cut through her and she let out a muffled groan. — Without Linda dragging me down, my career moved fast. The company was gearing up for Series A funding. As the founder, every day was packed. I had something to prove to Linda. That I was better off without her. That I was doing more than fine. Then, about a month later, I decided to sell the old apartment and free up capital. The property was in my name. Years ago, Linda had transferred the title to me to keep my father from gambling it away. The day I brought a real estate agent to see the place, I timed it deliberately — during what should have been Linda’s afternoon nap. The door swung open and a wave of stale, sour air hit us both. The agent stepped back, hand over his nose, and glanced at me. “Ms. Harris, this is…” My face burned. I pushed inside. The living room curtains were drawn tight. It was dim and stifling. Linda was sprawled on the couch under a blanket. The coffee table was buried under takeout containers and bottles. The floor was covered in crumpled tissues. She heard us and lifted her eyelids. When she saw me, her eyes shifted. “Well,” she said, voice raw. “Ms. Harris herself. To what do I owe the honor?” I crossed the room and yanked the curtains open. Sunlight poured in, lighting up a storm of dust swirling in the air. Linda reflexively raised a hand to shield her face. “I’m selling the apartment. I’ve rented you a studio. You’ll move in a few days.” I told her. Not a question. Linda lowered her hand and squinted at me. Then she smiled — slow, showing her two front teeth. “Selling? Sure.” “But I have one condition.” Those misshapen hands of hers extended two of the fingers that still moved. “I want half the sale price.” “Otherwise I’m staying right here, and I’d love to see who’s brave enough to buy it.” The agent drew a sharp breath and gave me a sympathetic look. Every drop of blood in my body rushed to my head. Half? That was hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Linda, have you lost your mind?” “You signed this place over to me voluntarily years ago. You’ve been living off me ever since. And now you want half the money?” “I was foolish back then.” Linda maneuvered one trembling hand toward her water glass on the table. She missed. Water soaked through her clothes. She didn’t seem to care — she even rubbed it deliberately into the couch cushion. “I have no job. No insurance. If you don’t support me, who will?” “Give me two hundred thousand, and I walk out of here today. I won’t get in the way of your big career.” “Fine.” I nodded. I pulled a bank card from my purse — the company’s reserve fund. “Fifty thousand now. The rest when the sale closes.” “Now. Get out.” I snapped the card onto her. The edge of the card caught her cheek. It left a thin red line. Linda didn’t flinch. She grabbed the card, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. “Deal.” She pressed her hands against the arm of the couch and tried to stand. Her legs didn’t respond. The moment she shifted her weight, her whole body pitched forward and she went straight down. The impact was loud. I stood where I was and watched. Cold. Another performance. She’d been pulling this since I was a child. I’d seen it a hundred times. “Save it. The agent’s right here. You want to embarrass yourself?” Linda lay face-down on the floor, her face buried in a pile of tissues. A long moment passed. Then she let out a low, quiet laugh. “Oh my… legs fell asleep… guess I’m just getting old…” “Give me a minute, Ms. Harris… I’ll grab a few things and get out of your hair… I’m sorry for the trouble…” Inch by inch, she began to crawl toward the bedroom. Something flickered in my chest watching her move like that. But the feeling was quickly buried under disgust. She was just lazy. Too lazy to bother walking. — In the month after Linda moved out, my company closed its funding round. I treated that fifty thousand dollars as the final price of severing a family tie. I thought I was free. Then one day, my fiancé, James, suggested we swing by and pick up my ID documents to start the marriage paperwork. —

James came from a good family. I didn’t want him to see where I came from. But he insisted on meeting my mother, even a mother with a “difficult personality.” I couldn’t talk him out of it. I drove him to the studio I’d rented for Linda. The moment we entered the stairwell, I smelled it. Rot and waste and disinfectant, all tangled together. We knocked for a long time before her voice came through the door: “It’s open…” I pushed inside. Linda was lying on a cot. Around her, half-eaten instant noodle cups and empty pill bottles were piled up in every direction. She’d wasted away. Her cheeks were hollow, her cheekbones jutting. The sheet under her was damp. The kind of damp that comes from something drying and being soaked through again. James pressed his hand over his nose. His brow furrowed. He took a step back. “Ellie… is this… your mom?” I rushed to her and ripped the blanket back. “Linda! What the hell is going on?” “Where is the fifty thousand? All of it?” “You let yourself get like this on purpose? Are you trying to humiliate me?” Linda squinted against the sudden light. She spotted James standing behind me, and something flickered in her eyes — a split second of alarm. She struggled to reach for the blanket, to pull it over her legs. The legs that had shriveled away. She wheezed. “It’s… it’s gone… the gear in the game was expensive…” “Ellie, can you give Mom a little more… I want the roast duck from downstairs…” “Gone?” I shouted. “Fifty thousand dollars. In one month?” “Did you gamble it? Are you on something?” I tore through the room looking for evidence of where the money had gone. Under her pillow, I found a box. It was the packaging for a game controller. “Give me that.” Linda erupted. She threw both arms around the box and her eyes went fierce. “That’s mine. Nobody touches it.” “That’s your whole life, isn’t it? A stupid game console matters more to you than your own daughter?” I yanked it away from her. “Give it back! Ellie! Please, give it back!” Linda rolled off the cot. Those completely deformed hands clawed at the air, her nails raking across my forearm. “Ow!” I cried out and shoved her backward. She hit the dresser with a dull thud and stopped moving. “Ellie, stop wasting your breath on her.” James had seen enough. He took my hand. “Find the documents and let’s go. A mother like this — you’re better off without her.” “You’re right. Better off without her.” I caught my breath, staring at the woman still twitching on the floor, trying to drag herself back toward the box. “Linda. Starting today, you are not my mother.” “I’ll arrange for you to go to a care facility. Whatever happens after that — don’t call me.” I pulled the document from my purse — a formal written declaration of severance — and slapped it on the table. “It doesn’t hold up in court. But in my heart, you’re already gone.” I turned and pulled James toward the door. “Wait…” Her voice came from behind me, barely a sound. She didn’t beg. She didn’t curse. She raised her head. And somehow, there was a smile on her face — faint, but unmistakable. The smile of someone being released. “Ellie… keep going… don’t look back…” I stopped mid-step. My chest clenched. Those words. I knew those words. “Crazy woman,” I said through my teeth, forcing the tears back down. I grabbed the controller box I’d taken from her and hurled it at the floor. “Take your junk and die.” I walked out before James could stop me. By the time I got to the car, my hands were still shaking. “Don’t cry, Ellie.” James started the engine. “Some people can’t be helped.” I nodded and looked out the window. Then, from somewhere in the distance, a siren began to wail. An ambulance, lights flashing blue, pulled directly up to Linda’s building. My heart lurched. I looked down at the paper that had slipped out of the box — the one I’d never dropped. I’d assumed it was a manual. It wasn’t. It was a trust fund statement. Beneficiary: Eleanor Harris. Amount: $200,000. Date: five years ago. The same year Linda quit her job. The same year she “gave up.” Tucked beneath the statement was a stack of medical documents. The first one was dated five years ago too. Diagnosis: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS). Estimated prognosis: 3 to 5 years. Patient notes: Patient declined all treatment. Pain management only. Requested all remaining funds directed to trust… The world went silent. My mind went blank. My hands shook as I turned to the note folded beneath everything else. The handwriting was almost illegible — smeared with tearstains and grease. “Ellie, Mom couldn’t give you much. I’m sorry I couldn’t build you a fortune. Mom didn’t want you to watch me fall apart. To watch me turn into something that just drools and stares. Hate me. Hate me so you can fly far away. That fifty thousand — Mom used it to clear the last of the loan sharks your father owed before he died. Nobody will come after your company anymore… Ellie, it hurts. Mom is so tired… Mom just wants to sleep…” “Stop the car!” I screamed it. The car hadn’t even stopped fully when I threw the door open and ran.

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Grandpa said the caregiver pinched him at night and tied him up in the bathroom. I didn’t believe him, of course. An eighty-year-old man with worsening dementia — he’d make up anything to avoid staying in the nursing home. I swallowed my frustration, forced a smile at the caregiver, and even had a commendation banner made for him. The next day, Grandpa had another bruise on his arm. He was still trembling as he said it was the same person who’d pinched him. His eyes were full of disappointment in me, but he kept saying it with total certainty. On the third day, when I watched the security footage again and saw the caregiver gently feeding him, I completely lost it. “Do you just not want to stay here? Is that it? You’re making all this up just to mess with me!” Grandpa shook all over, but still worked up the courage to nod. “It’s true. It really is…” That night, I left him alone at the nursing home. I was halfway home when I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: Why would an eighty-year-old man keep insisting he was telling the truth even after I screamed at him?

Grandpa was my only family. My parents died when I was young. Grandpa raised me by collecting scrap and recycling, scraping together enough to put me through college so I could build a life in the city. I bought an apartment in the city, but he refused to move in. He said the place felt like a cage — too cramped, hard to breathe. Last year, his memory started getting worse. One time he put water on to boil and forgot to turn off the stove, nearly burning down the old house. Our neighbor called me, voice shaking. “Lily, you need to come back right now. Your grandfather almost burned himself alive!” I took a week off work and brought Grandpa to the city. But I had a job to go to, trips to take — I couldn’t watch him twenty-four hours a day. Hire a home aide? He got anxious around strangers. Two different aides quit within their first three days. With no other options, I gritted my teeth and moved him into the best care facility in the area. Sunset Haven Senior Living. Eight thousand eight hundred a month. Premium care — doctors, nurses, meals delivered to the room, one-on-one caregiver service. When the director gave me a tour, he made a point of introducing the lead caregiver. “This is Greg. Eight years with us. The most patient man we have, best at keeping our residents comfortable. Leave your grandfather with him and you won’t have a thing to worry about.” Greg was in his fifties, heavyset, soft-spoken. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I treat every resident like my own family.” I left feeling completely reassured. The first month, Grandpa sounded happy every time he called. “Lily, the food here is great. Greg is so good to me — draws me a foot bath every single night.” The weight lifted off my chest. Eight thousand eight hundred well spent. But starting the second month, his calls changed. “Lily, I don’t want to stay anymore. Please come take me home…” I asked why. He fumbled and couldn’t explain — just said he missed home. I tried to reassure him. “Grandpa, your legs aren’t good. I’d worry if you were home alone. Once things calm down at work, I’ll bring you over to stay for a few days.” He went quiet for a long moment, said “okay,” and hung up. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was normal for old people to miss home. Over the next few days, his calls came more and more often. The same thing, over and over: “Lily, when are you coming to get me?” I started losing my patience. “Grandpa, I’m busy with work. Can you please stop calling so much? If you need something, ask the caregiver. Isn’t Greg good to you?” Grandpa went quiet after that — and then something happened. I was in a meeting when my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. The nursing home. I slipped out to take the call. Greg’s voice came through, carrying a hint of resignation. “Lily, your grandfather took a fall. Just scraped his arm a little — nothing serious, already taken care of. Don’t worry.” When I got there, Grandpa was sitting on his bed. His right elbow had a large bruise on it, and a few marks that looked like scratches. “How did he fall?” Grandpa glanced at Greg, shrank back, and said nothing. Greg sighed. “He got up in the night to use the bathroom. I offered to help him, but he wouldn’t let me — insisted on walking himself. His foot slipped and he went down. I rushed to catch him, and he grabbed onto me and scratched me.” He rolled up his sleeve. There were a few red marks on the back of his hand. “It’s fine, really. Old folks can be stubborn. I get it.” I believed him. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my hand — with a grip that scared me. “Lily, I didn’t fall. Greg pinched me. He pinches me in the middle of the night…” I froze. I looked back at Greg. He wore a helpless expression, shaking his head with a tired smile. “Lily, your grandfather has been a little confused lately. The doctor says it’s the disease progressing — he may start having hallucinations and paranoid episodes. Please don’t take it to heart.” I let out a slow breath. Right. Grandpa had dementia. The doctor did say hallucinations would come eventually. I crouched down beside him. “Grandpa, were you maybe dreaming? Greg takes such good care of you — why would he pinch you?” Grandpa got upset, eyes going wide. “I wasn’t dreaming! It was him!” “At night, when I’m asleep, he comes and pinches my thighs, pinches my sides. I wake up from the pain, and he tells me I was dreaming!”

Greg kept that same patient expression, walked over, and tucked the blanket around Grandpa’s shoulders. “Sir, if you’re not comfortable with me, I can talk to the director and have someone else assigned to you. How does that sound?” Grandpa went completely silent. A flash of fear crossed his eyes. I thought it was guilt. I even resented him a little for being so unreasonable. “Grandpa, can you please stop this?” “I pay all that money so you can be taken care of.” “Greg does so much for you, and you’re accusing him of things like this — does that seem right to you?” Grandpa opened his mouth. Tears spilled down his face. He let go of my hand, turned onto his side, and lay with his back to me — shoulders trembling. I felt awful too. But I wasn’t wrong. He was confused. I couldn’t let his confusion pull me under too. The drive home, my mind was a mess. Eight thousand eight hundred a month — nearly half my salary. I’d agreed to it without flinching because I wanted Grandpa to have a good life. Why couldn’t he understand that? The next day, Greg sent me a few photos. Grandpa sitting in a wheelchair in the sun. Greg crouched beside him, clipping his nails. Both of them smiling. Greg sent a voice message too. “Lily, your grandfather is in a much better mood today. I took him outside for some sunshine and got him to eat half an apple. Don’t stress — older folks just need a little extra love and attention.” I felt a warm rush of gratitude. Greg really was a good person. That evening I called Grandpa, hoping to smooth things over. It rang for a long time before he picked up. His voice sounded flat. “Lily…” “Grandpa, did Greg take you outside today? Did you have a nice time?” Silence on the other end. After a long pause, he said, “Lily, do you trust me?” My stomach dropped. “He pinched me again. Outside in the sun, when no one was around — he pinched my side. He said if I told on him again, he’d pull out my teeth…” My anger flared instantly. “Grandpa! Why do you keep making things up like this?” “Greg sent me photos. He was crouched down clipping your nails, smiling like he loves you. Why would he pinch you?” Low, muffled sobbing from the other end of the line. “You don’t believe me. You never believe me…” I took a deep breath and forced my voice steady. “Grandpa, it’s not that I don’t believe you. The doctor said this disease causes hallucinations.” “Think about it — if Greg were really doing that to you, could he smile like that?” “He puts on an act. Everything nice he does is an act…” “Enough!” I cut him off. “I’ll come see you this weekend. Stop overthinking and get some sleep.” After I hung up, there was a heaviness in my chest I couldn’t shake. My friend saw the look on my face and asked what was wrong. I told him everything. He let out a long breath. “That’s just how dementia goes. My grandpa was the same way — kept saying I stole his money when it was sitting under his pillow the whole time. Don’t get worked up over it. Just go along with whatever he says and keep him calm.” I nodded. He was probably right. That weekend I went to the nursing home and knew something was off the moment I walked in. Grandpa was sitting on the bed. When he saw me come in, his first reaction wasn’t happiness — he flinched back. “Grandpa?” He kept his head down, wouldn’t look at me. I walked over and tried to take his hand. He pulled away. “Grandpa, what’s wrong?” Still nothing. Greg came in carrying a plate of fruit, greeting me with a smile. “Lily, you’re here! Have some fruit — I just cut it.” At the sound of Greg’s voice, Grandpa’s whole body jerked. For just a moment, something nagged at me. But Greg seemed so completely normal — smiling warmly, casually mentioning that Grandpa had eaten half a bowl of rice, that his mood had been pretty good today. I pushed the feeling aside and told myself I was reading too much into things. As I was leaving, Grandpa suddenly grabbed my arm. His eyes were red. “Lily, are you coming back next week?” “Yes. Of course I will.” He nodded, let go, and curled back onto the bed — small and still, looking so fragile. I stepped outside. Greg caught up with me, his manner careful. “Lily, there’s something I’d like to run by you.” “Go ahead.” “Your grandfather has been saying some confused things lately, and it’s been disturbing the other residents.” “I was thinking — would it be possible to move him to a private room? The cost is a little higher, about two thousand more per month. What do you think?” My chest tightened. “What has he been saying?” Greg sighed, looking pained. “You know — saying I’ve been pinching him, hurting him. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me personally. I know who I am. But it’s not a good look.” “If other families hear it, they might think we actually mistreat residents here.” My face went hot with embarrassment. “Greg, I’m sorry. He’s causing you trouble. I’ll think about the private room — money’s a little tight right now.” “No rush, no rush. I just wanted to mention it. It’s for your grandfather’s sake too.” On the way home, the more I thought about it, the worse I felt for Greg. He worked so hard caring for these elderly residents, and my grandfather was putting him through this — with not a single complaint. I decided I needed to do something.

On Monday I took a half day off and went to a gift shop to have a commendation banner made. Eight words: Dedicated Care — Better Than Family. I brought it to the nursing home during afternoon visiting hours. There were several other families in the hallway. When Greg saw the banner, his eyes crinkled completely shut with his smile. “Oh, Lily, you really didn’t have to do this! I’m just doing my job!” I held his hand and raised my voice on purpose. “Greg, you have to accept this banner!” “My grandfather isn’t all there — he says confused things and puts you through so much, and you still take such good care of him. I honestly don’t know how to thank you!” The families nearby nodded along. Someone gave a thumbs-up. “Greg really is great — my mom says so too.” “Absolutely. Greg’s been at Sunset Haven for years. Best caregiver here.” Greg smiled from ear to ear and made a show of waving off the praise. The director came out too, and posed with Greg and me in front of the banner for a photo to post on the facility’s social media page. I smiled for the camera, and felt something settle in my chest. Maybe now Grandpa would finally let this go. When I went to see him, I found him crying. No sound — just tears running down his face. When he saw me come in, he quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Grandpa?” He wouldn’t look at me. He was staring at the banner. A flicker of irritation. “Grandpa, I just gave Greg a commendation banner to recognize how well he cares for you. Please stop saying things about him. He really is good to you.” He slowly raised his head and looked at me. His eyes held something — a deep hurt, and beneath it, despair. “Lily, do you think Grandpa has lost his mind?” The words hit me like a wall. “Grandpa hasn’t lost his mind. Sometimes his memory slips. But whether something hurts — Grandpa can tell the difference.” He pulled up his pant leg and showed me the inside of his thigh. Covered in bruises. Several had gone black, and you could see individual finger marks pressed into the skin. “He did this yesterday. He knew you might look, so he pinched where it wouldn’t show.” A roaring sound filled my head. The next second, Greg’s voice floated in from the doorway. “Sir, telling on me to Lily again?” He came in carrying a mug of hot water, smiling pleasantly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Lily, don’t mind him — older folks go through phases. He was laughing with me just a little while ago, and now he’s upset. It happens.” I stared at the bruises. Then I looked at Greg’s smiling face. I didn’t know who to believe. Grandpa pulled his pant leg back down, closed his eyes, and stopped looking at me entirely. Greg steered me toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lily, those bruises on his legs are from when he knocked himself getting into the shower. I saw it happen myself.” “His memory’s poor — he bumped himself and forgot all about it. Now he thinks someone did it to him. If you don’t believe me, pull up the security footage.” Security footage. My eyes lit up. “Can you actually do that?” “Of course. All the common areas have cameras. The rooms don’t — privacy reasons, obviously.” “But the hallways, the activity room — all covered. You can check anytime you want.” I followed Greg to the security office and pulled up yesterday’s footage. On the screen, Grandpa sat in a wheelchair. Greg pushed him down the hall toward the activity room — gentle, steady, leaning down to say something to him. Nothing but calm between them. In the afternoon, Greg helped him into the shower. When Grandpa came out, he did walk with a slight limp — but Greg was supporting him the whole time. Nothing out of the ordinary. I exhaled. “Greg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” Greg patted my hand, expression warm and kind. “It’s fine. I understand. Families have it hard too.” On the way home, I called my friend and told him about checking the security footage. “See? I told you — he’s confused. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Nothing you could’ve done.” I nodded. The knot in my chest finally loosened. Wednesday. Two in the morning. My phone went off. The nursing home’s landline. Half-asleep, I picked up. Greg’s voice came through, slightly breathless. “Lily, I’m so sorry to call at this hour.” “Your grandfather is acting up again. He’s locked himself in the bathroom and won’t come out no matter how many times we call.” “We’re worried something’s happened. Do you have any idea how to reach him?” I sat bolt upright. “What happened?” “I honestly don’t know. He was fine earlier tonight. I was doing rounds and noticed he was gone. Searched everywhere, found him in the bathroom with the door locked from the inside. He won’t answer. It’s been almost an hour.” I threw on my clothes and ran. By the time I got to the nursing home, it was nearly three in the morning. A small crowd had gathered outside the bathroom — staff and security. Greg stood at the front, looking frantic. “Lily, thank God you’re here! He’s still in there. Won’t respond to anything. I’m worried he’s hurt!” I knocked on the door. “Grandpa! It’s me! Lily! Open the door!” Silence. Panic gripped me. I told security to force it open. The door gave way — and what I saw inside is something I will never forget for the rest of my life. Grandpa was on the floor with his back against the wall. His hands were bound to the radiator pipe with his own pajama pants. There was a wad of cloth shoved into his mouth. When he saw me, tears poured down his face. He made muffled, desperate sounds, but he couldn’t speak. I flew at him, tore his hands free, yanked the cloth from his mouth. “Grandpa! Grandpa! Who did this? Who did this to you?” Grandpa shook violently and collapsed sobbing into my arms.

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After Declan secretly drove Marissa home for what felt like the hundredth time, I was done. A bone-deep, marrow-sucking exhaustion washed over me. I told him it was over. He buried his face in his hands, playing the tortured victim. “Just because I gave her a ride?” “What exactly do I have to do for you to be satisfied, Paige?” “We’re in the same department. It’s a professional requirement. I can’t just cut her out of my life.” I stared at the tube of lip gloss tucked beneath the passenger seat. A harsh, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat. “Is it because she’s a colleague that you can’t cut her off?” I asked softly. “Or is it because she was your first love?” 01 I was so incredibly tired. Maybe this psychological fatigue had been festering since the day Declan brought the wrong bag home. Declan owned a faded, charcoal-gray canvas messenger bag that he’d lugged around for over a decade. He claimed it was a relic from his high school debate team—sturdy, utilitarian, indestructible. From high school to undergrad, through his PhD, and straight into his tenure-track position at the university, he had a habit of stuffing it with lecture notes and grant proposals. We had been together for seven years. I knew the geography of Declan’s life like the back of my hand. That included the frayed edges of that canvas bag. So, the evening he tossed it onto the entryway bench, the smudge on the strap caught my eye immediately. “When did you get nail polish on your bag?” The sound of running water from the bathroom made his voice sound fragmented, distant. “Huh? What do you mean?” I held up the strap, pointing to a tiny, dark smear catching the hall light. “Look. It’s black, but it’s got glitter in it. You only see it when the light hits it.” He took the bag, angling it under the pendant light. He unzipped the main compartment, peeked inside, and let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “I see. This is Marissa’s bag. She must have grabbed mine by mistake.” “Marissa?” Declan didn’t miss a beat. “The new adjunct in our department. We actually went to high school together.” I nodded, piecing it together. “So she has the same debate team bag.” At the time, I thought it was just a cute coincidence, a shared piece of alumni nostalgia. I wouldn’t find out until much later that fifteen years ago, they had swapped these exact bags by mistake. That the hazy, intoxicating rush of their teenage romance had sparked from that very mix-up. Sturdy. Built to withstand the test of time. Not just the canvas bags. But the unresolved, tragic romance of the girl who got away. 02 Declan’s face went rigid. “You knew we dated in high school?” I rolled the lip gloss between my fingers, letting out a quiet breath. “It would take a miracle not to know, Declan. I’m not blind.” He lowered his eyes. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. “When did you find out?” I tilted my head, studying the stranger sitting in my living room. “Does it matter?” “Are you trying to figure out where the leak was? Run a post-mortem on your strategy so the next lie is airtight?” I couldn’t keep the venom out of my voice. “When you, Marissa, and Kelsey were all coordinating your stories to keep me in the dark, did you hold weekly departmental meetings about it? Like you do with your lab data?” “Tell me, Declan. As my boyfriend, and as my supposed best friend, did it give you a thrill to stand on Marissa’s side of the line and make a fool out of me?” Declan took a sharp, suffering breath, the picture of a man pushed to his limits. “How many times do I have to say it? We didn’t team up to lie to you!” It was laughable. “Are you an idiot, Declan, or do you just think I am?” 03 For months, Marissa’s name had been a constant hum in the background of my life. They shared a faculty office. They were both the university’s rising stars in the department. They shared a hometown, a high school, a history. Whether it was the dean assigning them joint research projects or the undergrads gossiping in the corridors, the world seemed determined to tether them together. Marissa was woven so tightly into the fabric of Declan’s career that he couldn’t even tell me about his Tuesday without mentioning her. Naturally, I grew curious about her. But I was naive. I brought a gentle, friendly curiosity to the table, entirely unaware that she brought an arsenal of quiet, malicious exclusion. And Declan? He played the blind man. He couldn’t see Marissa’s calculated toxicity. He couldn’t see her ulterior motives. He simply let her bulldoze right past every boundary a man in a seven-year relationship should have. It started small. His undergrads, oblivious and eager, would joke about how perfect Professor Shaw and Professor Howell looked together. He never corrected them. Then, it escalated. He began driving her home every single day. He looked me in the eye and swore he was keeping his promise to me—that outside of faculty meetings, he had zero contact with her. Then came my suspicions. When I casually asked about the mythical, devoted high school boyfriend Marissa loved to brag about, Declan lied again. He claimed he hadn’t really paid attention to her dating life back then. And then there was Kelsey. My college roommate. The woman I considered my chosen sister. To my face, she played the peacemaker, urging me to give Declan the benefit of the doubt, telling me I was letting my insecurities win. Behind my back, she was the bridge connecting them. She curated group hangouts, manufactured excuses for them to be together, and played lookout. Time and time again, I swallowed my discomfort. I choked down my grievances. I gave Declan my grace, and I gave Kelsey my trust. And they took those gifts, sharpened them into blades, and gutted me. 04 “I explained everything you were upset about, didn’t I?” Declan’s jaw clenched. His tone was drenched in genuine bewilderment. I stared at him, marveling at the fact that I had loved this man for the better part of a decade. “Your students joke that you two are soulmates, and did you ever shut it down?” “You and Marissa just exchange those little smiles and let them whisper. You never deny it. You never set the record straight. But you come home and tell me I’m overreacting, that I’m inventing ghosts.” “You promised me you wouldn’t interact with her outside of work, yet you’re playing her personal chauffeur every afternoon.” “You come home smelling like her perfume, and you look me in the eye and lie!” Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice rising to match mine. “Because the second her name comes up, you lose your mind! I couldn’t tell you the truth because you’re impossible to talk to!” He caught himself, swallowing his temper, and shifted into damage control. “If we break up, what are we supposed to tell your parents?” “Your dad’s heart isn’t great, Paige. Your mom has been waiting for us to pick a wedding venue. It’s been seven years. Are you really going to throw all of this away over a misunderstanding?” My hands froze. When my dad started showing the warning signs of a mini-stroke two years ago, Declan was the one who caught it. He drove him to the ER. Because of that, my parents didn’t just love him; they owed him. They felt a profound, unbreakable gratitude toward him, frequently hinting that we shouldn’t wait much longer to tie the knot. If I walked away now, how would it break them? “Paige, baby, let’s just stop fighting, okay?” Declan dropped his voice an octave, slipping into that soft, velvet tone he knew I loved. “If you’re really this insecure about it, come to the high school alumni dinner this Saturday with me.” “See for yourself. See how we interact. You’ll realize you’ve built this whole thing up in your head. Okay?” 05 I went to the dinner. Somewhere, buried deep in the bruised tissue of my heart, a pathetic little ember of hope still flickered. You don’t just sever a seven-year bond like a loose thread. Once the blinding red rage faded, the memories crept back in. The years of being adored, of being prioritized, of laughing until my ribs ached in his kitchen. Those ghosts coaxed me into trying one last time. Give him the chance to prove me wrong. I wanted him to evolve. I wanted him to finally look at me and understand the exact shape of my pain. From the moment we walked into the private dining room, Declan kept his fingers interlaced with mine, holding on tight. “Hey, class prez is here! And who is this gorgeous woman?” a guy greeted us, his smile wide and genuine. Declan didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Paige.” “Leave it to Shaw to pull someone completely out of his league.” Declan’s lips twitched upward into a proud, devastatingly familiar smile. “I’m a lucky guy, what can I say?” The table erupted into good-natured cheers. For a dizzying second, I felt like I was time-traveling. I was back in our mid-twenties, back when we first became an ‘us,’ insulated and untouchable. Something tight in my chest went soft. Maybe coming here was the right move. 06 For the first hour, Declan was a man of his word. He was hyper-attuned to me. If anyone brought up an inside joke that left me out, he smoothly derailed the conversation, redirecting it to something inclusive. I watched him navigate the room, charming and attentive. The coiled spring in my chest began to unwind. Then, the heavy oak doors swung open. Marissa. She drifted into the room, dispensing gentle, practiced smiles to everyone who called her name. Taking the empty seat right beside Declan seemed like nothing more than an innocent coincidence. Instinctively, Declan shifted his chair to give her more room. Before she even sat fully down, he reached across the table, picked up the wine glass set at her place setting, and swapped it with a tumbler of warm water. “Your stomach has been acting up. Skip the Pinot tonight,” he murmured. The intimacy in his hushed voice was a physical blow. The movement was fluid, unconscious, lacking even a fraction of a second of hesitation. It was muscle memory. “Man, you two never change,” the guy across from them laughed. “Remember when you guys swapped those debate bags senior year? Swear to God, you were the IT couple…” The guy next to him sharply elbowed his ribs, gesturing wildly with his eyes toward me. “Oh, uh, my bad. But hey, Shaw’s girlfriend doesn’t look like the type to sweat ancient history, right?” Declan said nothing. He didn’t agree. He didn’t deny it. He just laughed easily and pivoted the conversation, exactly like he had done for me all night. The soft, hopeful thing in my chest crystallized into ice. He was right. I was never the type to sweat ancient history. So who turned me into this paranoid, score-keeping shadow of myself? I turned slightly to Kelsey, who was seated on my left. “You see it, right?” I whispered. “You see how he is with her?” “Do you still think I’m just being sensitive?” I waited for her answer. I was offering up the pulse of our friendship, waiting to see if she would save it or let it bleed out. Kelsey’s brow furrowed in fierce annoyance. “Declan is already walking on eggshells, Paige. He’s barely even looked at her tonight.” “Do you have to be so exhausting? They’re old friends. What do you want him to do, build a Berlin Wall between them so you can feel secure?” She didn’t offer a single word of comfort. She just leaned forward, catching Marissa’s eye, and launched into an animated conversation about her new earrings. Seeing my expression, Declan frowned and reached out to brush my arm. “Hey. What’s with the face?” His eyes flicked down, finally registering the full glass of Cabernet sitting untouched in front of me. “Are you feeling sick? If you’re not feeling well, you really shouldn’t drink.” Two glasses of wine. When it belonged to her, he preemptively removed the danger. When it sat in front of me, it was practically invisible until I inconvenienced him with a bad mood. It was a sick joke. “I did everything you asked,” he whispered, his tone edging into frustration. “Why are you still punishing me?” I looked at him. The urge to explain myself, to communicate, evaporated entirely. His “boundaries” were just theatrical performances put on for my benefit. His “compromises” were just a chore, a tax he paid to keep me quiet. From start to finish, he never felt my grief. Because his emotional real estate was already occupied. By a ghost he didn’t even have to consciously think about to protect. Someone who had a VIP pass to his instincts, someone who naturally bypassed the line and stood at the very front of his heart. 07 Love gave me my answer. Now, it was time to put Friendship on the chopping block. It took three separate attempts before Kelsey finally agreed to meet me for lunch. She slid into the booth opposite me, radiating impatience. “What’s so urgent? Couldn’t we just FaceTime later?” I took a slow, steadying breath. I thought about the last few months. When I asked her out on weekdays, she was drowning in deadlines. On weekends, she was burnt out, needing a “rot day.” Yet, my Instagram feed was constantly updated with photos of her at brunch, at wine bars, at spin classes with other girls. It seemed like no matter what day of the week I chose, it was the exact day she lacked the time, the energy, or the desire to exist in my orbit. I gave a dry laugh. “When exactly is ‘later,’ Kelsey? Because it feels like whenever I ask, you’re magically booked solid.” Kelsey’s gaze flicked away, a telltale sign of her guilt, before she forced a defensive glare. “What are you talking about? I would never avoid you!” “We’re best friends.” Best friends. I rolled the words around in my head. They tasted like ash. “If you really consider me your best friend,” I said quietly, “then why did you play matchmaker for your ‘best friend’s’ boyfriend and another woman?” Kelsey’s face hardened instantly. “Is this about Declan and Marissa again?” “Jesus, Paige, why are you like a dog with a bone? You’re so paranoid!” “When did I ever play matchmaker? You’re just hypersensitive. You project your insecurities onto everything everyone does!” Watching her put on this ferocious, self-righteous act, I felt a strange, chilling calm settle over me. “You didn’t?” “Then why didn’t you tell me Marissa was his high school sweetheart the day she was hired?” “Why did you laugh along with the rest of the faculty when they made jokes about them dating, knowing full well he came home to me every night?” “You’re close friends with both of them. When you laugh at those jokes, it validates the rumors. It tells the world there’s a spark there. Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doing?” “I…” Kelsey opened her mouth, scrambling for a lifeline. But I didn’t want to hear it. I had waited in the dark for her explanations for so long. I had starved waiting for her loyalty. And all she ever fed me was gaslighting. I just wanted to purge the poison from my system. “I came to you, crying, telling you Declan had no boundaries with her.” “And knowing exactly how much it was destroying me, you suggested he drive both of you home from happy hour. And you made sure he dropped you off first, leaving them alone in the car.” “What was the goal, Kels? Make sure they had thirty minutes of uninterrupted time in the dark to trauma-bond?” “At first, Declan felt guilty. He knew it crossed a line. But you were the one who told him it was fine. You told him that since you were there, it wasn’t a ‘solo hangout,’ right?” Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. It wasn’t just that she chose Marissa over me. The knife twisted deeper because of a much colder truth. “You stopped being my friend a long time ago, didn’t you?” I knew Kelsey. “Even if I were just an acquaintance to you, you have too much pride to be an accomplice to an affair. You only did it because I ceased to matter to you at all.” 08 “You’re right.” Kelsey’s voice was stripped of all its frantic defensiveness. The silence that followed was heavy and metallic. “I don’t consider you my friend anymore.” She looked at me, her face a mask of cool indifference. “So, helping my actual friend get what she wants? Yeah. I’d say that’s pretty justified.” Memories hit me like a physical blow. Our cramped sophomore dorm room. Eating takeout on the floor. Walking aimlessly around campus at midnight, dissecting our fears, our messy breakups, our chaotic futures. She knew my deepest insecurities. I knew the fragile ego beneath her armor. Then came grad school. The corporate world. The slow, agonizing fade of her affection. I used to tell myself it was just adulthood. People get busy. People get tired. I just needed to try harder. Be more accommodating. Be the low-maintenance friend. I bled myself dry trying to water a dead plant. Until she started building a bridge between the man I loved and the woman who wanted him. Until this very second. When she sat across from me and admitted that my heart had simply been collateral damage in her game. 09 I tilted my head up, refusing to let the tears fall. Kelsey’s jaw was set tight. Not a flicker of remorse behind her eyes. “Then this is where we get off,” I whispered, swallowing the jagged rock in my throat. “From this second on, whatever you do, whatever happens to you—it’s none of my business.” I slid out of the booth. “You probably don’t care, but for the record? Declan and I are done.” “I hope you and your friend finally get everything you deserve.” 10 I had intended to dump Declan to his face. It was the respectful thing to do, for him, and for the seven years we built. But seven o’clock came and went. Then eight. He wasn’t home. Where are you? We need to talk. It’s important. Half an hour later, his reply popped onto my screen. Marissa got super sick. I had to take her to the ER. Is it an emergency? Just hold on, let me get her admitted and I’ll head back. It was the final nail in the coffin. I wanted to end this with grace. With quiet, adult dignity. So I replied: Okay. I’ll wait. But midnight struck, and the front door remained shut. In that quiet, dark living room, the tether snapped. The obsession, the anxiety, the desperate need for closure—it all evaporated into the ether. There was nothing left to say. There was no point in looking at his face one last time. I pulled my suitcase from the hall closet, packed the essentials, and ordered an Uber. As the car pulled away from the curb, I sent Declan Shaw one final text. We’re done.

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My husband makes twelve thousand dollars a month, net. His father holds his payroll card, and for six years, he hasn’t contributed a single dime to our household. I pay the mortgage. I pay the car loan. I maxed out my credit cards just to cover our daughter Zoe’s preschool tuition. The year I was suffering from severe postpartum anemia, my credit card debt spiraled to over eighteen thousand dollars. That same year, his father took my husband’s money to buy his younger brother a forty-five-thousand-dollar SUV. I asked him if he could just bring three thousand dollars a month home. He smashed his glass right in front of the entire family: “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to steal from my father?” Looking at his unfamiliar face, the sheer absurdity of it finally hit me. The next morning, I cancelled all the autopay accounts, packed up our daughter, and went back to my parents’ house. By day ten, overdue notices were plastered all over his door, and the bank was calling his office. He finally panicked. 01 My father-in-law, Richard, was bragging in the family group chat again, posting a screenshot of a wire transfer. $12,000. Sender: Greg. Recipient: Richard. The caption read: “A son who knows his duty is worth more than anything in this world.” The chat blew up instantly. My brother-in-law, Justin, posted three thumbs-up emojis: “Greg is the man. Mom and Dad are set for life.” My mother-in-law, Beverly, added a heart-eyes emoji. I sat at the dining table, staring at this month’s stack of bills spread out in front of me. Mortgage: $2,800. Car payment: $600. Daycare: $1,200. Utilities, Wi-Fi, and trash: $400. On top of that, Zoe had been hospitalized with bronchitis last month. Even after insurance, the out-of-pocket medical bill was $2,400. My monthly salary was $3,500. The minimum payments on my credit cards felt like a noose tightening around my neck. Zoe sat in her booster seat, poking her spoon into her bowl of oatmeal, her voice soft and sweet. “Mommy, is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight?” I glanced toward the kitchen. The slow cooker still had the beef stew I’d kept warm for Greg. “Yes, sweetie.” Right on cue, the front door clicked open. Greg walked in, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his face lined with the exhaustion of working late. When he saw the bills on the table, his movements faltered. “Calculating the budget again?” I pushed the statements toward him. “I can’t make the credit card payments this month. Can you talk to your dad? Just ask him if you can start bringing four thousand a month home to cover our expenses.” He didn’t even look at the paper. Instead, he picked up his glass of water. “My dad needs the money right now.” “He bought Justin a forty-five-thousand-dollar car last week.” “Justin is getting married. He needs a reliable car.” “Zoe’s preschool tuition is due next week. I have exactly two hundred and sixty dollars left in my checking account.” He unscrewed the cap and took a slow sip. “Daycare is too expensive anyway. If we can’t afford it, find a cheaper one.” I stared at him, my hands tightening in my lap. “Do you even know why Zoe is at this daycare? Your mother told me public preschool waitlists were too long and told me to handle it myself. I did the research. I do the pick-ups and drop-offs. When she gets sick, I’m the one taking unpaid leave.” Greg slammed his glass down onto the table. “Do you have to turn everything into a lecture? I work hard, Lydia. I’m tired.” The sudden noise startled Zoe, and her spoon clattered to the table. I picked it up, wiped it clean with a napkin, and handed it back to her with a gentle smile. “I’m not saying you don’t work hard,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’m asking if you can help support our household.” He finally looked at me, his eyes cold and defensive. “Lydia, don’t be so obsessed with money. When I was in school, my dad worked twelve-hour shifts at a freezing warehouse just so I could go to college. His hands were literally cracked and bleeding. Now that I have the means, giving him my paycheck is the right thing to do. It’s my duty.” “Then what about me?” He frowned. “What about you?” “I pay the mortgage. I pay the car payment. I feed our child, handle every utility bill, and max out my credit cards to keep a roof over our heads. What am I to you?” He was silent for two seconds before his voice dropped to a frigid tone. “You live in this house too, don’t you? You drive the car. Zoe is your daughter. Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor by paying for your own life.” I looked at the mountain of debt on the table and suddenly let out a soft, dry laugh. Zoe reached out and tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, don’t laugh like that. It’s scary.” I stroked her soft hair. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t worry.” Greg tossed his jacket onto the couch. “You’ve gotten so bitter lately. You never used to be like this.” 02 My mother-in-law, Beverly, came over the following morning. She let herself in, carrying a plastic bag of cheap oranges in one hand and a cardboard box of high-end collagen wellness shots in the other. “Lydia, I couldn’t stand the taste of these wellness shots. You take them. Give yourself a little boost.” I took the box. It was already open, with only two small bottles left inside. Beverly kicked off her shoes and scanned the living room floor. “Zoe’s toys are everywhere. You shouldn’t spoil her like this.” I was busy braiding Zoe’s hair. “She just finished playing. I’ll clean it up in a minute.” Beverly sat on the couch, pulling out her phone. “Did you pick another fight with Greg about money last night?” The hair tie twisted in my fingers. Zoe’s hair was fine and slippery, and a few strands fell loose. “It wasn’t a fight. We literally do not have enough money to cover our bills.” Beverly let out a dismissive laugh. “You young people just don’t know how to budget. You make thirty-five hundred a month. How is that not enough? Back in our day, we raised two kids on a fraction of that.” I zipped Zoe’s little backpack. “Beverly, we have a mortgage now.” “But the house is in your name, isn’t it?” “It’s in both of our names.” “Then it’s perfectly normal for you to pay for it. A woman needs her own home to feel secure.” She said it so smoothly, as if this crippling debt wasn’t a burden, but a privilege I should thank her for. Zoe ran up to Beverly, her backpack bouncing. “Grandma! I’m going to paint a bunny at school today!” Beverly pinched her cheek. “Why waste time on painting? Kids don’t need all these expensive activities. Your father never went to any fancy extracurriculars, and he still went to an Ivy League school.” I walked Zoe down to the car. When I returned, Beverly was already standing in front of my open refrigerator. “Why is there barely any food in here?” “It’s the end of the month.” She slammed the fridge door shut, her expression tightening. “Lydia, I actually came over to talk to you about something. Justin is getting engaged next month, and his fiancée’s family expects a beautiful ring and a down payment on a house. Your father-in-law is under immense pressure. Stop pressuring Greg for money.” I froze. “Justin is getting married. Why is Greg funding it?” Beverly looked at me as if I’d asked the stupidest question in the world. “They’re brothers. Why wouldn’t he help? Greg is the older brother, the successful one. It’s only natural he carries the weight.” “And what about his own daughter?” “Zoe has you. It’s not like she’s starving.” I leaned heavily against the dining table, my palms pressing into the hard wood. “Beverly, I am eighteen thousand five hundred dollars in credit card debt.” She blinked, her brow furrowing. “How did you run up that much debt? Have you been buying luxury things behind Greg’s back?” I pulled up my banking app and thrust the phone toward her. Hospital bills, mortgage payments, car payments, daycare tuition, groceries. Line by line. Clean, necessary, unavoidable. Beverly glanced at it for a second, then pushed the phone back to me. “I don’t understand all these digital statements. Look, if your little family is struggling, you need to find a way to fix it ourselves. Greg’s money has already been promised to his father. We can’t just take it back.” “And what if I can’t fix it?” She stared at me, her voice turning sharp. “Then spend less. Pull Zoe out of preschool. Stop driving. Stop ordering takeout. You’re a mother, Lydia. If you tighten your belt, you can make it work.” I thought of the cold leftovers I had eaten for dinner the night before. I thought of my winter coat, which was three years old and fraying at the seams. I thought of the follow-up medical checkup my doctor had ordered months ago, which I still hadn’t scheduled because I couldn’t afford the co-pay. Beverly stood up and grabbed her designer purse. “Your father-in-law is waiting for me at the jeweler’s. I have to go. Make sure you drink those wellness shots—don’t let them go to waste.” The door clicked shut behind her. I looked at the box containing the two remaining bottles, picked it up, and threw it directly into the trash. 03 I didn’t attend my brother-in-law’s engagement party. It wasn’t out of spite. Zoe woke up that morning with a fever of 102.5. I called Greg. He didn’t answer. I sent him a text. He replied hours later: “Today is a massive day for my family. Take her to the clinic yourself.” The emergency room was packed. Zoe’s face was flushed red, her tiny hands clutching my collar as she rested her heavy head on my shoulder. “Mommy, it hurts,” she whimpered. I rocked her back and forth, staring at the endless line at the registration desk. In front of me stood a young couple. The father held their crying toddler, while the mother carefully reviewed the paperwork. They took turns whispering comforts to the child, taking turns standing in line. I was entirely on my own. By the time Zoe’s fever finally broke, it was 11:00 PM. I sat in a hard plastic chair in the pediatric unit, holding her small, limp hand. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Facebook. My mother-in-law had posted. In the photo, Justin was wearing a sharp new suit, and his fiancée was showing off a sparkling diamond ring. Richard stood right next to them, his face flushed red with joy and alcohol. The caption read: “My youngest is officially set. The oldest funds it, the youngest builds his home. That’s what family does.” The oldest funds it. I zoomed in on the photo. Greg stood on the very edge of the frame, holding a thick envelope, a polished, polite smile plastered on his face. That envelope looked incredibly heavy. I looked down at Zoe. Her tiny arm was taped down where the IV had been, her sleep fitful and uneasy. My phone buzzed again. A credit card payment alert. Minimum payment due: $980. My bank account balance: $122. The nurse walked over, checking the IV drip. “Her second bag is almost done, sweetie. Keep an eye on it and let us know when it finishes.” I nodded, unable to speak. A young mother sitting in the chair next to me quietly handed me a pack of tissues. “You look pale,” she said softly. “Are you alright?” As I took them, I realized my forehead was drenched in a cold sweat. We didn’t get home until 1:00 AM. Greg still wasn’t back. I wiped Zoe down with a warm cloth, gave her her medicine, and tucked her into bed. It was past 2:00 AM when I heard the front door open. Greg walked in, smelling heavily of whiskey. “How’s the baby?” “Her fever is down.” He let out a long breath, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. It was Justin’s big night, and Dad got so drunk I had to stay and handle everything.” I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the digital thermometer. “How much did you give them?” He froze. “Why are you asking that?” “I saw your mother’s post.” He hung his suit jacket over the back of a chair. “Fifteen thousand. It’s a standard wedding contribution.” I stared at him. “Zoe’s medical bill was twenty-four hundred dollars, and you told me we had nothing. But you can hand your brother fifteen thousand dollars for a party?” His face darkened. “That was money my dad saved up. I was just handing it over on behalf of the family.” “Where did your dad get that money, Greg?” “Don’t start interrogating me.” I set the thermometer down on the nightstand. “I have one question, Greg. While our daughter was hooked up to an IV in the emergency room, did it ever cross your mind that her father was busy handing out fifteen-thousand-dollar gifts?” He tried to suppress his anger, his jaw clenching. “Lydia, can we please not do this when our kid is sick?” “Where were you when she got sick?” He looked at Zoe’s sleeping form, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I sat on the edge of the mattress, wide awake, watching the sky slowly turn from black to a bruised gray. As dawn broke, I opened my laptop and exported my bank statements from the last six years. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet filled the screen. As I scrolled through the cold, hard numbers, something inside me died. Six years. I had paid $182,000 toward our mortgage. I had paid $43,000 for car payments and auto insurance. For Zoe—from formula, diapers, and vaccines to preschool and medical bills—I had spent over $90,000. The rest of our daily living expenses, groceries, repairs, and furniture totaled another $65,000. The grand total: $380,000. Meanwhile, Greg’s after-tax income over those six years was nearly $800,000. Every single cent had gone directly into his father’s account. 04 The final straw came during Preschool Family Field Day. The school had sent out a flyer a week in advance, stating that they hoped both parents could attend. Zoe had been practically vibrating with excitement for three days straight. Every night before bed, she would look up at me and ask, “Is Daddy coming?” I asked Greg. Initially, he said he’d see if his schedule allowed it. The night before, I asked him again. He was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone, watching a video his father had posted on TikTok. Lately, Richard had become obsessed with social media, posting videos about his “parenting secrets” and his “devoted, successful sons.” The comments were flooded with strangers praising him for raising such a loyal eldest son. Greg read through the comments with a smug smile. I stood directly in front of him. “Daycare Field Day is tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Take a half-day off.” “I have a project meeting tomorrow.” “You promised her last week.” “I said I’d try.” Zoe peeked her head out from her bedroom. “Daddy, you’re not coming?” Greg put his phone face down. “Daddy will do his best, sweetie.” “Do my best.” Adults know what that means. But children don’t. He didn’t show up. During the parent-child relay, every other child was piggybacking on their fathers while their mothers cheered at the finish line. I had to carry Zoe and run the race myself, then scramble to the finish line to hold up her team’s banner. Zoe clung to my neck, her little arms wrapped tightly around me. “Mommy, am I too heavy?” “No, baby. You’re light as a feather.” In reality, my vision was blurring, and my knees were shaking. After the event, the teacher sent out a group photo. Every single child had two parents smiling beside them. Zoe only had me. She was incredibly quiet on the drive home. As we approached our neighborhood, she suddenly spoke up. “Mommy, does Daddy not like me?” I pulled over and turned to face her. “Of course he likes you, sweetie.” “Then why does he never come?” I reached over to brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Daddy is just very busy with work.” She looked down at her lap. “But Tommy’s dad works too, and he was there.” I had no answer for her. When Greg came home that evening, he was holding a box with a shiny new toy. “For Zoe. A little makeup gift.” Zoe looked at it but didn’t touch it. She picked up her stuffed bunny and quietly retreated to her room. Greg stood there awkwardly, placing the box on the coffee table. “What’s wrong with her?” I pulled up the group photo and handed him the phone. “She asked me today if you don’t like her.” His expression stiffened. I swiped to a video the teacher had sent. In the video, I was running with Zoe in my arms. Near the finish line, my foot slipped, and I nearly went down. Zoe had started crying in terror, clinging to me and screaming for her mommy. Greg watched it in silence. I took my phone back. “Greg, I can’t carry this family alone anymore.”

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There was an open secret in the upper-bracket social circles of Chicago. Beckett Shaw, the ruthless heir of Shaw Enterprises, was marrying his kept woman of five years—not out of love, but out of sheer spite toward his first love. In the master bedroom of his Gold Coast penthouse, Beckett wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was hot against the crook of my neck, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and cedarwood. “Gwen,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy warmth. “It’s been five years. I can barely even remember what Cynthia looks like.” He turned me around, holding my face in his hands. “Give me a child after the wedding, and we’ll build a real life together. Just you and me.” I looked into his dark eyes, watching the sudden, intense affection swirling in them. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with a sudden rush of heat. I nodded, leaning into his touch like the obedient girl I had always trained myself to be. I actually believed him. I believed that five years of quiet, devoted companionship had finally thawed the icy edges of Beckett Shaw’s heart. Until the night before the wedding. I was walking down the hallway of our new suburban estate when I heard muffled voices coming from the master suite. Cynthia Ward—his first love, the girl who had left him to marry a European baronet, and who had just returned to the States after a bitter divorce—was standing inside, confronting him. “Are you serious, Beckett?” her voice cut through the heavy oak door, sharp and trembling with indignation. “To force me back to Chicago, you’re really going to marry some cheap escort just to make me suffer?” Inside, there was a long, heavy pause, followed by the low, dragging sound of Beckett exhaling smoke. “Even if she’s just a placeholder,” Beckett said, his tone dripping with a quiet, lethal indifference, “she’s the one I’m putting at the altar. At least Gwen doesn’t pack her bags and run off with another man the second things get difficult. At least she didn’t leave me alone for five years.” The air in the hallway seemed to drop to freezing. … Inside the room, Cynthia’s voice cracked, turning into a frantic, desperate plea. “Beckett, I divorced my husband for you! I came back for you! Are you really going to go through with this tomorrow? Are you really going to marry her?” A dry, rustling silence followed. Then came the sound of Beckett fastening his cufflinks. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, haughty calm. “Cynthia, you didn’t honestly think that the moment you showed up, I’d just fall back to my knees, did you? The wedding is happening tomorrow. And I want you sitting in the front row, watching me put a ring on Gwen’s finger.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my fingers gripping the paper in my pocket—the positive pregnancy scan I had picked up from the clinic only three hours ago. I couldn’t move my feet. I didn’t even have the right to push open the door. The five years of devotion I thought had finally borne fruit were nothing but a weapon. I was just a tool he was using to bleed his ex-wife dry. I didn’t storm in like a madwoman. Instead, I walked down the hall, dropped the ultrasound scan into the silver trash can by the stairs, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night wind. It was nearly midnight when Beckett returned to our city penthouse. The moment he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes lit up. He held out a wrapped bundle of white lisianthus flowers, presenting them to me with a boyish, almost proud grin. “The florist finished setting up the pavilion by Lake Michigan, baby,” he said, pulling me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. “It’s covered in your favorite lisianthus. Tomorrow, you’re going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen.” He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. “It’s only when I’m next to you that I feel grounded. Gwen, you’re never going to leave me, right?” I sat rigid in his arms, my face blank. If I hadn’t heard his conversation with Cynthia, I would have spent the night worrying about his hectic schedule, convincing myself that this was what true love felt like. But as he leaned closer, the heavy, sweet scent of a woman’s expensive French perfume invaded my senses. I had the quiet, practiced dignity of a kept woman. I knew when to look away. But tonight, I couldn’t force myself to play the part. I took a slow step back, slipping out of his embrace. Beckett’s hands remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, his posture stiffening. “Where is the silver tie clip I bought you last month?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it, reaching out to pinch my earlobe with an easy, patronizing smile. “I must have misplaced it during the dinner meeting tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll have my assistant track it down tomorrow.” I didn’t flinch away from his touch. I just stared into those arrogant, old-money eyes—eyes accustomed to owning everything they looked at. “Beckett,” I said softly, “since Cynthia is back, let’s call off the wedding.” The smile on his face froze. He was so used to my obedience over the last five years that he had never expected me to be the one to rip the curtain down. The warmth in his eyes drained away, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar glare. “Gwen, a wedding of this scale isn’t something you get to cancel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, towering over me. “You’ve always been the smart one. There are a thousand women in this city who would crawl through broken glass to be Mrs. Shaw. Don’t lose your head at the finish line.” Beckett once told me that I was the first woman who had ever actively pitched herself to him. Before I met him, I was a struggling actress, suffocating on the fringes of the indie film scene, desperate to avoid the greasy, bloated producers who viewed girls like me as currency. At a high-profile charity gala, I had slipped away during the dinner service, cornering Beckett Shaw outside the private restroom. I didn’t play coy; I laid myself bare and told him exactly what I wanted: protection, stability, and a way out of the meat market. Beckett had looked me up and down, his gaze heavy and assessing, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the dark hallway. “You’re very young to bind yourself to a man like me,” he had said, blowing a thin stream of smoke over my head. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” After that night, the indie film scene lost a promising face. And the Shaw estate gained a perfectly obedient canary. When his personal assistant handed me the contract, his voice was filled with a strange, quiet envy. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Collins. In all his years, Mr. Shaw has never let a woman stay the night.” I spent the night of my wedding eve dreaming of that first meeting. When I woke up, I was already in my wedding dress, sitting alone in a small, drafty holding room at the luxury hotel. There was no grand motorcade. No family greeting me. The Shaw family’s elderly butler walked in, his eyes carrying that familiar, quiet disdain he had worn for five years. “Ms. Collins, Mrs. Shaw senior had her spiritual adviser run the charts again last night. He claims the alignment today is highly inauspicious. The ceremony has been postponed.” I kept my smile pinned to my face, nodding politely. “I understand.” But we both knew the truth. There was no room for spiritual charts in a family that worshipped compound interest. It was simply a matter of old money drawing its borders. The holding room was freezing, the air conditioning humming loudly in the silence. On the velvet sofa sat my parents, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in their cheap off-the-rack formal wear. Next to them were two of my college friends who had flown in to be my bridesmaids. I forced myself to walk over to them, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the scheduling…” I bowed my head, offering a deep, silent apology to everyone in the room. When I straightened up, my father was rubbing his calloused hands together, his face flushed with embarrassment, while my friends whispered quietly among themselves. In five years, I had never once told them about the nature of my relationship with Beckett. Suddenly, they were told I was marrying a multi-billionaire, only to be left standing in a cold backroom on the morning of the wedding. My pride was ground into dust, scattered across the polished marble floor. Before I could comfort my mother, the heavy double doors were pushed open. Cynthia Ward marched in, wearing a vibrant, custom-tailored red silk dress that practically screamed defiance. She swept her eyes over my family, her lips curling into a smug sneer. “Oh, sweetie, there’s no scheduling error,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Beckett’s mother found out I was back in town. She was never going to let a woman with a price tag on her head walk down their aisle.” Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped closer, leaning in. “Do you want to know what old Mrs. Shaw actually said? She said she’d rather leave the seat empty than let a paid escort play house in her family home.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. My father’s chest heaved with rage, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward her, but I grabbed his arm, my nails digging deep into my own palms to keep from shaking. Just as I was about to scream at her, a pair of warm, heavy hands settled onto my waist. Beckett had arrived. He pulled me flush against his side, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal intensity as he glared at Cynthia. “Who let her in here?” Beckett’s voice was a low growl. “If you ever show your face near Gwen again, Cynthia, I will personally ensure your family’s firm is run out of this state by Monday morning.” Cynthia’s face went pale. Before she could speak, two of Beckett’s security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room. The silence that followed was suffocating. Beckett turned around and, in front of my trembling parents, took my hand in his. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “I apologize for the distress, everyone,” Beckett said, his voice loud and clear. “The real reason we are postponing the ceremony is because Gwen is in her first trimester. The doctor advised against any unnecessary stress. We’ve decided to postpone the wedding and combine it with our child’s christening.” Once the room cleared, leaving only the two of us in the quiet bridal suite, the silence returned. I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach, my voice trembling. “Beckett… was any of that true?” The man rubbing his temples paused. He looked down at my hand resting on my stomach, a cold, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Gwen, you didn’t actually think you were going to have my baby, did you?” My heart stopped. Before I could explain that I actually was pregnant, Beckett let out a dry scoff. “If I didn’t tell them you were pregnant, the Shaw Enterprises stock would have plunged five percent by tomorrow morning on rumors of a jilted bride. Besides,” he added, his eyes flashing with a cruel satisfaction, “Cynthia didn’t look miserable enough when she left. I need her to stew in that jealousy for a few more days. It’ll teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. He looked at my pale face, his expression turning slightly mocking. “Do you really think kept women get to play house with their benefactors? We don’t belong in the same world, Gwen. I pay you for your time, not your feelings.” For the next two weeks, Beckett didn’t come home once. The white lisianthus in the living room withered into brown, crispy husks, their petals scattering across the hardwood floor. I didn’t bother cleaning them up. The next time I saw him was on the television screen during a live broadcast of a Shaw Enterprises press conference. Beckett stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, his posture impeccable. It was the exact suit I had spent three weeks picking out for our rehearsal dinner. Back then, he had dismissed it as too theatrical. Now, he was wearing it while holding Cynthia’s hand under the flashing lights, his face softened by a warmth I had never seen. “Five years ago, there was a terrible misunderstanding between Ms. Ward and myself,” Beckett said to the crowd of reporters. “Next month, we will be holding a private ceremony on Lake Michigan to celebrate our marriage.” The room erupted into murmurs. A bold reporter stepped forward, raising a microphone. “Mr. Shaw, what about your previous engagement to Gwen Collins? There were rumors of a pregnancy…” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. He stared directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into a wall of cold, professional detachment. “Ms. Collins was well aware of my desire for a family. In a desperate bid to force her way into my family, she went so far as to forge a pregnancy test. I do not tolerate that kind of manipulation in my personal or professional life.” I sat quietly on the sofa, a pair of wooden needles in my hands, slowly knitting a tiny pair of yellow baby booties. My phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table. When I picked it up, my mother’s sobbing voice filled the quiet room. “Gwen… marrying into that kind of wealth is like swallowing broken glass. I don’t want you to destroy yourself just to keep up with those people. Come home, baby. Please.” My hand slipped. The sharp wooden needle pierced my index finger. A bright bead of crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the soft yellow yarn, blooming like a tiny, violent flower. I quieted my mother with a few soft lies and hung up the phone. With a deep, exhausting weariness, I stood up and walked over to my vanity, pulling open the bottom drawer. Lying right next to the non-disclosure agreement I had signed five years ago was an official ultrasound report from three days prior. The image showed a tiny, dark shadow. The report noted a strong fetal heartbeat and the faint, delicate outline of a spine. That afternoon, I put on a black face mask and drove to the private hospital owned by the Shaw family’s medical group. The chief of obstetrics recognized me instantly, her manner overly deferential. But the moment she looked at the termination consent form in my hand, her face went white. She reached frantically for the desk phone. “Ms. Collins, I… I have to notify Mr. Shaw immediately.” I reached out, pressing my hand firmly over the receiver. I forced a small, tired smile. “Why? Men are allowed to keep women in the dark. Why can’t a woman keep a secret too?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t bother calling him. The baby isn’t his.” The doctor froze, staring at me as if I had lost my mind. I could see the frantic calculations running through her head—the assumption of a massive, career-ending scandal. Without another word, she signed her name on the authorization line. I took the paper back, turned around, and walked into the cold prep room. On the line marked Patient Signature, I wrote my name. Loss is a two-way street. If Beckett Shaw was willing to let me go, then I was going to make sure I left nothing of myself behind. Two hours later, my body aching and empty, I walked out of the hospital doors. A sharp spring breeze swept across Lake Michigan, carrying the scent of thawing ice. I looked out over the gray water, feeling an odd, weightless peace for the first time in five years. Standing on the crowded street corner, I dialed an old friend who had moved to Europe years ago. “I need a new identity,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “As fast as possible.” “I want to go somewhere Beckett Shaw will never find me.” By evening, Beckett was waiting for me at the penthouse. The anesthesia had mostly worn off, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. My back was damp with cold sweat. Beckett stood near the glass window, keeping a deliberate, polite distance from me. “The reporter who asked that question at the press conference won’t be working in Chicago anymore,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve settled things with the major networks. You’re getting older, Gwen. It’s time you moved on and lived a normal life.” He lit a cigarette, his eyes lingering on my face with a faint, unspoken regret. We had lived together for five years. We knew each other too well. We both knew this was the end. “Gwen,” he said softly, “if your family had a different name, I really would have made you Mrs. Shaw.” I nodded quietly. “I know.” Seeing my compliance, Beckett pushed two thick leather folders across the marble kitchen island. “You gave me five years of your life. These two lakefront properties are yours. Consider it a parting gift.” He paused. “If you ever run into financial trouble, contact my assistant. He’ll take care of it.” I didn’t look at the deeds. I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the release form. My hand didn’t shake. I pushed the signed documents back toward him, keeping my eyes on his face, offering him one last, gentle smile. Beckett seemed taken aback by how quickly I had signed. He stared at me, his eyes dark and complicated. “Gwen… is there anything else you want?” Beckett, what else could I possibly ask for? The divide between us was a chasm of old money and power. The more I wanted, the less I would ever have. I looked at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “You’re getting older, Beckett. You should really smoke less.” Our final dinner ended without another word. I packed my single suitcase and climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to curl into a ball against the leather seat. As the car pulled out of the iron gates, a sleek red sports car passed us, heading toward the house. Cynthia was moving in. I looked through the tinted window, watching the warm lights of the master bedroom flicker on. On the sheer curtains, a slender silhouette reached up to drape her arms around a man’s neck. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Ms. Collins, Mr. Shaw instructed me to take you to the lakefront property. Shall we head there now?” I pulled my gaze away from the house, looking at the familiar skyline of the city I was leaving behind. “No,” I said quietly. “Take me to O’Hare Airport.” Back at the estate, Beckett was pacing the living room, a strange, suffocating restlessness clawing at his chest. Upstairs, Cynthia was tossing my remaining things out of the closet, her voice carrying down the hall. “Cheap polyester trash. How did you let her keep her things in our room?” With a sharp clatter, a thick manila envelope rolled down the stairs, landing right at Beckett’s feet. A folded piece of thermal paper slid out. Beckett looked down. The moment his eyes registered the black-and-white ultrasound image, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor. His fingers shook so violently he could barely pick up the paper. He scrambled for his phone, dialing his driver’s number three times before the call finally went through. “Where is she? Did she get to the penthouse?” he roared, his voice cracking. On the other end, the driver’s voice was trembling. “Mr. Shaw… Ms. Collins didn’t go to the penthouse. She… she had me drop her off at O’Hare.” Realizing what was happening, Beckett tore off his tie, bolted out the front door, and scrambled into his car. “Stop her! Block the terminal! Don’t let her plane take off! Now!” “It’s too late, Mr. Shaw,” the driver whispered. “She’s already cleared security. But before she left… she told me to give you a message.”

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The day I caught Beckett cheating, I lost my mind. I smashed everything in sight. The hysteria took over, and my body simply gave out. By the time I blacked out, I was bleeding out on the hardwood floor. Panic-stricken, he carried me to the emergency room. At my bedside, Beckett wept, clutching my cold hands. “Aurora, I’m so sorry. Just get better,” he begged. “I’ll do anything. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I will never, ever leave your side.” Be careful what you wish for. In his frantic rush to get my prescription filled, he ran out of the hospital lobby and was hit by an oncoming SUV. Both of his legs were crushed. I survived, but the trauma of that day took our baby and left me barren, trapped in a heavy, suffocating depression. From then on, he became his own jailer. He locked himself to his wheelchair with a heavy iron chain, refusing to ever be out of my sight. Whenever he felt the urge to stray, he would prick his own skin with sewing needles, leaving a map of tiny, weeping scars across his arms to punish himself. Until today. I pushed the door open to find Hailey, our young live-in maid, kneeling before his wheelchair, her head buried deeply between his thighs. I broke. But instead of apologizing, his face contorted in anger, and he shouted at me: “Aurora, for God’s sake, I made one mistake years ago! Am I always going to be filthy in your eyes?” “Hailey was just cleaning my scarred legs. I gave up my goddamn legs to pay you back—isn’t that enough?” “We lost one baby, and you act like the sky has permanently fallen! How long are you going to hold this over my head?” One baby. The child we had tried to conceive for five long years, reduced to a mere inconvenience in his narrative. Looking at his snarling, bitter face, a strange, hollow quiet suddenly washed over me. I realized, in that quiet moment, that there was absolutely nothing left in this marriage worth saving. … I unclipped the heavy iron chain from his belt and let it clatter to the floor. “I’m done holding on, Beckett.” He froze, kicking the chain aside, his eyes boring into mine. “Aurora, what do you want from me? For five years, I’ve given you my life. I haven’t left your side.” “But the second things don’t go your way, you threaten to pack up and leave. What is it going to take to make you happy?” His voice cracked as he fell into a coughing fit. Hailey immediately rushed forward, rubbing his back to soothe him. Looking at his frail, bitter state, my mind drifted back to five years ago. Back then, Beckett was radiant, full of ambition. On the night his startup went public, he held me tight and promised me a brilliant, glittering future. But at the very peak of his success, I walked in on his betrayal. Now, staring at the man confined to this wheelchair, I realized the bitter truth: I could never truly forgive him. Hailey wrapped her arms around him, her eyes shining with tears. “Beckett, please, don’t get upset. You’ll hurt yourself.” The intimacy of their embrace sent a sharp, dull ache through my chest. Once, in a freezing basement apartment in Brooklyn, sharing a single bowl of instant ramen under a thin blanket, we had held each other just like that. I forced a dry, joyless smile. Hailey looked up at me, her expression dripping with victimhood. “Aurora, why do you always have to hurt him? Don’t you know how much he loves you? He whispers your name every single night.” My brow furrowed. “How would you know that?” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked at Beckett with a soft, adoring gaze. “After you fall asleep, I go to his room to help ease his physical tension. When he… finds relief, it’s always your name he calls.” The words hung in the air. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. I stood frozen, my mind going completely blank. No wonder he had made such a sacred ritual of tucking me in every night, murmuring sweet promises until I fell asleep. It wasn’t love. It was just to clear the path for another woman. I looked at Beckett, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. “Beckett, how desperate are you? Even losing your legs couldn’t stop you? What is it about betraying me that makes you feel so alive?” Seeing my agitation, he instinctively shielded Hailey behind his chair and let out a long, weary sigh. “Aurora, it’s not cheating. You haven’t let me touch you in years.” “I’m a man. I have physical needs. Hailey was just… maintenance. I love you. You are the only Mrs. Ward.” I love you. He had whispered those words on the Ferris wheel when he proposed. He had sobbed those words by my hospital bed five years ago, begging me not to leave. And now, caught in the act once more, he shielded another woman and said them again. He wore his devotion like a badge of honor, yet happily surrendered his body to anyone else. Staring at the man I had loved for five years, my heart went entirely cold. “Let her take care of you for the rest of your life,” I whispered. “I’m not cut out for this.” I turned to leave, but Hailey lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. Her eyes welled with tears as she sobbed, “Aurora, why are you doing this to me? I was just doing my job, taking care of Beckett. Why do you have to paint me as some homewrecking whore? Am I really that cheap to you?” She wept, looking up at Beckett for protection. That was the spark. Beckett pulled her close, looking at me with a cold, biting disgust I had never seen before. “Aurora, have you had enough?” “This is between us. Why are you dragging her into it?” “And let’s be honest—how clean are your hands? You cry over that miscarriage every single day, but have you ever stopped to think about why you became barren? If you hadn’t been ruined by those men back then, would one miscarriage have ruined your body?” I went rigid. I couldn’t breathe. That was the deepest, darkest trauma of my life. It was the one scar we had tacitly agreed never to touch. Now, for Hailey’s sake, he tore it wide open without a second thought. Our move out of that freezing Brooklyn basement had happened right after I landed my first corporate job. I remember running home, waving the offer letter in his face, crying tears of joy because we were finally going to make it. But that job became a living nightmare. My boss drugged my drink at a client dinner and offered me up to his wealthy associates. In my final moments of consciousness, I managed to speed-dial Beckett. He had arrived like a madman, his eyes wild and bloodshot, beating those men until his knuckles fractured and his hands deformed. He had knelt before me, crying harder than I was, whispering over and over that none of it was my fault. That was the night I decided I would love him forever. But the trauma left me with severe PTSD. For years, any physical intimacy triggered a visceral, nauseating panic. Beckett had held me through those dark nights, promising he would wait, promising we would get through it together. But he was the first to break that promise. Now, Beckett stared at me with complete indifference. “If you hadn’t played the frigid saint for years, I wouldn’t have strayed five years ago.” “Aurora, because of you, our entire social circle laughs at me. They say I chained myself like a dog to a damaged, dirty woman.” He reached down, taking Hailey’s hand. The tenderness in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen in years. “You can call me a bastard, but Hailey is a good girl. If it weren’t for her, I probably would have ended my life long ago.” “Aurora, I can’t live without her anymore. Why don’t the three of us just live together? I’ll make you lobster, she’ll crack the shells for you, and you’ll still be my wife.” My hands shook uncontrollably. I spat out three words: “In your dreams.” Fragments of the past came rushing back, crashing over me. I remembered the day Beckett excitedly told me he wanted to get a cat. I had laughed, telling him he’d lose interest in a week. But he had researched breeds and premium food for days, eventually buying a beautiful, soft ragdoll. On weekends, he insisted on taking me to trendy cafes he found on social media, plotting out the best angles for photos. I had teased him for being so vain. And yet, in five years of marriage, he had never realized that I am deathly allergic to shellfish. Now, the picture was clear. He wasn’t incapable of care; he just didn’t care about me. He did all of those things because they were Hailey’s favorite things. Why was I still standing here, humiliating myself? I forced my breathing to slow, and in a quiet, steady voice, I said, “Beckett, let’s get a divorce. We’re done.” Without waiting for his response, I walked into the bedroom and began packing. Five years of my life fit easily into a single suitcase. There was a soft knock on the door. Without looking up, I said, “Don’t bother, Beckett. I’m leaving.” But it was Hailey who stepped inside. With lingering tear-tracks on her face, she whispered meekly, “Aurora, I wanted to apologize…” I frowned, disgusted by the performance. Then, my eyes fell on her finger. She was wearing a custom-designed platinum band—the one I had custom-ordered for Beckett years ago. We had promised it would only go to the love of our lives. Now, it sat on her ring finger. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Hailey’s meek expression vanished. “Aurora, I’m glad you finally got the message and decided to drag your pathetic self out of here,” she sneered. “He always told me you were like sleeping with a piece of wood. Honestly, he enjoys me so much more.” I closed my suitcase and looked at her coldly. “Save the drama. You can have him. I don’t fight over garbage.” Seeing that her words hadn’t broken me, her eyes narrowed. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, turning it toward me. It was a video. The footage was shaky and intimate. In it, Beckett was pinning Hailey down, his breath heavy and ragged. They were tangled in the sheets, flushed and desperate. I clenched my fists, maintaining a neutral face. “You think a sex tape is going to break me?” Hailey’s smile widened into something cruel. “Look closer, Aurora.” I forced myself to look at the screen again. My heart stopped. In the video, Beckett’s legs were perfectly fine. He was standing, moving, strong. The timestamp in the corner of the video read: Five years ago. The exact date I had caught him cheating the first time. The blood rushed out of my face, and a deafening ring filled my ears. She was the first woman. The one who had caused our screaming fight, the one who had driven me to collapse in a pool of blood and lose our child. And Beckett had kept her close all these years, claiming she was just “hired help.” Thinking of the baby I had lost, something in me snapped. Losing all control, I lunged forward, grabbed her collar, and slapped her across the face with everything I had. The blow was loud and heavy, leaving a bright red mark on her neck and cheek. Hailey’s lip split, but a twisted, triumphant smile flashed across her face. She threw herself backward, crashing dramatically onto the hardwood floor. “Aurora, please! I just wanted to apologize… why are you doing this to me?” she sobbed, her voice echoing loudly. “Is there really no room in your heart to forgive me?” Outside, the frantic whirring of wheelchair wheels grew louder. The door burst open, and Beckett charged in. Seeing Hailey sobbing on the floor, his eyes turned bloodshot with rage. He lunged forward, pushing me away with immense force. I lost my balance, crashing hard against the sharp corner of the bedside table. A sickening, sharp pain exploded in my lower abdomen. He scooped Hailey into his arms, glaring at me with venomous hatred. “Aurora, are you insane? Why the hell did you hit her?” “Just because your own body is ruined and you can’t have kids, you have to destroy her too?” “Honestly, back then… maybe your boss targeted you because of your own twisted, miserable attitude.” It felt like a physical blade piercing my chest, a freezing coldness spreading through my veins. “A toxic, bitter woman like you—I should have just let them ruin you,” he spat. He carried Hailey out, slamming the door behind them. I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to stand. Even though I knew my body was barren, seeing the dark smear of fresh blood on the floor beneath me made my chest tighten in agony. Five years of devotion, ending in a pool of blood. Using the last of my strength, I dragged myself up, took out my phone, and booked the earliest flight out of the country. By the time Beckett was checking Hailey into the hospital, I was already boarding a flight to Switzerland. At three in the morning, looking out the cabin window, the glittering lights of the city stretched out below me. But there was no longer any place for me down there. I pulled out my old phone, ready to erase the past. The screen lit up with dozens of missed calls and texts from Beckett. Aurora, where the hell did you run off to? Get back here right now and apologize to Hailey. If you don’t show your face in an hour, I’m freezing your bank cards. Without my money, you won’t survive a day out there. Don’t come crawling back to me. Beneath those threats, a few frantic messages appeared from later in the night: Why is there blood on the floor? Are you hurt? Where are you? Why aren’t you picking up? It’s freezing outside. Come home right now, or don’t bother coming back at all! I let out a soft, dry laugh. He was right about one thing: I was never coming back. He had gotten his wish. He and Hailey could live out their days in peace. He had known me for five years; he knew exactly how much I loved him. He was so certain I would never leave, so sure I would always bow my head and forgive him, that he felt entirely comfortable flaunting his betrayal in my face. Beckett was a smart man. He probably knew Hailey’s dramatic falls were mostly an act. But he wanted to test me. He wanted to see just how far he could push me before I broke. He believed that because he had rescued me once, and because he had sacrificed his legs, I owed him my absolute submission. He thought a few sweet words could erase any betrayal. But I was done drowning in his abyss. A lifetime is too short to waste on another five years of misery. … By the early hours of the morning, panic finally began to claw at Beckett’s chest. In all our years of fighting, I had never gone completely silent like this. He sent another flurry of texts, his tone softening with every message: You don’t have any money on you. Don’t wander the streets. Just come home. I unblocked your cards. Stop playing games, Aurora. Come home. My phone remained silent. An hour later, Beckett was pacing in his chair, consumed by anxiety. He checked the bank records—no transactions. He checked the security cameras at our front gate; there was no sign of me leaving after my initial departure. When his eyes fell on the dark, dried bloodstain on the floor, his heart hammered against his ribs. Then, a notification popped up on his phone from our linked travel account. It was a real-time flight tracker. Beckett’s pupils dilated as he stared at the screen. It was a one-way ticket to Zurich, Switzerland.

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The Volvo wagon I had driven for over twelve years was finally on its last legs. I wanted to send it to the mechanic, but my wife, the CEO of our company, had shut me down with characteristic coldness. “We’re supposed to be in this together, Thomas,” Georgia had snapped, her eyes sharp over her designer coffee. “But you choose the exact week of our company’s IPO to throw a tantrum over a rusted piece of junk. Have some perspective!” “The budget is tight. We don’t have the cash to waste on a dead engine. Would it kill you to take a Lime bike to work?” Yet, the very next morning—Valentine’s Day—she bought her newly hired, twenty-something personal driver a top-of-the-line, custom-spec Rolls-Royce Ghost. As I watched them through the tinted windows of that leather-scented cocoon of luxury, lost in their own private world of tangled limbs and whispered secrets, I slowly crushed the printed bank statement in my fist. Ten years of starving together, of building an empire from a drafty basement. And in the end, the harvest of our shared success was nothing but a cruel joke. If that was the case, it was time for this fool to step off their stage. … 1 “Georgia, if you give me such an expensive gift, won’t Thomas be upset?” Isaac, her newly minted driver, held the key fob in his palm as if it were a fragile bird, his youthful, handsome face a mask of worry. Georgia’s expression darkened instantly. “This is my company, and it’s my money. He doesn’t get a say in how I spend it.” She pulled Isaac into the passenger cabin, guiding his hands over the pristine leather steering wheel and pointing out the custom settings. And I, the husband she claimed had no right to speak, stood a few yards away in the freezing wind, watching their bodies lean closer and closer. My knuckles turned white inside my coat pockets. The edge of the bank invoice bit into my palm, tearing into damp scraps. Perhaps sensing my gaze, Georgia looked up. Her eyes locked onto mine. Her face fell into an immediate scowl. Pushing the heavy door open, she marched toward me, her heels clicking sharply against the asphalt. “What is with the miserable face, Thomas? We’re meeting our largest distributor today to sign the spring contract, and you’re standing here acting like a child. What are you trying to pull?” I didn’t answer her. My eyes shifted to the gleaming hood of the Rolls-Royce, and then to Isaac as he stepped out of the vehicle. He was wearing a bespoke cashmere overcoat Georgia had purchased for him last week. He looked less like a driver and more like an heir. I looked down at myself—my coat was a cheap, generic wool blend Georgia had grabbed off a rack at a local department store. Isaac walked over, his head lowered in a show of submissive anxiety. “It’s my fault, Georgia. I’ve upset Thomas. I shouldn’t have accepted such a generous gift. Someone from my background… I don’t deserve something this beautiful.” But behind Georgia’s shoulder, where she couldn’t see, his eyes met mine. The anxiety vanished, replaced by a cold, mocking smirk. That was all it took to set Georgia off. Her face flushed with anger, and she pointed a finger directly at my face. “You are unbelievably petty, Thomas. I spent my own hard-earned money to buy Isaac a tool for his job. What does that have to do with you?” “Just because you managed to close a few deals doesn’t mean you run this place. You think you can look down on everyone? Isaac is young and still learning, but he has ten times the drive you do. I am investing in his potential, and there is nothing you can do about it.” She shielded Isaac with her body, like a mother hen protecting her chick. I checked my watch. The meeting was in an hour. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I tossed the crumpled paper ball of the invoice at her feet, turned around, and walked toward my faded white Volvo. Two weeks ago, the car had started stalling at intersections. When I told Georgia it needed a major transmission overhaul, she told me we couldn’t afford it. Then she turned around and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on a luxury vehicle for her young favorite, registering the title entirely in his name. I got in, turned the key, and the engine gave a dry, wheezing cough. Nothing. The twenty-year-old battery had finally given up. With the minutes ticking away, I swallowed my pride, got out of the Volvo, and tapped on the window of the Rolls-Royce. The glass rolled down, revealing Georgia’s deeply annoyed face. “What now? Haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” “My car is dead,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “We can’t be late for this meeting. Let me drive us—” “No,” Georgia cut me off instantly. “Take an Uber.” I looked at her, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. “An Uber? Out here in this industrial park? It’ll take forty minutes for a car to reach us. Beatrice is already on her way to our office. Let me in.” As we stood in a tense deadlock, Isaac unlocked the doors from the driver’s seat. He turned to Georgia with a look of quiet sacrifice. “Georgia, business comes first. It’s enough for me just to know in my heart that this was meant to be my car. I don’t mind.” Georgia’s expression softened with pity, and when she looked back at me, the disgust in her eyes had doubled. But just as I reached for the door handle, Isaac let out a sudden, sharp gasp of pain. Georgia flinched. “What’s wrong?” Isaac’s pale face went lighter. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “It’s nothing, Georgia. I think… my wrist is just flaring up again from those long driving shifts. It’s fine. I can push through it.” The next second, Georgia shoved me hard toward the driver’s side door. “You! Drive!” I stumbled back, barely catching my balance on the icy pavement. Georgia didn’t care. She shoved me again, her voice rising to a harsh shriek. “Move! Didn’t you say the client was waiting? Get behind the wheel!” 2 In the rearview mirror, I watched Georgia cradling Isaac’s hand in hers as if it were made of spun glass. “Does it hurt badly? I told you we should have hired an assistant driver for you. You shouldn’t be straining yourself.” Isaac’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m just a high school graduate. I don’t know how to do anything else. If I can’t even drive for you, Georgia… am I just useless to you?” “Don’t say that,” Georgia murmured, her voice thick with tenderness. I let out a cold, involuntary laugh. Georgia rarely kept a demanding schedule; her total weekly drive time was under five hours. To suggest Isaac needed a driving assistant to ease his “strain” was absurd. Hearing my laugh, Georgia’s face hardened. But before she could speak, Isaac suddenly pressed a hand to his forehead. “Oh… the car feels like it’s spinning. I feel a little sick…” “Thomas, how are you driving?” Georgia yelled from the back. “You’re doing this on purpose!” My patience snapped. “If he’s that fragile, he belongs in a hospital, not pretending to be a executive’s driver on a business trip.” “I…” Isaac’s eyes went wide, and his chest heaved with a quiet sob. “Thomas is right. I’m useless. I’m sorry. Just let me out of the car…” Georgia’s face turned purple with rage. “Pull over right now! Thomas, get out!” I ignored her, keeping my eyes locked on the road, my hands tight on the wheel. All I cared about was reaching the office before Beatrice did. This contract was worth millions; it was the lifeblood of our upcoming quarter. When Isaac’s first tear fell, Georgia went entirely feral. She leaned forward, lunging across the console to grab the steering wheel. “Let go!” I barked, fighting her weight. For the sake of safety, I slammed on the brakes, pulling the heavy car to a halt by the curb. The moment the vehicle stopped, I turned around to yell at her, but a sharp, stinging pain cut me short. Slap. The force of her palm across my cheek echoed in the quiet cabin. “Get the hell out of my car,” Georgia hissed. I stood on the side of the road, the winter wind biting into my burning cheek. Isaac got out of the passenger side, offering me a polite, pitying smile. “Georgia says we can’t afford to delay the meeting any longer. She wants you to take a shared bike back to the office.” With a practiced movement, he tapped his phone against a green Lime bike parked nearby, unlocking it for me. Then he walked to the driver’s side of the Rolls-Royce, slipped behind the wheel, and pressed the accelerator. The luxury car roared to life, kicking up a spray of dirty slush that covered my jeans, before disappearing down the avenue. I reached into my pockets. My phone was still sitting on the center console of the Rolls-Royce. I couldn’t even call a cab. The damp, freezing wind whipped against my face, but the cold of the weather was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow stillness inside my chest. By the time I pedeled back to the corporate headquarters, shivering and covered in road grime, I found a change of clothes and my phone sitting on my office desk. I unlocked the screen. A text from Georgia sat at the top of my notifications: I was too stressed earlier. Sorry. Don’t get sick. Meet me at the old studio at 10 PM tonight. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest. My heart, which had been broken into pieces, felt a foolish, desperate urge to mend itself. The “old studio” was the drafty, one-room brick loft where we had started our jewelry line, Lumina. It sat directly across the street from our current twenty-story glass headquarters. That tiny space represented ten years of late nights, shared bowls of instant ramen, and dreams of a future we were finally living. I worked through the pain, spent the afternoon in meetings, and successfully finalized the multi-million-dollar deal with Beatrice. When 10 PM approached, I retrieved a small, midnight-blue velvet box from the office safe and walked across the street to the old loft. Thirty minutes passed. Georgia didn’t show. I pulled back the dusty curtains of the loft and looked across the street. The lights in the executive suite of the Lumina building were still blazing. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. As the line began to ring, a shadow moved against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive office opposite me. It wasn’t just Georgia. Isaac was there. He lifted her onto the edge of the mahogany desk, and they fell into each other. The smart-glass partition of her office had been switched to entirely transparent. Every movement, every touch, was perfectly visible across the narrow street. He pressed her against the glass, his face buried in her neck. Georgia’s head was tilted back, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she held onto his shoulders. It was a beautiful, cinematic display of passion, and it tore whatever was left of my soul to ribbons. In the middle of their embrace, Isaac slowly opened his eyes. He looked directly across the street, targeting the exact window where I stood in the dark. A slow, victorious grin spread across his face. Then, he looked back down, capturing Georgia’s mouth in another deep kiss, dismissing my existence entirely. My hand shook so violently that the phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. The line went dead, leaving only a mocking silence. If this story no longer had room for my name, then it was time for me to write myself out of it. 3 On Valentine’s Day night, Georgia did not come home. The next morning, I took half a day off to meet with a divorce attorney. Once the paperwork was drafted, I drove straight to the office and walked into Georgia’s suite. Georgia was sitting in her high-backed leather chair, her skin flushed and healthy. A silk scarf was tied high around her neck, but it wasn’t quite high enough to cover the dark, bruised mark blooming near her collarbone. My breath caught. Even though I had prepared myself, the sight of it felt like a physical blow. “I told you not to bother me unless it’s—” She looked up, her brow furrowed in irritation, but stopped mid-sentence. As if remembering something, her expression shifted into a practiced, bright smile. She pointed toward a white gift box sitting on the corner of her desk. “I got so caught up in the IPO meetings yesterday that I forgot the date. Here. A little Valentine’s Day peace offering.” I stared at the box, then opened it. Inside was a simple ceramic mug. I knew the brand. It was a complimentary promotional item given to customers who spent over ten thousand dollars at a boutique jeweler down the street—the same jeweler where Georgia had spent a small fortune on custom pieces for Isaac over the past month. I looked at the mug and let out a dry, quiet laugh, mocking myself for expecting anything else. Georgia didn’t seem to notice my reaction. The moment I set the box down, she slid a manila folder across the desk. “Sign this. We need to begin the transition immediately.” I opened the folder. It was an internal transfer of authority. It demanded my resignation as VP of Business Operations. And my designated successor was Isaac. I laughed again, the sound sharp and ugly. “You want to hand our entire supply chain and a twenty-million-dollar distribution network to a driver who didn’t even finish high school?” Georgia’s smile vanished, her hand slamming onto the desk. “Watch your mouth, Thomas! Isaac only missed college because his family fell on hard times. He is smarter than you, he’s younger, and he has a natural instinct for this market. You’re just bitter and jealous of him!” “Oh, he’s smart,” I agreed, leaning over the desk. “You don’t get into the CEO’s bed by being stupid, do you?” “The money you waste on him is one thing—I’ll write it off as the cost of keeping a pet. But Lumina is my life’s work. I will not let him touch it.” In a fit of rage, Georgia grabbed a heavy crystal paperweight from her desk and hurled it at me. I ducked, and the crystal shattered against the wall behind me. The glass frame of our wedding photo, which hung on the wall, cracked down the center, slicing through our smiling faces. “Don’t you dare insult him!” Georgia screamed, her chest heaving. “You disgust me, Thomas. This company has no place for someone so small-minded. As of this moment, you are suspended. Get out of my sight!” I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, seeing the perfect metaphor for our ten-year marriage. Why was I still trying to salvage something so thoroughly broken? I picked up the transfer document, pulled my own pen from my pocket, and signed it. Then, I pulled a second set of documents from my briefcase and laid them on her desk. “I’ll give him the position,” I said softly. “You sign your name, and I’ll hand over the keys.” Georgia glanced down at the paper, her anger freezing into confusion. “Separation and Dissolution Agreement?”

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My mother always called me a dead weight. A girl who would sleep through her own funeral. I’d fall asleep in the middle of a class, halfway through a forkful of dinner, even standing at a busy crosswalk. My homeroom teacher eventually pulled my mother aside and suggested we see a specialist. But my mother just sneered. “It’s that damn phone of hers,” she’d say. “Up all night scrolling.” After that, my phone was confiscated. She took the lock off my bedroom door so I could never hide. Every time she caught my eyelids drooping, her palm met my cheek. I didn’t want to get hit, and more than anything, I didn’t want to make her angry. So I started finding ways to fight the heavy haze. I pinched my thighs until they bruised. I pulled out my own hair. I dabbed burning peppermint oil directly onto my skin. But when that heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion hit, nothing could stop it. On the day of the algebra final, my mother happened to be proctoring my hall. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted metal, begging myself: Just this once. Just hold on for two hours. But the darkness came anyway. A sudden crash shattered the quiet of the room. My desk was flipped over. I went down with the chair, my temple slamming hard against the metal edge of the desk. Everything went black. My mother stood over me, her face twisted with disgust. “Grace Adler, do you care so little about your future that you’d sleep through a final?” “If you’re going to be this lazy, fine. Stay on the floor and sleep!” I lay slumped over my half-blank scantron, the light in my eyes fading to a pinprick. Mom, I think this time, I’m actually going to sleep for a very long time. 1 “How long are you going to play dead, Grace?” My mother’s voice bounced off the cinderblock walls of the silent classroom. I heard the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack of her heels as she marched over to where I lay. My cheek was pressed against the cold linoleum floor. Right at my temple, where I’d hit the desk, a warm, thick trickle of blood was beginning to pool. “Mrs. Adler, I think Grace really fainted,” a boy in the front row whispered, his voice trembling. “Fainted? She’s just throwing a tantrum because she’s lazy!” With a rough jerk, my mother grabbed the collar of my sweater. She possessed an terrifying strength when she was angry, dragging me off the floor. My head lolled uselessly back, my hand scraping against the abrasive floor, leaving a streak of red. “You sleep through class, you sleep at the dinner table, and now you’re sleeping through your finals?” Her voice was a venomous whisper. “You might not care about your dignity, Grace, but I am the Vice Principal of this school. I have a reputation to maintain.” She dragged me toward the door, my sneakers leaving long, dusty scuff marks on the floor. “Mrs. Adler, shouldn’t we take her to the nurse’s office?” Miss Collins, the young proctor, stood up, her face pale with worry. “The nurse? Miss Collins, don’t let her fool you,” my mother retorted, not even turning around. “She was probably up until three in the morning scrolling on her phone, and now she’s putting on a show.” “But she’s so pale. Something is seriously wrong.” Miss Collins hurried down from the podium, trying to block her path. “She’s acting. I know my own daughter.” My mother yanked open the classroom door. “Get back to your tests, everyone. Anyone caught looking out the window gets an automatic zero.” The room went dead silent. My mother dragged me down the hallway to the old storage room at the very end. It was filled with broken desks, dusty filing cabinets, and the suffocating smell of mildew. She threw me onto the floor. My head hit the bottom of a wooden cabinet with a dull, sickening thud. And in that exact moment, the weight vanished. I felt myself floating up, hovering near the water-stained ceiling tiles. I looked down at my own body. Grace was crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, her eyes closed, her face a ghostly, translucent white. My mother knelt down and grabbed my chin, shaking my head violently. “Open your eyes, Grace. Enough is enough.” The girl on the floor didn’t move. My mother’s chest heaved with anger. Then, her eyes fell on the dark stain near my ear. It was blood, seeping from my temple and pooling in the hollow of my collarbone. She sneered, reaching into her pocket for a tissue. “You even brought fake blood? How pathetic.” She wiped hard at my ear, the rough paper scraping the delicate skin, only smearing the fresh, warm blood further across my jaw. “Disgusting. You’re just like your useless father. Always playing dirty tricks instead of doing real work.” She balled up the bloody tissue and threw it in my face. “Fine. Stay here. Let’s see how long you can keep this little act up.” She stood, brushed the dust off her slacks, and walked out. Floating near the ceiling, I screamed after her. Mom, that’s not fake. It’s my blood. My head hurts so bad, Mom, please look at me. But she couldn’t hear me. She only left me with the cold, unyielding sight of her back. A flurry of footsteps hurried down the hall. It was Miss Collins. She held a stack of scratch paper as an excuse, pausing outside the storage room door. She peered through the small wire-glass window, her brow furrowed. “Grace? Can you hear me?” Miss Collins tapped gently on the glass. The girl on the floor remained perfectly still. The blood that had been wiped away was slow to stop, a fresh bead dripping onto the collar of my school sweater. Miss Collins’s face went white. She reached for the brass doorknob. “Miss Collins, what do you think you’re doing?” My mother’s cold voice echoed from the other end of the hall. Miss Collins flinched, pulling her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Mrs. Adler… I… I really don’t think Grace looks well.” “She is perfectly fine,” my mother said, marching over and brushing past her. “Trust me, Miss Collins. The only way to cure this girl’s laziness is a little tough love. A couple of missed meals will do her wonders.” She pulled a heavy brass ring of school keys from her belt. “But Mrs. Adler, it’s December. There’s no heating in that room,” Miss Collins pleaded. The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final click. “Once she gets cold enough, she’ll find the energy to stand up and finish her exam.” 2 The final bell rang, signaling the end of midterm week. The hallways erupted into a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers and teenagers arguing over test answers. My spirit drifted out of the storage room, watching my mother stand outside the main office. My younger sister, Hailey, walked up, offering her a steaming paper cup. “Here, Mom. You’ve been on your feet all day. Drink something warm.” Hailey smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. My mother took the coffee, the harsh lines on her face instantly softening. “Thank you, sweetie. How did the advanced calculus section go?” “I got the last proof! I checked it twice, so it should be a perfect score.” Hailey wrapped her arm around my mother’s, gently swaying. “Good. At least I have one daughter who understands the value of hard work,” my mother said, casting a sharp, resentful glance toward the far end of the hallway. “Unlike the disappointment in the storage room, pretending to faint the moment the test starts.” Hailey followed her gaze, a fleeting, ugly spark of satisfaction dancing in her eyes before she masked it with a sigh. “Mom, don’t be too hard on her.” Her voice was soft, dripping with performative concern. “She probably just didn’t sleep. I’ve seen her huddled under her blankets with her phone late at night. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.” The lie was lightweight, but it landed with the precision of a scalpel. My mother’s face darkened instantly. “I knew it. Those dark circles under her eyes weren’t from studying.” She slammed her coffee cup onto the desk nearby. “I took the lock off her door, and she still finds ways to sneak around my back. Unbelievable.” Standing beside them, my spirit felt a cold, hollow ache. I remembered the night my mother took the lock off my door. She had just lost a promotion at school, and she came home looking for a target. She kicked open my slightly ajar door and found me slumped over my desk, fast asleep. Without a word, she grabbed a screwdriver and dismantled the lock right in front of me. “You don’t get privacy in this house anymore,” she’d screamed, throwing the metal lock at my feet. “Let’s see you try to slack off behind closed doors now.” I hadn’t cried that night. I had just stared blankly down at the inside of my thighs. They were covered in tiny, neat punctures from the sharp metal tip of my drafting compass. Some had scabbed over; others were still oozing. I had started dabbing peppermint oil on the raw skin to drown out the faint, metallic smell of blood. But when my mother smelled the sharp herbal scent, she assumed I was vaping. “Using cheap vapes to hide the smell of whatever you’re doing, are you?” she had screamed, slapping me hard across the face before taking my phone. After that, I lost the right to even set an alarm to wake myself up. I had to plunge the compass needle deeper. And deeper. But even now, in death, I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. I knew how hard it was for her, raising two kids alone after my father left, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I was just sad. Sad that I would never get the chance to prove to her that I hadn’t been lazy. The intercom crackled, announcing that the building was closing for winter break. The last of the students filed out, leaving the school wrapped in a heavy, tomb-like silence. In the unheated storage room, my body had gone completely rigid. The sun reached its peak in the winter sky, but it couldn’t penetrate the dirt-caked window. My spirit kept track of the time. Four hours since I fell. The golden hour for treating a brain bleed had long since passed. The beam of a heavy flashlight swept across the hallway floor. The elderly night guard, Mr. Henderson, was doing his final sweep. The light caught the glass of the storage room, reflecting off something pale on the floor. My hand. White, cold, my fingers frozen in a deathly spasm around a torn piece of my exam permit. Mr. Henderson stopped, leaning in to squint through the glass. “Hello? Is someone in there?” He tapped on the pane and unclipped his radio from his belt. “Main office, this is Henderson. I’ve got a student lying on the floor in the third-floor storage room. She isn’t moving.” My spirit lunged at the window, screaming at the radio. Please open the door. Help me. The radio crackled with static, and then my mother’s voice came through, cool and authoritative. “Don’t worry about it, Henderson. I locked her in there for detention. Leave her be.” Mr. Henderson hesitated. “But Mrs. Adler, she’s in a really awkward position. Should I go in and check?” “I said leave her,” my mother snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. “She needs to learn her lesson. A few hours in the cold won’t kill her.” Mr. Henderson sighed and turned off his flashlight. “Alright, Mrs. Adler. You’re the boss.” 3 Across the street, the local diner was warm and bustling. To celebrate the end of finals, my mother had reserved a booth. The table was piled high with Hailey’s favorites: mac and cheese, garlic shrimp, and glazed ribs. There was nothing I liked on the table. “Here, Hailey, eat up. You need to replenish your energy after all that studying,” my mother said, peeling a shrimp and placing it lovingly on Hailey’s plate. “Thanks, Mom,” Hailey beamed, putting a rib onto my mother’s plate. “You should eat too. You worked so hard proctoring today.” “As long as you get that top rank, every bit of hard work is worth it.” My mother looked at Hailey with pure pride. “Once the report cards come out, if you’re number one, I’ll take you anywhere you want. What do you say?” Hailey tapped her chin. “I want to go to Disney World. All my friends have been.” “Done,” my mother agreed instantly, her smile smoothing out the deep lines of stress on her face. My spirit stood in the corner of the vinyl booth, watching them laugh. A cold chill washed over me. I remembered the folded piece of paper in my school jacket pocket. It was a contract I had written the night before, my hand shaking with exhaustion: If I place in the top fifty this term, Mom will let me put the lock back on my door. That paper was currently soaked in my blood, the ink smeared into illegible blue shadows. I would never get to show it to her. After lunch, my mother returned to the school to grade the finals. The teachers’ lounge was silent save for the furious scraping of red pens on paper. My mother graded quickly, her pen slashing checkmarks across the pages. Until she reached a completely blank answer sheet. At the top, the name was written in shaky, desperate handwriting: Grace Adler. I had written my name with the last ounce of my strength before the dark took me. My mother stared at the blank paper, the muscles in her jaw twitching violently. “Not only is she lazy, but now she’s handing in blank papers just to spite me.” Her grip on the red pen was so tight her knuckles turned white. “Diane, is everything alright?” the head of the English department asked, leaning over. “Oh, whose paper is that? Leaving the essay completely blank? That’s just disrespectful.” “Whose do you think?” my mother sneered, slamming her red pen down to draw a massive, jagged ‘X’ across the entire page. The paper nearly tore under the force. “My ungrateful, lazy daughter.” She stood up, her chair screeching against the floor. “I am going to deal with her once and for all.” Clutching the zero-grade paper, she marched out of the lounge, her coat billowing behind her like a dark cloud. By four in the afternoon, the winter sun was beginning to dip, casting long, bruised shadows down the hallway. My mother’s heels clicked sharply against the tiles. She stopped at the storage door, not bothering to reach for her keys, and kicked the wood. “Grace! The sun is setting. Have you slept enough?” No sound came from inside. My mother muttered a curse, jammed the brass key into the lock, and swung the door open. A wave of freezing, musty air hit her. She stepped into the room, holding the paper with the red ‘X’ aloft. “Grace, get your lazy ass up and look at this disgrace of a grade.” Her voice died in her throat. The girl on the floor was in the exact same position she had been in four hours ago. 4 The dim winter light sliced through the dirty storage room window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I lay curled in an unnatural, rigid heap on the floor. My fingers were clamped tight around the torn exam permit, my nails a deep, bruising plum color. The blood from my temple had dried into a dark, crusty halo on the concrete. My mother walked over, her face twisted in annoyance. She nudged my stiff shoulder with the toe of her designer heel. “What kind of performance art is this?” She rolled the zero-grade exam into a tube and tapped my shoulder sharply. “Do you honestly think that faking some dramatic illness is going to get you out of rewriting this test a hundred times?” Silence. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t breathe. “Grace, my patience is wearing thin,” my mother said, her voice rising with a dangerous, quiet heat. “Get up right now and go to my office to redo this.” She reached down to grab my arm. The moment her fingers brushed my skin, she froze. “Are you seriously still playing this game?”

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Today was day 362 of sending my girlfriend the exact same photo of my dinner as a daily check-in. She still hadn’t noticed. Before long, our group chat notifications buried the image I had just sent. My roommate leaned over, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Is she blind? You’ve sent her the exact same photo of a turkey club for almost a year, and she hasn’t clicked on it once?” A year ago, Julia had asked me what I had for dinner. I snapped a quick photo of my plate and sent it to her. She told me to do it every day from then on—a little daily check-in to prove I was thinking of her. But I had sent the same image 362 times, and she had never once tapped to enlarge it. I typed out another message to her: Out for dinner with Logan tonight. She replied instantly: Logan hates onions. Did you make sure they took them out of his order? Classic. I knew that as long as I mentioned Logan, she would care about every minor detail. We had been together for a year, yet she knew my best friend’s preferences better than my own. Every time we planned a trip or a night out, she would only agree to go if Logan was joining us. Even at the college career fair, she had gone out of her way to hand Logan’s resume directly to her cousin, a VP at a prestigious firm. “Logan’s portfolio isn’t as strong as yours,” she’d told me back then, her voice soft but dismissive. “With your grades, you’ll find a job anywhere on your own. He actually needs the help.” Logan got the job. He ended up at her company, working in the same building, sharing the same daily commute. I was rejected. I took a position at a firm on the other side of the city, where seeing her required a two-hour train ride. I’m putting together a dinner with some of our old college friends this weekend. Can you make it? I texted her. Can’t, she shot back. It’s Logan’s birthday this weekend. why would you even schedule it for that day? She had completely forgotten. This weekend was our one-year anniversary. It was also the day my bet with Logan was set to end—the day I would finally leave her. 1 Another text from Julia buzzed on my screen. You’re supposed to be Logan’s best friend. How do you forget his birthday? Reschedule your friends. We’re celebrating Logan this weekend. I couldn’t reschedule. This dinner wasn’t just a casual get-together; it was my farewell party. I had accepted a three-year transfer to our firm’s London office. A major promotion waited for me on the other side of that stint. I remembered Logan’s birthday a year ago. We were sitting on my porch, the glow of the candles reflecting in the dark. He’d had too much to drink, his eyes red and watery as he asked me why I had to ask Julia out first. I had no idea we were both in love with the same girl. The guilt had eaten me alive. Then, Logan had pointed at my phone. “If you send her the exact same check-in photo every day for a year and she never notices… you let her go. You let me have a shot. Deal?” I had laughed. It sounded absurd. Who wouldn’t notice the same photo sent daily for a whole year? So, I nodded. I agreed to the bet. But I had been too confident. Julia had let me lose, thoroughly and quietly. I went back to packing my suitcase when my phone buzzed again. It was Logan. Three days left on our bet! He didn’t need to remind me. I already knew I’d lost. In fact, I hadn’t even invited him to my farewell dinner. Our friendship, once so solid, had decayed into something tense and unrecognizable. I didn’t know how to look him in the eye anymore. Julia, annoyed by my silence, called me. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering my texts?” Her voice held that familiar sharp, impatient edge. She didn’t actually care what I was doing; she was just angry that I wasn’t at her beck and call. Without waiting for an answer, she kept talking. “You can see your college friends anytime. We all live in the same city. But Logan only has one birthday a year.” I looked at the flight confirmation on my laptop. Even though we lived in the same city, it had been three months since Julia and I last saw each other. She always claimed she was too busy, too exhausted from working overtime, too focused on climbing the corporate ladder. “I’m doing this for our future, so we can get married,” she’d say. A hollow promise, used to dodge a simple train ride to see me. Yet, she always found the energy to travel to out-of-town conferences with Logan for “market research.” I knew the answer, but the desperate, foolish part of me still had to ask. “Do you know what day it is in three days?” 2 “It’s Logan’s birthday. What else would it be?” She dismissed my question instantly, moving on to her checklist. “Just make sure you buy him a decent gift. I’ve already booked the restaurant and ordered the cake.” “You’re his best friend, but you’re so incredibly thoughtless. Honestly, thank God I’m here to handle these things for you.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. On my birthday, Julia told me she had to pull an all-nighter at the office. I had booked a nice Italian place near her building, waiting alone at a table for hours until she finally showed up late. She’d forgotten to order a cake, so she grabbed a stale, generic cupcake from a bakery on her way over. I had been visibly upset, and we didn’t speak for three days afterward. She complained that I was being needy and unsupportive of her career. Yet, for Logan, she remembered every detail. She hand-selected everything. “I’ll have his gift ready,” I murmured. Satisfied, Julia hung up without another word. I stared at the call log. Her name barely appeared in it anymore. The last time we had a real phone call was over a month ago. Logan had fainted from exhaustion after a long shift, and she had panicked, rushing him to the ER in a frantic state, only for it to be a minor issue. She had called me, sobbing, asking what medication Logan usually took when he was sick. I had never heard her sound so terrified. A few weeks before that, I had fallen off a ladder while cleaning the windows and fractured my leg, spending a week in the hospital. Julia didn’t show up until the second day. “How do you manage to land yourself in the hospital just from cleaning a window? You’re so clumsy,” she’d sighed, staying for barely thirty minutes before rushing off because Logan needed help with a client proposal. She never visited me again during my recovery. I reached for the wrapped box sitting next to my suitcase. I did have a gift for Logan. We had been brothers for over a decade. We grew up on the same block, went to the same schools. I once believed our bond was unbreakable. I used to start planning his birthday gifts six months in advance. I thought we would be in each other’s lives forever. I didn’t realize this would be my last gift to him. My transfer paperwork was complete. I didn’t even have to go into my office this week. My phone rang. It was Mark, our old college class president. “Hey Lucas, Julia called me saying we need to cancel the dinner this weekend? Are you staying in town? Did you guys finally decide to tie the knot instead of you moving abroad?” Mark’s tone was teasing, but there was a hint of relief. Back in college, I had the highest GPA in our department. Everyone assumed I’d land the coveted analyst role at the top firm alongside Julia. When I didn’t, people were stunned. But since Julia’s uncle was a senior partner there, no one questioned it too loudly. We all grow up and realize the real world doesn’t run on merit alone. I had accepted it, kept my head down, and built a successful track record at my current firm. But I hadn’t expected Julia to take it upon herself to cancel my farewell dinner. 3 I forced down the lump in my throat. “No, she’s just not coming. The dinner is still on. My flight is booked.” Mark sounded confused, but he didn’t pry. He promised he’d be there. I went to the mall to pick up the final pieces of Logan’s gift. While paying at the register, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. The sales associate cleared her throat. “Will that be all for today, sir?” I snapped out of it. Julia was across the store, trailing after Logan, carrying several shopping bags. What a rare sight. In our entire year of dating, I could count the number of times she’d gone shopping with me on one hand. And every time, she’d set a strict timer. Twenty minutes, max. “Just pick something. What is the point of walking around in circles?” she’d snap. Yet, her patience for Logan was limitless. I took my bags and headed toward the elevators, wanting to slip away unnoticed. “Lucas!” Logan’s voice echoed across the open atrium. A few shoppers turned to look. Julia’s eyes drifted to the bag in my hand. “Is that Logan’s birthday present?” she asked. I shook my head. Her brow furrowed. “I told you to get him something. Instead, you’re out here buying things for yourself.” The casual sting of her voice made my chest tighten. She seemed to have completely forgotten whose girlfriend she actually was. Logan gave her a playful nudge. “Oh, come on, Julia. Lucas probably got me something amazing and is just keeping it a surprise, right?” He gave me a knowing, conspiratorial wink, acting as though he were diffusing the tension. Julia sighed, her expression softening. “You always defend him. You’re too nice, Logan. Meanwhile, he can’t even remember your birthday.” “How could I forget a day this important?” I said quietly. The day I asked her out. Our first anniversary. The day my bet ended. But to Julia, the only significant date on the calendar was Logan’s birthday. She let out a cold laugh. “Sure you didn’t forget. If I hadn’t called you, you would have skipped his birthday entirely for some random college reunion.” Logan looked surprised. “A reunion? Why didn’t you tell me, Lucas?” He looked at me with a kicked-puppy expression. “Are you mad at me? I feel like you’ve been so distant lately. You never have time for me anymore. Julia’s the only one who hangs out with me.” “I’ve been busy,” I replied, my voice flat. “And I’m going to be even busier from now on.” You don’t need my company anymore anyway, I thought. Seeing Logan’s downcast face, Julia quickly chimed in. “Well, his office is practically on the other side of town. It’s obviously not as convenient for him as it is for me.” Logan smiled, his mood instantly recovering. “True.” I watched them. Even though I had spent months preparing myself for this, a cold, hollow ache opened up in my chest. I stood there, utterly helpless, watching the wind sweep away the remnants of my friendship and my love. My phone buzzed with a flight confirmation notification. Julia caught a glimpse of the screen. “Are you traveling for work?” I didn’t answer, letting the silence serve as confirmation. She didn’t press the issue; she never actually waited for my answers anyway. As I walked out of the mall, the sky opened up into a torrential downpour. Suddenly, Julia’s car pulled up right in front of me. “Get in,” she said, rolling down the window. “We’ll give you a ride. It’s on our way.” Logan sat in the passenger seat, offering me a warm, pitying smile. On our way. The words stung. But what made me freeze entirely was the custom decal on the passenger side dashboard: Reserved for Boyfriend. I stared at it, paralyzed. Behind Julia, a car honked loudly. She glared at me, losing her patience. “Come on, Lucas. You’re blocking traffic. Get in.” “I’m fine,” I said. I turned on my heel and ran through the rain toward a waiting taxi at the curb. 4 The rain left me with a raging fever. My mom called me on FaceTime, asking about my move to London. When she saw my pale face, her expression shifted to deep worry. “You’re burning up, Lucas. Where’s your girlfriend? Why isn’t she taking care of you?” She hesitated, then added gently, “Is she upset that you’re leaving for three years? Does she think it’s over between you two?” When Julia first agreed to be my girlfriend, I had called my mother immediately, ecstatic. I had harbored a crush on Julia throughout college, never dreaming those three years of quiet longing would actually lead to something. I had been so naive, believing we were meant for the long haul. I shook my head slowly. “We broke up, Mom.” My mom sighed, a soft look of sympathy crossing her face. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re young. There will be someone better out there for you.” I offered a weak smile. Maybe there would be. But this relationship had cost me both my love and my best friend at the exact same time. Part of me wished I could go back to the day I confessed to her, to remain silent, to keep things the way they were. But regret is a useless thing. I opened my laptop to review some transition documents sent by the London team, but my head was throbbing so violently the words blurred together. Then came a knock at the door. Assuming it was the drugstore delivery with my medicine, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled the door open. Julia stood on the threshold, carrying a bag of groceries. She pushed past me into the apartment. “I knew you were acting weird lately. If Logan hadn’t reminded me, I completely would have missed it.” “Our anniversary is this weekend. If you wanted to celebrate, you should have just said so instead of playing these passive-aggressive games.” “Logan told me he didn’t care about his birthday anymore. He wanted me to spend the weekend with you. I figured, since it’s only a one-day difference, I’d come over and celebrate our anniversary early.” I stood frozen by the door. “Why didn’t you celebrate his birthday early instead?” She paused, her hands stalling over the grocery bag. When she spoke, her voice was strained. “You don’t celebrate birthdays early; it’s bad luck. Besides, an anniversary is just a date. What does it matter which day we celebrate, as long as I’m here with you?” The difference was immense. She could be with Logan every single day, while our anniversary required my best friend’s permission to even exist in her schedule. I held the door open. “I don’t want to celebrate. You should leave.” Julia walked over, reaching out to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back, avoiding her touch. Her tone softened into a cajoling murmur. “Come on, stop being dramatic. If I actually leave, you’re just going to pout.” I looked down. The one who pouted, the one who cried to get his way, was Logan. I had never shed a tear in front of Julia. Perhaps she assumed I was strong enough to handle everything on my own, that I didn’t need comforting. The truth was, whenever I wanted to cry, she was never there to see it. “Julia,” I said, looking straight into her eyes. “Do you ever regret saying yes when I asked you out?” If she had said no, Logan would have confessed to her. If she were Logan’s girlfriend, she probably wouldn’t treat him the way she treated me. Julia knit her brows, genuinely contemplating the question. After a long silence, she shook her head. “When you handed me those flowers, I thought you were really sweet.” “Now, stop overthinking things.” She unpacked a small cake and placed a single candle on top. “You complained last year that I didn’t get you a cake. Look, this time I brought flowers and a cake.” I looked at them. The cake was strawberry—Logan’s favorite. The flowers were pink roses—Logan’s favorite. A wave of nausea hit me, and my head felt as if it were splitting open. As she lit the candle, Julia took out her phone, snapped a photo, and sent it. Mission accomplished, she typed. I saw the screen. She attached a cute puppy emoji. She was texting Logan. Celebrating our anniversary was nothing more than a task he had assigned her. “If Logan asked you to break up with me, would you do that too?” I asked. 5 Julia looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “How can you think so poorly of Logan? He’s constantly telling me to pay more attention to you. He remembered our anniversary better than I did, and he was the one who told me to get you the flowers and the cake. He cares so much about you, and you treat him like an enemy.” I let out a tired, empty laugh. “Maybe I’m just petty.” The doorbell rang again. This time, it was the delivery driver with my medicine. I took the bag. Julia finally noticed the flush on my face and reached out to touch my forehead. I stepped back, dodging her hand, and gently but firmly pushed her out of the apartment. “Your boyfriend has a raging fever and you didn’t even notice,” the delivery guy muttered, shaking his head as he walked down the hall. “Some partner.” Julia’s face flushed with embarrassment. She knocked on the door for a few minutes, but when I didn’t answer, her patience evaporated. “Just take your medicine,” she called out through the wood. “And don’t forget Logan’s dinner tomorrow.” Then, silence. I picked up the strawberry cake and the pink roses and threw them directly into the trash can. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Julia. The Grandview Hotel, Private Room 203. Don’t be late. I stared at the screen, letting out a dry laugh. It felt like a sick joke from the universe. The room she booked was directly adjacent to the one I had reserved for my farewell dinner. I arrived at the hotel early, carrying my suitcase and Logan’s gift. My friends knew I was leaving for London, and seeing me arrive without Julia, they kept their questions to themselves, maintaining a tactful silence. My phone buzzed repeatedly with texts from Julia. I ignored them all. Mark looked at the wrapped box sitting next to my chair. “Hey, didn’t we already exchange farewell gifts? Who’s that one for?” I waved down a waiter. “Could you deliver this to the party in Room 203 next door? Tell them it’s from Lucas, and that I hope they have a wonderful night.” The waiter nodded and took the box. Mark nudged my shoulder. “You and Julia having a rough patch?” “We’re done,” I said. From the other side of the wall, I could hear the muffled strains of “Happy Birthday” and Logan’s delighted laughter. They didn’t need me there. They never had. As our dinner wrapped up and we walked out of the private dining room, several of my friends stopped in the hallway. “Wait, isn’t that Julia and Logan?” one of them whispered. We all looked through the glass partition of Room 203. “Weren’t you and Logan incredibly close?” another friend muttered, looking between me and the room. “I thought he couldn’t make it tonight because of some emergency. Why is he…” The question trailed off. The reality of the situation was painfully clear to everyone. “It’s in the past,” I said quietly. My relationship with Julia, my friendship with Logan—all of it belonged to a life I was leaving behind. I said my goodbyes, took my luggage, and hailed a cab to JFK. After passing through security, I sat at the gate and pulled out my phone. I sent one final text to Julia: We’re over. Then, I popped out the SIM card, walked over to a trash bin, and threw it away—along with the expensive designer watch she had given me for our first Christmas.

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