Right after graduation, I married my grandfather’s younger friend. He was a thirty-five-year-old, aloof and disciplined college professor, but in the heat of the moment, he would lose all control with me. His voice would turn hoarse as he whispered my nickname, promising to build a family and have children with me. But on the exact day my pregnancy was confirmed, I found a hidden stack of postcards. The handwriting was bold and elegant, every word dripping with deep affection. [My dearest Rose: [My wife shares a few of your features. It is a rare comfort. By coincidence, her nickname is also ‘Rose.’ [But a substitute is never the original. She only offers a temporary distraction from my bitter longing for you.] It turned out that the marriage I had thrown myself into so recklessly was nothing but a laughable game of pretend. I signed a classified non-disclosure agreement for a fake death, got an abortion to make way for her, and left him with nothing but a handful of ashes. And it drove him completely insane. 01 After the abortion procedure, I walked out of the clinic in a daze. My phone rang. It was the same number that had been sending me multimedia messages. I answered it. The background noise was loud and rowdy, like a party was in full swing. “Open another bottle! Let’s celebrate Rose’s triumphant return! Hey, Professor Cole, didn’t you say you stopped drinking because you and the wife were trying for a baby? How come you’re breaking the rules the second Rose gets back?” “He has to break the rules! Rose is back, who cares about trying for a baby? Just swap the wife out and be done with it!” “Honestly, a young girl like that is only good for a short fling. She’s too delicate, too clingy, and a nightmare to coax. Look at Harrison—ever since he got married, he’s just a ghost shuttling between the campus and his house. If we weren’t riding Rose’s coattails tonight, we never would have gotten him to come out.” “But come on, Harrison, your little wife is pretty good to you. When you broke your leg and were hospitalized last year, she ran herself ragged between her classes, the hospital, and home. She made you bone broth every single day, and her clothes were hanging off her by the time you were discharged. It’s just a pity that a substitute will always be a substitute.” “With a sweet, delicate young girl fluttering around you every day, are you really telling us you never felt a thing for her, Harrison?” Before Harrison Cole could say a word, an elegant, sweet female voice chimed in. “Oh, stop making things difficult for Harrison. “Let’s play Truth or Dare. I’ll start. “Harrison, if I asked you to divorce her and marry me… would you?” I instinctively held my breath, my entire heart clenching into a tight knot. A long silence stretched over the line. “Yes.” It was that deep, steady voice I loved so much. The same voice that used to murmur my name between the sheets, making me lose all reason and sink into him. But now, it was a sharp knife, violently crushing my heart into a pulp. The crowd on the other end erupted in cheers. My heart turned to ash, and I hung up the phone. When I got home, I walked into his study—his forbidden sanctuary. I used to think he just didn’t want me cleaning in there for fear I’d accidentally damage his rare, collectible books. But when I opened the door and found the stacks of photos in his drawer, along with the unsent love letters, I realized what a fool I had been. It turned out that every place we visited, every sweet little milestone we accomplished as a couple… he would write a postcard to his first love about it. He was looking right through me, seeing someone else. Thank God there was still time. I looked at the unsent text message on my phone. [Are you really going to give up joining the Special Operations Division for him? That is your biggest dream, and it was your parents’ dying wish.] I wiped away my tears and typed a reply. [Grandpa, I am formally applying to join ‘Project Artemis.’] My phone rang almost immediately. It was my grandfather, whom I hadn’t spoken to in two years. Hearing his strict, familiar voice made my eyes instantly well up with tears of comfort. “Have you thought this through? Once you leave, you won’t be able to come back for five, maybe even ten years. “Will he agree to this?” “I don’t need his permission.” I paused, finally unable to hold back the overwhelming grievance in my heart. “Grandpa, he never loved me. I was wrong… I made a terrible mistake…” A heavy silence followed before a low sigh came through the receiver. “Everyone makes mistakes. Don’t beat yourself up over it. “In five days, the agency will arrange a fake death for you. “After that, ‘Olivia’ will cease to exist in this world.” 02 It wasn’t until late into the night that Harrison finally came home. He had changed into a spare dress shirt he kept at his office, so there was no smell of alcohol on him. I was in the living room packing up my textbooks when he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “You waited up for me? “I’m sorry. There was an emergency meeting at the faculty board, it held me up. “I bought you that blind box figure you wanted. The cashier said young girls love these.” It was the aerospace engineering edition I had been eyeing. “I’ll hire someone to build a glass display cabinet so we can put all your little figurines inside. That way, when we have a kid, they won’t mess them up.” Thinking of the baby I had just lost, a wave of hot tears rushed to my eyes. I fought them back desperately, refusing to let him see anything was wrong. “By the way, what did the doctor say at your checkup today? Are you really pregnant?” He looked at me with a probing gaze. I answered calmly: “No, I’m not. The pregnancy test was a false positive.” He let out a microscopic sigh of relief and comforted me gently: “It’s fine. You’re still young. Honestly, I wanted you to enjoy a couple more years of freedom anyway.” He was as gentle as ever. If I hadn’t heard him say “Yes” with my own ears, you could have beaten me to death and I never would have believed that the man who seemingly loved me this much was actively plotting to leave me. I wanted so badly to rip off his mask. I wanted to scream and question him like a madwoman, but suddenly, it all just felt so exhausting. “Harrison, I want a div—” A sudden, sharp cramp pierced my lower abdomen. His phone rang at the exact same time. He shot me a panicked look and hurried into the study. When he came back out, he grabbed his car keys and headed straight for the door. “Honey, there’s an emergency at the university. I have to go over there right now. “You go ahead and get to sleep.” He took my hand, leaning in to give me a goodbye kiss, but froze when he realized how icy my palm was. “Why are you so cold? “Hurry up and get into bed. Drink some hot water.” He left in a rush, not even staying long enough to hear what I was trying to say. The moment the front door clicked shut, I heard his usually composed voice lace with panic: “Don’t worry, I’m almost there.” A violent wave of pain hit me, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor. 03 I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. The doctor told me the initial abortion procedure was incomplete, and I needed an emergency D&C. After hours of agonizing treatment in the middle of the night, I refused to be admitted to a room. I insisted on going home. I never expected to run into Harrison in the hospital’s main lobby. He was down on one knee in front of a woman. His familiar voice carried a frantic, anxious tone I had never once experienced. “The lights went out—couldn’t you have just called me? “Trying to be a hero and change a lightbulb in the dark… what if you had really injured your leg in the fall? How would you ever dance on stage again?” So, this was the dancer first love he couldn’t forget: Rosalie. Suddenly, it all made sense. Last year, I got hit by an electric scooter in our neighborhood. Harrison had been perfectly calm and rational the entire time, coldly negotiating liability with the other party without losing his composure for a single second. Who he loved and who he didn’t… it was glaringly obvious. “I didn’t want to bother you,” Rosalie choked out, her voice trembling. “Your wife is so young. Young girls get jealous and are hard to please. I didn’t want to make things difficult for you. “You’re married now. I need to get used to a life without you.” A heavy silence swelled in the empty lobby. After a long time, a sigh broke the quiet, followed by a solemn promise: “I am married, yes. But your problems are still my problems. “Don’t worry about my wife. I’ll handle her. “Just don’t try to be brave next time. Thank God it’s only superficial cuts today and you didn’t damage any tendons. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” Rosalie’s eyes were red. “I can’t walk. I want you to carry me on your back.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned around to face her. And locked eyes with me. I was standing in the corridor, having had no time to hide. He shot up instantly, a flash of panic and suspicion crossing his eyes. “Olivia, what are you doing here? “Are you following me?” 04 Following him? He really knew how to twist the blame. “Is this Olivia?” Rosalie stepped forward with a smile, grabbing my hand. “Harrison talks about you all the time. Wow, you really do look a lot like me. We must have a special connection. “I’m Rosalie. You’ve probably heard my name, right? “I’m so sorry. I took a fall at home, and I just moved back to the city so I don’t really know anyone here. I had to borrow your husband for a tiny bit. You’re not mad, are you?” Harrison was standing behind her, so naturally, he didn’t see the provocation in her eyes. He couldn’t hear her whisper under her breath: “Did you like the gift? Little substitute.” I looked her dead in the eye and smiled. “Mad? Why would I be? A dirty man—you can keep him.” I pulled my hand back, turning to leave. She let out a soft gasp and intentionally bumped against the wall. “Ah! My leg!” Harrison’s face drained of color. He rushed forward to support her. “Did you hit it?” He whipped his head around and glared at me: “Olivia! Is this how I taught you to behave?!” It was the very first time he had ever yelled at me. Just because I had talked back to his precious first love. Yet, when his friends were openly mocking me at the party, he didn’t say a single word to defend me. What exactly was I to him? “Harrison, what are you doing? I’m fine. Olivia is still young, don’t scare her!” Rosalie lightly swatted his arm, turning to comfort me. “Olivia, don’t be mad at him. He just has a bad temper. I’ll scold him for you later.” “You’ll scold him for me?” I let out a dry laugh. “Why don’t you just officially become his wife and sleep with him while you’re at it?” “Olivia!” Harrison grabbed my wrist, gritting his teeth. “What nonsense are you spewing?! Apologize to her.” The grief and anger I had been suppressing all day finally snapped. “Why should I apologize?!” I looked up, interrogating him. “You are my husband! You lied to me, saying there was a work emergency, just so you could take another woman to the hospital in the dead of night! Is that fair? Is that right?! “And what’s this garbage about not knowing anyone in the city? Does she dare swear to God? If she’s lying, I hope she gets hit by a car the second she walks outside—” Smack! A harsh slap landed on my cheek, burning and stinging. Harrison’s hand trembled slightly. It seemed even he didn’t expect himself to lose control like that. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, but the words that came out of his mouth were chilling to the bone. “This is my fault. “I’ve spoiled you too much. That’s why you’ve become so narrow-minded, jealous, and vicious.” Smack! He slapped himself hard across the face, looking at me. “Is this enough? Can you stop throwing a tantrum now?” “Harrison, how could you hit yourself?!” Rosalie was frantic, on the verge of tears. “It’s already swelling! How are you going to teach your classes tomorrow?! “Olivia, this is my fault. I shouldn’t have disturbed you two. If you want to hit someone or yell at someone, take it out on me!” “Fine. I’ll grant your wish.” I raised my hand. A massive force shoved me backward. “Olivia, don’t push it!” Harrison looked furious and pained. “Why can’t you just be a little more understanding like Rosalie? Have some grace!” My abdomen hit the cold floor. It should have hurt terribly, but I was so numb I couldn’t feel a thing. The very last shred of residual warmth I had for him evaporated completely in that moment. I looked up at him and smiled. “Harrison, I’ve always wondered… the ‘Rose’ you constantly talk about… who is it, really?” Harrison’s eyes trembled, and he opened his mouth, trying to explain. “Hitting someone right at the hospital entrance?!” An ER doctor getting off shift rushed over to help me up, looking surprised. “Wait, aren’t you the patient who just had the emergency D&C—” “Ah!” A speeding motorcycle zoomed right past Rosalie’s side. Harrison instinctively pulled her into his arms, protecting her tightly. Naturally, he didn’t hear what the doctor said. I gave the doctor a bitter smile and shook my head. The doctor realized what was happening, gave the two of them a look of disgust, spat on the ground, and walked away. It was time for me to go, too. Harrison called my name, making a move to chase after me. But the woman in his arms seemed terrified by the motorcycle. Her legs were weak, and she couldn’t stand steadily. He rushed to support her, and by the time he looked up again, I was already in a taxi, leaving him in the dust. 05 When I got home, I placed the signed divorce papers, the pregnancy ultrasound, and the surgical abortion records on his nightstand. I moved into a hotel without looking back, waiting for the agency to pick me up. But on the day before my departure, Harrison managed to find me. He leaned one hand against the hotel door, looking exhausted and helpless. “Olivia, come home, please? “I didn’t do it on purpose that day. “Rosalie has bipolar disorder. She can’t handle being triggered. I was just afraid you would get hurt, which is why I stopped you from talking. “I promise you, once she secures a job, I will never see her again. “Olivia, please stop torturing me. I’ve been going crazy these past few days.” I knew I shouldn’t let it affect me, but my heart still trembled uncontrollably, a sharp pang of sorrow gripping my chest. This was the man I had loved for my entire youth. After my parents died in a tragic accident, my grandfather, fearing for my safety, entrusted me to his most trusted friend: Harrison. He became my legal guardian. He was the one who sang to me on stormy nights to coax me to sleep; He remembered every single important date in my life; During puberty, he chased away the mean boys who mocked my changing body and told me to hold my head high, that it was a beautiful thing. Falling in love with him had been so easy, so inevitable. “Harrison, have you even been home these past few days?” I asked him. His eyes darted away. “Of course I have. Where else would I sleep? What’s wrong?” I gripped my phone tightly and smiled. “Nothing.” He let out a breath of relief and smiled back. “Then let’s go get some food. We’ll go to that Italian place you love.” I didn’t refuse. I treated it as a final goodbye. Along the way, he talked incessantly, which was incredibly rare. Usually, that was my role. My phone kept buzzing with multimedia messages. [He’s been at my place keeping me company these past few days.] [He said he couldn’t hold back anymore. I had no choice but to give myself to him.] [Fierce as always. So delicious.] Following the texts was a photo of Harrison’s bare torso and a used condom. I placed my phone face-down, covering my mouth as a wave of nausea hit me. “Car sick?” Harrison asked quickly. “Who keeps texting you? Just ignore it.” For a split second, I wanted to shove the phone right in his face. I wanted to see what his expression would be, and what pathetic excuse he would come up with next. But then I realized it was a waste of energy. When you no longer love someone, even holding a grudge feels redundant. At the entrance of the restaurant, his phone rang. Rosalie’s anxious voice came through the line. “Harrison, a water pipe burst at my place! Could you please come help me look at it?” Harrison looked at me, caught in a difficult position. I smiled. “It’s fine. You go ahead.” An emotion I couldn’t quite read surged in his eyes—confusion, maybe panic—but it was quickly replaced by joy. “Thank you, honey. I’ll be right back.” I watched him walk away and answered a call on my own phone. “Alright. Ten minutes from now.” …… The property management was fixing the water pipe. But Harrison’s right eyelid kept twitching, and an inexplicable panic gripped his chest. When it was finally fixed, he hurriedly put on his jacket, anxious to go find his little wife. That was when he realized he had over twenty missed calls on his phone. He called the number back. A sterile, official voice answered. “Is this Mr. Harrison Cole? “Your wife, Mrs. Olivia Cole, passed away in a car accident an hour ago. “She was crushed by a semi-truck in front of the restaurant. The body sustained catastrophic damage and could not be reconstructed. “Because we were unable to reach you, the remains have already been cremated. “Please come to the crematorium to claim her ashes.” 06 Harrison froze as if paralyzed. After a long time, he finally snapped out of his daze and said with a trembling voice: “Impossible. You must have made a mistake. “Olivia is waiting for me to get dinner. How could she be dead…” “We found her ID in your wife’s purse, and the police have verified her identity.” It felt like something in his brain catastrophically collapsed. Harrison’s knees went weak, and he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. Rosalie rushed over to comfort him. “Harrison, could this be a sick prank? “Maybe she was mad that you came to see me, so she hired people to put on a show to make you worry and apologize. Young girls love this kind of drama.” As if grasping at a lifeline, Harrison’s tone turned desperate and agitated. “Right, right, she must just be playing a joke on me out of anger…” Before he could finish, a video notification popped up on his phone—a young woman was run over and killed by a semi-truck in front of the exact restaurant. Harrison frantically tapped it open. The light faded entirely from his eyes, and he collapsed onto the floor. That was Rose. It was his Rose! She was dead? But just half an hour ago, she had been standing obediently right by his side! Impossible. This couldn’t be real! He needed to see her. This wasn’t true. He had to see her! Harrison bolted out the door like a madman, running toward the crematorium. Inside the facility, the usually composed and dignified Professor Cole looked like an obsessed lunatic, interrogating the staff over and over again: “Who gave you permission to cremate her?! I am her husband! I didn’t sign anything! Who gave you the right to burn her?! “What if she was still alive? What if she could have been saved…” The staff had been sympathetic at first, patiently trying to explain. But eventually, annoyed by his relentless harassment, a worker yelled back: “Stop pretending to be some deeply devoted husband! If you actually cared about your wife, what were you doing when I called you over twenty times?! “I heard a woman in the background telling you not to leave! Drop the act!” Harrison froze, his limbs turning rigid, his face draining of all color. What had he been doing? He had been staring at the maintenance worker fixing Rosalie’s pipe. He heard his phone ring, but thinking it was just telemarketers, he had asked Rosalie to put it on silent for him. If he had known those calls were about Olivia, he would have answered them even if it cost him his life. “Rose… my Rose…” He collapsed to the floor, holding his head as he wailed in absolute agony and despair. She had forgiven him. They had agreed to have lunch together. How could this happen? Rosalie had followed him there. She crouched down and tried to persuade him: “Harrison, don’t be sad. Seeing you like this, little Rose is probably hurting as she watches from heaven. “Little Rose was an angel, sent down to keep you company for a while. Now that I’m back, her mission is complete and she’s gone back. “Her departure… it’s a blessing for us. From now on, I will stay by your side and take care of you…” Harrison looked up, staring at Rosalie in absolute disbelief, as if he were seeing her for the first time. All this time, he had believed she was kind, quiet, and understanding of the bigger picture. He trusted her words unconditionally, feeling a deep, mutual connection with her. But in this moment, he found her foreign and utterly repulsive. “Rosalie, that was my wife! Her ashes aren’t even cold yet, how can you say something so shameless?!” Harrison demanded furiously. “You don’t deserve to speak her name, and you can’t even begin to compare to her! “My only wife is Olivia, and the only person I want to grow old with is her! Not you!” Agony spread through every vein and bone in his body. In this moment, he finally understood the crushing pain Olivia must have felt when she asked him who the real ‘Rose’ was. He wished so desperately that he could turn back time. He wanted to tell her himself that the ‘Rose’ he spoke of was her, only her. He loved her! But he had allowed himself to be blinded by the past, hurting her again and again. Having never been yelled at by him before, Rosalie’s eyes turned red. “Harrison, I just wanted to comfort you! The dead can’t come back to life. How can you yell at me for a dead substitute?! “Was anything I said wrong? Didn’t you only marry her because she looked like me? “Isn’t this perfect? Now you don’t even have to bother divorcing her. Let’s go get our marriage license tomorrow, okay?” “Shut your mouth!” Harrison exploded with rage. “Who wants to marry you?! I am Olivia’s husband, I…” “The one who should shut their mouth is you!” A stern, merciless voice cut him off. “What right do you have to call yourself Olivia’s husband?!” Harrison whipped his head around. His furious face instantly stiffened, replaced by pain, guilt, and finally, he dropped to his knees. It was my grandfather.

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It was Children’s Day, and for the first time, my wife, Camille, had actually agreed to help me pick up our daughter from school. Lucy had been begging for weeks, and Camille had finally relented, though she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. As the teacher led Lucy out, she caught Camille’s eye and paused, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “Oh, Lucy’s mom! You’re finally here for her,” the teacher said, her tone carrying a hint of casual judgment. “It’s funny—whenever you’re picking up your son, you’re here thirty minutes early, rain or shine. I was starting to wonder if Lucy was the middle child or something. You can’t let the boy have all the attention, you know?” The umbrella slipped from Camille’s hand. It hit the pavement with a dull thud, splashing muddy water all over my shins. I stood there, holding Lucy—who was shivering in my arms, her faded, second-hand school hoodie two sizes too small—and looked at my wife. My skin went cold. We only had one child. We only had Lucy. Who the hell was this son? Camille’s body went rigid. Her voice came out thin and trembling. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a son!” The teacher frowned, pointing toward the Pre-K classroom next door. “How could I be mistaken? Just this morning, you brought in a whole crate of luxury organic cherries for Parker’s class to share. You were wearing that same trench coat.” Camille’s face went a sickly shade of porcelain white. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin as she tried to shove me toward the car. “She’s confused, Dan. She’s got the wrong person. Let’s just go. Lucy needs to get home.” I reached out, my fingers steady as I tucked a stray, wet lock of hair behind her ear. My voice was a whisper. “What’s the rush?” I turned back to the bewildered teacher and forced a polite, jagged smile. “Actually, would you mind showing me the way?” I asked. “I’d love to see my wife’s other life. I want to see what a ‘perfect mother’ she is when I’m not around.” … The teacher led the way, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished linoleum floors. Camille stood frozen at the entrance. I didn’t wait for her. I adjusted Lucy in my arms; she felt so light, so fragile. Her sleeves were frayed at the cuffs, exposing her thin, pale wrists. She buried her face into the crook of my neck, her small frame still vibrating from the chill of the rain. “Come on, Camille,” I called back, my voice devoid of emotion. “Let’s go.” Camille wiped the rain from her face, her lips quivering. “Dan, please. This is a mistake. These teachers are overworked; they see hundreds of parents. She’s got me mixed up with some client’s wife or something.” She reached for my sleeve again, but I pivoted, stepping out of her reach. “Then let’s go clarify it,” I said. “Maybe your client’s kid is named Parker, too.” The teacher looked back at us, her brow furrowed. “Parker’s mom? He’s right in here. They’re just finishing their afternoon snack.” Camille swallowed hard. I could see the panic vibrating in her throat. She followed me, silent now, like a ghost haunting her own life. The hallway felt endless, lined with bright finger paintings and construction-paper suns. The teacher stopped at a glass-paned door and pointed. “There. That’s Parker.” I looked through the glass. The room was warm and brightly lit. A group of children sat around a circular table, dressed in clothes that looked like they belonged in a catalog. In the center sat a little boy in a sharp, navy blue blazer, his hair perfectly coiffed with styling gel. He was holding a cherry—the size of a golf ball, a deep, expensive crimson—and popping it into his mouth. Lucy shifted in my arms. “Daddy,” she whispered, her voice small and envious. “I want one too.” A sharp ache twisted in my chest. I rubbed her back gently. “Camille, those cherries… didn’t you say you bought those for a high-end client?” Camille stayed in the shadows of the hallway, refusing to step into the light of the classroom. “I did… maybe the client’s son goes here. It’s a common name.” Right then, the boy looked up. His eyes locked onto Camille through the glass. They lit up instantly. He scrambled off his chair, his little legs moving fast as he bolted toward the door. “Mommy!” The word was high, clear, and unmistakable. It sliced through the air like a razor. Camille froze. Inside the room, a young teacher looked over and smiled. “Oh, Parker’s mom is here to pick him up! Good timing.” The boy threw himself at Camille’s legs, wrapping his arms around her knees. “Mommy, you’re late! Uncle Jackson said you were taking us for pizza!” Camille instinctively tried to block the boy from my sight, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal. “It’s not… Dan, I can explain.” She tried to peel the boy off her, her movements frantic and clumsy. She pushed a little too hard, and the boy lost his balance, landing hard on his bottom. The silence of the hallway was shattered by his sudden, piercing wail. Camille reached down to help him, then yanked her hand back as if he were made of hot coals. From the far end of the hall, I heard the heavy thud of footsteps. A man in a tailored black blazer came charging toward us. He scooped the boy up, dusting off his expensive trousers with practiced, fatherly care. “What happened, buddy? You okay?” The man looked up. His face was groomed, handsome, and hauntingly familiar. It was Jackson. Camille’s “distant cousin.” The one who had moved to the city three years ago looking for work. The one we had helped out with “loans” that were never repaid. Jackson’s eyes landed on Camille, and his expression softened into something intimate. “Camille, why did you let him fall?” Then, his gaze shifted to me. His face went ashen. He clutched the boy tighter, a forced, tight smile appearing on his lips. “Dan… hey. I didn’t know you were coming today.” Lucy coughed—a wet, rattling sound. I held her closer, staring at the three of them. My wife in her designer coat, the man in his sharp suit, the boy in his miniature luxury wardrobe. And then there was me and my daughter, soaked to the bone, dressed in rags, looking like intruders in someone else’s perfect life. Camille started to babble, her voice rising in pitch. I didn’t let her finish. I turned on my heel and walked away. “We’re going home. Now.” The car heater was blasting, but the air felt like ice. Camille gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. The windshield wipers beat a rhythmic, agonizing tempo against the glass. Lucy was buckled into her seat in the back, wrapped in my damp jacket, her small body still shaking. Camille glanced in the rearview mirror, her brow knitting together in annoyance. “Can you tell her to keep her feet off the leather? This car is a nightmare to detail.” I ignored her, using a napkin to pat the moisture from Lucy’s hair. “She has a fever.” I touched Lucy’s forehead; it was burning. Camille sighed, an ugly, impatient sound. “Kids get wet, Dan. It’s a cold, not a tragedy. She’ll sleep it off.” “Parker didn’t look like he had to ‘sleep anything off,’” I said quietly. “Where’d he get that blazer, Camille? It looked custom.” Camille slammed on the brakes. The car jerked, and my head snapped forward, grazing the headrest. A chorus of horns erupted behind us. She hit the gas again, her words coming out in a frantic blur. “I told you, Jackson is a mess! He had a kid out of wedlock, the mother ran off, and I’ve been helping him. The kid is starved for affection. He calls every woman ‘Mommy.’ It’s a psychological thing. You’re going to get mad at a toddler?” “And the cherries?” “The client didn’t want them. I didn’t want them to go to waste, so I gave them to Jackson. You know we have a mortgage, Dan. We can’t afford to be eating fifty-dollar crates of fruit ourselves.” I looked out the window at the blurred streetlights. Lucy’s hoodie was so thin the fabric was almost translucent. Last month, I’d told Camille that Lucy had outgrown everything and needed a new wardrobe. Camille had told me: “She’s growing too fast, Dan. It’s a waste of money. My friend has a daughter a few years older; she’s giving us a bag of hand-me-downs. It’s fine.” So Lucy wore the hand-me-downs. While Parker wore tailored blazers and ate organic cherries. We pulled into the parking garage. Camille killed the engine and unbuckled her seatbelt. “Look, stop the silent treatment. Jackson’s had it rough, and I’m just being a good person. I’ll make dinner tonight, okay? Your favorite. Let’s just move past this.” She reached into the back to touch Lucy. Lucy shrank away, pressing herself into the corner of the car seat. Camille’s hand hovered in the air, awkward and cold, before she pulled it back. “Fine. Be that way. She’s always been more yours than mine anyway.” Inside the house, Camille disappeared into the kitchen. I took Lucy to the living room and checked her temperature. 101.3. We were out of children’s Tylenol. I went into the home office, hoping to find the first-aid kit. Camille usually kept the office locked—”company secrets,” she said. But in her haste today, the door was slightly ajar. I started rummaging through the desk drawers. No medicine. But my fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. I pulled it out. It was a Disney World VIP Gold Pass. The photo on the back showed three people: Jackson, Parker, and a beaming Camille. They were leaning into each other, the Cinderella Castle sparkling behind them. Tucked behind the card was a receipt from the same trip. The date was last Saturday. Lucy’s birthday. Camille had told me she had an emergency project at the firm. Lucy had waited until midnight for her mother to come home, eventually falling asleep at the kitchen table next to a cold piece of toast. I looked at the itemized list on the receipt. Prince Charming Costume: $450. Custom Leather Shoes: $210. Luxury Seafood Buffet for 3: $380. Total: $2,140. My hands began to shake. That night, Camille had come home after 1:00 AM. She had brought a tiny, smashed cupcake she said she’d bought at a 7-Eleven. She had hugged me, looking exhausted, and whispered, “The firm is struggling, honey. Bonuses are frozen. We have to pinch every penny for Lucy’s future. We’ll celebrate her birthday properly when things get better.” And I had believed her. I had taken the extra coding freelance work I did at night and funneled every cent into her account, while I wore the same three t-shirts for four years. The office door swung open. Camille stood there, still wearing her apron, a spatula in her hand. Her face transformed when she saw what I was holding. “Who gave you permission to go through my things?” She lunged for the card and the receipt, nearly poking me in the eye with the spatula. She crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved the card into her pocket. “It was for work! The client’s kid wanted to go to Disney, and I had to host. It’s networking, Dan! It’s how the world works!” I looked at her, and for the first time, I didn’t see my wife. I saw a stranger. “Was Lucy’s birthday ‘networking,’ Camille?” “What was I supposed to do? If I don’t work, we don’t have a house! We don’t have anything!” she shrieked. “I wouldn’t have to work so hard if you weren’t such a failure!” From the living room, Lucy let out a violent, hacking cough. I didn’t argue. I didn’t yell. I just walked past her. Lucy’s face was flushed a deep, angry red. She was curled on the sofa, gasping for air. “Daddy… it hurts…” I scooped her up. “We’re going to the ER.” Camille followed me to the door. “The ER? Are you insane? Do you know what the co-pay is for an after-hours visit? Just give her some herbal tea and put her to bed. Hospitals are scams; they’ll charge us five hundred bucks for a bandage.” I ignored her, wrapping Lucy in a thick blanket. Camille blocked the door. “Dan, stop being so dramatic. A fever isn’t going to kill her. When I was a kid, I had a 104 fever and I just slept it off. Stop wasting our money.” “Get out of my way.” My voice was so cold it seemed to startle her. She stepped aside, muttering under her breath about how “soft” I was. She didn’t put on her shoes. She didn’t grab her keys. She wasn’t coming. I didn’t expect her to. I carried my forty-pound daughter down the stairs, out into the rain, and waited twenty minutes for an Uber. By the time we reached the hospital, I was soaked through. Lucy was delirious, whispering for her mother. My tears mixed with the rain. They tasted like salt and regret. At the hospital, the diagnosis was quick: acute pneumonia. She needed an IV and overnight observation. I ran back and forth—registration, pharmacy, blood work. When the nurse went to start the IV, Lucy sobbed, reaching out into the empty air. “Mommy… I want Mommy…” The nurse looked at me, her eyes filled with pity. “Where is the mother, dear?” I looked at the floor. “She’s dead.” By 3:00 AM, the fever had finally started to break. Lucy was asleep in the pediatric ward. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a bank alert. [Transaction Alert: $5,200.00 spent at Riverside Private Pediatric Hospital.] The account was in my name, but Camille had the secondary card. That was Lucy’s college fund. I called her immediately. It rang for a long time before she picked up. Her voice was a hushed whisper, the background quiet—the sound of a private hallway. “What? It’s the middle of the night.” “Where are you?” “At home, sleeping. Obviously.” “Then explain the five-thousand-dollar charge at the private hospital across town.” There was a pause. A long, heavy silence. “Oh… that. I… I bought a premium insurance rider for Lucy. You know, since she’s so ‘sick.’ It’s a smart investment.” “At a private hospital? At 3:00 in the morning?” Camille’s voice turned sharp and defensive. “Ugh, fine! Jackson’s kid got sick too. He didn’t have the deposit for the private wing, so I lent it to him. He’ll pay me back tomorrow. God, why are you so small-minded?” Click. The line went dead. Lent it to him? Jackson didn’t have a job. He hadn’t had a job in three years. I opened a burner Instagram account I’d made months ago to keep tabs on her “work” trips. I checked her “Close Friends” story. Posted five minutes ago: A photo of a small hand with an IV, but the room was a luxury suite with a view of the city skyline. The caption: [My brave little soldier. Mommy will never leave your side.]

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I was the quintessential trust-fund brat. A spoiled, high-society heir who used his family’s leverage to force the housekeeper’s daughter, Isla, into a marriage she didn’t want. For two years, I’d held her in a gilded cage. I controlled her every move. I barked orders like she was my employee rather than my wife. The breaking point came during another one of my petty tantrums. I was livid, my hand already raised, ready to deliver a sharp slap across her face because she’d bruised my fragile ego once again. But then, the world blurred. Transparent lines of text—vibrant, chaotic digital comments—suddenly began scrolling across my field of vision like a live stream chat. [Ugh, I seriously can’t stand this villainous side-character! What a pampered prick. Why hasn’t Isla filed for divorce yet? She needs to leave this loser and find her happy ending with our sweet, protective Male Lead.] [Let him keep acting out. This slap is the final nail in the coffin. It’s what makes her finally give up on him. Just wait—once his family goes bankrupt, she’s going to be the one to kick him while he’s down. She’ll steal the very contract that could have saved his father’s company.] [Does he even know? His family is literally weeks away from total ruin!] [Bankrupt, homeless, and alone. He ends up jumping off a bridge because he can’t handle being a nobody.] [Meanwhile, Isla’s tech startup goes public. She becomes a billionaire, leaving her ‘poor girl’ past behind to live happily ever after with Miles.] I froze. My hand stayed mid-air, inches from Isla’s cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs, not from rage, but from a cold, paralyzing dread. Isla looked at me, her expression unreadable. “Well?” she asked, her voice eerily calm. “Why did you stop?” 01 Earlier that afternoon, when Isla walked through the door carrying groceries, I had greeted her by shattering a crystal glass against the marble table. She paused, setting the bags down with a practiced grace that only fueled my irritation. She walked toward me, her voice soft and steady. “What’s wrong, Tristan?” I crossed my arms, my chin tilted at a haughty angle. “Why did you hire that man? You know exactly how I feel about him.” Isla looked genuinely confused. “Who?” The fire in my chest flared. She didn’t even remember? I had ranted about him for an hour last month. My pride couldn’t take the dismissal. I raised my hand, the familiar impulse to exert power through violence surging through me. And that’s when the text appeared. Me? A villainous side-character? My family… bankrupt? My father and sister in prison? My mother dying of a broken heart? And me… ending it all in the cold Atlantic? According to these ghostly voices, Isla was destined to be with Miles Whitaker—the “sweet” new hire she’d just brought into her firm. I had been staring at her for too long, my hand trembling. Isla reached out, her fingers closing around my wrist. Her touch was cool, grounding. “Why aren’t you hitting me?” she asked again. I forced a dry, jagged laugh, pulling my hand away and stuffing it into my pocket. “It’s your company,” I muttered, my voice tight. “Hire whoever the hell you want. I don’t care.” The text scrolled again: [Wait, why didn’t he hit her? Did the script glitch?] [Doesn’t matter. Isla’s already done with his toxic BS. Once she spends more time with Miles, she’ll realize what a real man looks like. Miles is a cinnamon roll; Tristan is a trash fire.] Isla’s brows knit together. She pulled out her phone and made a quick call. “Send me the updated list of every new hire from the past month. Now.” I sank into the velvet sofa, a wave of nausea washing over me. If those comments were right—if my family was truly on the edge of a precipice—I couldn’t afford to push Isla away. I couldn’t be the villain anymore. I watched her through the corner of my eye. She was on her knees, carefully picking up the shards of the glass I’d broken. Then she went to the utility closet for the mop. “The guy at the store said those were break-resistant,” I grumbled, my voice lacking its usual bite. “Clearly, he lied.” Isla paused, and for a second, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. “If you needed to vent, I’m glad you got it out. Just don’t hurt yourself.” After she finished cleaning, she sat beside me. “The HR report is coming through. Can you just tell me who it is? I don’t handle the lower-level recruitment personally.” Under her steady, encouraging gaze, I finally cracked. “Miles. Miles Whitaker.” The comments surged: [LOL, does he think Isla is going to fire her soulmate?] [They have so much in common. They’re both self-made. They’re literally twin flames.] [Miles would never make her cook him ramen at 2 AM or expect her to wait on him hand and foot like this brat does.] 02 I felt the old temper rising, but I choked it back. It wasn’t fair. Isla did those things because she wanted to. Or at least, that’s what I’d told myself. Why was I the only one being dragged through the mud by these invisible judges? “Miles Whitaker? My old college roommate?” Isla’s brow furrowed. “I had no idea he was even in the building. I’ll look into it tomorrow and give you a full report after work. Is that okay?” I hesitated. “Fine. But I don’t want you seeing him.” Isla stood up, grabbing the groceries. “I wasn’t planning on it.” [Ugh, look at the villain trying to block their destiny.] [It’s fine. Fate always finds a way. He can’t stop the inevitable.] I tried to ignore them. That morning, I’d texted her a specific, demanding menu for dinner. Now, watching her move around the kitchen, I saw she’d bought every single ingredient. “Wait,” I said, watching her back. “You’ve had a long day at the office. Just… call the housekeeper. Let her do it.” Isla turned, her eyes shimmering with something I couldn’t quite name. “Are you… worried about me?” “I just don’t want a mediocre meal,” I lied, looking at my nails. “I’ll do it,” she said softly. “You’ve always said you prefer my cooking.” I watched her, a hollow feeling opening up in my chest. Did she really hate me? Was every act of kindness just a result of the pressure I’d put on her? The next day, I drove to my parents’ estate. Everything looked the same—the manicured lawns, the fleet of luxury cars. “Beatrice,” I said, catching my sister in the foyer. “Is the company okay? Be honest with me.” Her face paled for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. “The company is fine, Tristan. Don’t go looking for drama where there isn’t any.” “We had a minor liquidity issue a few weeks ago,” my mother added, joining us. “But it’s handled. Don’t listen to the rumors at the club. You and Isla just focus on your marriage.” A lump formed in my throat. I had been spoiled my entire life. My parents always bought me two of everything—two watches, two cars—just so I’d never have to choose. They told me I was born for a life of luxury. Now, they were shielding me from the wreckage of our own empire. At noon, Isla sent a text: [You didn’t send a menu today. What are you in the mood for tonight?] I replied: [Eating out. Don’t wait up.] When she got home that evening, she handed me a folder. It was a list of every person involved in hiring Miles Whitaker. “I really didn’t know,” she said. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll let him go tomorrow with a three-month severance package.” [Wait, what? She’s actually going to fire him?] [The plot is diverging! But wait—they already met today in the lobby cafe. It’s too late. The spark is already there.] [Maybe she’s just playing Tristan? Keep the villain calm while she plans her escape?] I looked at the text, then at my wife. I felt a strange sense of resignation. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t fire him. It was a long time ago. I… I’m sorry for the way I acted yesterday. I overreacted.” Isla stared at me, her gaze searching, almost intense. “Are you sure? Tristan, is something going on? You’re not yourself.” “I’m fine,” I snapped, then immediately softened my tone. “Really. I’m fine.” If I couldn’t stop them from meeting, maybe I could just… stop being the bad guy. Maybe if I stopped being the villain, she wouldn’t want to destroy me when the time came. I started auditing my life. I cancelled the orders for the limited-edition sneakers and the custom watch I’d been obsessing over. It hurt—I’d waited months for that watch—but I needed to liquidiate what I could. I spent my afternoon at the high-end gaming lounge I owned. I usually left the management to others, but today, I actually looked at the books. They were a mess. Isla texted again about dinner. I replied: [I gave the menu to the cook. Take the night off.] There were three dots on the screen for a long time. Then: [Is my cooking not good enough anymore? Tell me what I did wrong. I can fix it.] My head throbbed. I typed back: [No, it’s not that. You work hard. You should rest.] Again, the three dots lingered. [I told you, I’m not tired.] I didn’t reply. When I got home, I found a stack of gourmet cookbooks on the coffee table. I just stared at them, confused. Before bed, Isla came to give me my “goodnight kiss.” It was a rule I’d established on our wedding night—a mandatory show of affection. She’d never missed a single night in two years. The comments flared up again: [Ugh, gross! When is this creep going to get out of the picture?] [Isla, don’t kiss him! Save it for Miles!] As she leaned in, I instinctively turned my head. Her lips brushed my cheek instead. She froze. She reached out, her hand cupping my jaw, her eyes burning with a strange fire. She didn’t let go. She leaned in again and kissed me properly—not the polite, dutiful kiss of the last two years, but something hungrier, almost desperate. I tried to pull away, but she held me there. I ended up cursing at her, breathless. She just kissed my forehead, whispered an apology, and then… she didn’t stop. 03 A few days later was Isla’s mother’s birthday. Usually, I’d make a scene about having to go to “the suburbs,” or I’d show up and act like a pampered prince. This time, I stayed home. I sent a massive bouquet and a luxury gift basket via courier. The comments were buzzing. [Here we go! This is the big night. This is when Isla realizes Miles is the one.] [Miles grew up in the same neighborhood! He’s going over there to celebrate with Isla’s mom right now!] I shut my eyes, trying to drown it out. Isla called me just as I was drifting off. “Are you busy this afternoon?” she asked. I swallowed the urge to snap at her for waking me. “Yeah. Caught up with something.” There was a long silence on her end. “Okay,” she said. “I understand.” By 5 PM, I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove out to her mother’s neighborhood, parking my car a block away. At 6 PM, I saw them. Isla and Miles, walking toward her mother’s house together. Miles was carrying a birthday cake. I sat in my car, my eyes stinging. What did I do that was so wrong? Okay, I was arrogant. I was spoiled. I forced her into a marriage contract. But I wasn’t evil. I had been obsessed with her since we were kids. Was her entire persona—the patience, the sweetness—just a mask? Was she just waiting for the moment my family went under so she could finally be with the guy who “actually understood her”? If I gave her a divorce now… if I let her go… maybe she’d show my family mercy. I remembered the first time I saw her. Her mother, Mrs. Henderson, had been our live-in housekeeper. Isla was this skinny, quiet girl who lived in the attic room of our estate. She looked like she’d never had a square meal in her life. On my eighth birthday, my parents threw me a massive party. I was in a miniature tuxedo, surrounded by kids from the best families. I went into the kitchen for a drink and heard Mrs. Henderson talking to Isla in the pantry. “I’m so sorry, baby,” her mom whispered. “I couldn’t get away to buy the cake I promised. I’ll make you some special birthday noodles tonight instead.” Little Isla just nodded, her eyes downcast. “It’s okay, Mom. I know you work hard.” I didn’t say anything. I just went back to the party, cut a massive slice of my five-tier chocolate cake, and brought it to the pantry. Isla looked at the plate, her jaw set. “I don’t need your charity.” I blinked, genuinely confused. “It’s not charity. I just wanted to say Happy Birthday.” She softened then, taking the plate. “Thank you,” she whispered. I grinned at her. “We’re birthday twins. We have to look out for each other.” She actually smiled—a rare, beautiful thing. “Happy Birthday, Tristan.” I don’t know when the “like” turned into an obsession. We didn’t talk much over the years, just that annual “Happy Birthday” exchange. Maybe it was the way she grew into her beauty, or the way she always stood her ground. When we were twelve, a minor earthquake trapped us in the basement of the school for three hours. She kept me awake. She kept talking to me, even when I was terrified. She pulled a crumpled Hershey bar from her pocket—the last one she had—and tried to give it to me. “I don’t want it,” I told her. “Take it,” she insisted. “You gave me a whole box of these for my birthday. I know you like them.” “I gave them to you because they were yours,” I argued. “I’d give it to you even if someone else had given it to me,” she said. “Why?” “Because… I don’t want anything to happen to you.” I didn’t have the strength to laugh then. “Idiot. We can just split it.” We survived. 04 As we got older, Isla became the most striking girl in the room, even in her faded thrift-store dresses. She was always top of the class. When the other rich girls tried to frame her for shoplifting out of spite, I was the one who cleared her name. In eleventh grade, I finally asked her out. I was so sure of myself. She said no. “I need to focus on my future, Tristan. Not on being your trophy.” I cried for three days. I was the catch of the century! We had the same birthday! We were meant to be. After graduation, I tried again. “School’s over,” I said, trying to look cool. “Can we be together now?” She looked at me with a complicated, deep sorrow. “No. I don’t love you.” That was the day I vowed to stop loving her. I spent four years in college trying to find someone else, but they were all shallow imitations of her. During our senior year, my mom told me Isla’s mother had quit. Her father—a man who had been missing for a decade—had crawled back out of the woodwork with millions in gambling debts. He’d vanished again, leaving Isla and her mother to face the debt collectors. I found Isla. I put on my best “arrogant billionaire” act. “I’ll pay off the debt,” I told her. “But you have to marry me.” I would have paid it anyway. I just wanted a reason to keep her close. To my shock, she nodded. We got married. And for two years, she was perfect. Submissive, kind, patient. I thought we were happy. I thought she’d finally learned to love me. But the comments said I was just the villain in her story. And villains always lose. 05 I was at a club with some old friends, nursing a drink, when Isla called. The music was deafening. I almost ignored it, but then I remembered my new “not-a-villain” resolution. I walked to a quiet hallway to answer. “Where are you?” Her voice was low, strained. “I’ll come pick you up.” “I’m fine. I’ll take an Uber.” I hesitated. “Did you finish the birthday dinner with your mom?” “Yes. She missed you. We should go see her together soon, okay?” The comments scrolled: [Wait, she went home that early? She was supposed to stay and walk by the lake with Miles! They were supposed to look at the stars!] [Something is wrong. This isn’t how it goes.] [Chill out, guys. It’s just because Tristan hasn’t been acting like a jerk lately. She’s probably just confused. She’ll see Miles at the office tomorrow.] I hung up. We’re getting a divorce anyway. You can go see Miles then. When I got home at midnight, Isla was sitting on the sofa in the dark. She stood up, steadying me as I stumbled through the door. “You told me you had work,” she said, her voice sharp with accusation. “Is ‘work’ just getting wasted?” The alcohol gave me a surge of misplaced courage. “Am I not allowed to have a drink? Am I a prisoner now?” She flinched, her grip on my arm tightening. She led me to the sofa and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of honey water. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice softening. “I didn’t mean to snap. You don’t owe me an explanation for the birthday. But Tristan… please. Talk to me. Why are you so miserable lately?” I shook my head, my eyes closing. “I’m not miserable. I’m just… done.” 06 I woke up the next morning with a skull-shattering headache. I thought it was just the hangover, but by noon, my skin was burning. I had a fever. There was a note on the nightstand from Isla: [Important client meeting today. There’s soup and breakfast in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything.] Normally, I would have called her immediately and demanded she come home to nurse me. Instead, I drove myself to a private clinic. Halfway through my IV drip, the comments started exploding.

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During our emergency layover in the Infestation Hotspot, my five-year-old daughter was left behind. I remember kneeling on the floor of the private jet, sobbing, clawing at my billionaire husband’s tailored suit, begging him to save her. He looked down at me with eyes as cold as a morgue slab. “The plane is already on the taxiway, Natalie,” he said, his voice devoid of a single tremor. “I can’t turn back for one person. Not even her.” “It’s just her luck. It’s her fate.” Desperate and broken, I managed to sneak back into the terminal alone to find her. I didn’t find my daughter. I found a horde of the Undead. As they tore into me, a strange, flickering translucent screen appeared before my failing eyes—a stream of digital comments, like a twisted live-chat from another dimension: [Does the wife even know? Her daughter was left behind on purpose. The kid was killed by the Infested within the hour!] [Finally! Now that the brat and the wife are out of the picture, Derek can finally merge the two branches of the family and be with his precious widowed sister-in-law!] [They’ve suffered so much to be together. True love is invincible!] The world went black. When I opened my eyes again, the air was thick with the smell of jet fuel and ozone. I was back at the layover. Without a word to anyone, I moved like a woman possessed. I booked my daughter on a separate, earlier private charter and watched with my own eyes as she boarded and the wheels left the tarmac. But then, the overhead speakers crackled to life. The gate agent’s voice was frantic, echoing through our cabin: “Attention, crew. We have a report of a child left behind in the terminal…” 1 I froze. I had personally seen Maddie off. I had the confirmation code burned into my brain. She was safe. She was in the air. How could there be another child? My sister-in-law, Diane, pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with a performative horror that didn’t quite reach her pupils. “Oh my god! Someone left their baby in the airport!” “I heard they’re locking down the perimeter,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound sweet. “This is the last flight out. The very last one.” My husband’s sister, Becca, let out a sharp, annoyed huff. “Well, it’s obviously not one of ours. Probably some poor kid from another flight. What does it have to do with us?” She glanced out the window toward the flickering lights of the terminal. In the distance, a low, guttural rhythmic sound—the collective moan of a thousand hungry throats—wavered in the wind. The intercom crackled again. This time, it was the pilot. “Ladies and gentlemen, please perform a final head-count of your parties. Airport security reports a minor is still grounded. We are under strict orders to depart immediately.” The cabin erupted. “Who loses a child in a Collapse Zone?” “Every second we sit here is a death sentence! Why aren’t we moving?” “I’m terrified… please, just fly!” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I knew Maddie was safe. I knew it. But a cold, oily dread began to seep into my gut. If it wasn’t her… then who? I turned to the man sitting next to me. My husband. The man who, in another life, watched me die with a shrug. “Derek, we should check,” I said, my voice forcedly calm. Derek didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Check what?” “The broadcast. They said a child was left behind. What if—” “There is no ‘what if,’” he interrupted, his tone dismissive. “Maddie is asleep in the first-class sleeper pod. I saw the attendant carry her in myself. Don’t be hysterical, Natalie.” Becca rolled her eyes, crossing her legs. “Honestly, Natalie, get a grip. We’re sitting here in business class to save weight, and the kid is up there living the dream in a lie-flat bed. What are you worried about?” Another roar echoed from outside, closer this time. The plane shuddered. I couldn’t sit still. I unbuckled my belt, intent on speaking to the lead flight attendant to confirm the identity of the missing child. Becca’s hand shot out, gripping my wrist like a vice. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Let go, Becca.” “Who cares whose kid it is?” she snapped. “It’s not ours. That’s all that matters.” I stared her down, my gaze like ice. “Is that right? If it were your child down there, would you be saying the same thing?” Becca flinched, her face flushing a deep, ugly crimson. Derek’s brow furrowed. “Natalie! Stop making a scene!” “I told you, I saw her go into the pod. Are you calling me a liar?” Diane reached over, patting my shoulder with a gentle, condescending touch. “Natalie, honey, I saw her too. She was so sleepy, poor thing. Derek is her father—do you really think he’d let anything happen to his own daughter?” I looked at her, and for a second, I almost laughed. In my last life, they said the exact same thing. How could a father hurt his own flesh and blood? Even a tiger doesn’t eat its cubs. And I, the fool, had believed them. I had believed him right up until the moment the plane was halfway across the Atlantic and I realized my daughter wasn’t on board. I had knelt at his feet, begging him to turn back. And he had told me it was for “the greater good.” That the lives of the many outweighed the life of one child. I died believing he was a man of cold logic and heavy burdens. I didn’t know his logic was rooted in a blood-soaked conspiracy. He didn’t just leave her; he discarded her. He needed her gone so he could legally “adopt” Diane’s son and marry her, merging their inheritances without the “complication” of a previous heir. As I sat there, my vision blurred again. The flickering text returned: [Wait, what?? Why is the wife’s daughter on a different flight?] [Then who the hell is grounded at the airport?] [If the kid doesn’t die, how are the ‘Lead Couple’ supposed to get their tragic-sweet ending?] I looked into Diane’s watery, deceptive eyes and nodded. “You’re right, Diane. I’m just… it’s the stress. I’m overreacting.” She blinked, surprised by how quickly I’d folded. Becca let out a triumphant snort. “Finally. She grew a brain.” I leaned back and buckled my seatbelt, my hands shaking. The plane hadn’t pushed back yet; the cellular roaming was still active. I pulled out my phone and sent a silent, frantic text to the private charter’s concierge line. Query: Flight NV882. Passenger: Maddie Valentine. Confirm boarding and takeoff status. My heart was a drum in my ears. The flight attendants were already demonstrating the oxygen masks. My phone buzzed. Dear Mrs. Valentine, Flight NV882 departed ten minutes ago. Passenger Maddie Valentine is confirmed on board and currently in transit. Have a safe journey. She was safe. My baby was in the air, far away from this nightmare. I let out a breath that felt like it had been held for a lifetime. Just then, the lead attendant’s voice came over the system, her tone sharp with panic. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an emergency update. Ground control has confirmed the child left in the terminal… is a passenger from this manifest.” “Parents, please! Check your children now!” The cabin turned into a riot. “What do you mean, from this flight?” “Who is missing a kid? Count your kids!” “Move this plane! If we wait, we’re all dead!” Becca rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous. Can people not count to one?” Derek stood up, his presence commanding and regal. He waved down the attendant. “I am Derek Valentine, CEO of the Valentine Group and a majority shareholder in this airline,” he said, his voice a calm, authoritative anchor in the storm. “We have broadcasted three times. No parent has come forward.” He paused, looking around the cabin with the air of a martyr. “We cannot jeopardize the lives of two hundred passengers for one child whose parents were too negligent to watch them. Pilot, take off immediately. I will assume all liability.” The cabin fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, a cheer erupted. “Thank God for a man with a spine!” “He’s right! We have families waiting for us!” “Get us out of here!” Becca clapped her hands, her face glowing with pride. “See that? That’s my brother. A real leader.” I watched them, a sickeningly sweet irony coating my tongue. Derek thought the child down there was Maddie. He was so certain he’d successfully staged the “accident” that he was now playing the role of the tragic, decisive leader, sacrificing his own child for the “greater good.” But I couldn’t do it. Even knowing what they intended for my daughter, I couldn’t watch a child die. “Derek,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. He looked down at me, his eyes full of practiced annoyance. “What now, Natalie?” “The attendant said the child is from this flight,” I said softly. “We should wait. It’s a life. We have the time.” He stiffened. The passengers around us went quiet. The people who had been cheering seconds ago now glared at me like I was a lunatic. Becca let out a jagged laugh. “Are you insane? You want to risk a thousand Infested breaching the gates for some random kid?” A man in the row behind us chimed in. “Lady, look after your own and shut up! Why do you care about someone else’s mistake?” “Exactly,” Diane added, her voice a silky thread of poison. “Natalie, I know you have a big heart, but you can’t be a saint at the expense of everyone else’s lives. We all have people waiting for us at home.” She was so good at it. Standing on the moral high ground while her hands were buried in the mud. I looked at her beautiful, “grieving” face and smiled. “You’re right, Diane.” She blinked, confused by the shift. “Since you’re so concerned about safety,” I continued, my voice gaining strength, “why did you insist on booking a flight with a layover in a Collapse Zone? There were direct flights available out of London. Why put us all in this danger to begin with?” Her face went pale. She lowered her head, her voice a mere whisper. “I… it was a mistake. I must have clicked the wrong booking link.” “Oh? A mistake?” I dragged out the words. “A mistake that brought us to a zombie-infested airport.” Becca jumped to her feet. “What is your problem? Stop attacking her!” The flickering text scrolled by: [The ‘Lead Couple’ are actually kinda monstrous…] [Yeah, they’re just leaving a kid to die? Cold.] [This is a ‘No Morals’ novel, guys. If you want a hero, go read something else!] [Natalie is such a ‘Mary Sue.’ In an apocalypse, you kill the saints first!] [The ‘Heroine’ Diane is so pitiful, being bullied by the wife even after losing her husband…] I closed my eyes, watching the comments fade. A “No Morals” novel. That explained it. It explained why Derek could murder his own daughter without a flinch. In this world, the “Lead Couple” were allowed to be monsters as long as they were “in love.” “Enough!” Derek hissed, his face tight with rage. “She made a clerical error. There’s no need to be cruel, Natalie!” Diane sniffled, a single, perfect tear rolling down her cheek. “I’m so sorry… it’s all my fault. Derek, don’t blame Natalie. She’s just stressed about the kids…” “We’re done waiting.” Derek turned back to the attendant and gave a sharp nod. “Take off. Now.” The attendant hesitated, then nodded. The engines roared to a scream. The ground crew outside became tiny specks, then vanished into the darkness of the night. A wave of relief washed through the cabin. People were hugging, weeping, praising Derek’s name. The child—whoever they were—was gone. The flight was halfway to its destination when the lead attendant came running from the cockpit. Her face was white as a sheet. Her hands were visibly shaking as she approached Derek. “Mr. Valentine,” she stammered. “Something has happened.” Derek didn’t even look up from his scotch. “What is it?” The attendant swallowed hard. “We’ve just completed the final manifest reconciliation with ground ops.” “The child who was left behind… the child in the terminal… he’s been identified.” “It was your son, Benny.” The world seemed to stop spinning. Becca let out a strangled shriek. “What?!” Diane’s glass of wine slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. Her face went from pale to ghostly. “No… that’s impossible. Benny was in the sleeper pod! He was with Maddie!” Derek’s face transformed. The mask of the stoic leader shattered, revealing a raw, jagged panic underneath. The cabin erupted in whispers. “Oh my god, it was his own kid?” “That’s horrific…” “Is he going to turn the plane around?” “How? We’re over the ocean now…” Derek sat in a stunned, suffocating silence. He stared at nothing for a long time. Finally, he looked up, his face settling into a grim, hollow mask. “I am Benny’s father,” he said, his voice raspy and thin. “But I am also the head of this company. I cannot turn back and risk two hundred lives for one. Benny… Benny would understand.” The silence in the cabin was heavy. Then, someone—probably a corporate sycophant—started to clap. “So brave!” “What a sacrifice!” “He’s a hero… I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Valentine!” I listened to them, and a hysterical laughter bubbled up in my chest. What a performance. I looked at the attendant. “Are you absolutely certain the child in the terminal was Benny?” She looked uneasy. “Yes. We verified the ID tag on the jacket left at the gate.” Derek turned on me, his eyes bloodshot. “Is this a joke to you? The boy is gone! My son!” I leaned back, a cold smile playing on my lips. “Benny isn’t in that terminal, Derek.” Diane looked at me, her eyes darting frantically. “Natalie, have you lost your mind? I know you’re in shock, but don’t make this harder for Derek…” She started to sob again. “Are you deaf?” I snapped. “I said the child isn’t Benny.” Someone whispered nearby, “She’s lost it. Poor woman, the trauma broke her.” Derek surged to his feet, his shadow looming over me. “Natalie! Stop taking your frustrations out on Diane!” His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You were the one supposed to be watching the kids! This is your failure, and now you’re lashing out at her?” Becca joined in, her voice shrill. “Exactly! Diane is trying to comfort you, and you’re acting like a rabid dog!” Derek saw me fall silent and softened his tone, though it was still laced with ice. “We don’t blame you for losing track of him in the chaos. It was a war zone. No one expects you to be perfect.” He paused, as if rehearsing his next move. “The flights to the Hotspot are grounded, but I will find a way. I’ll send a private security team back to recover him…” He trailed off, waiting. He was waiting for me to say, “I’ll go with them.” He wanted me to volunteer to go back into the Infestation. To die there. That was the plan all along—to get me back into the terminal so I could be “lost” alongside the children. Then he could be the grieving widower who finds solace in his brother’s widow. I looked at him and smiled slowly. “Derek, don’t you want to know why I’m so sure it’s not Benny?” His expression faltered. Diane jumped in, her voice sweet and trembling. “Natalie, please… we know you’re hurting, but Benny is…” “Is what? Dead?” I looked her in the eye. “Or is that what you were hoping for?” Derek’s jaw tightened. “You’re going too far, Natalie!” Diane grabbed Derek’s sleeve. “It’s okay, Derek… she’s just grieving. She doesn’t mean it.” Derek glared at me, his eyes cold and final. “Listen to me, Natalie. Since you were the one who lost him, you’re going back. As soon as we land, you’ll join the recovery team. Don’t bother coming back until you find him.” The passengers watched me with a mix of pity and judgment. Just then, the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign chimed. We were beginning our descent. People began to turn on their phones. A scream pierced the cabin from the front row. “Oh my god! Look at the news! The airport was overrun! A massive horde breached the terminal five minutes after we took off. Zero survivors!” The cabin descended into chaos. Everyone was frantically scrolling through their feeds, faces turning from shock to a sickening sense of relief. “We made it… we actually made it.” “If we had waited five more minutes, we’d all be dead.” It was the ultimate ‘I got mine’ moment. Then, a quiet voice muttered, “But the CEO’s son… he was still down there.” The cheering stopped abruptly. Diane threw herself into Derek’s arms, wailing. “Derek! You have to be strong! You still have the company… you have us… you can’t fall apart now!” Becca stood up, pointing a finger at me. “It’s her fault! Natalie let him slip away! Don’t you dare blame yourself, Derek! This is all on her!” The chorus began again. “Yeah, what kind of mother doesn’t hold her kid’s hand?” “He’s the victim here. He had to choose between his son and all of us.” “She should have stayed behind if she cared so much.” Diane wiped her eyes and looked at me. “Natalie, we know you’re in denial, but Benny is—” “Who said my son is dead?” The air in the cabin went still. “She’s gone full psychotic,” someone whispered. Derek’s face was a mask of fury. “Accept reality, Natalie! Stop this—” My phone rang. The screen lit up with a FaceTime request. It was my mother. I hit ‘Accept.’ “Natalie!” my mother’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Where are you guys? Maddie’s been here for ages!” Derek froze. A small, familiar face pushed into the frame. Maddie. She waved at the camera, her eyes crinkling into half-moons. “Daddy! Mommy! When are you getting here? Grandma made cookies!” Derek stared at the screen as if he were seeing a ghost. “Maddie… how… how are you there?”

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Brandon, our office intern, was the resident “Golden Boy.” Everyone in the firm was convinced he was some billionaire’s heir playing at a career. This past April Fool’s Day, he went all out, buying gifts for the entire department out of his own pocket. The team practically worshipped him for it. I didn’t realize the truth until my front door was doused in thick, crimson spray paint and “SCAMMER” was keyed into my car. Brandon hadn’t spent a dime. He had used my phone number to create accounts, exploited a “refund-only” loophole to keep the goods while getting the cash back, and effectively framed me for a massive retail fraud scheme. Overnight, I became the internet’s favorite villain—a “professional fraudster.” When I confronted him, he just tucked himself behind my fiancée, looking like a kicked puppy. “Jordan, I know you’re jealous that everyone likes me more, but you can’t just invent lies to ruin me.” My fiancée, Rachel, didn’t even hesitate. She shielded Brandon and slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang. “Jordan, your greed finally caught up to you. Don’t you dare try to pin your filth on Brandon. You’re pathetic.” My colleagues joined the chorus, filming me with their phones, calling me a moral stain. In the ensuing scuffle, as I tried to grab the evidence, Brandon shoved me. I tumbled backward, shattering the glass of the thirteenth-floor window. As I fell, the last thing I saw was the entire office standing at the ledge, watching. Later, I’d learn they all gave false statements, claiming I jumped because my “guilt” was too much to bear. They used the payout from my corporate life insurance to throw a celebratory dinner. Between bites of steak, they laughed about me. “A cheapskate like Jordan? Honestly, the world is better off without him.” Then, I blinked. The smell of expensive cologne and office coffee hit me. I was back at my desk. It was the morning Brandon announced his grand gesture. … “Since April Fool’s is just around the corner, I wanted to do something special,” Brandon announced, his voice booming with that practiced, easy charisma. “To thank you all for taking care of the ‘new guy,’ I’m footing the bill for a round of holiday gifts for everyone!” The office erupted. People literally stood up to cheer. “Oh my god, Brandon! You’re way too generous!” “A real-life Prince Charming! We’re so lucky to have you.” A moment later, Brandon was at my elbow, looking slightly bashful. “Hey, Jordan? Could you do me a quick favor? Can I send a verification code to your phone?” My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. I looked up at him. He was smiling—that shy, dimpled look that hid the predatory gleam in his eyes. “My friend just opened a boutique shop,” he continued, the words identical to my previous life. “She needs to hit a member-referral quota for her investors. If I sign you up, she’ll give me a forty-percent discount on the gifts for the team. Help a guy out?” I sat there, frozen. I remembered what came next. He would bind my number to his shopping accounts, go on a “refund-only” spree, and leave me with the debt and the criminal record. My number would be blacklisted by every major retailer; my personal info would be leaked by angry vendors. I thought of the red paint on my door. I thought of Rachel’s hand against my cheek. “Jordan, come on,” Brandon prodded. “It’s just a text.” I gritted my teeth, the phantom pain of the fall still echoing in my bones. I spoke coldly. “My phone is for personal use only. I don’t participate in ‘referral’ schemes.” Brandon’s face fell instantly. He looked like I’d slapped him. “Jordan… I already promised her. If I get thirty people to register, she’s sending over thirty premium ergonomic massage pillows for the whole department. Everyone gets one. You’re the last person I need. Just one code, please?” The colleagues nearby caught wind of this. Their eyes lit up at the mention of the $300 pillows. “Seriously, Jordan? It’s a text message, not a kidney,” one of the senior analysts snapped. “Brandon is paying for everything. Don’t be a buzzkill.” “Yeah, don’t be that guy,” another chimed in. “We’ve all been working overtime. We need those pillows.” I felt a cold smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It’s easy to be “generous” with someone else’s life. “I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable with it.” Rachel marched over then, her brow furrowed in that specific way that meant she was embarrassed by me. “Jordan, what is wrong with you? Brandon is trying to do something nice for the whole team. Just cooperate. It’s not going to kill you.” Actually, it did, I thought. Brandon sighed, looking down at his expensive loafers. “Jordan, look… if you think the pillows are too cheap, I’ll add in a little something extra for you. How about a solid gold commemorative coin? From Tiffany’s? Just as a thank you for the ‘trouble’ of receiving a text.” Rachel’s eyes softened as she looked at Brandon. “You are way too good to him, Brandon. He’s being difficult, and you’re offering him gold?” She turned to me, her voice sharp with disdain. “Did you hear that? He’s offering you a luxury gift just to be a team player. I wish you had half of Brandon’s class. Give him the code. Now.” I actually laughed. “No thanks. I’m not that desperate for a handout. Give your gold to someone else.” Brandon bit his lip, his voice trembling slightly—a masterclass in manipulation. “Is the gold not enough? How much do you want, Jordan? My allowance for the month is mostly gone after buying these gifts, but I can get you the new Armani watch next month? Just… please don’t let the team down.” Rachel looked at me like I was something she’d stepped in on the sidewalk. “Unbelievable. You’re holding out to extort a kid? A watch and a gold coin… that’s thousands of dollars. More than your phone is even worth. Just give him the damn code and stop being a parasite.” “Exactly,” a coworker hissed. “Brandon is a literal heir, and he’s being so humble. You’re just jealous he’s more popular than you.” “Typical Jordan. Cheap and petty. If he can’t be the big shot, he tries to ruin it for everyone else.” Cheap? For five years, I was the one who brought back luxury hampers from my travels for everyone. I spent thousands every Christmas making sure the support staff felt seen. They’d swallowed my gifts for years and, the second a shiny new intern arrived, they called me a “cheapskate.” They weren’t colleagues. They were a pack of wolves. Brandon stepped closer, his hand reaching for my shoulder. “Jordan, man, stop the act. Give me the code, and I’ll personally bring your gift to your desk tomorrow.” Rachel’s voice was a low warning. “Jordan. My patience is at an end. Do the right thing.” I didn’t feel like arguing with idiots anymore. I stood up to walk away to the breakroom. “Stop right there!” Rachel barked. She lunged, her manicured nails digging into my hand as she tried to snatch my phone off the desk. “You won’t give it? Fine. I’ll get it myself!” I was faster. I lunged for the device, but in the scramble, the phone was swiped off the edge of the desk. It hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. The screen shattered into a web of dark glass. The office went silent. Rachel froze. Brandon moved like a lightning bolt, dropping to his knees to “rescue” the phone. “Oh no! Jordan, I am so sorry! This is all my fault,” Brandon cried, his hands fluttering over the broken screen. “I shouldn’t have pressured you. I just wanted everyone to have a nice holiday. If you’re this upset, we’ll just forget it.” The whispers started immediately. “Great. There go the pillows.” “What a psycho. He’d rather break his own phone than let us have a gift.” “I bet he did it on purpose. If he can’t have the spotlight, he breaks the stage.” “I don’t know how Rachel stands him. She deserves so much better.” Rachel’s face was flushed with fury. “You’re insane, Jordan. I didn’t realize you were this malicious. You broke your phone just to spite us?” I didn’t answer her. I was watching Brandon. He was still on the floor, his fingers moving suspiciously fast over the shattered, but still glowing, screen. He wasn’t checking the damage. He was trying to see if he could bypass the lock. I stepped forward and ripped the phone out of his hand. A shard of glass sliced my palm, but I didn’t care. “Stay away from my things.” “Jordan!” Rachel screamed. “He was trying to help! Apologize to him right now!” “Apologize?” I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time. “You tried to rob me, you broke my property for an intern you barely know, and you want me to apologize? Rachel, get your head checked.” “I am your fiancée! I have every right to see your phone!” “Not anymore,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’re done, Rachel. The engagement is off. Consider the ring my ‘parting gift’ to your delusions.” I walked out of the office, ignoring her shriek of, “Jordan! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back!” The cold air outside cleared my head. I looked at the broken screen. When Brandon had handed it back, it hadn’t been on the lock screen. He’d managed to trigger a notification that kept the display active. A chill crawled up my spine. He was already trying to get in. I hailed a cab and went straight to the flagship mobile store. “Hi, how can I help you today?” the clerk asked. “I need to deactivate this SIM and cancel the number entirely. Right now.” The clerk checked the records. “Sir, you’ve had this number for ten years. You’re on a legacy premier plan. If you cancel, you lose all those grandfathered benefits.” “I know,” I said, my voice steady. “But this number is a ticking time bomb. Kill it.” I watched him snip the SIM card. I threw the pieces into the trash outside. Three days later, the delivery trucks arrived at the office. Stacks of boxes were wheeled in, clogging the hallways. The atmosphere was electric. “Look at all of this!” “Brandon, you’re a legend!” “See? Brandon keeps his word. Unlike some people who act like a text message is a life-or-death situation.” Brandon was the man of the hour, directing the distribution like a young CEO. He picked up the largest, heaviest box and brought it over to my desk. “Jordan, I got this one specifically for you. No hard feelings about the other day, okay? Happy April Fool’s.” I didn’t touch it. I pushed it back. “No thanks. I don’t want it.” Brandon’s “good guy” mask flickered. “Jordan, come on. Don’t be like that. I really went out of my way for this.” Rachel appeared behind him, looking triumphant. “Take the gift, Jordan. Stop acting like a martyr. Brandon is being the bigger person.” The office watched, waiting for me to cave. I looked at the massage pillows, the “luxury” gadgets, the jewelry boxes. I knew exactly where they came from. “I’m going to give you all one piece of advice,” I said, loud enough for the room to hear. “I wouldn’t keep those if I were you. Those gifts are… tainted. They aren’t as ‘free’ as you think.” The room exploded. “God, you’re bitter! Just because you didn’t get to play the hero!” “He’s actually trying to curse our gifts now? How pathetic can you get?” “He’s just jealous of Brandon’s wealth. It must hurt to be so middle-class and petty.” Rachel looked disgusted. “You have no soul, Jordan. Brandon’s kindness is wasted on you.” I sat back, folded my arms, and waited. I had done my part. I had warned them. Brandon wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Jordan… I bought these with my own money. Why would you say that? Why do you want everyone to hate me?” Rachel grabbed his arm comfortingly. “Ignore him, Brandon. He’s just a dark, lonely person. He can’t stand seeing others happy.” She turned to me, her eyes spitting fire. “Apologize to him. Now.” “For what? For telling the truth?” A guy from sales threw a plastic water bottle at my head. “Shut up, Jordan! Nobody wants to hear your crap!” Others followed suit—pens, crumpled paper, small office supplies began flying toward my desk. I ducked, feeling a bruise forming on my temple. Suddenly, Dave from the tech department let out a sharp, strangled gasp. “Holy shit. Guys… you need to see this.” “What now, Dave?” someone groaned. Dave held up his phone, his face pale. “This thread… it’s the number one trending topic on Twitter and Reddit right now.” The headline, splashed in bold, angry red, read: [EXPOSED: The ‘Friendly Fraud’ Serial Scammer Ripping Off Hundreds of Small Businesses. Personal Info Attached.] Brandon’s face went white as a sheet. He shot a frantic look at me, then back at the screen.

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On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my boyfriend’s hands were firm on my hips, his voice a low, honeyed lure as he coached me through the end of my innocence. “Quiet now, baby. Just a little more. I want to see you.” But at the exact second I reached the precipice, the world exploded into light. The bedroom lights flared, blindingly bright, and the floor-to-ceiling mirror—the one I’d admired myself in all evening—shattered the illusion. It wasn’t a mirror. It was one-way glass. Behind the glass sat an audience. The city’s elite, perched in theater seating, watching my undoing. By the next morning, a high-definition video of my most intimate moment had been scorched into the digital landscape of our social circle. My reputation was dead on arrival. He, however, walked away with the glamorous title of a “heartbreaker” and a “rogue.” The night we broke up, he left me with only two sentences: “When my sister was being tormented, your brother just stood there and watched. He didn’t lift a finger.” “Now it’s your turn to feel what that’s like, Nora. This is the debt you owe me.” My parents, desperate to scrub the stain from the family name, threw me out. My brother, Sam, couldn’t take the injustice. He went to demand an explanation, but his legs were snapped by the man’s security detail. On the way home from the hospital, a “freak accident” involving a hit-and-run left him in a vegetative state. With nowhere to turn and a mountain of medical bills to keep Sam alive, I became exactly what they wanted me to be: a plaything for the elite. For three years, I drifted through the penthouses of the powerful, trading pieces of my soul for the next month of Sam’s life support. Until tonight. Three years later, I stood before a door at the most exclusive hotel in Chicago. I looked at the man I hadn’t seen in years and offered a practiced, glittering smile. “Sir, did you call for service?” … 1 “Maid or flight attendant?” I held up a black shopping bag, my eyes crinkling at the corners as I looked at Emmett. He stared at me, his eyes dark with a disgust so thick it felt like a physical weight in the room. “I’d recommend the flight attendant. Higher altitude, higher stakes, Boss,” I drawled, dragging out the last word until it was sickly sweet. Emmett’s hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist like a vice. He jerked me into the room and kicked the door shut. The lock clicked—a final, heavy sound. He didn’t hold back. He slammed me against the foyer wall, the air huffing out of my lungs. “Three years, and you’ve really turned yourself into a common whore?” The words were spat through gritted teeth, his face inches from mine. I swallowed the sharp spike of pain and kept my professional smile pinned in place. “Money is money, Boss. Whatever makes the client happy.” He recoiled as if he’d touched toxic waste. He pulled a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the side table and scrubbed his fingers with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. “I’d heard rumors about a new shared toy in the city. Someone who’d do anything for a check. I thought it was beneath me to look into it.” He reached into his pocket and threw something at my feet. A pearl hair clip. It hit the marble floor, two of the pearls snapping off and skittering into the shadows. I recognized it instantly. “I was at a board member’s house for a meeting. I saw this on his floor,” he sneered. I glanced down, then nudged the broken clip away with the toe of my stiletto. “It’s just a clip, Mr. Blackwood. Hardly worth your stress.” The veins in Emmett’s neck bulged. “Just a clip? Nora, I gave that to you for your eighteenth—” “Mr. Blackwood, we aren’t here for a trip down memory lane,” I interrupted, pulling a scrap of white lace from the bag. I brushed the fabric against his chest. “You still haven’t picked. Though, for an extra fee, I have a nurse’s outfit in the car.” Slap. The force of it whipped my head to the side. My ears rang with a dull, persistent roar. “You shameless bitch!” he hissed, his finger trembling as he pointed it at me. I kept my head tilted, a brief, hazy memory flickering through my mind. Once, if I so much as bruised my knee, he would turn pale with worry, cradling my leg and whispering that he wished he could take the pain for me. Now, he looked like he wanted to watch the life leave my eyes. I wiped a streak of blood from the corner of my mouth and reached into my clutch. “If you like it rough, Boss, that works too.” I pulled out a short, black leather crop and pressed it into his hand. “But that costs extra.” Emmett stared at the leather in his palm, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Fine. Fine!” he barked. “You want to be a dog? You’ll do anything for the money? Let’s see it.” He grabbed his phone and opened a group chat—a private channel for the city’s wealthiest heirs. He hit the video call button. The screen flooded with faces, the noise of a dozen parties bleeding through the speakers. “Yo, Blackwood! Streaming a late-night show for the boys?” “Who’s the girl? Body looks lethal.” Emmett propped the phone on the coffee table, the camera aimed squarely at me. He pulled a checkbook from his jacket, scribbled a number, and threw the slip of paper at my chest. “One million dollars.” He pointed to a maid costume on the floor and a leather collar with a metal chain. “Put it on. Put on the collar. Crawl to me and bark for the camera.” The men on the screen went wild as they recognized me. “Is that Nora Moore? The fallen princess?” “She’s a pro. Come on, Nora, let’s hear it!” I looked down at the check resting on the rug. One million dollars. That was six months of Sam’s experimental treatment in the ICU. I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I knelt, picked up the check, folded it neatly, and tucked it into my bra. Then, in front of hundreds of people watching through the screen, I shrugged off my coat. I took the leather collar, buckled it around my own throat, and dropped to all fours. I began to crawl toward Emmett’s polished leather shoes. “Enough!” Emmett kicked the coffee table aside and grabbed his phone, smashing it against the floor. “Does it get you off? Humiliating yourself like this?” I just looked up at him, my smile as sharp as a razor. “As long as you’re satisfied, Boss.” 2 I don’t remember leaving the hotel. All I remember is that Emmett, despite his fury, never touched me. He couldn’t bring himself to touch something he considered so filthy. As soon as I hit the street, my phone buzzed. A text from a regular, a tech mogul named Miller. Same place. Same price. I hailed a cab and headed for one of the most discreet private clubs in the city. Half an hour later, I was walking into a VIP suite filled with the thick scent of expensive cigars and the heavy silence of men with too much power. In the center of the room stood a waist-high iron cage. Miller blew a plume of smoke and kicked the bars. “Nora’s here. Strip.” I didn’t flinch. I reached for my zipper and let my clothes fall to the floor. I climbed into the cold, cramped cage. Click. Miller locked the door himself. “Let’s try something new,” he said, sliding his Rolex off his wrist and dropping it through the bars. “Give us a show. Be the bitch we know you are. If you’re convincing, the watch is yours.” The room erupted in laughter. “Miller, you’re making it too easy. She’s better than any dog I’ve ever owned.” I stared at the watch—a piece of hardware worth fifty thousand dollars. I lowered my body to the floor of the cage. “Whatever the client wants,” I purred. I arched my back, and someone threw a wad of cash through the bars. “Look at her! So pathetic!” “Louder!” Car keys, poker chips, and crumbled bills rained down on me like I was a beggar in the street. I didn’t move. I just gathered the scraps beneath me, putting on the performance they paid for. Suddenly, a literal rain of red bills—thousands upon thousands—poured over the top of the cage, nearly burying me. Bang! The cage door was kicked open. I looked up. Emmett was standing there, his face pale, his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might crack. “Is this enough for the night?” he asked, his voice trembling with a flicker of something I couldn’t identify. “Take the money and get out!” The room went silent. The other men traded looks, but no one dared challenge a Blackwood. I reached for the cash, but a soft, feminine voice drifted from the doorway. “Emmett, darling? Why are we making such a scene?” Isabella Montgomery walked in, her diamonds catching the light. She was Emmett’s fiancée—the heiress to a medical empire. She looked at me in the cage, her eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated malice. “Oh, look, it’s Nora. I wondered what was upsetting you.” She leaned into Emmett, looping her arm through his. “I’ve never seen a show like this. Why stop now?” Emmett’s body went rigid. He looked at Isabella, then down at me—naked and shivering on the floor of a cage. He smiled. It was a cold, dead thing. “You’re right. If you want to see it, she’ll keep going.” Emmett reached for a silver champagne bucket filled with ice and water. He walked to the cage and… Splash. The freezing water hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t stop the violent shudder that took over my limbs. “If you love being a dog so much, you can stay in the cage all night,” Emmett said, dropping the empty bucket. He looked around the room. “Keep going. It’s on my tab.” With Emmett’s blessing, the room turned feral. Isabella leaned against his chest, watching the sport. Emmett sat on the leather sofa, a glass of bourbon in his hand, watching me with eyes like ice. I endured until dawn. When the crowd finally dispersed, I was a map of bruises and burns. I crawled out of the cage, my fingers trembling as I stuffed the cash and the Rolex into my bag. A pair of diamond-encrusted heels appeared in my field of vision. Isabella knelt, her heel grinding into the back of my hand as I tried to pick up the last of the bills. I didn’t make a sound. “How tragic, Nora,” she whispered. She pulled a gold-embossed business card from her clutch and forced it into my mouth. “Because you entertained me tonight, I’ll give you a lead.” “My family owns the top neuro-recovery team in the world. Do one more job for me, and I’ll send them to save your brother. I’ll make sure he wakes up.” She smirked. “Think about it. It’s his last chance.” 3 The next day, I called the number. An hour later, I was driven to a secluded estate in the hills. I was led to the master suite. The air was thick with expensive incense. A man sat on the edge of the bed—not like the men from the clubs. He had sharp, predatory eyes that watched me without the usual smugness. He looked me up and down. “You really are as beautiful as they say. No wonder they’re all obsessed with you.” He gestured to a black gift box at the foot of the bed. “Open it. Put it on.” I walked over and lifted the lid. My breath hitched. Inside was a high school uniform—blue and white. The crest of our old academy was embroidered on the pocket. This was the same style of outfit I had been wearing the night my life ended. The man tilted his head. “Can’t handle it?” I didn’t answer. If it meant Sam waking up, I’d wear a shroud. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on the uniform. The pleated skirt, the crisp white shirt. I climbed onto the bed, moving toward him with practiced grace, but he grabbed the back of my neck and dragged me toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window. “Better view here,” he whispered. He pressed me against the cold glass, leaving me completely exposed to the dark night outside. I didn’t fight. I leaned into it, playing my part. Then, the roar of an engine echoed from the driveway below. Forced against the glass, I looked down. A black sports car had pulled up. Isabella stepped out, clutching Emmett’s arm. She looked up and pointed directly at the window where I stood. Emmett followed her gaze. The glass was one-way during the day, but at night, with the lights on inside, it was a translucent stage. Just like the mirror on my eighteenth birthday. Through the darkness, our eyes met. He stared at the uniform. He froze. His face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, then something that looked like devastating realization. We stayed like that for seconds. Then, he didn’t say a word. He wrenched his arm away from Isabella, got back into his car, and tore out of the driveway, disappearing into the night. 4 The next morning, I walked into the city hospital, my body a ruin of hidden scars. For the first time in three years, I was actually smiling. Sam was going to wake up. Everything I’d endured—the cages, the collars, the shame—it was all worth it. I pushed open the door to his room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bed was empty. The monitors were dark. The tubes and wires were piled neatly on the bedside table. Even the sheets had been stripped. I stopped breathing. I grabbed a passing nurse by the arm. “Where is he? Sam Moore? Did he move to a ward?” The nurse stopped, her expression softening into a look of deep pity. “Ms. Moore… I am so sorry.” “He went into multi-organ failure at 6:00 AM. We tried to resuscitate him for forty minutes… he’s gone. They just moved him to the morgue.” The world didn’t just break; it detonated. “Gone? No! He can’t be gone!” I shoved past her, running for the elevators like a madwoman. “I have the money! The specialists are coming! He has to wait for me!” The morgue was in the basement. When I burst in, the doctor was about to pull a white sheet over a pale, gaunt face. “Don’t touch him!” I lunged forward, shoving the doctor aside, and threw my arms around Sam’s cold, skeletal body. “Sam… I’m late. I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry…” I collapsed onto the floor, burying my face in his neck, let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, jagged wail of pure agony. The doctor sighed. “He’s been unresponsive for three years, Ms. Moore. His body just gave up. You need to sign the papers.” But as the darkness began to swallow me, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed in the hallway. A group of men in dark suits and police uniforms walked in. At the lead was a high-ranking detective. He walked to the bed, looked at Sam, and suddenly snapped to attention. “Present arms!” Every officer in the room saluted my brother’s body with solemn, rigid respect. I looked up, dazed. The detective knelt beside me, holding a file embossed with a “Classified” red seal. “Are you Nora Moore?” I nodded, numb. “We’re late,” the detective said, his voice thick with regret. “The investigation is closed. We’re here to clear your brother’s name.” I stared at him. “What investigation?” He opened the file. “Three years ago, when the Blackwood girl was abducted… everyone thought Sam Moore just stood there. They thought he was a coward who watched it happen.” The detective gripped the file. “But the evidence tells a different story. Sam didn’t run. He threw himself into the fray. He didn’t have a weapon, so he used his own body to shield her. He provoked the kidnappers to keep them from taking her to a secondary location.” The detective stood up. “He didn’t just watch. He saved her life. The Blackwoods… they had it wrong the whole time.” The room was deathly silent. Then, a sharp clack echoed from the doorway. I turned. Emmett was standing there. He was staring at Sam, then at the police, his lips trembling. “What… what did you just say?”

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The holidays were over. My parents were packing the SUV, ready to head back to the city for work. My little brother, Beau, had already claimed the front passenger seat, looking like a little king. I wanted to go, too. I needed to go. But no matter how hard I pulled at the door handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked tight. As the engine roared to life and the car began to crawl forward, panic seized me. I threw myself in front of the hood, screaming until my throat felt raw. “Why does he get to go? Why not me?” I pounded on the tinted glass, desperate for a glance, a sign. Finally, Mom turned her head. She didn’t unlock the door. Instead, she pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at me. “Look at her,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the glass, likely recording a video for her followers. “She’s old enough to know better. If we don’t go work, how is she going to eat? How is she going to have nice clothes?” She caught my breakdown on screen, then turned back to the road. I was gasping for air, sobbing so hard I couldn’t stand. A small crowd of neighbors and relatives had gathered to watch the spectacle. “Just take her,” a cousin shouted. “What’s one more? You’ve got the space.” Suddenly, a pair of rough hands lifted me off the ground. It was Dad. He stepped out of the car for a moment, wiping the tears from my cheeks with a thumb that smelled of tobacco and gasoline. “Hey, hey, princess. Stop the waterworks,” he whispered. “Tell you what, let’s play a game. Hide-and-seek. If you can hide so well that we can’t find you, we’ll take you with us. Deal?” 1 I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned and ran, my mind racing for the perfect spot. I found it—the old root cellar behind the shed. It was a heavy wooden hatch set into the frozen earth. I climbed down into the dark. It was freezing and smelled of damp soil and rotting potatoes, but my chest felt warm. If I just stayed quiet, if I won this game, I’d be with them. I wouldn’t have to stay here anymore. Last year, they left only with Beau, too. But they promised—next year, we promise. Grandma and Grandpa had smiled then, looking like the kind grandparents in a picture book, promising they’d take such good care of me. But the second my parents’ car rounded the bend at the end of the gravel road, Grandpa’s smile vanished. “They don’t want you, girl,” he’d chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “Liar!” I’d screamed, biting back tears. “Mom and Dad love me!” Grandma didn’t say a word. She just grabbed my long braids and dragged me into the kitchen. She took the heavy kitchen shears and hacked my hair off right there. When I looked in the mirror, my head looked like a jagged, ruined field after a harvest. I touched the uneven stubble, my hands shaking. My hair was the one thing Mom always loved. Every time she visited, she’d brush it for hours, telling me how beautiful and dark it was. And now it was gone. I hadn’t protected the one thing she liked about me. Grandma tucked ten dollars into her pocket—the money she’d get from the local wig-maker for the hair. “Easier to keep clean this way,” she snapped. “And stop that crying. You’re crying away all the luck in this house.” I didn’t cry after that. Not out loud. I’d just let my shoulders shake in silence. The kids at school started calling me “Rat-head.” I learned to run fast so they couldn’t catch me. I told myself I didn’t care. But at night, curled under a thin, moth-eaten quilt, I’d rub those jagged ends of hair and my nose would sting. I’d bury my face in the pillow so the sound wouldn’t escape, even as the tears soaked into the old cotton. But today was different. Today, I was leaving. No one would call me names ever again. Mom would brush my hair, and we’d let it grow long together. I huddled in the corner of the cellar, hugging my knees, holding my breath. I had counted to a hundred three times over by now. I was getting anxious, but I told myself to wait. They were looking for me. They had to be. They were probably searching the barn, or the attic, taking the game seriously. Then, through the heavy wooden door above me, I heard the sound of an engine turning over. I froze. No. That’s not right. 2 I scrambled for the wooden ladder, my hands slipping on the damp rungs. The ladder wobbled dangerously, but I didn’t care. I shoved my head against the cellar door, trying to peek through the crack. The winter light was blindingly bright. I saw the silver SUV backing out of the driveway, turning toward the main road. “Dad!” I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the celebratory firecrackers the neighbors were setting off to see them south. I pushed against the door with everything I had, but it was heavy, and something felt stuck. Wait for me! I’m not in the car yet! In my desperation, my foot slipped off the frozen rung. I fell backward. My head hit the icy concrete floor with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in the back of my skull. Gold stars danced behind my eyelids. The sound of the engine grew faint. Fainter. I tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. I couldn’t move. My hand brushed something wet and warm spreading out from under my head. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I was cold. So cold. The engine noise vanished completely. They had forgotten me. Just as the darkness started to pull at me, I heard footsteps above. Hope flared like a dying ember. They remembered. They realized I wasn’t in the car. They came back for me! “Where’d that brat hide herself?” It was Grandma’s voice. My heart sank. But maybe… maybe they sent her to find me. Maybe they were waiting at the gate. I tried to thud my hand against the ground. Once. Twice. But I had no strength left. The sound was weaker than a mouse scratching in the walls. “Whatever,” I heard Grandpa say. “She’ll come out when she gets hungry enough.” Grandma let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Her dad told me before he pulled out—said the girl was making such a scene about leaving, he had to trick her with that hide-and-seek nonsense. Told us to just play along and ‘comfort’ her once they were gone.” “Hide-and-seek?” Grandpa chuckled. “Smart kid. He always was a quick thinker.” “Had to do something,” Grandma said. “She was blocking the car, crying like a banshee. Imagine what the neighbors would think if they saw us just peeling her off the door.” My ears began to ring. They never intended to find me. “If she hadn’t been the one to give me my grandson, I wouldn’t even bother with this little debt-trap,” Grandma grumbled. “They barely come back once a year to see her. They’re probably sick to death of her themselves.” The footsteps faded away. In the dark, I lay alone. Was I never wanted? Not even from the start? But Mom and Dad told me they worked so hard in the city for us. They said it was too dangerous and busy for a little girl there. When I asked why Beau got to go, they said it was because he was a boy, and he needed to “learn the struggle.” I wanted to tell them I wasn’t afraid of the struggle. I would have worked. I would have done anything just to be near them. In the deepening shadows, I thought I saw Mom brushing my hair again. I saw Dad lifting me onto his shoulders, running through the tall grass. I saw them laughing. I laughed, too. I reached out toward the light, trying to catch them, but my fingers only grasped the freezing air. The world went black. The last bit of light flickered out. 3 It felt like I had fallen into a long, heavy dream. When I opened my eyes, I was floating near the ceiling of the cellar. I looked down and saw myself—a small, crumpled shape on the floor. Beneath my head, a dark, frozen flower had bloomed on the concrete. By the time I drifted out of the cellar, it was night. In the yard, Grandpa was snapping a padlock onto the back door. Grandma glanced over. “How’s she supposed to get in if you lock it?” Grandpa didn’t look up, testing the chain. “Let her stay out a bit. Teach her a lesson. Did you see her this morning? Blocking the car in front of everyone. Now the whole town is whispering that we’re cruel, that we favor the boy. She’s ruining our reputation.” Grandma tossed a basin of dirty water into the corner. “Spiteful little thing. Girls are never as simple as boys. Always got a scheme.” I wanted to scream: No! I wasn’t being mean! I just wanted to be with them! But I drifted right through them. I couldn’t touch a thing. “She’s probably hiding in a corner of the house somewhere, watching us look for her,” Grandma said, heading inside. “The more we look, the more she wins. Just leave her.” Grandpa kicked a bowl of leftover scraps toward the dog’s house. “Don’t say we didn’t feed her. If she’s hungry, she can eat what the dog eats.” They went inside and killed the lights. I stood in the freezing yard, looking at the bowl of dog food. Even if I were alive, that was my dinner. The wind blew through my transparent chest. For the first time, I realized I couldn’t feel the cold anymore, yet I had never felt more chilled. The next morning. Grandpa came out of the house and squinted toward the kitchen shed. “Where is she? Why isn’t breakfast started?” I usually made breakfast. The stove was taller than me; I had to stand on a rickety wooden stool to reach the pots. Sometimes the stool slipped and my knees would turn purple from the fall, but Grandma would just call me clumsy and tell me I was wasting time. Grandma grumbled as she stoked the fire herself. “Lazy brat’s hiding in her room, I bet.” “I saw the dog bowl was empty this morning,” Grandpa noted. “And her bedroom door is shut tight. She’s probably throwing a tantrum because her dad left her.” I hovered in front of her, desperate. No! The dog ate the food! And the door is stuck because the old wardrobe tipped over in the wind! But they heard nothing. Grandpa grabbed his hoe and banged on my bedroom door. “Get out here and work! You’re too young to be this lazy!” Silence. Grandma’s temper flared. She caught sight of a pile of gifts my mom had brought—the only things she’d given me. She grabbed the one thing I loved most: a dress. “No! Please, no!” I cried. She didn’t hear. She took the shears and ripped them from the collar to the hem. It was a princess dress, layers of soft pink tulle. I had begged Mom for months for it. Grandma had always said dresses were useless for chores, but Mom had finally given in. I had only worn it once. I was so afraid of getting it dirty that I’d folded it perfectly and put it back in the bag, waiting for the first day of school. I wanted the kids who called me “Rat-head” to see that I had something beautiful. That my mom loved me. Now, it was a rag in Grandma’s hands. “Wants to go to the city, does she? I feed her for free and she gives me attitude!” Scraps of pink gauze flew through the air. “Fine! Stay in there and rot! You love this dress so much? Now it’s trash, just like your attitude!” I knelt to pick up the pieces, but my fingers passed through the fabric like smoke. “Forget it,” Grandpa said, pulling her away. “She’s stubborn. Just make sure there’s something for her to eat at lunch. The kids should be in the city by now. They’ll probably FaceTime tonight. And hey—those sweet potatoes in the cellar need to be brought up before they spoil.” “I know, I know,” Grandma waved him off. Grandpa headed to the fields. Grandma stood up and started walking toward the root cellar. My heart—or where my heart used to be—seized. She was going there. She was going to find me. I flew ahead of her, watching as her withered hand reached for the heavy wooden handle. 4 Just as she was about to pull it open, her phone chirped in the house. She paused, grumbled, and turned back. I stayed by the hatch, staring at the wood. So close. Grandma answered the phone, her face instantly breaking into a wide, toothy grin. “Oh, my precious boy! My grandson!” She held the phone high. On the screen was Mom, holding Beau in a bright, modern apartment. “Did my little man have a long trip? Is he tired? Grandma’s going to Venmo your mom twenty dollars so you can get a big ice cream sundae!” “Thanks, Grandma,” Beau chirped. “Such a good boy!” Grandma beamed. She never called me a good girl. I was a “mouth to feed” or a “debt.” I had gotten straight A’s on my report card, and she’d told me education was a waste on a girl who’d just end up in someone else’s kitchen anyway. But Beau… Beau just had to exist to be worth twenty dollars. Mom’s voice came through, sounding a bit guilty. “Mom? Where’s Lucy? We lied to her about the game… she’s probably pretty upset, isn’t she?” Grandma pointed the camera at my locked bedroom door. “Still holed up in there. She’s got a temper on her, that one!” Grandma raised her voice, making sure the “Lucy” she thought was inside could hear. Mom sighed, shifting Beau on her hip. “Lucy!” she called out. “Listen, Mom and Dad are sorry we tricked you.” Her voice softened. “But Beau is starting preschool, and there’s just so much going on here. We couldn’t manage. Next year. I promise, next year we’ll bring you up, okay?” Silence from the room. I watched Mom’s face. I felt a surge of guilt. I was being “difficult.” My parents were working so hard, and here I was, making them worry. When there was no answer, Mom’s patience began to fray. “Lucy! Be a big girl and answer me! Don’t make us worry!” Dad leaned into the frame. “Lucy, hey, it’s your birthday, kiddo. We ordered that strawberry shortcake you like. The bakery is delivering it to the house. Why don’t you come out and have a slice?” I jumped for joy. My favorite. But then I looked at my translucent hands and the joy turned to lead. I’d never taste it. “For heaven’s sake,” Mom snapped, her tone changing. “We’re exhausted, we remembered your birthday, and you’re still acting out? What else do you want?” Still nothing. Mom took a deep breath and handed Beau to Dad. She looked right into the camera. “Lucy, I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming out?” No answer. “Fine. Stay in there. Starve for all I care.” Mom’s face went cold. She looked at Grandma. “Mom, when the cake gets there, you and Dad just eat it. Don’t give her a single bite. She needs to learn she can’t hold us hostage with her moods.” The call ended. I hovered by the door, watching the empty room. They didn’t know. There was no one in there to hear them. The cake arrived that evening. Grandma put it on the table and grumbled to Grandpa, “A cake for a girl who won’t even work. In our day, we were lucky to get an extra egg on our birthday.” Mom called again. “Is she out?” When Grandma said no, Mom’s eyes looked red, her face weary. “Lucy… Mom said some mean things earlier. Come out and eat your cake. We’ll sing to you over the phone, okay?” Silence. “Lucy?” Nothing. The last of Mom’s patience snapped. “Lucy! I am talking to you!” Her chest heaved. “There is a limit to how much attitude I will take! We didn’t raise you to be disrespectful to your elders!” The anger, the fatigue of the move, the guilt she was trying to outrun—it all boiled over. “Mom! Where are the keys? Open that door. This is ridiculous!” Grandma started rummaging through drawers. “I don’t know where the spare is…” “Check under the rug by the front door,” Mom said. Grandma froze, then bent down. Sure enough, a key was tucked there. It was a secret between Mom and me. Before Beau was born, I lived with them in the city. I was always losing my key, so she hid one there and told only me. Back then, I was her “little star.” Grandpa held the phone so Mom could see. Grandma slid the key into the lock and pushed. But the door wouldn’t open.

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When my best friend told me she was sleeping with a married man, I went numb. “Do you have any idea how wrong this is?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Natalie just smirked, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m giving you the ‘insider’s right to know,’ Claire. You have to be on my side. Sisterhood, remember?” She waved it off like it was a minor credit card debt. “He said as soon as he finishes moving the assets around, he’s filing for divorce and marrying me.” That night, back at my own place, I couldn’t shake the nausea. I loathed what she was doing—shattering another woman’s life for a promotion and a promise. But she was my person. My only real friend since the third grade. Torn between loyalty and disgust, I found myself scrolling through a late-night livestream. An “Emotional Wellness” coach was taking live calls. Something about his calm, clinical tone drew me in. By the time he finished analyzing my situation, my blood had turned to ice. 1 My hands were slick with sweat as I gripped the phone. My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. “Coach… I have this friend. We’ve been inseparable since elementary school. She was the maid of honor at my wedding. But she just confessed she’s the ‘other woman.’ The guy is her boss—wife, kids, the whole thing.” I choked back a sob. “Should I just cut her off? I don’t know if I can. She’s my best friend.” The coach’s voice was steady, devoid of empty platitudes. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Broken Window Theory’? If a building has one broken window that doesn’t get fixed, people walking by assume no one cares. Soon, they start throwing rocks at the other windows. It’s basic human psychology.” “Your friend,” he continued, his words piercing through the phone speakers, “is a broken window.” I held my breath. “Since you’re married, I have to be blunt with you. The issue isn’t whether you can forgive her. The issue is the consequence of keeping her in your life. Your husband is a middle-aged man with his own desires. If he sees you accepting a mistress as a best friend, he’ll think the window is already broken. He’ll think, ‘Why shouldn’t I throw a rock, too?’” I felt a chill crawl up my spine. “Even if he doesn’t have the urge, he’ll subconsciously believe that if you can tolerate your friend being the other woman, you can tolerate him having one. He’ll think you’ve already lowered your standards for what a marriage should be. He’ll think you’ll forgive him.” The phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Every hair on my arms stood up. In that second, the sentimentality, the nostalgia, the “twenty years of history”—it all evaporated. I wasn’t being “loyal.” I was planting a landmine in the middle of my own living room and waiting for my life to blow up. I picked up the phone with shaking fingers, wiped my eyes, and opened my chat with Natalie. I didn’t send a long explanation. I just hit Block. The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the kitchen. I tried to pull myself together to start dinner. I needed to tell Mark. I needed to tell my husband about the decision I’d finally made. “Hey, honey, I’m home,” Mark called out, pushing the door open. I went to him out of habit, reaching to take his coat. As I grabbed the wool fabric, my fingers brushed against something small in the pocket. I pulled it out. A tube of lipstick. It wasn’t my shade. It was a dusty rose—the exact signature color Natalie had worn for years. The tip of the cream was fresh, a vivid print of a lip still visible on the edge. It had been used recently. My heart did a violent somersault. I gripped the coat so hard my knuckles turned white. “Whose lipstick is this, Mark?” I asked, my voice eerily calm. Mark’s eyes flickered—a micro-expression of panic before the mask of indifference slid back on. “Oh, that? Isn’t it yours? I found it in the passenger seat. Must have fallen out of Natalie’s bag the other day when I gave her a lift. You guys are always together; I figured you’d want it back.” He said it so casually. So logically. Yesterday, I would have believed him. I would have felt guilty for even asking. But the coach’s voice was still ringing in my ears like a siren. It wasn’t a hypothetical. The rock had already been thrown. The window was already shattered. I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront him then. I just turned and walked into the kitchen, my back vibrating with a tremor I couldn’t control. I forced myself to think. To look at the details I’d spent months ignoring. Natalie stopping by “on her way home” every other night, dressed like she was heading to a gala. The way she looked at Mark—not like a friend’s husband, but like a prize. Mark coming home late for “client dinners,” his phone always face-down, his sudden habit of taking it into the shower with him. Even my last birthday. Natalie had given me a designer necklace. Two weeks later, I saw a digital receipt on Mark’s laptop for that exact same piece, listed under “Client Gifts.” I remembered walking into the living room once and seeing them whispering. They stopped the moment they saw me, their faces flushed with a guilty, frantic energy. I had called it “closeness.” I had called it “family.” It was a goddamn play, and I was the only person in the theater who didn’t know the script. 2 I forced myself to go through the motions, serving a dinner that tasted like ash. The doorbell rang just as we sat down. I opened it to find Natalie standing there, hiding behind a massive bouquet of violets. She was beaming. Before I could say a word, she lunged forward and hugged me. “Surprise! I got your favorite flowers!” My body went rigid. Every nerve ending screamed. Natalie pulled back, her bottom lip pouting in that “cute” way she practiced in the mirror. “Claire, what is going on? Did you seriously block me on WhatsApp?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I didn’t owe her an explanation. Natalie laughed, reaching out to ruffle my hair like I was a child. “I knew it. You probably hit the button by accident, right? God, Claire, you’re such a tech-dinosaur. Even my five-year-old nephew knows how to use his phone better than you.” She spoke with that practiced girlishness, making it seem like a “silly little mistake” between besties. I forced a brittle smile and nodded. I played along. She looked at the table and her eyes welled up with performative tears. “Oh, Claire… you’re the best. You made all my favorite dishes. This looks so much better than anything my mom ever makes.” I looked at the spread—braised short ribs, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted carrots. It hit me like a physical blow. I hadn’t made my favorite food. I had spent an hour cooking the favorite meals of the two people who were currently stabbing me in the back. My life had become a service industry for my own betrayal. “I’m glad you like it,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from miles away. “I… I think I left a bottle of wine in the trunk of the car. Let me go grab it.” “I’ll go,” Mark said, half-rising from his chair. “No!” I snapped. The sharpness in my voice made them both blink. I didn’t look at them. I grabbed my keys and my spare phone—an old burner I used for work—and bolted out the door. Once I was in the hallway, I pulled out my primary phone. Before leaving the apartment, I had quietly activated a recording app and tucked it into the crevice of the sofa. I opened the live cloud-sync on my spare. Within seconds, their voices filled my ears. “Claire’s being weird today,” Natalie’s voice came through, no longer girlish. It was sharp, calculating. “Of course she’s being weird,” Mark hissed. “I told you a thousand times to be careful, and then you go and leave your lipstick in the car.” “What? Did she see it? Mark, I’m telling you, Claire is my best friend. I can lose you, but I can’t lose her!” Mark let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Oh, look at you, Miss Loyalty. You weren’t exactly worried about ‘losing her’ when you were stripping off your clothes and crawling into my bed, were you?” Natalie sounded offended. “That! I was just… testing the goods for her. Making sure you weren’t a dud.” “You’re a lying little fox,” Mark murmured. Then came the sound. The wet, rhythmic sound of kissing. I sank to the floor in the stairwell, my legs giving out. I covered my mouth to keep from howling. It wasn’t a suspicion anymore. It was a fact. My mind raced back through the years. In college, when Mark and I first started dating, Natalie hated him. She picked apart his clothes, his job, his personality. She told me to dump him. I thought she was just being protective. At our wedding, she cried harder than my mother. “You have to be happy,” she had sobbed. “If he ever hurts you, I’ll be the first one to kill him.” I remembered her face during our vows. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at the side of Mark’s face with an expression I now realized was pure, unadulterated hunger. After the wedding, they kept “bickering.” They’d argue over movies, or how much salt was in the food, or politics. I was always the peacemaker. I felt lucky that my best friend and my husband were “comfortable” enough to fight like siblings. I took a deep breath, steadied my hands, and saved the recording. This wasn’t just heartbreak. This was evidence. 3 I walked back into the apartment and sat down at the table. My face was a mask of stone. “I’m not cooking anymore,” I said to Mark, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Starting tomorrow, I’m looking for a job. I’ve been out of the professional world for too long.” Mark frowned. “Where is this coming from? Stay home. I make more than enough for both of us. The corporate world is a meat grinder, Claire. I don’t want you stressed out.” Natalie’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, Claire! That’s amazing! Come work at my firm. I can pull some strings, make sure no one messes with you. We’d be together every day!” She sounded so sincere. So genuinely excited for me. I looked at her and felt a wave of vertigo. How could someone be so fractured? How could she want me close while she was busy destroying the foundation of my life? “No thanks,” I said. “I want to do this on my own.” I wanted to be nowhere near them. I wanted to build a life they couldn’t touch. Mark kept pushing. “I’m the provider, Claire. Just stay put.” Before I could answer, Natalie snapped at him. “Ugh, stop it, Mark! Claire is brilliant. Why should she be cooped up here like your little pet? She’s not a canary in a cage; she’s a woman with her own life.” Watching her defend me against the man she was sleeping with was the most grotesque thing I had ever witnessed. It made me want to scream until my lungs gave out. I just nodded and went to bed. Over the next few weeks, I lived a double life. I spent my days drafting a divorce settlement and my nights applying for jobs. Finally, I landed a position at a mid-sized marketing firm. It was entry-level, but it was a start. But a month in, things went south. My department head, a man named Henderson, was a nightmare. No matter what I did, he tore it apart. He’d make me stay late for no reason, mocking me in front of the team, calling me a “housewife who couldn’t keep up with the rhythm of real work.” Just as I was about to break, Natalie “landed” at my company. She had applied for a transfer and was suddenly my direct supervisor. She fired Henderson on her first day. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. I was trying to run away from her, but she was like a shadow—inescapable, always stretching out to touch me. Natalie was “perfect.” She mentored me, she protected me, she guided me. But her “kindness” felt like a mountain of debt. My coworkers started looking at me differently. To them, I wasn’t a hard worker; I was “the Director’s charity case.” I had supposedly taken the spot of a more qualified internal candidate because of my “friendship” with the boss. Even Mark used it as a weapon. He came by the office one afternoon to “take me to lunch.” “Look at you,” he scoffed as we stood in the lobby. “You wanted independence, but you’re nothing without Natalie. You’d be unemployed if she wasn’t coddling you. Just come home and cook dinner. Stop playing pretend.” He wasn’t stopping. He was gaining momentum. “You’re just not built for a career, Claire. Look at Natalie. Look at the way she commands a room. That’s a professional woman. You? You’re just… you. Give it up and accept your place.” The comparison was so blunt, so cruel, that the last shred of my restraint snapped. I looked him dead in the eye. “Tell me, Mark,” I said, my voice carrying across the quiet lobby. “When you and Natalie are in bed together, does she strip with that same ‘professional command’? Does she have that ‘career-woman energy’ when she’s under you?” The world stopped. Every coworker pretending to work at the nearby desks froze. The typing stopped. The whispering died. Mark’s pupils dilated. It looked like I’d punched him in the solar plexus. The color drained from his face until he looked like a ghost. I stood up straight. “I’m resigning tomorrow. The divorce papers are on the kitchen counter. I never want to see either of you again.” I turned to walk away, but a loud thud stopped me. Natalie had been standing by the glass doors, holding two coffees. One of them had slipped from her hand, splashing brown liquid across the polished floor. Her lips were trembling. She looked like she was about to faint. And then, the heavy double doors to the office swung open with a violent bang. A woman with a sharp bob and a high-end trench coat marched in, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. It was my mother, Diane. “Natalie!” she roared. “Which one of you is Natalie?! You home-wrecking, back-stabbing little viper—get out here right now!”

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The moment Kai started mimicking me was the moment I realized he knew exactly how much my father deposited into my account every month—seventy thousand dollars, no strings attached. First, it was the hair. I’d spent three hundred dollars at a boutique salon for a textured, silver-ash crop; the next week, Kai’s shaggy black hair was gone, replaced by the exact same cut and color. Then the ink. I have a custom geometric sleeve on my left forearm; Kai spent three days wandering through twenty different tattoo parlors with a photo of my arm until he found someone unethical enough to copy it. He bought the same Off-White hoodies and the same limited-edition Jordans, even if it meant skipping meals and working three campus jobs just to afford the monthly payments. I thought he was just a pathetic sycophant. A “copycat” in the literal sense. But a month later, I was dead. A sudden, aggressive illness tore through me in weeks. As I took my final breath, my parents—the people who had supposedly adored me—didn’t even look at my bed. They were stroking Kai’s head, calling him by my childhood nickname. I died in a state of absolute, shattered confusion. As a lingering spirit, I followed Kai. He moved into my penthouse. He slept in my bed. He wrapped his arms around my girlfriend, Maddy, and whispered, “Thanks, babe. If you hadn’t funneled me his money to pay for the transformations, I never would have been able to trigger the System. I’ve stolen his fate. Everything he was is mine now.” The System. That was the glitch in the universe. Then, the world blurred and snapped. I opened my eyes, and I was back. It was the afternoon Kai was planning to copy my newest look. … The click of a camera shutter followed by a bright flash cut through the lecture hall. Kai scrambled to hide his phone, his face flushing a guilty red. Beside me, my friend Jordan leaned in, whispering, “Chase, man, you want me to check his phone? He’s been snapping photos of you all week. It’s getting creepy, like he’s a freaking stalker. I’m about to lose it.” I shook my head, my gaze cold. “Leave it, Jordan. It’s fine.” In my past life, I had confronted him right then and there. I’d demanded he show me the photos. But Kai’s phone had been wiped clean, and I ended up looking like the rich bully harassing a poor, scholarship student. By that evening, however, his hair had been transformed into a perfect replica of mine. From that day on, people started mistaking his silhouette for mine. Thinking about his “System,” I pulled out my phone and texted my private stylist. “Hey, I’m bored with the silver crop. Design me something high-concept. Something so intricate and difficult that no one else could pull it off. There’s a massive bonus in it for you.” She replied instantly with a photo of her team. Seven top-tier stylists were already in a huddle, sketching out a new look for me. I smiled, dimmed the screen, and turned to Jordan. “Let’s go get a haircut after this. Call Nate, too. My treat.” “Sweet,” Jordan grinned. “But we’re not freeloading today. Nate and I will cover dinner afterward.” I was about to agree when Kai’s shrill voice cut through the air behind us. “Where are you guys going for dinner? Why wasn’t I invited? We live in the same dorm—why are you icing me out? Chase, is it because I’m not rich? Do you really look down on me that much?” He spoke loudly enough to draw the attention of every student in the room. As the eyes of our peers shifted toward us, Kai’s expression morphed into one of practiced vulnerability. He looked like a kicked puppy. “I know you guys come from money,” he said, his voice trembling for the benefit of the audience. “I’m just a guy from a small town trying to make it. I just wanted to be your friend.” His version of “being a friend” involved tagging along to expensive dinners, ordering the steak, and then “forgetting” his wallet every single time. If we pressed him to Venmo us, he’d launch into a monologue about his struggling mother and his empty bank account. Eventually, we just stopped asking him to come. I was ready to tear him apart when Maddy, my girlfriend and the class president, stormed over. “Chase! I told you, I can’t stand it when you act like a brat,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with a self-righteous fire. “Just because your family has money doesn’t mean you can treat people like they’re beneath you!” “Kai might not have your trust fund, but he’s worth ten of you,” she continued, standing protectively in front of him. “He worked his tail off to get into this university. You have no idea what it’s like to actually struggle…” Listening to her talk about my “dirty money” while she stood there wearing the five-hundred-dollar Tiffany necklace I’d bought her for our anniversary made my stomach churn. If it weren’t for my family’s “dirty money,” Maddy would still be back in her crumbling hometown, likely pressured by her parents into a marriage of convenience to settle their debts. I was the one who convinced my parents to increase her “scholarship” fund. I was the one who bought her the designer bags she used to cultivate her “old money” aesthetic. She wasn’t grateful. She loathed the scent of my wealth even as she inhaled it, and in my last life, she had been the one funding Kai’s “replacement” project with my own allowance. I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt nothing but disgust. I pulled out my phone and sent a one-line email to my father’s office: Terminate all charitable sponsorship for Madeline Vance, effective immediately. She can be a “self-made” woman with Kai now. Seeing me on my phone, Maddy’s rage hit a boiling point. “Chase Montgomery! Are you even listening? Do you have no remorse?” “I can’t be with someone this arrogant, Chase. If you don’t apologize to Kai right now and make it up to him, I’m…” “You’re what?” I asked, looking up. She raised her voice, sensing the crowd was on her side. “I’m breaking up with you!” In the past, those words would have sent me into a panic. Two years ago, she had pulled me out of a lake when I was cramping and nearly drowned. I felt I owed her my life. I had been her puppet ever since. But after experiencing a cold, lonely death, I was done being a “grateful” little boy. “Fine. Let’s break up,” I said casually. The room went silent. Maddy’s jaw dropped. “But,” I continued, standing up and towering over her, “since you hate my money so much, I assume you’ll want to be rid of the ‘burden’ it caused you. Over the last three years, I’ve spent roughly forty thousand dollars on your personal expenses, tuition top-offs, and ‘gifts.’ I want it back. Transfer it to me by tonight.” She blinked, her composure wavering. She clearly thought I was just throwing a tantrum, playing a game of chicken. She thought I was too “generous” to ever actually follow through. “Fine,” she hissed, trying to save face. “I don’t need your pocket change anyway.” Kai looked panicked. He needed that money to keep up the charade. “Wait! Chase, man, be a man! You don’t ask for money back after a breakup. That’s low.” “Besides,” Kai added, looking at Maddy, “did Maddy never spend anything on you? I bet she spent more! You’re just trying to take advantage of her!” Maddy knew exactly how much she had spent—or rather, hadn’t. She looked nervous but tried to play it cool. “It’s fine, Kai. If Chase is this desperate for cash, I’ll give it to him. I’m not like him.” She gave me a pointed look, a silent command to stop before I embarrassed her. In the past, I would have swallowed my pride to protect her “dignity.” Now? I pulled up my bank app and scrolled through the history. “Let’s see,” I said loudly. “May 2023: You bought me a single rose. August: You bought a silver stud earring that you ended up wearing yourself. October: A ceramic mug. Total spent on me in three years? About eighty-five bucks.” I looked her in the eye. “Do you want me to read the list of what I bought you in front of the whole class? Or should I just post the itemized receipts to the campus forum so everyone can see what a ‘self-made’ woman you really are?” Maddy’s face went pale. She saw the look in my eyes—the warmth was gone. I was serious. “It’s just forty grand,” she spat, her voice trembling. “I’ll send it.” She pulled out her phone, her thumbs stabbing at the screen. “There. It’s sent. Don’t ever talk to me again!” She was bluffing. I didn’t get a notification. Kai, not realizing she was faking the transaction, grabbed her phone, trying to “cancel” the imaginary transfer. “Maddy, wait! I don’t see the confirmation. Which app did you use? Let me stop it!” I nearly burst out laughing. Maddy’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She hissed at him to shut up and tried to pull him away. I stepped into their path. “Maddy, if you’re going to send it, send it. Stop the theatrics. I haven’t received a cent. Why are you pretending? You hate my money, yet you seem to love living off it like a parasite.” I held up my phone, showing the empty notification tray to the room. Trapped by her own lies and the eyes of her peers, Maddy finally realized I wasn’t backing down. “The Wi-Fi must be slow! I’ll do it again!” This time, the “Ding” of a successful wire transfer echoed in the quiet room. She looked physically pained, like I’d reached into her chest and pulled out her heart. “See?” she yelled. “I don’t care about your money! I can buy whatever I want!” I smiled at the balance on my screen. “Great. Money’s here. We’re done. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” I turned to leave with Jordan, but Maddy grabbed my sleeve. “You still haven’t apologized to Kai for bullying him! You can’t just leave!” That reminded me. Kai still had his little smear campaign running. Luckily, I always insisted on the private booths at my family’s restaurant, and those booths had high-def security cameras. I made a quick call to the restaurant manager. Two minutes later, I dropped a video link into the class group chat. “You want to know why we don’t invite him?” I asked the room. “Watch the footage. See for yourselves.” In the video, while Jordan and I were in the restroom, Kai was seen stuffing several expensive bottles of wine into his backpack and then arguing with the server, claiming we had already paid a tip that we hadn’t. It was clear, pathetic, and undeniably him. By the time we reached the salon, the group chat was exploding. “Holy crap, is he serious? He’s literally stealing? And then he complains about being ‘bullied’?” “I’d stay away from that guy too. He’s a total leach.” Kai tried to damage control, posting crying emojis and claiming I’d edited the video. Nobody bought it. He started spamming my phone with texts, begging me to “clarify” the situation. Then Maddy joined in. “Chase, I’m so disappointed in you. It was just a misunderstanding. Do you have to ruin Kai’s reputation over something so small?” “He’s traumatized. You need to apologize, give me back the money, and send another fifteen thousand as compensation, or I will NEVER forgive you. We will never get back together.” Her entitlement was almost funny. Did she really think she was still the prize? I felt a surge of adrenaline. I blocked her number. But just as I was about to put my phone away, a notification popped up. It was a “Shared Payment” alert from my Apple Wallet. Maddy had just spent four thousand dollars at a high-end hair salon. I felt a cold shiver of rage. I scrolled through the past six months of the “Family Sharing” account I’d forgotten to de-link. Boxer briefs. Luxury condoms. Romantic AirBnBs. They had been using my money to fund their affair for over a year. I didn’t hesitate. I took screenshots of every single “couples” expense and posted them directly to the class chat, tagging both of them. “Nice one, Maddy. Using my shared credit card to buy condoms for your side piece? Real classy.” And then: “Hey Kai, how do those silk boxers feel? Hope they’re comfortable, because they were bought with my ‘dirty money.’ You two deserve each other.” I unlinked the accounts, then called every club, gym, and lounge where I had a membership. “No one but me is authorized to use my cards or name. Period.” On the other side of town, Kai was sitting in a stylist’s chair, halfway through a chemical perm. Maddy’s face went white as her card was declined for the remaining balance. She tried the “Shared Pay” again and again, but it was dead. The stylist’s eyes narrowed. “Ma’am, the transaction isn’t going through. Do you have another way to pay?” Kai was sweating. “Maddy, just pay it! We have a date later, remember?” Desperate and humiliated, Maddy had to drain her own savings. When the “Payment Successful” chime finally rang, she screamed. “Why is it so expensive? It’s just a perm!” The stylist scoffed. “This is a premium salon, honey. Four thousand is standard for a rush job. If you can’t afford it, don’t come in.” Maddy felt the sting of the insult, her face burning. Then she saw the 99+ notifications in the group chat. She nearly fainted. I, however, was having a great time. An hour later, I stepped out of the salon. I now sported a sharp, classic undercut—the “Old Hollywood” slick-back. Jordan had gone platinum blonde, and Nate had gotten a modern permed fringe. I looked at my reflection and smiled. I couldn’t wait to see Kai’s face tomorrow. The next morning, I was walking down the hall when I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a class officer waving at a guy with a silver-ash crop. Kai turned around, a smug grin on his face. “Oh, sorry! Everyone keeps mistaking me for Chase today. I guess we just have that same vibe, you know?” I stepped forward, my new haircut catching the light. “We don’t have the same ‘vibe’ at all, Kai. For one, my skin isn’t that sallow, I’m three inches taller, and I don’t look like I’m wearing a costume. Stop lying to yourself.” The officer blinked, looking at my new hair. “Whoa, Chase! That looks incredible. Way better than the old style. You look like a movie star.” Jordan chimed in, “Yeah, it’s a custom look. Very unique. Anyone trying to copy this would just look like a pathetic fanboy.” Kai’s face turned a muddy shade of red. “What is that supposed to mean? You think I’m trying to be him? Why would I want to be a spoiled brat like him?” He glared at my hair, his eyes burning with jealousy. “It looks stupid. That slicked-back look doesn’t suit you at all. You look old.” I didn’t get angry. I just ran a hand through my hair and grinned. “I like it. That’s all that matters.” I brushed past him, but he followed me like a stray dog. “Maddy won’t like it! She loved your hair the way it was. You should change it back…” He dragged Maddy over to prove his point. “Right, Maddy? Tell him he looked better before.” Maddy looked at me, her eyes lingering on my sharp jawline and the way the new style made me look sophisticated, dangerous. Her face flushed, and she couldn’t find her words. Kai huffed and stormed into the classroom. “He’s losing it,” Nate whispered to me during the break. “I overheard him on the phone. He’s got an appointment with a tattoo artist this afternoon. And get this—the reference photo he sent was that sleeve you posted on Instagram two days ago.” I realized then that Kai was still stalking my socials. I was about to block him, but a better idea struck me. “You know what? I think it’s time for a new ‘tattoo,’ don’t you?”

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I was on the Amtrak heading back from a business trip when the girl in the seat next to me fell asleep. Her head drifted, eventually landing right on my shoulder. For six hours, I didn’t move an inch. I barely even breathed. When she finally woke up as we pulled into the station, her face turned a deep shade of crimson. She stammered out an apology and a thank you. I just smiled and told her it was no big deal. That night, as I was unpacking in my hotel room, I realized my wallet was lighter. Exactly nine hundred and ninety dollars lighter. I thought I’d been pickpocketed. I stripped off my jacket, frantically checking every pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the right pocket of my coat, I didn’t find the cash. Instead, I found a small, glossy passport photo of her. And a phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper. When I flipped the photo over and read the words on the back, the blood in my veins turned to ice. 01 The hotel air conditioning hummed a low, depressing tune, blowing air that felt far too cold against my skin. I sat on the edge of the bed, the small photo trembling between my fingers. The girl in the picture was pretty, with soft features and clear eyes—the same girl who had spent six hours using my shoulder as a pillow. But the handwriting on the back was sharp, each stroke delivered with a biting force that felt like a slap to the face. “Your brother beat mine into a hospital bed. This is the interest on the medical bills he owes us. If you’ve got a problem with that, call me.” Interest. Nine hundred and ninety dollars. A wave of absurdity crashed over me, followed quickly by a white-hot flare of rage. Was this the new script for scammers? A six-hour long-con involving a “sleepy” actress just to pull off a heist? I let out a harsh, dry laugh and tossed the photo onto the nightstand. I pulled up my contacts, ready to delete the number and block her for good. But my thumb hovered over the screen. A week ago, my younger brother, Cody, had practically begged me for money. He’d put on a whole performance, swearing he’d finally turned a corner. He called it “seed money for a startup.” I’m a software developer. I spend twelve hours a day staring at code until my spine feels like it’s made of rusted wire just to save a little for my future. Cody, on the other hand, just shows up and says, “Bro, I’ve got this incredible project.” Every alarm bell in my head was screaming, but my mother, Beverly, was right there in his corner, playing the violin. “Cody’s finally showing some ambition, Brooks. You have to support him.” “When he makes it big, he’ll be the one taking care of you in your old age.” Old age. I’m twenty-eight. He was already planning my retirement while spending my paycheck. In the end, I’d caved. I’d sent the money. Now, looking at the amount I was “robbed” of, a sick feeling settled in my gut. The numbers were starting to align in a very ugly way. The silence of the room was suffocating. I grabbed my phone and dialed home. It rang for a long time before Beverly picked up. “Hey, Brooks. You make it to the hotel okay?” Her voice was filled with that effortless, breezy concern she always used when she wanted something. “Yeah, just got in.” “Good. Don’t work too hard. When are you coming back?” “Three or four days, once the contract is signed.” I paused, my voice tight. “Mom, what’s Cody up to lately?” I heard her light, airy laugh through the receiver. “Oh, he’s being such a sweetheart. He’s been in his room all day researching his business plan. He’s really taking this one seriously, Brooks. He says he’s going to make us both proud.” “He sounds like he’s finally growing up. You did a good thing, helping him out.” My heart sank. Every word of praise felt like a tiny hammer chipping away at my patience. I mumbled a few excuses and hung up. The room felt even colder now. I stared at that passport photo for a full minute, memorizing the girl’s face. Then, I dialed the number. She picked up on the second ring. “Hello.” Her voice was cool, detached. It was the same voice from the train, but the shy, apologetic tone was gone, replaced by a chilling calm. “This is Brooks Miller,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking with anger. “I want to know exactly what’s going on.” “Brooks?” She didn’t sound surprised. She didn’t even sound guilty. “Don’t bother ‘confirming’ anything,” she continued. “The note says it all.” “Why the hell should I believe you?” I snapped. “This sounds like a well-executed scam.” A sharp, mocking scoff came through the line. “A scam? Your brother, Cody, put my brother in the ER. Now he’s ghosting us, won’t pay the bills, and hides behind your mother. We decided to collect a little ‘interest’ from the person funding his lifestyle. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you check your bank app? Look at where that ‘startup money’ actually went.” “Then ask him what he did last Friday night.” Click. She hung up. I stood there in the middle of the hotel room, the dial tone buzzing in my ear like a hornet. Her words were like ice-tipped needles under my skin. My fingers trembled as I opened my banking app. I scrolled through the transactions. Transfer to Cody. Another one. And another. “Living expenses.” “Networking.” “Project overhead.” The amounts weren’t huge individually, but together, they represented nearly six months of my savings. All gone in a matter of weeks. The glow of the screen reflected in my eyes as I realized the truth. Shame, fury, and a devastating sense of betrayal by my own blood washed over me. 02 I caught the earliest train back that night. The three-hour ride was a blur. I didn’t sleep. Riley’s voice—the girl from the train—kept echoing in my head, competing with the jagged numbers on my bank statement. I needed an explanation. I needed to see his face when I asked him. It was 1:00 AM when I let myself into the house. The living room lights were still on. Some mindless late-night talk show was blaring on the TV. Beverly jumped up from the sofa, looking startled. “Brooks? What are you doing here? I thought you were gone for the week.” “The deal finished early,” I said, my voice rasping. Cody was sprawled on the other end of the couch, thumbs flying across his phone as he played some mobile game. The sound of digital gunfire filled the room. He didn’t even look up. “Hey, watch it, Mom. You’re blocking the screen.” Beverly shot him a quick look before turning back to me with a forced smile, reaching for my bag. “Well, it’s good you’re home. You look exhausted. Let me make you some coffee.” My eyes locked onto Cody. The rage in my chest was a living thing, clawing at my throat. But I forced it down. Not yet. Beverly busied herself in the kitchen, chattering away about my bonus. “I bet the company is giving you a huge payout for this one, right? I heard developers are making a killing these days.” I didn’t answer. I just watched Cody. “Cody’s project is so close,” she continued, her voice dropping into that wheedling tone I knew too well. “He just needs one last push. A little more capital to get off the ground. You’re his brother, Brooks. You’re the only one he can count on.” I set my keys on the table with a sharp clack. The room went quiet, except for the frantic pings from Cody’s game. “Cody,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Did you get into a fight last week?” The game sounds stopped instantly. Cody sat up straight, his face a mask of feigned confusion. “What? Bro, what are you talking about?” I stepped closer, staring him down. “A girl found me. She said you put her brother in the hospital.” Cody’s face went pale for a split second before shifting into a sneer. He jumped off the couch, his voice hitting a defensive, high-pitched frequency. “Who? Who told you that? Brooks, don’t tell me you’re listening to some random crazy chick! There are scammers everywhere, man. They see a family like ours—successful, tight-knit—and they try to tear us apart for a quick buck!” He was good. He actually looked insulted. He played the victim so well I almost doubted my own eyes. Beverly immediately stepped between us like a mother hen protecting a chick. She looked at me with a mix of disappointment and accusation. “Brooks Miller! How could you say that? You know Cody. He’s the sweetest boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly! He’s been home every night working on his business.” “Someone is clearly trying to shake you down because they know you’re soft. You can’t let people get in your head like this!” The same script. I’d heard it my entire life. Every time Cody broke a window, failed a class, or stole from a neighbor, she’d flip the narrative until the world was at fault and Cody was a saint. I felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle over me. Arguing was a waste of breath. I pulled out my phone, opened the bank app, and shoved the screen in her face. “This is the money I gave him for his ‘startup.’ All of it is gone, Mom. And funny enough, it matches the medical bills for a guy with a concussion.” Beverly glanced at the numbers. She blinked. Just once. Then she straightened her shoulders, her expression hardening. “So you helped your brother out. So what? We’re family, Brooks. You don’t keep a ledger on family. It’s tacky.” Cody, seeing he had backup, found his smirk again. “Exactly, man. Why are you being so weird? You’re acting like you don’t even trust us anymore.” “Whatever I spent, it was for the good of this house. When I’m a millionaire, you think I’m gonna be checking your receipts? No. Because I actually care about you.” I looked at them—my mother and my brother—standing united in their delusion. They were a perfect team. They could turn black into white and guilt into an obligation. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was my fiancée, Sophie. I took a deep breath and walked out onto the porch to answer, trying to sound human. “Hey, Soph.” “You’re home? You didn’t tell me,” she said, her voice laced with worry. “Something came up.” “Is everything okay at the house?” I looked through the window at the two of them, arguing over the TV remote as if nothing had happened. A cold shiver climbed up my spine. “Yeah,” I lied, my heart breaking. “Everything’s fine.” I hung up and didn’t go back inside. I couldn’t. I was afraid of what I might do if I had to look at them for one more second. 03 I locked myself in my room. The walls felt thin, but the silence was a relief. I didn’t go back out to scream at them. There was no point. I’d spent twenty-eight years being the “good son,” the “reliable brother,” the “wallet.” If I wanted out, I couldn’t use emotion. I had to use logic. I sat at my desk and sent a text to Riley Sinclair. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Can you send me the details on what happened with my brother?” She replied almost instantly. No fluff, no “I told you so.” Just a series of photos and a PDF. The hospital report was brutal: Grade 2 concussion, fractured orbital bone. Then came the bills. The total was staggering—far more than the nine hundred and ninety dollars she’d taken from me. Then, a voice memo. “Your brother was at a club called The Vault,” Riley’s voice said, steady and cold. “He wanted a VIP table that was already taken. He brought a couple of his ‘associates’ and decided to start a fight to prove how tough he was. My brother was just sitting there.” “Cody ran as soon as the bouncers showed up. He blocked our numbers. He went into hiding. We had to track him through one of his ‘friends’ to find out who you were.” The Vault. VIP tables. Thugs. The pieces clicked. This wasn’t a startup. This was Cody playing a character in a movie he couldn’t afford, using my sweat and blood to buy the tickets. Riley gave me one more thing: the name of the “friend” who’d flipped on Cody.

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