Eight years. That’s how long it takes to build a life with someone. I thought we were moving toward the inevitable—the house, the marriage, the family. I was pregnant, and I was happy. I never imagined that on our anniversary, my partner would storm into my ER, not with flowers, but carrying another woman in a blood-stained designer gown. The sight of them was a physical blow. Nate was in a tuxedo, looking sharper than I’d ever seen him, and his hands—the hands that had held mine every night for nearly a decade—were trembling as he clutched a wedding ring that wasn’t meant for me. In that heartbeat, the reality I’d constructed shattered. Everything he had been planning, every secret he’d kept, wasn’t a surprise for our future. It was for hers. “Jo! Please, you have to save the baby. Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “I’ll explain everything later. Just save them.” I am a professional. I pushed the agony into a cold, dark corner of my mind and went to work. I spent hours stabilizing her, fighting the tide of her threatened miscarriage until she was finally out of the woods. But as I was preparing to end my shift, the unthinkable happened. The woman’s condition plummeted. The baby was lost. She woke up screaming, pointing a trembling finger at me, accusing me of intentional malpractice—claiming I had dragged my feet to ensure she lost the child. Nate’s grief turned into a feral, blinding rage. Before I could speak, he lunged, shoving me hard against the linoleum floor. Then, he kicked me. A heavy, brutal blow to my abdomen. As I felt the warmth of blood beginning to spread beneath me, staining my scrubs, he let out a jagged, mocking laugh. “Look at that performance,” he spat. “Playing the victim while you were carrying someone else’s brat all along?” … 1: The Accident The nurses rushed in to pull him off me, but he wouldn’t stop screaming. “You’re a murderer! You killed my child on purpose!” His voice was so loud it felt like a physical weight, triggering a rhythmic throb in my skull. My vision blurred as the ringing in my ears intensified. And the blood—it wouldn’t stop. It was a dark, terrifying crimson pool. The staff hurriedly hoisted me onto a gurney to rush me to an exam room. All the way down the hall, Nate’s relatives—people who had sat at my dinner table, people who had called me ‘family’ for eight years—chased the gurney. They hurled slurs I’d only ever heard in movies, dragging my name through the mud with every step. I lay on that cold bed, staring blankly at the acoustic ceiling tiles, a hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. Today was supposed to be our eighth anniversary. Two months ago, I’d found out I was pregnant. I had spent weeks rehearsing how to tell him, imagining the joy on his face. Instead, the man who told me he was ‘pulling double shifts at the clinic’ was actually at his own engagement party. The tuxedo I thought he was buying for a gala, the ring I hoped was for me—they were all hers. The people screaming at the door—the aunts, the cousins I had helped with medical advice and holiday dinners—now saw me as a monster. A ‘doctor of death.’ The moment Nate realized his child was gone, he didn’t see me as the woman he loved. He saw a target. He had looked me in the eye and stomped on my stomach with everything he had. The prenatal vitamins I’d bought earlier that day rolled out of my pocket, clattering across the floor as the hemorrhage worsened. Nate is a surgeon. He’s brilliant. He knew exactly what that kind of bleeding meant. He knew it wasn’t just a ‘period.’ But he just mocked me. “So that’s why you wouldn’t sleep with me lately? Because you were already knocked up by someone else?” I tried to clench my fist, to swing at him, but my body felt like it was made of water. Dr. Sandra Jenkins, a colleague from my department, rushed in with a portable ultrasound. After a quick, frantic scan, her face went pale. “Jo, the fetus is gone. And your uterine wall… there’s a major rupture. You know what this means. We need to get you into surgery right now.” Sweating and shivering, I reached out a hand, gesturing for the consent forms. “I can’t let a patient in this state sign for a major surgery!” Sandra hissed, looking toward the door. “I know your parents passed, but your boyfriend is right outside. I’ll get him to sign.” “No!” I shrieked, my voice breaking. “I’ll sign it myself!” But the door swung open. Nate was standing there, his face a mask of cold indifference. I heard his voice clearly, echoing in the sterile hallway. “She brought this on herself. She killed a baby; maybe it’s poetic justice if she doesn’t make it.” When Sandra asked for his signature, he didn’t even flinch. “That kid isn’t mine. Go find whatever deadbeat she’s been sleeping with. I’m not signing a damn thing.” 2: The Signature “Exactly! Find her little secret lover,” his mother chimed in from the hallway. “Our Nate deserves better than a woman this toxic.” “I always knew she was trash,” another voice added. “Thank God he didn’t actually marry her. Bullet dodged.” “Eight years of free rent and sex, and she probably expected a huge payout,” someone else scoffed. “Good riddance.” Sandra was shaking with rage as she slammed the door shut, shutting out their vitriol. She handed me the clipboard. “I had no idea he was this kind of sub-human, Jo. I’m so sorry.” I signed the paper with a trembling hand, a ghost of a smile on my lips. Eight years, and I never truly saw him. How could I expect anyone else to? They were talking about a ‘payout,’ but Nate was the one who had spent years promising me the world. Since our fifth year, he’d talked about the ‘Miller-West’ wedding as if it were a royal event. He’d hold my hand and tell me I was his North Star, that he’d never marry anyone else. He used to show me news articles about couples who broke up over wedding costs or dowries, calling those men ‘weak’ and ‘failures.’ He promised me a $50,000 wedding fund, just for me, because he wanted to honor the age I was when we met. I had laughed it off back then. Now, my silence was being used as evidence of my greed. As they wheeled me toward the OR, the verbal abuse didn’t stop. It followed me like a shadow. Nate’s voice rose above the rest, cold and final. “If she dies, she dies.” As a doctor, I knew the odds. The internal damage from his kick was extensive. He hadn’t just reacted in a moment of grief; he had tried to kill me. As the anesthesia began to cloud my mind, my last conscious thought was one of pure, crystalline despair. The surgery lasted five hours. When I was finally wheeled into recovery, a swarm of local reporters were already waiting in the lobby. Nate was standing there, holding Tiffany—the other woman—looking like the picture of a grieving, wronged father. “When will Dr. Thorne be available for comment?” “Is it true she intentionally delayed treatment because she was jealous of the engagement?” The hospital security tried to hold them back, but the scandal was too juicy. The narrative was already set: I was the ‘other woman’ who couldn’t handle being replaced, the bitter doctor who violated her Hippocratic Oath for revenge. During my recovery, my room was never a sanctuary. Strangers would sneak in to take photos. Some would even shake me awake to ask for an ‘exclusive.’ And Nate? He filed an official malpractice complaint against me as the ‘victim’s representative.’ I never thought my first major legal battle would be against the man I’d shared a bed with for nearly a decade. Because I was too weak to respond, the rumors solidified into ‘facts.’ Tiffany even started live-streaming her ‘grief,’ painting herself as the innocent bride-to-be whose life was ruined by a psycho ex. Before I was even strong enough to walk, the hospital board, fearing the PR nightmare, demanded that I hold a press conference to apologize to Nate and Tiffany. It wasn’t just an apology. It was a career-ending confession of guilt. “I won’t do it,” I rasped, my voice still weak from the intubation. But they didn’t care. They scheduled the event anyway. There I was, being wheeled onto a stage, while Tiffany sat in the front row like a queen on a throne, Nate standing tall beside her, ready to watch my public execution. 3: The Report As I was wheeled out, I could hear the muffled snickers from the back of the room. Nate stepped up to the microphone, his voice echoing with rehearsed solemnity. “I don’t want much. Just an apology. Jo needs to look my fiancée in the eye and admit that she intentionally took our child’s life because she couldn’t let go of the past.” He even managed to squeeze out a few crocodile tears. I watched him from the side of the stage, my chest tightening. If I hadn’t overheard the truth while drifting in and out of consciousness in the ward, I might have still believed he was just a man broken by grief. But now I knew better. Sandra Jenkins caught my eye from the wings. She checked her phone and gave me a tiny, sharp nod. “The lab results are in,” she whispered as she helped me toward the podium. I nodded back, my heart turning to stone. The moment I reached the mic, Tiffany lunged at me, her face a mask of histrionic fury. “You destroyed my family! You killed my baby!” She swung her hand to slap me, but despite my weakness, I caught her wrist. Up close, looking into her eyes, a memory clicked. I knew this face. I let out a soft, hollow laugh. She was the ‘family friend’ Nate’s parents had tried to set him up with years ago. Back then, Nate and I weren’t public yet—my parents were gone, I didn’t have a trust fund, and his family was obsessed with status. We had kept things quiet to avoid their meddling. One Christmas, Nate had gone silent for days. He told me his family was ‘busy.’ Later, I found out it was a set-up with her. He’d shown me her picture and laughed, telling me he wasn’t interested, that he was just ‘appeasing the old folks.’ I had believed him. I shouldn’t have. In the hospital, I learned they’d been together for three of our eight years. Every ‘business trip’ he took to his hometown wasn’t to see his sick father; it was to help Tiffany find a job, to meet her parents, to build a life. She was the daughter-in-law his parents wanted. I was just the girl who’d waited eight years for a promise that was never going to be kept. He hadn’t wanted to marry me because he already had someone else lined up for the role. I gripped the microphone, looking out at the cameras. My first words were: “I admit it. I was wrong.” A wave of jeers and insults erupted from the crowd. Nate smirked, leaning back. The hospital director stepped forward, looking relieved. “Dr. Thorne, it’s good you’re taking responsibility. Apologize to the victims so we can move forward.” “Yes, just apologize,” someone shouted. “Don’t waste our time.” Tiffany started sobbing into her hands. I cleared my throat, my voice steadying. “I want to apologize to Nate. I didn’t realize that for three years, I was ‘the other woman.’ My heart goes out to Tiffany—honestly. You knew about me for three years, yet you stayed quiet, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.” The room went dead silent. “You knew he had a live-in girlfriend of eight years, yet you planned a wedding behind my back. And then, while I was in the ICU fighting for my life after Nate nearly kicked me to death, you went on social media to call me the homewrecker. So, Nate, Tiffany… do you really think you’re the ones owed an apology?” Tiffany jumped up, pointing a shaking finger. “You’re lying! You’re just trying to deflect because you’re a hack! You killed my baby! Apologize or we’ll sue you for everything you have!” Sandra Jenkins stepped onto the stage then. “The hospital has conducted a secondary internal investigation.” The security footage in the room had a blind spot—it didn’t show Tiffany’s bed directly. But Sandra, seeing the state I was in after Nate’s attack, had gone rogue. She had collected every piece of medical waste, every vial, and every blood sample from Tiffany’s room immediately after the incident. “I have the lab report that reveals the truth,” Sandra announced.

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My mother lay in the hospital bed, her voice a mere paper-thin rasp. I froze. From the time I could talk, she had commanded me to call her “Sister.” I had done it for thirty years. It was a habit, a reflex, as natural as breathing. But this time, the look in my mother’s eyes was different. She was searching my face, waiting for something, her gaze heavy with a weight I couldn’t quite name. “Mallory,” I whispered. My mother smiled, her eyes fluttering shut for the last time. Three days later, the lawyer informed me that her entire estate—three million dollars—had been left to me. Mallory got nothing. 1. My name is June Miller. I’m thirty-two. I have an older sister named Mallory. For as long as I can remember, my mother’s mantra was the same: “Mallory’s health is delicate, June. You have to let her have her way.” Let her have her way. Those six words were the soundtrack of my life for three decades. When we were kids, if Mallory wanted my toys, I gave them up. In school, if Mallory wanted to join a certain club or take extra classes, I stepped aside. As adults, if Mallory wanted an opportunity, a connection, or even the spotlight, I retreated into the shadows. I thought this was just what sisters did. I thought it was love. Until I turned eighteen and was getting ready for college. “June, we need to talk,” my mother said, calling me into her room. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight. “Mallory is starting her freshman year, too, and money is tight. I was wondering if you could…” She paused, unable to look me in the eye. “Take out student loans? For the whole thing?” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Mom, what about Mallory?” “Mallory is different,” she said quickly. “With her health issues, she can’t handle the stress of a part-time job while studying. You’re different. You’ve always been the sensible one.” Sensible. There it was. The golden cage of being the “good” daughter. “Mom, loans have to be paid back. With interest.” “You’ll pay them off once you’re working,” she said, her voice breezy now that the request was out. “You’re so smart, June. You’ll land a high-paying job in no time.” I didn’t say anything. “Mallory’s tuition is twenty-three thousand a year,” my mother continued. “Plus two thousand a month for her living expenses. I simply can’t afford to pay that twice.” Twenty-three thousand a year. Two thousand a month. Over four years, that was nearly a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “And my tuition?” I asked. “The loans will cover that, honey.” “What about my living expenses?” My mother thought for a second. “I can send you five hundred a month. Is that enough?” Five hundred. Mallory got two thousand. I got five hundred. I looked at her, and her expression was perfectly serene. No guilt, no hesitation. “It’s enough,” I said, nodding slowly. From that day on, I understood the hierarchy. In this house, Mallory and I carried very different price tags. During those four years of college, I lived on the edge of exhaustion. I took out the max in loans and worked three jobs just to eat. Mallory? My mother’s two-thousand-dollar check arrived like clockwork on the first of every month. During breaks, when Mallory came home, my mother bought her new clothes and cooked her favorite meals. When I came home, my mother would say, “June, I’m so glad you’re back. I need help with the deep cleaning and the yard work.” I didn’t complain. Truly. I just wondered why. Why was the gap so wide between two daughters? Was Mallory’s health really that bad? I watched her eat more than me, run faster than me, and party late into the night. “Mom, what exactly is wrong with Mallory?” I asked once. My mother blinked, startled. “She was very sickly as a child. It’s better now, but we have to be careful.” “Then why do I still have to give in to her?” “She’s older,” my mother said, as if that explained everything. “The older sister deserves to be taken care of.” The logic was nonsensical, but I didn’t fight it. In my senior year, I landed an internship. It didn’t pay much, but I saved every penny. After six months, I managed to pay off the interest on my first freshman loan. I called my mother, excited to share the news. “Mom, I cleared the interest!” “Oh. That’s nice.” Her tone was flat. Then, she pivoted. “June, Mallory has a big interview coming up and needs a few professional suits. Do you think you could—” I hung up before she could finish. It was the first time I had ever hung up on her. A minute later, she called back, her voice sharp. “What was that? Your sister needs a small loan, what’s the big deal?” “Mom, how much money did you give me over the last four years?” The line went silent. “I took the loans. I worked the jobs. I’m paying it all back myself. What did you give her?” “That’s different.” “How?” “She isn’t as strong as you.” There it was again. The same tired script. “Mom, what is her diagnosis? I’ve never even seen her go to a specialist.” Silence. Then, finally: “You wouldn’t understand.” She was right. I didn’t. But in that moment, I decided to stop asking. Not because I understood, but because I was tired of caring. After graduation, I stayed in the city. I found a small apartment, a steady job, and a life of my own. I didn’t ask for a dime. My mother called occasionally, but she never asked if I was okay. “June, Mallory is dating someone. His family owns a huge construction firm. Very wealthy.” “June, Mallory wants a new car. I chipped in twenty thousand for the down payment.” “June, Mallory…” Every call was a progress report on Mallory’s life. I became a ghost in my own family. A transparent observer. By the time I’d been working for three years, I had saved eighty thousand dollars. I used it to kill the rest of my student debt. That night, I sat alone in my rented apartment, eating takeout and staring at the “Loan Paid in Full” notification on my phone. No one knew. No one cared. I texted my mother: Mom, my student loans are finally gone. Thirty minutes later, she replied: Ok. By the way, Mallory wants to go to Tokyo for a vacation, but I’m a little short this month. Could you… I didn’t reply. I set the phone face down and kept eating. It finally clicked. Why was I looking for her validation? She didn’t have any to give me. Mallory was her project. Mallory was her priority. What was I? An ATM? A backup plan? A tool to be used and discarded? I didn’t know. But I knew one thing: I was done expecting anything from them. No more hoping for a “good job,” no more wishing for a “thank you.” I was on my own, and honestly, it felt safer that way. 2. When I was twenty-six, I met Nate. He was a colleague, two years older than me. Steady, hardworking, and incredibly kind. After a year of dating, he proposed. There was no diamond the size of a grape, no flash mob. Just Nate, in my tiny apartment, holding a simple gold band. “June, I don’t have much,” he said, “but I want to build a life with you. Will you marry me?” I said yes. I called my mother to tell her. “Mom, I’m getting married.” There was a long pause. “You’re dating someone? Since when?” “I told you about him, Mom. Three times.” “Did you? I must have forgotten.” She forgot. Every time I had mentioned Nate, she’d just said “Oh, okay” and moved the conversation back to Mallory’s latest drama. “When’s the wedding?” “Next month.” “So soon?” She frowned. “That won’t work. Mallory is getting some cosmetic work done next month and I need to be there for her recovery.” I checked the phone to make sure I was hearing her correctly. I was getting married, and she was choosing Mallory’s botox and fillers. “Mom, it’s my wedding.” “I’ll come after she’s settled.” “And when would that be?” “Probably the end of the month.” My wedding was on the 15th. “Mom, are you saying you aren’t coming?” “Mallory really needs me right now,” she said. “You’re just doing a local thing, right? Keep it simple. You don’t need a big production.” Keep it simple. When Mallory got married a year prior, it had been a different story. My mother took a month off work. She hand-picked the lace for the gown, tasted every cake, and obsessed over the seating chart. She gave Mallory eighty thousand dollars for a house down payment and twenty thousand for the reception. And me? “Keep it simple.” I actually laughed. “Fine. Simple it is.” I hung up. The wedding was small. A few friends, some colleagues. Nate’s parents drove in from out of state, their faces beaming with pride. My side of the aisle was empty. My mother didn’t show. My father had passed years ago. And Mallory? She sent a text: Congrats, June! Have fun. Come visit me in Chicago sometime! Come visit me in Chicago. She didn’t even know what city I lived in. The ceremony was halfway over when my mother-in-law leaned in and whispered, “June, where is your mother?” I forced a smile. “Something came up. She couldn’t make it.” She didn’t press the issue, but I saw the pity in her eyes. It stung worse than the absence. After the reception, Nate asked, “Did your mom send a gift?” I pulled a small red envelope from my purse. Inside were twenty hundred-dollar bills. “Two thousand dollars,” I said. Nate stared at it. “That’s… it?” “That’s it.” He looked like he wanted to say something, but he just pulled me into his arms instead. “I’m your family now,” he whispered. I didn’t cry. But for the first time, the tether to my mother snapped. Two thousand dollars. That was the price of my entire existence to her. Fine. I’d take my two grand and my new husband and build a life she wouldn’t be invited to. Life went on. Nate and I saved, we bought a modest townhouse, we worked. My mother’s calls followed a pattern. “Mallory got a promotion. She’s a manager now.” “Mallory’s pregnant. It’s a boy.” “Mallory bought a new SUV. Thirty thousand dollars.” I’d say “Oh” and hang up. One day, my mother actually sounded annoyed. “June, why don’t you ever ask about your sister?” “She never asks about me,” I replied. There was a silence. “She’s busy, June.” “Right. Busy being promoted, busy being a mom, busy buying cars. Busy enjoying everything you give her.” “June—” “I have to go, Mom.” I was busy, too. I was busy living a life that didn’t require her permission or her pittance. I didn’t have a million-dollar head start, but I had Nate. And I had myself. 3. Two years into my marriage, Mallory called me. It was our first real conversation in years. “June, I need a favor,” she said, her voice dripping with that practiced, upper-class condescension. “What is it?” “Mom wants to help me buy a vacation property. She’s a little short on the cash and she thought maybe you could lend us some?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “How much?” “Not much. Just a hundred thousand.” A hundred thousand. My mother gave me two thousand dollars for my wedding. Now she wanted me to bankroll Mallory’s second home. “I don’t have it, Mallory.” “How can you not have it? You’ve been working for years.” “I’ve been living for years. Paying a mortgage. Saving for my own future.” “Don’t be like that,” Mallory snapped. “It’s a loan. We’ll pay you back.” “Mallory, how much do you have in your savings account?” “What? That’s none of your business.” “If you have more than me, why are you asking me for money?” The line went dead quiet. Then: “Mom told me to ask you.” “Then tell Mom the answer is no.” I hung up. Less than a minute later, my mother was on the line. “June, what is wrong with you? Your sister is just asking for a little help.” “Mom, how much did you give me for my wedding?” “That’s completely different.” “How? Why is it always different?” “Mallory is buying property. She needs the capital. You already have a house. You don’t need it.” “Mom, I bought this house. I saved the down payment. I pay the mortgage. You haven’t contributed a single cent to my life since I was eighteen. Not one.” “Because you didn’t need it!” “When did I ever say that?” “Then why didn’t you ask?” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “I asked for tuition when I was eighteen, and you told me to go into debt. I got married at twenty-six, and you gave me two thousand dollars. Why would I ask you for anything now? I know what the answer is.” “You’re just so… sensible. So independent.” “Independent?” I shouted. “I’m independent because I had to be! I’ve spent thirty years letting Mallory come first. I played the part of the good, ‘sensible’ daughter while she took everything. When is it her turn to be sensible?” My mother didn’t answer. “You wouldn’t understand,” she finally whispered. “I’m done trying to understand, Mom. I don’t have the money. Don’t ask again.” I sat on my balcony that night, watching the sun set. Nate came out and sat beside me. “You okay?” “I just realized,” I said, “that I’ve never actually been a part of that family. I was just the support staff.” He wrapped his arm around me. “You’re the heart of this family.” I didn’t cry. But a part of me—the part that still hoped for a mother’s love—finally died. I stopped answering her calls. If I did, it was “yes,” “no,” or “I’m busy.” The distance was a relief. Until I ran into my Aunt Martha. She was my father’s sister, the only one who had ever been kind to me. She was in town for a conference and we met for coffee. “June, do you know?” she asked, looking at me with a strange, hesitant pity. “Know what?” “About Mallory.” “What about her? Did she buy a private jet?” Martha sighed. “I shouldn’t say. Your mother made us promise… but it’s not right. It was never right.” “Aunt Martha, please. Just tell me.” “Mallory was adopted, June.” The world seemed to tilt on its axis. “What?” “Thirty years ago, your mother had a late-term miscarriage. A boy. She was devastated. Your father, bless him, thought a child would heal her. They went to an agency and found Mallory. She was two.” I couldn’t breathe. “And then?” “And then your mother got healthy. Two years later, she had you.” “So… Mallory isn’t hers. But I am?” Martha nodded. “Your mother always felt guilty about it. She thought Mallory’s ‘true’ family had abandoned her, so she overcompensated. She wanted Mallory to feel more loved than anyone else. As for you… well, you were hers. She thought you weren’t going anywhere. You were the one who wouldn’t leave.” The one who wouldn’t leave. The words felt like a serrated blade in my chest. “So she neglected me because she was sure of me? And she spoiled her because she was afraid she’d lose her?” “Pretty much,” Martha said. “She thought being a ‘good person’ meant loving the adopted child more.” A good person? She had abandoned her own child to prove she hadn’t abandoned someone else’s. “Why are you telling me this now?” “Because it’s gone too far,” Martha said. “She was afraid that if you knew, you’d hate Mallory.” Hate Mallory? I didn’t hate Mallory. She was just a spoiled byproduct of a broken woman’s guilt. I hated my mother. I hated that my existence was sacrificed to pay for a debt I didn’t owe. That night, I didn’t sleep. I remembered every “sensible” moment. Every hand-me-down. Every missed birthday. I wasn’t “less than.” I was just “guaranteed.” And because I was guaranteed, I was worthless.

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Callum traded his mind to save my life. At least, that’s what I believed. To repay that debt, I forfeited my ticket home, choosing to stay in this simulated reality just to nurse him back to health. But three years into my self-imposed exile, the man who supposedly couldn’t tie his own shoes drove a black SUV straight into me. As I lay broken on the asphalt, he stepped out of the car, his hand entwined with his “eternal flame,” the girl he’d never been able to forget. “I’ve waited so long for this day,” he said, looking down at me with eyes that were chillingly sharp. “Once you’re gone, Becca and I can take your place. We’ll have the Program. We’ll have forever.” It was a masterclass in deception. He’d never been brain-damaged. He’d been a predator in a coma, waiting for the perfect moment to steal the very System that kept me tethered to this world. What he didn’t realize was that I wasn’t staying for the perks. I was staying for the punishment. I closed my eyes and whispered to the void, “There are new candidates ready to take my place. Two of them, actually. Can you let me go now?” 1. “So, it was all an act? Every single second of it?” I was lying in a pool of my own blood, my vision blurring as I stared up at Callum. He was holding Becca close, his dark eyes devoid of the warmth I had spent three years trying to coax back into them. “Every second,” he confirmed. The tenderness was gone, replaced by a cold, efficient cruelty. “If I didn’t play the fool, how else was I supposed to keep you here? You needed to feel sorry for me. You needed to feel responsible.” “I should thank you, though,” he added, his voice dropping an octave. “If you hadn’t let slip how the Program works, I never would have found a way to save Becca.” Becca shivered in his arms, her face a pale, sickly ivory. She was his high school sweetheart, the one who’d been fighting a losing battle with leukemia for years. Callum used to tell me, “Her being sick has nothing to do with us, Rose. That part of my life ended a long time ago.” I realized now that he’d spent those three years orchestrating this. Every “stupid” smile, every “accidental” touch—it was all a blueprint for my murder. Suddenly, a white-hot agony tore through my chest. This wasn’t from the car crash. It was the System. In this reality, my “Assignment” was to make Callum love me. If his heart turned cold, the Program punished the host. It was a failsafe designed to ensure the Traveler never gave up. “It hurts…” I gasped. The sensation was like being pulled apart by horses. I’d felt it many times before, but you never truly get used to your soul being shredded from the inside out. “Is it really that bad?” Callum asked, watching me with clinical curiosity. “You’re a Traveler. Can’t you just tell your little computer to turn off the pain receptors?” His indifference was the sharpest blade of all. I remembered the nights he’d spent tucked into my side, whispering that I was his whole world. I’d fallen for it. I’d loved him so much I told him about the System—the secret of the universe—because I thought we were a team. I just never told him about the punishments. I didn’t want him to carry that guilt. The agony spiked. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “Stop… please, just stop talking,” I wheezed. Every word of his rejection was a new physical blow. Becca stepped forward, looking down at me with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “Does it really hurt that much, Rose?” She turned to Callum, her voice a fragile trill. “Maybe we should forget about the immortality. I don’t want to cause her pain.” “No,” Callum snapped, his gaze softening instantly when it landed on her. “You’re not like her, Becca. She’s a Traveler. Even if she ‘dies’ here, she just goes back to her original world. But if you die, you’re gone forever. Don’t waste your pity on her.” When Callum wasn’t looking, Becca leaned in, a triumphant glint in her eyes. She whispered, “Did you know? I told Callum that if he said he hated you, it would make you suffer. He’s been practicing those lines for weeks.” She smirked. “He doesn’t love you. He never did. I’m the lead in this story, Rose. You’re just the understudy.” Callum pulled her back into his embrace, his touch reverent. “I finally closed on the estate at Laurel Ridge,” he told her. “It’s going to be our home. Forever.” I’d told Callum once that in my real world, I was an orphan with nothing. My only dream was to have a house with a porch and a garden. He’d bought that estate for me—or so I thought. I’d spent months picking out the tiles, the curtains, the life I thought we’d lead. And now, he wanted me dead so he could move her into my dream. I let my hand fall limp against the cold pavement. “I’ve found them,” I said to the System in the silence of my mind. “The new hosts. Take them. Just let me go.” Callum, if you don’t want me, then I’m done wanting you. 2. [System: Understood. Detecting new host candidates for transfer.] [System: Host, are you certain you wish to split the tether between these two individuals?] I looked at them. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, silhouetted by the distant glow of city lights, looking like a postcard for a love that would never end. For a flickering second, I saw the “stupid” Callum. The one who used to say, “Rose, thank you for staying. I love you.” The one who warmed my milk every night and held my hair back when I was sick. I had thought he was my anchor. I was wrong. He was the storm. “I’m certain,” I whispered. [System: Initiating transfer sequence.] “Why hasn’t the System appeared yet?” Becca asked, sounding impatient. Callum smoothed her hair. “Rose’s probably negotiating with it. Just wait. Whenever she communicates with the Program, she gets that faraway look in her eyes.” [System: Greetings, New Hosts.] The voice didn’t just vibrate in my head anymore. It echoed in the air, cold and synthesized, audible to all of us. [System: From this moment forward, you are the primary nodes. Please designate your focal point for the Bond.] “I choose Becca,” Callum said immediately. “I choose Callum,” Becca chirped. They looked so devoted. So unshakable. It reminded me of the man who once promised, “No matter what happens, I will always choose you, Rose.” Well, he was choosing someone else now. [System: Selection confirmed. However, the synchronization requires a seventy-two-hour stabilization period. You must wait.] The voice faded from their ears, returning to the private channel in my mind. [System: You have three days before extraction. I will repair the damage from the collision so you may settle your affairs in this world.] As the words faded, the agonizing heat in my limbs vanished. My shattered bones knit together with a sickening series of pops. I stood up, brushing the dirt from my clothes, and looked at Callum with a hollowed-out soul. He was beaming. “See, Becca? I told you. She can make the System heal anything. It’s perfect. We’ll never be hurt again. We’ll never have to fear death.” I looked at him, feeling a strange, cold pity. He had no idea what he had just invited in. 3. I went to the hospital to see my grandfather. In this simulated world, Grandpa Henry was the only person who had ever felt real. He was the one who gave me his life savings to help Callum buy a car. He was the one who saved his favorite candies in a jar just for me. In the hallway, I ran into Callum and Becca. They were holding hands, and Callum was clutching a printed sonogram. “It’s a miracle, Becca,” he was saying, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m going to be a father.” The words were a jagged blade through my ribs. I’d asked Callum about having a family once. Back when he was “stupid.” He’d told me, “I don’t want kids, Rose. They’re too much work. I just want it to be us.” I thought it was just the brain damage talking. Now I realized it was just that he didn’t want a life with me. He was already making plans for her while I was still dreaming of us. [System: Removing emotional feedback loop. You will no longer suffer physical pain based on the focal point’s emotional state.] As the System spoke, a literal weight lifted from my shoulders. The suffocating tether was gone. I could breathe. I was free. 4. Grandpa Henry smiled when I walked in, handing me a small plastic container. “The nurse gave me extra dumplings, Rose. Eat up, kiddo.” The tears came then, hot and fast. If I left this world, what happened to him? I couldn’t just leave him with nothing. I needed to get my money. Everything I owned—every cent I’d earned working three jobs while Callum “recovered”—was in his house. Our house. When I arrived at the driveway, I saw the housekeeper hauling black garbage bags to the curb. “Oh, Mrs. Vance,” she said, looking terrified. “Mr. Vance told me to clear everything out. He said… he said you wouldn’t be living here anymore.” I looked into one of the bags. My things were shattered. Even the plaster hand-molds Callum and I had made together on our first anniversary were smashed into white dust. I reached for the front door, but the electronic lock beeped red. “He changed the codes,” the housekeeper whispered. I felt a sharp sting in my chest, but I forced myself to take a slow, steady breath. “What’s the new code?” She hesitated, but I stared her down. “My life is in there. I’m not leaving without it.” “2018-08-12,” she mumbled. August 12th, 2018. The day Callum and Becca started dating. I took two steps back, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. Yesterday, he was sleeping in my bed, whispering that he loved me. This morning, he led me to a deserted road for a “surprise,” blindfolded me, and tried to end my life. Callum, you wanted my life so badly. You wanted the Program. But you have no idea how heavy the crown is until it starts crushing your skull. 5. I pushed the door open. Callum was there, leaning over the kitchen island, his hands on Becca’s waist. He was looking at her with a hunger I’d never seen. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you happy, Becca,” he murmured. My bag hit the floor with a dull thud. Even though I was done with him, seeing the intimacy we once shared being gifted to someone else felt like a physical sickness. “What are you doing here?” Callum’s voice was like ice. “You’re not welcome in this house.” His coldness made me flash back to three years ago. I had defied the System to save him, enduring “The Bone-Breaking Penalty” for weeks. I had been willing to die for him. I had planned to spend forever with him. “I’m here for my money,” I said, my voice steady. “The savings from the last five years are in your account. My grandfather’s treatment isn’t free.” Callum didn’t even stop what he was doing. He kept his hands on Becca, ignoring me as if I were a ghost. The sight was revolting, but I stood my ground. “I’ll just take what’s mine and go.” I started toward the stairs, but Becca’s voice stopped me. “Rose, wait. I thought your grandpa was doing better. Why do you need so much cash?” She looked at Callum. “She’s probably trying to smuggle assets back to her real world.” Callum’s eyes snapped to mine. “Is that it? You’re that greedy?” “I worked for that money, Callum. Every cent. It’s for Grandpa Henry.” “I’m not giving you a dime,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “That money belongs to this world. You’re leaving? Fine. Leave with nothing.” I clenched my fists. “Callum, I am telling you, it’s for his surgery. I’m not taking it with me.” “Get out,” he said. “Before I have you removed.” 6. I turned to leave, but Becca hurried over, grabbing my arm. “Rose, don’t go like this. If you’re really that desperate, I can talk to him. I can lend you—” Suddenly, she threw herself backward, her head catching the edge of the marble coffee table with a sickening thwack. “Ow! Callum, it hurts!” Before I could even blink, Callum was there. He slammed into me, his shoulder catching my chest and throwing me backward. I crashed into the bar cart; a pitcher of boiling tea shattered, drenching my arm. I screamed as the heat seared my skin. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rose!” Callum roared, hovering over Becca. “If you’re pissed at me, take it out on me! Don’t you dare touch her!” The name Becca sounded like a slur coming from his mouth. He didn’t even look at the red, blistering skin on my arm. He didn’t care. “Callum, just give me fifty thousand,” I wheezed, clutching my arm. “Give me the money and I’ll disappear. If you don’t, I’ll make sure Becca never has a moment of peace while I’m still here.” “Rose!” He lunged, his hand snapping around my throat. He pinned me against the wall, his grip tightening until the air in my lungs turned to lead. “Why are you so toxic? Can’t we just end this with some dignity?” “I… just… want… the money,” I managed to choke out. He threw me to the floor like a piece of trash. “Fine. You want it? There’s a price.” “What?” I coughed, gasping for air. “Get on your knees and apologize to Becca. Properly.” I froze. I looked at the man I had loved for years. There wasn’t a trace of him left. “Fine,” I said. I dragged myself up and knelt before Becca. “I’m sorry.” I bowed my head. Suddenly, Callum’s hand was in my hair, slamming my forehead into the hardwood floor. Pain exploded behind my eyes; I bit my tongue, the taste of blood filling my mouth. “She hit her head because of you,” Callum snarled. “Now you’re even.” “Is that it?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Can I have the money now?” He pulled a debit card from his pocket and dropped it onto his shoe. “Crawl over and take it.” I didn’t hesitate. I was already at my lowest; what was a few more inches? But as my hand reached for the card, his foot came down, pinning my fingers. “God, Rose,” he spat, his voice thick with disgust. “You really are pathetic. Was it always about the money?” The tears fell then, silent and bitter. I remembered the car hitting me. I remembered his laughter. He didn’t know me at all. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from the hospital. Grandpa Henry was in critical condition. He was being rushed to the OR. I lunged for the door, but Callum grabbed my wrist, twisting it. “You’re not going anywhere. You got the money, now you’re going to earn it. Consider yourself our maid for the next forty-eight hours.” “Let go of me! My grandfather is dying!” “How convenient,” he sneered. “The second you get the cash, there’s an emergency. You’d use a dying old man as a prop? You’re sick.” “I’m not lying!” I screamed. In that moment, the System’s cold voice cut through the room. [System: Transfer protocols finalized ahead of schedule. Stabilization complete. Do you wish to execute the handoff now?]

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I was moving to France for a prestigious faculty exchange, and Madeline was my biggest cheerleader. Everyone in our circle envied me. They told me I had the perfect partner, a woman who was even secretly planning a surprise wedding to celebrate my return. But then I found the files on her laptop—hundreds of petitions sent to the board, demanding the return of a specific male student from the same overseas program. The name on the wedding venue bookings wasn’t mine, either. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t even confront her. I simply offered them my silent blessing because, honestly, I had stopped caring. It was only when I vanished from her life that Madeline finally lost her mind at the altar. 1 “Oliver, are you absolutely sure about switching to the permanent tenure track in Lyon? And… have you talked to Madeline about the wedding date? It literally clashes with your flight.” I stared at Madeline’s computer screen, dazed by the sheer volume of wedding drafts. The other professors had whispered to me that she was planning a surprise, telling me to act surprised. Madeline herself had kept her lips sealed, and for a fleeting moment, I’d been touched. I thought she was finally making an effort for us. But every single draft featured the names Madeline and Daniel. My name was nowhere to be found. No wonder she had been so supportive of me taking the position in France. She wasn’t cheering for my career; she was trading me for Daniel’s return. I clenched my fists and took several deep, jagged breaths. Finally, I spoke with a hollowed-out certainty. “This wedding… it was never for me anyway. Keep the departure time as it is.” Eight years of devotion had led to this. If this was what her love looked like, I didn’t want it anymore. Just as I confirmed the ticket, my phone buzzed. It was Madeline. “How long do you expect everyone to wait for you, Oliver? I know it’s your send-off, but do you really have to pull the ‘Prince Charming’ act and show up late?” I looked at the clock. The party wasn’t scheduled to start for another thirty minutes. Her impatience had arrived well before the guests. I gave her a non-committal response and hung up. My eyes fell on our matching phone cases. A wave of nausea hit me. I had picked them out with such care, but Madeline had called them “tacky” and “unprofessional” for the department. She’d only agreed to use hers at home. Seeing it now just felt like a weight around my neck. I peeled it off, tossed it into the trash, and walked out the door. When I arrived, a colleague thrust a massive bouquet of roses into my arms, winking toward Madeline. “You really picked a winner, Oliver. She went all out for you!” Whenever she upset me, Madeline usually apologized with flowers. But this was different. Roses? She never gave me roses. Before I could say a word, my colleague excitedly pulled the card from the stems and read it aloud to the room. “Dearest Daniel, thank you for coming back to me. You make my life bloom like these roses. Love, Madeline.” The silence that followed was deafening. I felt my fingernails dig into my palms, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping me upright. “Oh, I think those were meant for me!” A set of footsteps approached. Daniel stopped right beside me, plucked the flowers from my hands, and took a deep, theatrical breath. “Madeline always did know I have a thing for red roses,” he said, beaming. Then he turned to me with a smug, knowing tilt of his head. “You must be the ‘best friend’ she mentioned. Thanks for the assist on the transfer, man. I owe you one for getting me back from France.” 2 I looked at those roses and felt a ghost of a laugh catch in my throat. I remembered a day when Madeline had accidentally smashed all our dinnerware. She hadn’t bothered to replace it, and when I came home late, exhausted and hungry, she realized she’d forgotten about me entirely. Guilt-ridden, she had run out in a torrential downpour and returned with a massive bunch of chrysanthemums. I had laughed then, telling her those were for funerals, teasing her about her lack of romantic intuition. But looking at the roses in Daniel’s hand, I realized it wasn’t a lack of intuition. It was a lack of intent. She hadn’t been “bad at romance” for eight years; she just hadn’t wanted to waste the good stuff on me. “Yeah,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “I’m her ‘best friend.’ Let me show you in.” The moment Madeline saw Daniel enter, she stood up, her eyes locked on him as if the rest of the room had dissolved. Her friend, Cassidy, sidled up to me, offering a pitying pat on the shoulder. “Oliver, don’t read too much into it. She just hasn’t seen Daniel in forever. Don’t be weird about it.” I waved her off with a casual shrug. “Why would I be weird? They look great together, don’t they?” Cassidy blinked, stunned. She was the one who had watched me crawl out of bed with a 103-degree fever to go buy Madeline hangover meds. She was the one who had taken my frantic midnight calls asking if she knew where Madeline was. As Madeline’s best friend, she had likely viewed me as little more than a placeholder for the last decade. Seeing she had nothing left to say, she drifted away awkwardly. A few minutes later, I noticed Madeline’s phone on the table. She had a plain white case on it now. On a whim, I nudged it. It wasn’t a case—it was a skin. And tucked underneath the translucent plastic was a small, red-backed passport photo of the two of them. My hands shook as I looked at it. In all our years together, there wasn’t a single photo of me in her phone. She’d always cooed that “we see each other every day, why do we need digital memories?” I had been stupid enough to believe her. But her laptop was a shrine to Daniel—thousands of photos from every conceivable angle. The realization didn’t break my heart; it simply extinguished it. The send-off party for me had officially morphed into a homecoming for Daniel. Madeline was a shadow at his side, laughing at his jokes, hovering over him, even intercepting his drinks. When I tried to maintain a polite smile, she pulled me aside, her voice sharp with unprovoked irritation. “Stop looking at him like that! Can’t you just be a gracious host? Is it so hard to be happy for someone else’s arrival?” The words hit like a physical blow. The sheer audacity of it—trading my life for his and then accusing me of being the small-minded one. Even though I was already halfway out the door, the sting of her blatant favoritism still tasted like ash. I didn’t want her to see me cry. I grabbed a margarita from a passing tray to hand to a colleague, but Madeline swiped it out of my hand, splashing it across the floor. With her other hand, she firmly covered Daniel’s eyes. “Daniel, don’t look! You know you can’t stand the sight of blood-red colors!” Daniel let out a charming chuckle and pulled her hand down, pinching her cheek playfully. “Maddie, that was a lie I told during a game of Truth or Dare in high school. I can’t believe you still remember that! You’re such a dork.” The tears came then, silent and hot. She remembered a high school lie from a decade ago, but she couldn’t remember a single thing about me. I hated the color blue, yet when we renovated the apartment, she painted the bedroom navy. She’d looked at me with genuine confusion when I pointed it out. “I thought you liked blue…” I had spent years telling myself she was just forgetful. I was too afraid to admit that she simply didn’t care to remember. Eight years is a long time to live with someone and leave absolutely no footprint in their world. Daniel walked over, patting Madeline on the back. “Oliver, don’t be mad. She gets like this when she drinks. I used to make her warm honey water back in the day—one cup and she’s a total kitten.” 3 I didn’t say a word. I just watched her lean into him, her head resting on his shoulder with a comfort she never showed me. “Oliver, do you have honey at your place?” Daniel asked. “I’ll text you the recipe. Make sure she drinks it.” How could I ever compete with the person she’d loved since she was fifteen? It was a losing game. It was time to forfeit. “Why don’t you come over and make it yourself?” I suggested. Madeline looked up, her expression flickering with a brief, panicked uncertainty. But when the Uber arrived, she didn’t hesitate. she held the door open for Daniel, ushered him into the back seat, and only then realized there was no room for me. She started to step out, looking conflicted, but I was already closing the door. “Don’t worry about it,” I said through the window. “I can’t compete with a friendship that goes back to middle school.” Madeline looked down, unable to meet my eyes. As the car pulled away, I saw them through the rear window. She was curled into him, but whenever she felt like she might get sick, she’d sit up and steady herself. I started laughing to myself on the sidewalk. She’s holding it in. Whenever I picked her up drunk, she’d vomit all over my car without a second thought. I was the one who had to apologize to the drivers and spend my Sundays scrubbing the upholstery. She didn’t hold it in for me because she didn’t care if she disgusted me. She cared what Daniel thought. When I eventually got home, Daniel was in the kitchen, and Madeline was surprisingly sober after her honey water. “Maddie, I just got back and… I don’t really have a place to stay yet. Do you have a spare room?” Madeline didn’t even glance at me for permission. “Of course. Actually, take the master suite. It’s more comfortable.” “Madeline,” I said, my voice flat. “Are you planning on sleeping in there with him too?” She froze, then turned to me with a cold, warning stare. “That’s none of your business, Oliver.” I laughed again. My mistake. Why ask a question when the answer is already written on the wall? I retreated to the guest room, but a few minutes later, Madeline pushed the door open. “Oliver, it’s not what you think.” I almost wanted to applaud her. The sheer nerve it took to offer an explanation at this point. “I get it. I really do.” “Good. Because—” “But Madeline… we’re done. It’s over.” She looked at me with genuine confusion, as if the idea of me leaving her was a linguistic impossibility. Before she could respond, Daniel burst in, looking pale. “Maddie, someone’s watching me through the window!” We were on the 28th floor. The nearest building was blocks away. It was a ridiculous, transparent plea for attention. But Madeline didn’t hesitate. She grabbed his arm. “Don’t be scared. I’ll stay with you.” As she went to set up a sleeping bag on the floor of the master bedroom, I didn’t care. Let them have the bed I’d slept in. They deserved each other’s ghosts. In my exhaustion, I knocked over a glass lamp. A jagged shard sliced deep into my palm. I had to go to the ER. Madeline saw the blood and frowned, offering a half-hearted suggestion to come with me. A year ago, I would have been pathetically grateful for the gesture. Now? I turned her down. Her face darkened instantly. As she ushered me out the door, she whispered one last thing. “Oliver, don’t do anything desperate just for attention.” I realized then: when someone doesn’t love you, even your pain is just an inconvenience to them. My last spark of affection for her finally went out. 4 I returned from the hospital, exhausted, to find Madeline in the kitchen making breakfast. In eight years, she had never cooked for me. Not once. She used to call me during my lectures just to demand I come home and make her dinner. Seeing her at the stove now was a final, bitter lesson: I wasn’t unworthy of a home-cooked meal; I was just unworthy of her effort. I ignored the bowl of oatmeal she’d set out and grabbed a box of cereal instead. Madeline’s brow furrowed. After a few seconds, she snatched the cereal from my hand. “You just got back from the hospital—” “Maddie!” Daniel’s voice drifted from the bedroom. “You haven’t read to me yet. Come help me fall back asleep.” Daniel appeared in the doorway, giving me a mock-apologetic look. “Sorry, Oliver. Maddie used to tuck me in back in the day. You don’t mind, do you?” Madeline dropped my cereal box on the counter without a backward glance. “Ignore him,” she said to Daniel, and followed him out. I sat there, staring at the cereal, when her phone—left on the counter—started buzzing. It was a notification from a wedding planner. “Hi Madeline, are there any other specific details for the ceremony tonight?” Tonight. She was doing it tonight. I decided then to give them exactly what they wanted. I finished my breakfast, and a few minutes later, Madeline emerged, leading Daniel by the hand. She dropped his hand the second she saw me. “He’s just… lightheaded. I was making sure he didn’t hit the wall.” I smiled. “You should keep holding it. Wouldn’t want him to ruin that pretty face.” Madeline stared at me, floored by my easy tone. Usually, I was the jealous type—I’d hated it when she hung out with other guys, and our biggest fights were over her secretive phone habits. Now that I didn’t care, she didn’t know how to act. “Oliver,” Daniel said, “Maddie booked a tailor for me this afternoon to get a suit fitted. Why don’t you come along? She surprised me with this homecoming, but now she wants me in formal wear!” I declined. I had a flight to catch, and my bags weren’t packed. Madeline slammed a bowl onto the counter. “What could you possibly have to do? He just got back, he doesn’t know the city. Would it kill you to be supportive for once?” I set my own bowl down calmly and looked her in the eye. “I haven’t packed for France yet. Is that a good enough reason for you?” She went quiet. She looked down, a rare flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Isn’t your flight next week?” She had pushed for me to go, yet she didn’t even know the date. I didn’t bother answering. When I didn’t move to clean up the kitchen, her temper flared again. “Oliver, do you really think I’m going to take that ‘breakup’ talk seriously from last night?” She was so deluded. She actually thought I was just throwing a tantrum to get my way. When she saw I remained expressionless, she let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Fine! Fine! We’re done! Happy?” She grabbed Daniel’s hand and stormed out. She missed three or four calls from me over the next few hours, but I wasn’t calling to beg. I was calling to say goodbye to the apartment. As I packed, I realized I owned almost nothing in this place. I checked her social media. Her pinned post was a “Save the Date” for a private ceremony that evening. As my plane climbed into the sky, I hit ‘send’ on a pre-recorded video message. My phone began to blow up with her calls as I crossed into international airspace. “Where are you? Why would you post a video like that?” “It’s not what you think, Oliver!” “Get back here right now!” I turned the phone off. The cabin pressure popped my ears, and for the first time in eight years, I could finally breathe.

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Saturday at noon, the buzzer rang. A lawyer was standing on my porch, looking crisp and out of place in my neighborhood. “Susie Beck has passed away,” she said, her voice practiced and neutral. “Her will names you as her sole beneficiary. It’s an estate valued at five million dollars.” Susie Beck. My ex-girlfriend. We’d been over for two years. The lawyer handed me a brass key. “She said there was something you had to collect in person.” When I got to her place, the wake was still in full swing. Her current boyfriend was draped over her casket, wailing for the benefit of the room. The second he saw me, he started screaming that I was there to rob the dead. I didn’t have the energy for him. I went upstairs. I pushed open the door to the study, and there she was—a girl, maybe five or six, with dark, searching eyes. She stared at me, unblinking. “Are you Ben? My mom said if she died, I was supposed to go with you.” 01 Saturday morning, the vents in my cramped apartment were humming with the smell of searing meat. I was standing over the stove, dropping cloves and a cinnamon stick into my beef stew—the secret she’d taught me. Then the doorbell rang. The woman outside was in her thirties, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit with a briefcase that screamed billable hours. she looked me up and down, then forced a professional smile. “Mr. Ben Bennett?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at the card she held out. Halloway & Associates. Diana Halloway, Senior Partner. “What is it?” “I am the executor of Susie Beck’s estate.” She paused, letting the name hang in the air like a ghost. “Her will names you as the sole heir. This includes the property, her vehicle, and liquid assets totaling approximately five million dollars. If you have a moment, we should discuss the details.” Susie Beck. I handed the card back and started to close the door. She wedged her hand against the frame. “Mr. Bennett, I realize this is a shock—” “A shock?” I looked at her, my heart thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs. “I haven’t spoken to that woman in two years. You show up and tell me she left me five million dollars? Either she lost her mind, or you’ve got the wrong house.” Ms. Halloway didn’t flinch. She pulled a notarized document from her bag. “This is the will. You can verify the signature yourself.” I didn’t take it. “Why isn’t she here telling me this herself?” The lawyer went quiet for two beats. She looked up, her expression softening just a fraction. “Ms. Beck was killed in a car accident three days ago. The body has already been cremated.” The hallway went silent. Downstairs, a neighbor’s kid was crying. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I took the papers then. I flipped through them. The seal was real. The stamps were real. And that signature—I knew it better than my own. I used to sign for her packages all the time because she hated her own handwriting. She used to call it “chicken scratch.” “Why me?” I asked, closing the folder. “What about the guy she was with? Justin?” Ms. Halloway shook her head. “Mr. Justin Shaw was not mentioned in the will.” Justin Shaw. I’d heard the name. Two years ago, when Susie called to end things, I’d heard a man’s voice in the background calling her name. That was him. I shoved the papers back at her. “I don’t want the money. Give it to charity. Give it to him. I don’t care.” “Ms. Beck expected you to say that.” The lawyer reached into her bag again and produced a small, cream-colored envelope. It looked like it had been crumpled up and smoothed out a dozen times. Inside was a single slip of paper. One sentence. You always forget the cinnamon in the stew; who’s going to buy it for you when I’m gone? I gripped the paper so hard my nails dug into my palm. “Is there anything else?” Ms. Halloway hesitated, then handed me a brass key with a small tag: 1802. I knew that number. Susie used to say she wanted to live on the eighteenth floor because it felt like being closer to the clouds. I told her it was a long way to fall. She told me she liked the view. “When did it happen?” “Last Wednesday night. 10:47 PM. On the I-95. A single-vehicle accident. She hit the guardrail.” Last Wednesday. I’d been working late. My phone had buzzed around nine, but I thought it was a spam alert. I never checked it. After the lawyer left, I shut the door and went back to the kitchen. The stew had cooled, a thin layer of fat congealing on the surface. I turned the burner back on. I watched the bubbles start to break the surface, the scent of cinnamon rising in the steam. She remembered how I liked it. She remembered I hated cilantro. She remembered everything, except how to stay alive. 02 The moment the key turned in the lock, the door was pulled open from the inside. A thick cloud of incense and lilies hit me. The living room had been stripped of its furniture to make room for a makeshift shrine. In the center hung a black-and-white photo of Susie, surrounded by white roses. A man in a tailored black suit stood in the foyer. His eyes were red and puffy, but his hair was perfectly styled. He glared at me like I was a stray dog that had wandered into his yard. “What are you doing here?” Justin Shaw. The voice from the phone two years ago. I didn’t answer. I brushed past him. The room was full—distant relatives in black, business associates in expensive watches, and in the corner, a middle-aged couple. The woman was sobbing into a tissue; the man was staring at nothing, a dead cigarette in his hand. Susie’s parents. I’d met them once, three years ago, at a Thanksgiving dinner that felt like a lifetime ago. “I asked you a question!” Justin followed me, his voice rising. “Susie’s gone. You don’t get to show up now and play the grieving ex. Isn’t the inheritance enough for you?” The room went dead silent. Every head turned. I set the key down on the entry table. “I’m here for something she left me.” “Left you?” Justin let out a sharp, jagged laugh. His eyes were wild. “Nothing here is yours. You broke up two years ago! Two years! Do you have any idea what her life was like? Do you know—” He choked up, glancing at the photo. “The night she died, she was on her way to see me.” A murmur went through the crowd. Susie’s mother stood up and grabbed Justin’s hand. “Justin, don’t waste your breath on him. Susie was too kind for her own good. She left him a little something out of pity. Just think of it as a parting gift to a beggar.” I looked at her. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Ma’am,” I said quietly. “Your daughter is barely cold, and you’re already trying to play the saint with her money?” Her face flushed a deep, angry red. “How dare you!” “I’m just here for the truth.” I walked toward the stairs. “The lawyer gave me the key. Susie left me something. I’m taking it and leaving.” “Stop right there!” Justin lunged for my arm. “You’re not welcome here! Get out!” He was close enough that I could smell his cologne. It was a brand Susie had bought for me once. I’d told her it was too heavy, and she promised to get me something lighter next time. She never did. She just got a different man. “Justin,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “Your hair is out of place.” He instinctively reached up to touch his head. I used the second of distraction to slip past him and head up the stairs. The master bedroom door was open—a big bed, a walk-in closet, a framed photo of Justin on the nightstand. I kept walking. The door at the end of the hall was shut. I turned the knob. The room was small. A twin bed, a desk, a bookshelf. A computer sat on the desk, a thin layer of dust on the monitor. This was Susie’s sanctuary. When she used to stay at my place, she’d talk about having her own “think tank”—a room where she could shut the world out. I went to the desk and pulled the top drawer. Right on top was a photograph. It was us. Three years ago, at the coast. She’d dragged a stranger over to take it, saying we needed “official evidence” for our future wedding. In the photo, she’s beaming, her eyes crinkled at the corners, and I’m leaning into her, looking resigned but happy. Under the photo was a thick, bulging envelope. Before I could touch it, a scream erupted from downstairs. “Junie! Junie, stop!” Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs. I turned as a small figure appeared in the doorway. She was five, maybe six. Thin. Her bangs were too long, obscuring half her brow. She wore a navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing pale, spindly wrists. She looked at me with an intensity no child should have. “Are you Ben?” she asked. I slowly put the envelope down. “Do I know you?” She didn’t answer. She walked into the room and stood right in front of me, forcing me to look up. “My mom said if she died, I was supposed to go with you.” 03 I knelt so I was eye-level with her. “What exactly did your mom tell you?” She watched me, her pupils dark and vast. “She said you have a sharp tongue but a soft heart.” She paused. “She said you make the best beef stew.” The shouting downstairs was getting louder. Justin’s voice cracked as he hit the landing. “Junie! Get out of there right now!” The girl didn’t move. She glanced at the envelope in my hand, then back at me. “You should take those,” she said. “She wrote them for you.” “How do you know they’re for me?” “She wrote every night.” The girl pointed to the drawer. “She’d finish one and put it in there. She’s been doing it for six months.” I pulled the drawer open further. It was packed with envelopes, all stacked neatly, each marked with a date. Justin burst into the room, Susie’s mother right behind him. “Junie!” Justin grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “What are you doing? Come to Daddy.” Daddy? The girl stumbled, but she didn’t make a sound. She just looked at me—not for help, but with a strange, analytical gaze. Like she was verifying a fact. “Justin,” I said, standing up. “Is she yours?” Justin pulled the girl behind him. “She’s my daughter. What’s it to you? You want to try and steal her, too?” “I’m not trying to steal anything,” I said. “I’m just wondering why Susie’s will didn’t mention her.” Justin’s face went stiff. Susie’s mother stepped in, her voice frantic. “The girl belongs with Justin. They just hadn’t finalized the paperwork yet. You don’t put things like that in a will.” “Is that right?” I looked at the girl peeking out from behind Justin’s leg. “What’s your name, kid?” She opened her mouth, but Justin clamped a hand over it. “Stop talking to him! This is none of your business!” “Did you and Susie ever get married?” I asked. Justin didn’t say a word. “No,” I answered for him. “And if you aren’t married, how is she on the birth certificate? Whose last name does she have?” Susie’s mother looked at Justin, her eyes darting nervously. Justin gritted his teeth. “This is a family matter. Take your money and get out before I call the police.” Junie twisted out of his grip and stepped back toward me. Justin’s face turned a sickly shade of gray. “Junie!” The girl looked up at me. “My name is Daisy. My mom picked it.” “Daisy,” I repeated. “Your mom picked it?” She nodded. “Was she married to him?” She shook her head. “Then who’s your father?” She looked at Justin, then went silent. Justin lunged for her again, this time with force. His fingers dug into her small arm. Daisy winced, but she didn’t cry out. “Let her go,” I said. “Why should I?” “Because you’re hurting her.” “She’s my daughter. I’ll do what I want.” I stared at him. He stared back, his eyes bloodshot, his composure crumbling. Susie’s mother started pulling on his sleeve. “Justin, honey, let’s go downstairs. Let’s just let him leave.” Justin dragged Daisy toward the door, but she suddenly looked back at me. “My mom said if she died, I was supposed to be with you.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. Justin froze. Susie’s mother froze. I stood there, paralyzed. “Shut up!” Justin hissed. “Your mother was drunk when she said that. She didn’t mean it.” Daisy ignored him. She just kept her eyes on mine. “Will you take me?”

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I was the only man at the academy. When my predecessor finished handing over his responsibilities, he left me with a single sentence that hung in the humid air of the faculty lounge like a threat. “It’s paradise, Nick. But it’s also hell.” 1 Tyler Kent didn’t look back after he said it. He just shouldered his tattered duffel bag and walked out the gate. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my mind a complete blank. To be honest, I’d been in a daze ever since I signed the contract. I was a PE major, fresh out of state college with a resume that had been rejected by every suburban high school in the tri-state area. Verity Academy was the only place that called me back. It wasn’t until I arrived that I realized Verity was an all-girls boarding school. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Why would a private girls’ academy hire a male gym teacher? Even for athletics, wouldn’t they prefer a woman? But the salary was nearly double the market rate, and they provided a private studio apartment on campus. I told myself to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. Take the win, Nick, I thought. Just do the job. When I first arrived, the Dean of Students, Vicky Russo, told me to shadow Tyler for the afternoon. The sight of him nearly made me jump. The man wasn’t just thin; he was haunting. His cheeks were hollowed out into deep craters, his eyes were ringed with bruised-looking shadows, and his lips were a ghostly, bloodless grey. He was over six feet tall, yet he looked like a skeleton draped in a thin, translucent layer of skin. My first thought was that he was terminal. Cancer, maybe. Or a serious addiction. Tyler was icy. He gave me the technical rundown—schedules, equipment keys, locker room protocols—but nothing else. Yet, I felt his eyes on me. Every time I turned my back or reached for a clipboard, I could feel his clouded, yellowing gaze tracing the lines of my shoulders. It made my skin crawl. As he finished the handover, Tyler gave me one last, lingering look. It was a jagged cocktail of envy, resentment, and a deep, vibrating fear I couldn’t yet name. “It’s paradise,” he repeated, his voice a raspy whisper. “But it’s also hell.” Then he limped away. I watched him go, thinking he’d clearly lost his mind. When you’re that sick, I figured, your brain starts playing tricks on you. I sat down at my new desk and stretched, trying to shake off the unease. I was excited, or at least I wanted to be. I started organizing my gear in the drawers. In the very bottom one, tucked under a stack of old rosters, I found a personnel file. It was Tyler’s. I opened it, expecting to see a man in his late forties. My heart skipped a beat. Tyler Kent was twenty-four. My age. I squinted at the paper, my blood turning to ice. His start date was only one month ago. Attached to the corner of the document was his headshot from the day he was hired. The man in the photo had a broad, dazzling smile and bright eyes. He was wearing a white tank top that showcased bronzed, powerful muscles—the kind of physique you only get from years of dedicated training. He looked like an Olympian. If I hadn’t seen the shell of the man who just left, I never would have believed they were the same person. A cold tremor started in my gut and worked its way up my spine. What could happen to a man in thirty days to turn him into a ghost? What kind of “paradise” did this to people? 2 I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The door creaked open, and Vicky Russo stepped in. “Come on, Nick. Your senior girls are waiting for their first session. Let’s not keep them standing around.” She reached out, her hand lingering on my forearm as she guided me toward the door. I felt a flush creep up my neck. Vicky was in her early thirties, possessing a lush, curated beauty. Her pencil skirt was tailored to perfection, hugging curves that felt almost distracting in a school setting. I wasn’t used to that kind of casual intimacy, especially not from a superior. Vicky noticed my hesitation and offered a small, knowing smirk. “We’re all adults here, Nick. No need to be so stiff.” She tilted her head, her eyes scanning my face. “If you’re blushing at me, you’re going to have a heart attack when you see the students.” I looked away, embarrassed. But she had a point. If I was going to survive in an environment surrounded by women, I needed to get my head in the game. As we walked toward the athletic complex, Vicky gave me the “Verity Pitch.” The school was a sanctuary, she said. Most of the girls were orphans or from foster systems—children of the state who had nowhere else to go. Verity was funded by the “Pure Virtue Foundation,” a massive charitable trust that covered every cent of their tuition, board, and healthcare. I felt a surge of genuine respect. In a world where everything has a price tag, a foundation dedicated to lifting girls out of poverty felt like a miracle. But then she mentioned the rules. Verity was a “closed campus.” No one left except for major holidays. If a student tried to sneak out, the punishment was “severe and non-negotiable.” The same applied to the staff. I looked up at the perimeter fence—twelve feet of chain link topped with coils of razor wire. Security cameras were tucked into every corner, and the female guards at the gate looked more like mercenaries than campus safety. “Vicky,” I asked, my voice low. “If someone actually breaks the rules… if they try to run… what kind of punishment are we talking about?” Vicky stopped walking. The air between us seemed to thicken. She looked at me, and for a split second, the polished mask slipped. Beneath the professional poise, I saw a flash of raw, jagged terror. “It’s better for everyone if you just don’t break them,” she said. The fear vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined it. She pushed open the heavy double doors of the gymnasium. I stepped inside, and the world changed. 3 The gym was a cacophony of high-pitched chatter and the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. As the doors swung shut, the noise hit me like a physical wave. In the center of the court, about thirty girls were warming up. They were wearing fitted spandex shorts and tight athletic tops. Everywhere I looked, there was glowing, flawless skin and the fluid movement of young bodies. My breath hitched in my throat. Vicky clapped her hands sharply. “Line up!” The girls scrambled into a perfect formation, their eyes instantly locking onto me. “Ladies, meet your new Physical Education instructor, Mr. Nick Dawson.” Thirty voices chimed in a practiced, melodic unison that echoed off the high ceiling. “Good morning, Mr. Dawson! Welcome to Verity!” I felt the heat rise in my cheeks again. “Hi… uh, hello, everyone.” A few of the girls giggled, whispering to each other behind manicured hands. Vicky patted my shoulder, her smile unreadable. “Enjoy your first lesson, Nick.” The moment she left, the atmosphere shifted. The girls’ gazes became bolder, more predatory. I had changed into my own workout gear—a navy tank and shorts—and I could feel their eyes roaming over my arms and chest with an intensity that felt wrong. It wasn’t like being a teacher. It felt like being an exhibit. Or a piece of meat. I shook it off. Focus, Nick. First impressions are everything. I took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the circle. I led them through a series of deep stretches and rhythmic warm-ups. They were remarkably coordinated. But as I moved among them, I noticed something odd. Every single one of them had a “perfect” physique. Their skin was luminous, their muscle tone was impeccably balanced, and they moved with a strange, synchronized grace. It wasn’t just one or two girls; it was all of them. It felt statistically impossible to have a class of thirty girls who all looked like fitness models. I pushed the thought aside. We were doing a teamwork drill—the three-legged race. It was a classic for building core stability and communication. As I was handing out the Velcro straps, a girl stepped forward. “Mr. Dawson? I’m the class captain, Josie Hart.” Josie had a soft, round face and wide, innocent eyes that contrasted sharply with her athletic build. She was, by any standard, stunning. She walked right up to me and touched my arm, her voice a sugary pout. “We’ve never done this before. Would you mind showing us how it works? You know, as a demonstration?” I hesitated, then nodded. It was a good way to build rapport. “Sure, Josie. Let’s do it.” I knelt to strap my left leg to her right. As I did, Josie leaned in close—closer than she needed to. I caught a glimpse of the other girls’ faces. They weren’t cheering; they looked murderous. There was a palpable wave of jealousy and resentment directed at Josie just for being near me. I stood up, and Josie immediately clung to my arm for balance. She smelled… incredible. It wasn’t perfume. It was something deeper—a rich, intoxicating scent that made my head swim. “Ready?” I asked, my voice sounding strained. We took a few steps. I was trying to explain the mechanics of the stride, but Josie was heavy against my side. Suddenly, she tripped. She went down, pulling me with her. I landed hard, pinned directly on top of her. The scent—that strange, floral, musk-heavy aroma—exploded in my senses. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My vision blurred. A voice in the back of my mind—dark and honey-thick—started whispering: Go ahead. Do it. Take what you want… I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper. The sharp pain cleared the fog. I realized my hands were clamped around Josie’s waist, and my face was inches from hers. I scrambled back, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest. “I’m sorry! I—” I was terrified. This was it. First day, and I’d be fired for misconduct. If she complained, my career was over before it started. But Josie wasn’t angry. She looked… disappointed. Almost frustrated. The rest of the girls stood in eerie silence. They didn’t laugh or tease. They just watched us with those cold, hungry eyes. I somehow finished the class, moving like a robot. The moment the bell rang, I practically sprinted out of the gym. At the corridor corner, I ran into Vicky again. She leaned against the wall, watching me with a tilted head. “Class finished early, Nick?” I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah. Just… getting the hang of things.” Vicky’s smile widened. It wasn’t a kind smile. “Don’t worry, Nick. You’ll have plenty of time to get close to the students. Go on, get some lunch. You’ll need your energy.” I made my way to the cafeteria, my nerves fried. As I walked through the doors, that smell hit me again. It was overpowering here, wafting from a large, steaming vat at the front of the serving line. Dozens of girls were lined up, holding out ceramic bowls for a ladle-full of a thick, amber-colored broth. I moved toward the vat, curious, but Vicky appeared out of nowhere and caught my elbow. “That’s the student menu, Nick. Staff dining is through those doors.” The faculty meal was decadent. Oysters, braised turtle, ginseng soup, and slow-roasted chicken. It was better than any five-star restaurant I’d ever been to. Vicky sat across from me, watching with eerie satisfaction as I ate every bite. “You’re done for the day, Nick,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Explore the grounds. Head back to your room. Just stay away from the Shadow Wing at the back of the campus. It’s off-limits to everyone except authorized personnel. Clear?” Her eyes turned cold, a silent warning. I nodded. I spent the evening wandering the empty courtyards. By 6:00 PM, the campus felt like a ghost town. Not a single student was in sight. My feet eventually led me toward the Shadow Wing—a massive, windowless concrete block. The curtains were drawn tight over every glass pane. As I drew closer, I heard it. A faint, rhythmic sound. Moaning. It sounded like dozens of women, all crying out in unison. It was the sound of a fever dream. Were the girls in there? What was happening behind those thick walls? Curiosity overrode my fear. I crept toward a ground-floor window, looking for a gap in the curtains. Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed onto my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Two female guards stood behind me, their faces grim, their hands resting on their holstered batons. “Mr. Dawson. You were told this area is restricted.” I stammered an apology, claiming I’d gotten lost in the dark. “Don’t let it happen again,” one of them barked. I retreated to my dorm, but the adrenaline wouldn’t subside. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, Josie’s scent still clinging to the back of my throat. Just as I was finally drifting off, a sharp, frantic knocking erupted at my door. “Mr. Dawson? Nick? Please… it’s Josie.”

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My husband told me he was a fugitive. He claimed he didn’t want to drag me down with him, so he was going to turn himself in. He told me to find a better man and move on. In my past life, my heart broke for him. I spent decades pinching pennies, living on scraps just to provide for our son and support him while he was behind bars. I waited until my hair turned white, only to see him strolling down the street, hand-in-hand with the “one who got away,” buying her vintage Hermès and Chanel like money was water. That was when I realized his “prison sentence” was nothing but a vanishing act to scrub me and our home from his life. I opened my eyes, and I was back. Back to the very day he sat me down to confess his life as a wanted man. This time, I didn’t cry. I called the police and handed over every scrap of real evidence I found in his desk. You love playing the convict so much? Fine. Let’s make it official. Let’s see how you like prison food for the rest of your life. 1. “Babe, I’m so sorry. We’ve been married all these years, and there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. I can’t live with the guilt anymore. It’s eating me alive.” Across the dinner table, Mark looked at me, his face a mask of practiced agony. My heart gave a violent skip. I looked around the room—the chipped paint on the crown molding, the smell of burnt pot roast—and realized I was back. I had been reborn into the exact moment he began his elaborate lie. Looking at his treacherous, handsome face, I felt a surge of pure nausea. Mark buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled by fake sobs. “I’m a criminal, Natalie. When I was eighteen, I was stupid. Desperate. I robbed a place… a man died because of me. He left behind a wife and a kid who had to survive on nothing. I need to atone for that blood on my hands.” He reached across the table, his fingers trembling as he gripped mine. “You’ll stand by me, won’t you? Please tell me you understand.” At the table, our son, Ben, and my mother-in-law, Diane, sat perfectly still. Not a single person looked shocked. Not a single person looked scared. I almost wanted to laugh. They all knew. The whole family was in on the joke, and I was the punchline. In my previous life, to help him “atone,” I spent every holiday groveling at the “victim’s” door, offering what little money I had—money meant for my own children’s future—to buy gifts for that family while I lived on stale bread and pickles. I didn’t find out until the day I died that the “victim” I was subsidizing was actually his high school sweetheart, and the “poor orphan” was his secret illegitimate son. The memory of their private messages—laughing about how “clueless and pathetic” I was for working myself to the bone for them—burned in my throat like acid. Diane suddenly clutched her chest, letting out a dramatic wail. “Oh, the shame! The shame! The Miller family has always been respectable! How could you do this, you foolish boy? A life on your hands? That’s it. I’m taking you to the station myself. We’re ending this tonight.” She stood up, hauling Mark by the arm as if she were dragging him to his execution. 2. Mark squeezed my hand one last time, his eyes brimming with performative depth. “I’m sorry, Natalie. It’s all on you now. Take care of Ben.” He turned to leave. My pulse hammered. I put on my best “shattered wife” face and cried out, “Mom, wait! Even if he did something wrong, he’s still your son!” I wiped a fake tear. “Let me take him. I have a friend who’s a high-profile defense attorney. Maybe we can find a way to get the charges reduced, or at least negotiate a plea.” I was lying through my teeth. I didn’t know a single lawyer. I just wanted to see them squirm. “No!” The rejection was instantaneous and synchronized. Both Mark and Diane barked the word at the same time. Diane cleared her throat, her expression shifting into a strained smile. “Natalie, honey, your back has been bothering you all day. The drive is long and stressful. We’ll handle the paperwork. Stay here with Ben.” I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes. “Mom, you’re being so insistent. You’re making me think Mark is making this all up just to mess with me.” At the mention of “lying,” Ben looked down at his plate, refusing to meet my eyes. Diane’s face hardened into a scowl. “How can you say that? Your husband is trying to save his soul, and you’re accusing him of playing games? You’re just looking for an excuse to abandon him!” Mark looked wounded. “Natalie, I know raising Ben alone is a lot to ask, but why would I lie about something this horrific?” He took a deep breath, looking like a man ready to walk into a firing squad. “Natalie, after I’m gone… you should move on. Remarry. Leave Ben with my mother. I won’t have you shackled to a prisoner. I’ve already left the divorce papers on the desk.” “Daddy… don’t leave me!” Ben wailed, hugging Mark’s leg. It was a goddamn masterpiece. If I weren’t the one being fleeced, I would have given them a standing ovation. Oscar-worthy performances all around. I nodded slowly, pulling out my phone. “You’re right. It’s too much for Mom to handle. I’ll just call the police right now. They can come pick him up. It’ll save everyone a trip.” 3. Mark’s face went pale. He shot a frantic look at Diane. Diane jumped like she’d been prodded with a cattle prod. “Natalie’s right,” she stammered, pivoting wildly. “Wait—no. I mean, Natalie, you rest. I’ll take him to the victim’s house first to apologize. It’s the right thing to do before the sirens start.” They were desperate to keep me away. I nodded, pretending to be overcome with grief, and retreated into the bedroom. I needed time. The clock was ticking. I checked my bank app. My pre-marital savings—fifty thousand dollars—were still there. I immediately moved them to a private account he couldn’t touch. Then, I started tossing the room. One of our joint cards was missing. All our shared income, our “future” for Ben, was tied to that card. Gone. A cold dread settled in my stomach. I checked my jewelry box. My grandmother’s gold bracelet, my designer bags, my luxury watches—all replaced with high-quality fakes. The bastard. He hadn’t just planned to leave; he’d planned to strip-mine my life. He wanted me to pay “restitution” to his mistress, raise his kid, and take care of his mother while he lived it up with the loot from my own closet. I picked up the phone and dialed a private investigator I’d looked up online. “I need a full workup on a woman named Valerie Thorne,” I whispered. “And I need it fast.” I lay on the bed, my mind racing, until the bedroom door was slammed open. Diane was there, heaving, looking like she was about to faint. “She wouldn’t let him come back! That woman… she called the cops the moment we got there! They took my boy! They took Mark away!” Ben ran out of his room, sobbing. “Daddy! I want my Daddy!” I threw myself onto the floor, wailing with a theatricality that would have made Diane proud. “How can this be? Mark! How are we supposed to live without you?” Inside, I was beaming. The game was finally afoot. 4. The man had planned it all out: pretend to be “arrested” at the victim’s house so I wouldn’t go looking for him at the local precinct. “Mom,” I gasped, clutching her hand. “I have to see him. Take me to the station.” Diane backed away as if I were radioactive. “The officers said no visitors! He’s being processed. It’s high-security.” She wiped her eyes, her gaze darting toward Ben. “But Natalie, we have to think about his soul. We need to send money to that family. If they sign a waiver saying they forgive him, his sentence might be lighter.” She was laying it on thick, nodding at Ben to join in. “Mommy, please! Save Daddy!” the boy cried, clutching my skirt. I felt a chill. They were asking me to fund his honeymoon with Valerie. They thought I was the world’s biggest idiot. I nodded. “You’re right. Let me get my card.” I went back into the room. I saw the relief on Diane’s face through the crack in the door. I didn’t grab my card. I grabbed the folder of “evidence” Mark had been “keeping” in his desk—the fake documents he’d used to convince me of his crime. But tucked in the back, I found something real. I drove straight to the address of the “victim,” Valerie Thorne. When she opened the door, she looked the part of the grieving widow—sad eyes, messy hair—but she couldn’t hide the smug superiority in her gaze. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “Haven’t you people done enough to us?” She was holding the hand of a thin, pale little girl. The performance was flawless. You’d think her world had actually ended. Diane, who had followed me, immediately dropped to her knees, sobbing at Valerie’s feet. “Valerie… please. We were wrong. I’ll do anything. Just please, find it in your heart to forgive my Mark.” She almost let the word “dear” slip out before “Mark.” It confirmed everything. Then Diane reached up and tried to pull me down to the floor with her. “Natalie, kneel! Beg her for your husband’s life!” 5. Are you kidding me? The wife apologizing to the mistress? Not in this lifetime. I wrenched my hand away. Diane lost her balance and hit the floor hard, letting out a sharp yelp of pain. I blinked, looking confused. “Mom, how did you know her name was Valerie?” Diane’s eyes went wide. She scrambled for an excuse. “I… I didn’t at first! Mark told me on the way over. He said we owed her everything. He told me to take care of Valerie.” Ben chimed in, “Yeah, Dad mentioned her before.” I looked at Ben, and my heart turned to stone. My son. He was lying to me for a new Lego set and a father who didn’t even want him. He was a little traitor in the making. I looked at the little girl standing behind Valerie. She was staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. She looked… hauntingly familiar. She looked exactly like I did in my childhood photos. A dark, terrifying suspicion began to take root in my gut. Valerie stepped forward, blocking my view of the girl. She sneered, “If you want me to drop the civil suit, I want half a million. Not a cent less. Or I’ll make sure he rots.” She slammed the door in our faces. Diane turned to me, her face contorted with desperation. “Natalie, please! Save him! I’ll be your slave for the rest of my life! He’s my only son!” She was wailing, but I knew the game. She was trying to guilt-trip me into emptying my savings. “Mom, stop it,” I said, lifting her up. “Mark is my husband. Of course I’m going to save him.” A flash of triumph crossed Diane’s face. Valerie, listening behind the door, must have felt the same. Then I pulled out the folder. “But you’re right, Mom. Mark wanted to be an honest man. I can’t let his sacrifice be in vain. These are the documents he mentioned—the evidence of his ‘crime.’ I’m going to take them to the police station right now so they have everything they need for the investigation. We shouldn’t make the detectives do extra work.” 6. I turned to walk away. Ben went white, trembling. Diane scrambled to block my path. Valerie threw the door back open, looking like a cornered animal. If I took that to the police, the “fake” robbery would become a very real investigation into their fraud. “Natalie, honey, go home and watch Ben,” Diane stammered. “I’ll take the papers. You’ve had such a long day. Here, have some water.” She handed me a plastic cup from the small table by the door. As I reached for it, I noticed a white, powdery residue at the bottom. Valerie chimed in, her voice shaking. “You know what? Maybe we don’t need the evidence. I… I’m sure it was an accident. I don’t want to be bitter.” An accident? A robbery-homicide was an “accident”? I set the water down, my voice ringing with righteous fury. “No, Valerie. I won’t let you be silenced. My husband has caused you so much pain. I know that if he were here, he’d want me to do the right thing.” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 before they could stop me. “Hello? I’d like to report a confession. My husband, Mark Miller, just admitted to a 2003 cold case robbery and homicide. I have the evidence in my hand…” I ignored their screams. I hopped into a passing taxi. Diane and Valerie were pounding on the windows, screaming my name as the car pulled away. My phone started blowing up. “Natalie, if you go through with this, I will disown you!” Diane texted. “Natalie, let’s talk! We can figure this out! You don’t have to be so drastic! Come back!” Even Valerie was suddenly “forgiving,” pleading for me to stop. And then, a text from Mark’s “private” number: “Babe, don’t worry about the police. Just take care of Ben. I don’t want you stressed. Stay home.” The desperation was palpable. As the taxi sped toward the precinct, a single sheet of paper fell out of the folder. I picked it up. It was a DNA test. My hands shook as I read the results. The suspicion I’d felt earlier was confirmed. I looked up. We were at the station.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “405486”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The most rebellious thing I had ever done in my twenty-four years of life was pack my trust fund into a duffel bag and elope with Brooks when his family’s empire collapsed. When the rest of Manhattan’s elite turned their backs on him, I was the only one who bet my life that Brooks would rise from the ashes. Three grueling years later, my gamble paid off. Brooks went from swinging a hammer on construction sites to becoming the most feared, ruthless new blood in New York real estate. And as his power grew, so did his indulgence of me. He spoiled me rotten. He let me be demanding, temperamental, and wildly uncompromising. No matter how much of a scene I caused, Brooks always wore the same patient, devastatingly fond smile. Everyone in our circle whispered the same thing: Bess Kensington traded three short years of poverty for the perfect, doting golden retriever of a husband. Until the florist appeared. It started on our anniversary. I caught her delivering a custom bouquet to our penthouse—a blatant, inappropriate overstep—and I retaliated by having my people completely trash her little flower shop. I expected Brooks to come home, wrap his arms around me, and coax me out of my bad mood like he always did. Except, this time, he didn’t. 1 Instead, his phone went straight to voicemail. He vanished into the city, leaving me to watch as paparazzi photos of him looking intimately close with the florist trended on every gossip site. The media circus descended on our Tribeca penthouse, swarming the gates with blinding camera flashes. It took every ounce of my leverage to slip past the blockade. I was a mess—hair windblown, coat hastily thrown on—but I was practically vibrating with rage as I marched toward the address my assistant had just texted me. I was ready to tear Brooks apart. But just as I raised my hand to push open the heavy oak door of the private VIP lounge, the muffled sound of laughter stopped me dead in my tracks. “Come on, Brooks, aren’t you going to head back and grovel?” a male voice sneered. “Aren’t you terrified the Mrs. is going to burn down half of Manhattan again?” “Seriously, man,” another chimed in. “Smashing cars, torching properties, and last time she literally pointed a finger in your face in front of the press and accused you of having a fetish for cheap knockoffs…” The voice abruptly cut off, realizing he’d crossed a line. The room fell into a suffocating silence. Then, the heavy thud of a whiskey glass hitting the mahogany table echoed through the door, shattering the quiet. Brooks let out a low, dark chuckle. His voice dripped with a terrifying, casual mockery. “Well, who could possibly be as noble and pure as the great Bess Kensington?” “She didn’t want a ring. She didn’t want a wedding. She put her own father in the hospital just to leave her Boston castle and squeeze into a shitty Brooklyn walk-up with a penniless loser like me.” My breath caught in my throat. “Paige noticed my migraines acting up and brought me a bundle of lavender to calm my nerves. For that, Bess goes on a warpath and calls Paige a cheap knockoff. So what does that make Bess?” He paused, and the silence stretched tight enough to snap. “A desperate charity case who had to buy a husband?” The voice that had spent the last week whispering sweet, comforting things into my ear in the dark was now delivering the most lethal, agonizing blow I had ever felt. I froze, paralyzed in the dimly lit hallway. Inside, the temperature of the room seemed to plummet. After a long, painful beat, someone tried to nervously laugh it off. “Brooks, man, you’re just blowing off steam… Everyone knows Bess came to the city alone, used her trust fund to help you build your empire from the ground up. You guys are New York’s golden couple…” “I’m not blowing off steam.” I could picture his profile in the dim light, the cherry-red glow of his cigarette illuminating the sheer exhaustion in his eyes. “I’m just tired.” “Because of that two million dollars she gave me, I dated her for three years, married her for four. I have loved her for seven years, and I have catered to her tantrums for seven years.” “Every time we fight, no matter who is right or wrong, I’m the one who has to swallow my pride and beg for forgiveness.” “She gets jealous because a partner’s daughter looks at me too long at a gala, and I have to instantly terminate a hundred-million-dollar contract, eating the penalty fees.” “She wants a specific pastry from a bakery in Brooklyn at two in the morning, and I drive through a torrential downpour to get it, even though I haven’t slept in three days…” I heard him take a long, deep drag of his cigarette. When he exhaled, his words were ice. “I’m human. I get exhausted.” He shifted, his voice softening into something unrecognizable. “The day I collapsed from exhaustion on the street… Paige was the one who got me to the hospital. She stayed by my bed for two days and two nights, barely sleeping, just massaging my temples to keep the pain away.” “At home, I am always the caretaker. I am always the one serving. But with Paige… for the first time in a long time, I actually felt the warmth of a home. I felt like I could finally breathe.” Those quiet, simple words slammed into my chest like a wrecking ball, shattering my heart into dust. I couldn’t hear whatever was said next. The roaring in my ears drowned it all out. Winter in New York had never felt this brutal. It wasn’t until I stumbled back into the dark, empty penthouse like a ghost that I realized my hands and feet were entirely numb from the cold. I didn’t turn on the lights. In the shadows, I just stood there, staring at the things that were supposed to be the indisputable proof of our epic love story. The framed photos of our multi-million-dollar wedding that had broken magazine records. The staggering, museum-quality diamonds on my vanity. The antique lovers’ lock we had flown to Paris to attach to a bridge, him kneeling on the cobblestones… The very first thing Brooks did when he finally made his billions was pour it all over me, trying to repay everything he felt he owed me, a thousand times over. Even I, a girl raised in old-money Boston, thought it was too much. But back then, Brooks had just kissed my lips, his eyes full of fierce devotion. “Bess, you suffered so much for me. I will never, ever feel like I’ve given you enough. Do you understand?” “I’m going to spoil you until you’re even more of a princess than when I met you. If you get jealous, scream at me. If you’re mad, throw a tantrum. With me, you can be entirely, selfishly yourself. Because I will always coax you back. I will always be on your side. Understood?” I could still feel the phantom warmth of that moment. So, for four years of marriage, I leaned on that promise. I leaned on “I will always be on your side.” Like any girl who believes she is unconditionally loved, I made demands. I threw my little fits. I never imagined that four years later… Brooks would tell a room full of people that he was tired. That he had found the warmth of “home” in another woman. And that, to defend Paige, he would reduce my sacrifice to a joke. “What does that make her? A desperate charity case who had to buy a husband?” When the Boston elites sneered those exact words at me years ago, it hadn’t hurt at all. But hearing them from Brooks’s mouth felt like someone was physically tearing my chest open. Seven years of profound, earth-shattering love, rotting away overnight. Fine. If that was how he felt, I would set him free. The lump in my throat finally dissolved into a hollow ache. I pulled out my phone and dialed my assistant. My voice was eerily light. “Have the lawyers draft divorce papers. And book me a flight.” “Next month. I’m going back to Boston.” 2 Hanging up the phone felt like severing the last vital artery keeping me alive. I didn’t sleep a single second that night. My assistant worked fast. The divorce papers were in my hands by the next morning. Per her usual routine, she began reading off Brooks’s itinerary: “Mr. Solomon signed the lease on a premium retail space in Soho for Ms. Paige, as compensation for her ruined flower shop.” “He also moved her family into a private estate in the Hamptons, and wired them three hundred thousand dollars for living expenses.” She hesitated, glancing nervously at my face. “The trending topics on Twitter… we can’t get them taken down. The media is running wild with the narrative that…” “That Mr. Solomon treats this Ms. Paige… differently.” My hand trembled involuntarily, the tip of my Montblanc pen leaving an ugly, bleeding ink stain on the pristine divorce agreement. …We couldn’t get them taken down? Once, a tabloid had printed a mild, unverified rumor about me. Brooks had it scrubbed from the internet in three minutes. The owner of that publication was currently facing federal charges. But now, my name was being dragged through the mud, branded a “hysterical, jealous shrew” for three days straight, and nothing was being done. I knew exactly whose tacit permission allowed it. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, pressing down on my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. “I understand,” I said. My nails dug into my palms until the pain grounded me, keeping my face perfectly composed. “You don’t need to report on them anymore.” My assistant blinked in surprise, then quietly nodded. When the room fell silent again, I sat alone in my chair for a very long time. Finally, I stood up and ordered a car to the address of Paige’s new flower shop. Today was her grand opening. The storefront was dripping in lavish floral installations, the sidewalk bustling with high-end clientele. Compared to the tiny, run-down shack I had destroyed, this place was a palace. Through the crowd, I spotted Brooks immediately. The man who had been giving me the silent treatment for days was standing beside Paige, his face thoroughly relaxed, looking at her with a gentle affection. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Paige looked up at him with eyes full of utter devotion. She was just about to loop her arm through his when she spotted me walking toward them. There wasn’t a flicker of guilt in her eyes. Instead, she played the perfectly understanding angel, tugging gently at Brooks’s sleeve. “Brooks, Bess is here. You should go home with her. I can handle things here.” Then, she stepped behind the counter, pulled out a massive, expensive bouquet of fresh red Juliet roses, and offered them to me. “Bess, I’m so sorry. I was so thoughtless last time, forgetting to send an arrangement to you as well. It’s my fault you misunderstood.” “I made this one specially for you. Please, don’t be mad at Brooks anymore.” Her eyes were wide, clear, and brimming with the resilient, scrappy innocence of a girl from the bottom pulling herself up. It was the perfect performance. It made me look like the cruel, unhinged villain. I looked down at the flowers with dead eyes, then casually tossed the entire bouquet into the nearby trash can. “Sorry. I don’t like cheap things.” Before the words fully left my mouth, my wrist was seized in a brutal grip. “Bess,” Brooks hissed, his voice dropping low, practically vibrating with exhaustion. “Today is important to Paige. Can you please stop throwing a tantrum for one second?” A bitter taste flooded my mouth. I gritted my teeth, forced a smile, and shoved the legal folder into his chest. “Sure. Sign this, and I’ll leave right now.” Brooks frowned, looking down at the document. “Bess, what game are you playing now?” “No game.” I paused. “Every time we fight, don’t you always buy me a gift to coax me back?” “This time, I want this.” “Sign it, and I’ll never throw a tantrum again.” My voice was dead calm. A flicker of genuine shock crossed Brooks’s eyes. But before he could open his mouth, chaos erupted outside the glass doors. Paparazzi, tipped off by God knows who, swarmed the entrance, pressing against the glass. Paige was jostled by the crowd, letting out a frightened gasp. Brooks’s attention snapped away from me instantly. Without even looking at what he was signing, he scrawled his name on the paper, threw it back at my chest, and lunged forward to pull Paige into the protective shelter of his arms. “Security!” he roared. He was so panicked, so hyper-focused on her, that he didn’t even notice I had been swallowed by the same aggressive mob of reporters. The camera flashes were blinding. In the suffocating crush of bodies, someone shoved me hard from behind. I lost my footing and slammed violently onto the pavement. A sharp, agonizing pain shot up my spine. Instinctively, I cried out. “Brooks—” But my voice was swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Because right in front of my eyes, Brooks was carefully shielding Paige as he guided her into the back of his waiting Maybach. He shut the door without ever looking back. The car sped away, not hesitating for a single second. 3 Brooks left me behind. Four years ago, on our wedding day, he had looked me in the eye and solemnly vowed: “Bess, as long as I am breathing, I will never let you suffer a single indignity.” “With me, you will always be first.” Four years. That was all it took for his forever to expire. A wave of crushing, acidic grief finally caught up to me. Biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, I forced myself to stand up despite the searing pain in my back. Ignoring the relentless, shouting reporters, I practically fled the scene. When I finally made it back to the penthouse, the tears broke free. I sat in the dark living room for hours, numb, until the sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence. Brooks walked in. He spotted me curled up on the sofa, and then his eyes snagged on the blood seeping through the back of my blouse. His brow furrowed in instant alarm. “Bess, what happened to your back?” He crossed the room in three massive strides, turning his fury on the maids hovering in the hallway. “My wife is bleeding and none of you thought to call me?! Get the first aid kit, now!” He turned back to me, his eyes swimming with what looked like genuine heartbreak. “Did you fall outside the shop? Why didn’t you call out for me—” “I did call out for you. Did you hear me?” My voice was completely hollow. Brooks froze. A flash of guilt and panic bled into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bess. It was chaos, I… I guess I didn’t hear you…” He rubbed his temples, his voice dropping into a low, placating murmur. “I’ll have the PR team kill all the photos from today. Bess… let’s just turn the page on this fight. Please.” “Arthur invited us to dinner tomorrow night. Probably to discuss renewing the development contract. I had a few dresses sent up for you. Go pick one out, okay?” He waved a hand, and the staff immediately carried in several velvet garment bags from Oscar de la Renta and Dior. I stared at the pristine, luxurious fabrics for a long, long time. And then, for the first time in our entire relationship, I didn’t argue. I didn’t yell. I just quietly said, “Okay.” Arthur was an old friend of my parents in Boston. When I was cut off, he had quietly looked out for me in New York. There were a few things I needed to tell him anyway. The dinner was held in the private dining room of a five-star hotel. For the first hour, the atmosphere was perfectly pleasant. Brooks played the part beautifully, constantly refilling my wine, offering me the best cuts of meat—anyone looking would think he was the husband of the year. But halfway through the meal, his phone began vibrating frantically. Brooks answered it. I didn’t know what the person on the other end said, but the color completely drained from his face. He muttered a quick, tense “Excuse me,” and practically sprinted out of the room. I didn’t even turn to watch him go. I gently placed my silverware down, looked across the table, and met Arthur’s eyes. “Arthur, when the contract with Solomon Enterprises expires next month, you don’t need to renew it.” “Brooks and I are getting a divorce. Next month… I’m moving back to Boston.” A heavy, stunned silence fell over the private room. It took Arthur a long minute to finally ask, his voice thick with caution, “Are you sure?” When I nodded, he let out a massive sigh. But the look in his eyes wasn’t pity—it was profound relief. “Bess, thank God. You’ve finally woken up.” “The only reason I handed him that flagship development project years ago was because I couldn’t bear to see you living in squalor. I wanted to give him a ladder. If it weren’t for you pulling strings in the background, you think he’d be sitting at the top of Manhattan in three years?” “If you go back to Boston, your parents will be overjoyed.” Thinking of my father, my nose stung. When I eloped, my father’s blood pressure spiked so high he was hospitalized. He had refused to see me ever since. When I went back, I would get on my knees and beg for his forgiveness. Arthur had another engagement and had to leave early. I had just walked him to the elevators when the hotel manager suddenly rushed up to me. He looked like he was about to cry. “Mrs. Solomon! Thank God! Your husband is in the lobby beating a man to death and security can’t pull him off! You have to come!” My stomach dropped. I immediately followed him down to the ground floor. A massive crowd had already formed in the grand lobby. Following their terrified gazes, I saw Brooks in the center of the marble floor. He was in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, but his movements were feral, terrifyingly violent. He had a man pinned against the decorative pillar, his fist coming down in brutal, merciless arcs. The only other time in his life Brooks had ever resorted to violence was four years ago, when a drunk investor cornered me and tried to grope me at a gala. But even then, Brooks had only hit the man a few times to send a message. Right now, he looked like he was genuinely trying to kill someone. My hands balled into fists. I rushed forward, trying to grab his arm. “Brooks, stop! You’re going to kill him—” The next second, my arm was violently shoved away. The force was so brutal I lost my footing entirely. I flew backward, my spine slamming hard into the marble wall. My unhealed scrapes from the pavement flared into blinding, white-hot agony. My vision went black for a second. But before I could even catch my breath, a slender figure sprinted past me. She threw herself onto the enraged man, her voice trembling in desperate, sobbing pleas. “Brooks, please, that’s enough! He just touched me a few times… you’ve already defended me, please, stop!” 4 Paige’s voice was wet with tears, her eyes wide and terrified. It was like a spell was broken. Brooks instantly snapped out of his blind rage. He dropped the bloody man, turned, and pulled Paige fiercely into his chest, raising a gentle hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Don’t be afraid.” I leaned against the wall, trying to stay upright, feeling pathetic and utterly humiliated. The sight of them clinging to each other felt like a physical slap to the face. Just then, Brooks’s head of security pushed through the crowd. He marched straight up to Brooks. “Sir. We found out what happened.” “The client who hired Ms. Paige to deliver flowers to this specific hotel room… was your wife.” In a fraction of a second, the tender relief in Brooks’s eyes warped into pure, unfiltered disgust and rage. He lunged toward me, his hand locking around my wrist like a vice. “Bess, how could you be so vile?!” “Four years ago, you were assaulted at a party by this exact man! And you purposely hired Paige to deliver flowers to his room?! What is the difference between that and feeding her to the wolves?! If I hadn’t gotten here in time, do you have any idea what he would have done to her?!” “Apologize to her!” The pain radiating from my wrist was agonizing. The sudden, psychotic accusation hit me so hard my brain short-circuited. But survival instinct kicked in, and I violently yanked my arm out of his grasp. “I didn’t order any flowers! I have no idea what you’re talking about! Why the hell would I apologize?!” Brooks had spent the last four years treating me like I was made of spun glass. He had never, not once, raised his voice at me. But now, he was screaming at me in the middle of a crowded hotel lobby, crucifying me for a crime I didn’t commit. My eyes burned with a terrifying heat. I raised my chin, projecting my voice to hide the fact that my heart was bleeding out on the marble floor. “If I wanted to destroy her, I wouldn’t use some cowardly, backdoor setup! Don’t you dare slander me! Bring out the person who placed the order and let’s see the proof!” The tension in the lobby was suffocating. No one dared to breathe. The silence was broken by the sound of Paige’s knees hitting the marble floor. She collapsed, tears streaming down her face, looking up at me with absolute submission. “Bess, I’m so sorry… it’s my fault, I didn’t read the delivery slip carefully. It’s not your fault, you don’t have to apologize. I just beg you, please don’t fight with Brooks over me anymore…” “Brooks’s knuckles are bleeding. Please, just let me take him to the hospital…” Every ounce of murderous tension in Brooks’s body melted away at her words. He reached down and gently pulled Paige up, looking at her with a mix of profound heartbreak and… peace. “Paige, after everything that just happened to you, how are you still only thinking about me?” He let out a heavy, disappointed sigh and turned back to me. His eyes were dead. “You’re right. It’s not your fault, Bess.” “It’s my fault. I spoiled you until you became a monster.” “If you won’t say the words, then get down on your knees and show Paige you’re sorry. Do that, and we can forget this ever happened.” For a second, all the sound in the world rushed out of my ears. I stared at him, my lips barely moving. “…You want me to get on my knees?” I was Bess Kensington. People spent their entire lives trying to get into the same room as me. And he wanted me to kneel on a public floor for his mistress? I turned on my heel to walk away. But before I could take a step, two of Brooks’s massive security guards grabbed my shoulders and forced me violently to the floor. My knees slammed into the marble. The movement ripped my back wound open again, and a choked, pathetic gasp of pain escaped my lips. Brooks didn’t even flinch. His voice was completely detached. “Keep her down. She’s going to bow her head to Paige three times. Gently, though. My wife hates pain.” “Brooks!” I screamed, my voice shaking with raw terror and fury, looking up at him from the floor. “I told you I didn’t do it! Are you really going to humiliate me like this for her?!” But Brooks just turned his head away, letting his guards physically force my head down toward the floor. One. Two. Three. It didn’t hurt. But it felt like my spine, my pride, my very soul was being snapped in half. The tiny, fleeting smirk that crossed Paige’s lips before she hid her face in Brooks’s chest was the knife twisting in the wound. When it was over, Brooks reached down and pulled my violently trembling body off the floor. He raised a thumb to wipe away the tear that had escaped my eye. “Bess, Paige was almost assaulted, and all I asked you to do was apologize. Why are you crying?” I slapped his hand away. Without a single word, I turned and walked out the door. The stares of the onlookers felt like battery acid on my skin. I didn’t take a full breath until I was locked inside the penthouse. A second later, my phone lit up with texts from an unknown number. The tone was polite, dripping with fake pity and undisguised triumph. [Bess, honestly, it’s pathetic watching you try to hold onto a marriage like this.] [A powerful man doesn’t want a hysterical princess he constantly has to coddle. He wants a safe harbor. Someone who gives him peace.] [You and Brooks just aren’t a good fit.] The texts were followed by a photo. It was Paige, leaning over the console of his Maybach, carefully cleaning the blood off Brooks’s knuckles. Brooks was looking down at her. His eyes were soft, completely unguarded, filled with a deep sense of… belonging. It was a look I had never, ever seen him give me. The gaping hole in my chest finally went cold. The freezing wind blew straight through me. If this were yesterday, I would have fired back a text that would make her bleed. But tonight, I just blocked the number. Then, I went into the bedroom and pulled down my suitcases. I started packing. I boxed up my life and scheduled the shipments. I watched as the penthouse, once so warm and full of our history, slowly turned into a sterile, echoing museum. I took a hammer to the massive custom wedding portrait that hung in the foyer, shattered the glass, and threw it in the dumpster. The piece of my heart that belonged to Brooks was finally, permanently, empty. A few days later, my assistant rushed into the apartment, her face pale with panic. 5 “Bess,” she stammered, her hands shaking. “I was running the audits for the quarter, and I found a massive anomaly in your personal accounts…” “The private trust fund your grandfather left you… a massive sum was withdrawn a few days ago. It was wired directly into Paige’s bank account. The authorized signer was… Mr. Solomon.” “We tried to claw it back, but the money has already been spent. Here are the statements…” It felt like a bomb went off inside my skull. The ringing was so loud I couldn’t move. That trust fund was the very last gift my grandfather ever gave me before he died. He was terrified that I would be left destitute if my rebellion failed, so he set that money aside, legally ironclad, to ensure I would never go hungry. How dared Brooks touch that money?! I snatched the bank statements from her hands, my eyes flying down the itemized list, my breathing turning shallow and ragged. My hands were shaking so hard the paper rattled. The ledger was meticulously detailed. Paige had used my grandfather’s money to buy two luxury condos for her parents. She bought them first-class tickets to Europe. And interspersed between the massive wire transfers… were charges from a pharmacy. For several boxes of premium condoms. The timestamps were from exactly one week ago. The exact same night I was forced onto my knees to beg for her forgiveness. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they had done. While I was lying awake in the dark, stripped of my dignity and sobbing until I couldn’t breathe, Brooks had raided my dead grandfather’s money to set up his mistress, and then fucked her in a hotel bed. A wave of nausea so violent it blurred my vision seized me. I sprinted to the powder room and threw up until I was dry-heaving over the marble toilet. My assistant was crying now, pulling out her phone to call a doctor, but I grabbed her wrist. “Don’t…” I gasped, my voice unrecognizable, laced with a venom I didn’t know I possessed. “Call the lawyers. Draft the lawsuit. Every single penny of that money is coming back to me. If she spent it, we seize the properties. Leave them with nothing.” I would rather burn the city down than let Paige keep a single cent of my grandfather’s legacy. My assistant nodded vigorously and ran out to make the calls. I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool marble wall until the violent shaking in my limbs finally stopped. When I opened my eyes, they were perfectly clear. I was flying back to Boston in a few days. I had too much to do. I couldn’t let my schedule be derailed by this filth. The next afternoon, I drove myself to Bergdorf Goodman. I needed to pick out a few placatory gifts for my parents. The boutique managers fawned over me, offering champagne and private suites. By the time I selected a few vintage watches and a Birkin, my mood had marginally improved. Just as I handed the associate my card, my phone rang. It was Brooks. “Bess!” His voice was a whip-crack of pure, unadulterated fury. The polite, exhausted mask was completely gone. “You filed a lawsuit against Paige?! You’re demanding ten times the damages?!” “Your debt collectors smashed her new shop to pieces and poured red paint all over her parents’ front door! Paige is missing! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Listening to him scream, I felt a strange, chilling sense of peace. In fact, a dark spike of pleasure shot through me. “Brooks, what exactly is the problem with me legally recovering my stolen property? Frankly, I’m disgusted she even touched the money my grandfather left me.” “Bess, you are completely out of your mind.” Brooks’s voice turned deadly cold. “Paige was severely traumatized because you set her up at that hotel. I transferred that money to her as compensation on your behalf—” “Compensation?” I let out a sharp, genuine laugh. My nails bit into my palms. “What gives you the right to use my money to compensate your whore? Brooks, I must have been blind to ever look at you.” “If it wasn’t for my two million dollars, you’d be dead in a gutter somewhere! You and that pathetic little charity case are made for each other!” “Sign the divorce papers! I’m leaving you both to rot together!” The words hung in the air. On the other end of the line, there was absolute, dead silence. I could hear the hitch in Brooks’s breathing. “…Bess, are you using the D-word to threaten me again?” A dark, bitter laugh escaped him. “Fine. Bess, you crossed the line this time. I am done going soft on you.” The line went dead. A few minutes later, the boutique manager returned. She looked terrified, holding my platinum card as if it were radioactive. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Solomon, but… all of your accounts have been frozen. The card declined.” “The total is four point eight million. How… how would you like to proceed?” …My cards were frozen? I instantly knew what he had done. I gritted my teeth and dialed Brooks’s number. Once. Twice. Three times… Nineteen calls in total. Not a single one connected. As the ringing echoed in the quiet VIP suite, the obsequious smile on the manager’s face slowly melted away. By the time the final call went to voicemail, her expression had turned to ice. “Ma’am, the items have already been custom-wrapped and cannot be restocked. If you are unable to provide payment, I have no choice but to contact the authorities for attempted fraud.” 6 I was taken away in the back of an NYPD cruiser. I fought, I screamed, I threatened to sue every single officer in the precinct. It wasn’t until the arresting officer in the passenger seat turned around and looked at me with dead eyes that I stopped. “Mrs. Solomon, we already contacted your husband.” “He informed us that everything you have to your name was provided by him. And since you are so insistent on a divorce, he wants you to see exactly what happens to you…” “When you leave him.” The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, completely extinguishing the fire in my lungs. Brooks knew I had been arrested. He had orchestrated it. …Because I dared to take back the money he stole for his mistress, he froze me out and let me be thrown into a holding cell. A wave of despair, darker and deeper than anything I had ever known, dragged me under. My arms and legs felt like lead. I couldn’t move. I spent three days in lockup. It was hell on earth. A pampered, blue-blooded heiress in a designer coat sitting in a general population holding cell in Manhattan was a walking target. I was shoved, cornered, and beaten. The pathetic, stale meals they handed me were tossed into the filthy toilet by the other inmates while I watched, starving. After three days, my lawyers finally managed to post bail. I thought the nightmare was over. But the second I stepped out of the precinct doors, two massive men grabbed me, threw me into the back of a black SUV, and locked the doors. An hour later, I was dragged out and dumped into the dirt. I looked up. I was standing in the middle of a sprawling, magnificent field of red roses. I recognized the head of Brooks’s security detail standing over me. The dam finally broke. “What the hell does he want from me?!” I screamed, my voice cracking, tears of absolute panic and exhaustion blurring my vision. “Wasn’t three days of torture in a cell enough?!” I was trembling violently in the freezing wind. The security guard looked at me with zero pity. “Ma’am. Mr. Solomon says that since you are responsible for destroying Ms. Paige’s flower shop for the second time, you are to personally pick nine hundred and ninety-nine roses to send to her as an apology.” …He wanted me to pick nine hundred and ninety-nine roses? By myself? I stared at the guard, my ch

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He walked perfectly in my footprints just to avoid stepping in the deep snow, and then, inevitably, he slipped. He blamed me. He claimed I had packed the snow down too hard, making it slick. He demanded fifty thousand dollars in damages. It didn’t stop there. He bled me dry. Through a relentless campaign of harassment, he cost me my job, drained my savings, and finally, in a fit of manufactured rage, shoved me into an open excavation trench at a construction site. I was knocked unconscious. I froze to death in the dark. And then, I woke up. I respawned at the exact moment before we walked out of the apartment building’s lobby into the winter storm. Without a second thought, I pivoted on my heel, marched back upstairs to my apartment, and slammed the door shut. The old man was stunned. A few seconds later, he followed me up and started hammering his fists against the wood. 1 Bang! Bang! Bang! My front door rattled violently in its frame, but I couldn’t focus on the noise. I was hyperventilating, my back pressed against the cold wood. My heart thrashed against my ribs like a trapped bird. The phantom agony of freezing to death—the slow, creeping numbness, the feeling of my blood turning to slush, the final, terrifying lethargy—still clung to my bones. “Michael! Why did you turn back around?” Old Man Pendleton’s voice was muffled through the door, grating and utterly entitled. “The snow is too deep out here. I’m not risking it. Come back out and blaze a trail for me.” I closed my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. “My grandson wants bacon for breakfast, so I need to get to the grocery store,” he whined, the banging resuming. “You’re young. You’ve got good knees. You really going to refuse to do a simple favor for an old man? Whatever happened to respecting your elders, huh?” Arthur Pendleton. The neighborhood nightmare. He just kept rattling off excuses, trying to guilt me into stepping back out into the freezing cold. Like hell I am. In my previous life, I had obliged. He had stepped exactly where I stepped, slipped on the compacted ice, and then launched a lawsuit from hell, demanding fifty grand. When I refused to pay, he showed up at my corporate office every single day, screaming until HR finally let me go just to avoid the PR nightmare. But losing my job hadn’t been enough for him. He tracked down my parents in our quiet rural hometown upstate. He made them the laughingstock of the county, filing bogus police reports against my dad, who had been the town’s bookkeeper for thirty years. My dad was brought in for questioning. Even though he was completely cleared, the whispering and the stares from people they’d known their whole lives broke my parents. They sold their house at a loss and moved across the state, shadows of their former selves. Bang! Bang! Bang! The pounding grew more aggressive. I pushed away from the door, my mind snapping into sharp, crystalline focus. I cleared my throat. “Arthur!” I shouted, making my voice crack. “I have Covid! The really bad strain! Cough, cough, cough!” I ran to the kitchen. “Hold on, just give me a second to cough up this blood, and I’ll open the door! Cough, cough!” I grabbed a paper towel, squirted a generous dollop of ketchup onto it, and smeared a little at the corner of my mouth for good measure. Arthur must not have heard me clearly because the relentless banging didn’t stop. I took a deep breath, yanked the deadbolt back, and threw the door open, launching into a violent, chest-heaving fit of coughing that sounded like I was hacking up pieces of my lungs. “Cough, cough, cough! Arthur, I told you, I’m severely infected. I’m burning up. What do you need?” As I spoke, I pulled the paper towel away from my mouth. It was a mess of crimson red. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help,” I wheezed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “I genuinely have a terrible respiratory infection…” I shoved the ketchup-stained paper towel toward his face. “Smell it! That’s the smell of fresh, highly contagious lung tissue!” Arthur shrieked, executing a backward jump that was shockingly athletic for a man of his age. “Get away from me! If you give me pneumonia, I’m suing you for medical bills!” He pressed his back against the hallway wall, but then, I saw his cloudy, calculating eyes dart back to me. His greed was a living, breathing thing. “Listen, Michael,” he wheedled, pulling his coat tighter around his neck. “Can’t you just push through it? Just walk me to the end of the block. I’m terrified of falling.” I stared at him. The sheer audacity was staggering. “My grandson looks up to you,” he continued, laying the guilt on thick. “You can’t just abandon us over a little cold. Put on a double layer of N95 masks. I won’t hold it against you!” Then, the kicker. “You’re doing so well for yourself. I heard you talking on the phone—you just got a fifty-thousand-dollar year-end bonus! Surely a successful young man like you can afford to do one tiny favor?” 2 This stubborn old vulture. I was standing here supposedly coughing up a lung, and he still wanted me to be his human snowplow. In my past life, I had always wondered how long it took him to select me as his perfect victim. Now, the pieces clicked together. My bonus. Just before we had walked out of the building earlier, I had taken a call from my manager confirming my year-end bonus. Arthur had been lurking in the lobby. He heard the whole thing. He hadn’t just accidentally slipped; he had targeted me because he knew I was holding a fresh, fat check. No wonder he was so desperate to get me out there. Seeing that I wasn’t moving, Arthur’s faux-polite mask slipped. He let out an exaggerated huff and dramatically lowered himself to sit right on the freezing tile floor of the hallway. “Fine! If you won’t help me, I can’t leave. So I’ll just sit right here!” I narrowed my eyes, studying his pathetic, petulant display for a long moment. Then, the corners of my mouth curled into a bright, terrifying smile. “No problem, Arthur. I’ll lead the way. Just stay close!” I stepped back inside, pulled on my heaviest down parka and a pair of thick, treaded snow boots. Arthur scrambled to his feet, shadowing me closely as we headed out. In my previous life, I had walked slowly, out of an abundance of caution, and he had matched my agonizing pace. The apartment’s security camera had captured the whole thing. Later, he strong-armed the property manager into giving him the footage, using it to blackmail me at my office. The angle of the camera had been terrible—it looked exactly like I had kicked a patch of ice backward, causing him to fall. I wasn’t about to let history repeat itself. The moment the heavy glass door clicked shut behind us, and I saw the red light of the security camera in my peripheral vision, I threw my arms up in the air and screamed. “God, I love the snow! Hahahaha!” I glanced over my shoulder. “Keep up, Arthur!” And then, I bolted. I sprinted down the sidewalk like an Olympic sprinter, kicking up a massive wake of white powder. Arthur froze, completely blindsided. By the time his brain processed what was happening, I had already rounded the corner of the building and vanished from sight. “You little bastard, what are you running for?!” I heard him screech from a distance. “Whoa—I’m slipping! Get back here! If I fall, you have to pay—!” A dull thud echoed through the frigid air. He had gone down. I stood hidden behind the brick wall of the next building. One minute passed. Two minutes. Three. No one came to help him. Eventually, the biting cold became too much for him. I peeked around the corner just in time to see him scramble to his feet, dusting snow off his coat. He glared up at the security camera, spitting into the snow. “Dammit! Didn’t catch a thing,” he muttered viciously. I turned and jogged away from the complex, my breath pluming in the freezing air. The camera definitely wouldn’t have us in the same frame this time. But would Old Man Pendleton let it go that easily? I highly doubted it. In my past life, even after I had drained my bank accounts to pay his extortion demands, he hadn’t stopped. He had demanded I sign over the deed to my condo so his deadbeat son could use it as a marital home for his second wedding. The man’s greed was a bottomless abyss. If he thought he could use his old playbook to control me in this life, he was out of his mind. My first stop wasn’t the office. It was a coffee shop. I pulled out my phone, scrolled through Zillow, and found a fully furnished, short-term luxury apartment just a few miles away. I wired the deposit immediately and got the digital door code. This was step one of my revenge. If he couldn’t find me at home, he would inevitably show up at my office to cause a scene. I needed to be ready for him. After securing the apartment, I circled back to my old place to grab my laptop and a few essentials. The moment I stepped through the front gates of the complex, I noticed the security guard at the booth looking at me with wide, panicked eyes. He was violently mouthing the words, Run. Before my brain could register the warning, a shadow lunged from behind the brick pillar. A heavy weight slammed into my side, tackling me straight into a snowbank. 3 “You little punk! Thought you were fast, huh? Let’s see you run now!” I blinked snow out of my eyelashes. Hovering over me, face twisted in rage, was Arthur Pendleton. “Listen to me,” he snarled, digging his fingers into my jacket. “When you ran off this morning, you tripped me! I nearly broke my neck!” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of stale coffee and decay. “So, you tell me how we’re going to handle this. I’ll give you a hint: if you don’t fork over fifty thousand dollars right now, this doesn’t go away!” I laughed inwardly. The old bastard was just throwing darts in the dark, hoping to hit a jackpot. I had watched that security footage hundreds of times in my past life. I knew with absolute certainty that the camera had captured nothing of use today. He was bluffing. I wasn’t about to play by his rules. Instead of arguing, I threw my head back and let out an ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream. “My ribs! Oh my god, my ribs are shattered!” I writhed in the snow, clutching my side. “My head! I’m going to throw up, it’s a severe concussion!” I kicked my leg out at an awkward angle. “My femur is snapped! Call an ambulance! Call 911!” I grabbed my lower back, screaming louder. “My kidney! You ruptured my kidney! I’m passing stones!” Arthur leaped off me as if he’d been electrocuted, stumbling backward. “I’m warning you, don’t try to pull an insurance scam on me!” he yelled, panic edging into his voice. “I’ll call the cops and have you arrested!” Before he could even reach for his pockets, I already had my phone pressed to my ear. I had dialed 911 the second he tackled me. Arthur’s face went pale. He lunged forward to snatch the phone, but it was too late. “Are you insane? You actually called them?” I looked up at him from the snow, my eyes wide, and gasped theatrically. “Oh, no… my heart. I have a heart condition! This old man triggered an attack! Everyone, look! Don’t let him get away!” In my past life, the psychological warfare he had waged against me was etched into my soul. It had become a waking nightmare. Now, I was simply returning the favor, page by page from his own playbook. When the police arrived, Arthur immediately tried to play the sweet, confused grandfather. “Officers, it was just a misunderstanding! We were just messing around, right Michael?” I didn’t answer him. I insisted on being loaded onto the stretcher and taken in the ambulance. Arthur tried to push his way through the paramedics to grab my arm, desperate to avoid paying a dime for my hospital transport. I pointed a shaking finger at the security booth. “Officers, please secure the gate footage immediately! Before the cameras conveniently ‘malfunction’.” The footage was undeniable. It clearly showed Arthur ambushing me, shoving me violently to the ground, and my head snapping back against the ice. He was forced to pay my three-thousand-dollar emergency room bill out of pocket. When he handed the money over at the precinct, the hatred in his eyes was so intense it practically burned. I ignored it, pocketed the cash, and walked out. Later that evening, I took the complex’s security guard out for steaks. Over dinner, the guard shook his head, looking at me like I was a dead man walking. “Man, out of everyone in the city, you had to cross that old psycho,” the guard sighed. He told me things about Arthur I hadn’t known. Years ago, Arthur had stolen the heavy iron storm drain covers from the complex’s streets and sold them to a scrapyard to buy toys for his grandson. A resident had fallen into an open drain and shattered their leg. When the HOA reviewed the cameras and confronted Arthur, he didn’t even deny it. He claimed that because he paid his HOA fees, the neighborhood property belonged to him. When the HOA pointed out he hadn’t paid his fees in three years, he argued that since he paid them once, it counted forever. “It gets worse,” the guard said, taking a sip of his beer. “He used to steal women’s underwear from the laundry room and have his son sell them online. When one of the female residents caught him, he threw himself on the floor, claimed she assaulted him, and tried to sue her.” “Eventually, he figured out that college girls were easier targets,” the guard lowered his voice. “So he started lurking around the basement apartments where the university students rent.” 4 The guard’s voice was heavy with disgust. “He would press his face against the half-windows of the basement units in the middle of the night. Scared one girl so bad she called the cops. When they showed up, he suddenly ‘forgot’ where he was and played the dementia card.” “And his son is just as bad. When he showed up at the precinct, he had the nerve to say the girl was trying to seduce his rich father through the window, and threatened to sue her for emotional distress.” “The cops couldn’t do anything but tell the son to keep an eye on him. But Arthur didn’t stop. He basically stalked her, pacing outside her window every night. She was too terrified to leave her apartment. She missed her finals, dropped out of college, and moved down South to work in a factory. I heard a rumor she got her hand crushed in some industrial machine down there.” The guard shook his head. “Everyone knows Old Man Pendleton ruined her life. And he just struts around the neighborhood, untouchable.” Listening to this, a cold, hard knot of resolve tightened in my chest. If I harbored even a shred of guilt about my revenge plan, it evaporated instantly. This man wasn’t just an annoyance; he was a predator. “Don’t worry,” I told the guard, raising my glass. “His luck is about to run out. Karma is coming to collect.” The very next morning, my prediction came true. Arthur showed up at my corporate office. He stood right outside the glass walls of my boss’s corner office, clutching two cheap bottles of wine. My boss looked bewildered. He stepped out and asked Arthur who he was looking for. “I’m Michael’s great-uncle,” Arthur announced loudly, ensuring the entire open-plan office could hear. “I know my boy can be a burden, so I brought you a little something to thank you for putting up with him.” Then, leaning in conspiratorially, but still speaking at top volume, he dropped the bomb. “You see, he’s had a severe, highly contagious case of Hepatitis B for years. I’m sure it’s been a nightmare for his coworkers.” My boss’s face drained of color. He immediately summoned me to his office, shutting the door behind us, and asked if it was true. Through the glass, I could see Arthur looking at me with feigned, grandfatherly concern, though his cloudy eyes danced with pure, venomous triumph. I had fully anticipated he would pull a stunt like this, though the specific tactic was impressively unhinged. I watched as Arthur pointed at the ‘Team Lead’ badge on my lanyard and smiled greasily at my boss. “You truly are a saint, sir,” Arthur proclaimed. “Letting a boy with such failing, infectious health be in charge of people.” My boss looked like he wanted to vomit. Outside the glass, I could see my team members slowly rolling their desk chairs away from my cubicle. I didn’t panic. Instead, I threw the door open, rushed out, and threw my arms around Arthur in a massive, crushing bear hug. “Uncle Arthur!” I bellowed, my voice thick with emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me you were visiting?” “I missed you so much!” I deliberately let a generous spray of saliva hit his face as I shouted. Arthur froze, completely short-circuiting. He had not expected this reaction. In my past life, he had used a similar rumor to ostracize me, driving a wedge between me and my coworkers until the isolation forced me to quit. Given a second chance, there was no way I was letting him control the narrative. Right now, I was clinging to him like a desperate, long-lost child. He had just publicly claimed to be my blood relative; all he could do was stand there, his face contorting into a gruesome, strained smile. I stared right into his weathered face and laughed—a manic, joyful laugh that lasted for a full, uncomfortable minute, thoroughly playing the part of a man overjoyed by a family reunion. Just as Arthur looked like he was about to physically shove me off, I stepped back, gripping his shoulders. “Uncle Arthur,” I said, my voice dropping to a dramatic whisper that carried across the silent office. “You found out about the Hepatitis B?” Arthur instantly perked up, sensing an opening. He puffed out his chest and spoke loudly. “That’s right! I couldn’t just stand by and let you hide your condition! It’s not right to keep secrets that could hurt other people, is it?” He sounded like a martyr making a difficult moral choice. My boss’s expression grew even darker. He stepped out of his office, his arms crossed tightly. “Michael,” he said, his tone heavy with disappointment. “Why wouldn’t you disclose something like this to HR? We could have made accommodations. We could have set up a separate break area for you.” 5 My boss was a decent guy. In my previous life, when Arthur had come to the office to throw his tantrums, my boss had actually tried to protect me. But Arthur had escalated it, eventually threatening to hang himself from the corporate logo in the lobby. By that point, I had been financially ruined and entirely broken. I resigned just to spare the company the liability. Hearing my boss try to accommodate me, Arthur’s eyes bugged out. “Sir, we can’t let him be a burden to your fine company just for a paycheck!” Arthur interjected, looking genuinely alarmed that his plan was failing. I laughed inwardly. “Uncle Arthur,” I said softly, looking at him with wide, tragic eyes. “Who told you I only have Hepatitis B?” Arthur blinked. “Since the secret is out, I guess I have to come clean,” I said, my voice trembling with fake sorrow. “It’s not just the Hep B. It’s the Tuberculosis. And the chronic blood flukes. Oh, and the Syphilis. And the untreated Gonorrhea. And the highly aggressive HPV…” With every disease I listed, Arthur’s face grew a shade paler. His jaw dropped. He pointed a trembling, arthritic finger at my chest. “Y-you… are you telling the truth?” I inhaled sharply, threw my head forward, and sneezed violently—twice. Both times, right into Arthur’s face. “Ahhhh!” Arthur shrieked in genuine terror, scrubbing frantically at his cheeks with the sleeves of his coat. “You infected me! I came here out of the goodness of my heart, and you infected me!” he wailed, backing away toward the elevators. “You monster!” My boss, however, wasn’t an idiot. He was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. Who on earth contracts half a dozen Victorian-era plagues at the same time? Was I moonlight as a lab rat for the CDC? He realized immediately that the old man was entirely full of shit. Arthur’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. He wanted to lunge at me, but the sheer terror of my imaginary pathogens kept him glued to the spot. “You can kiss this job goodbye!” Arthur spat. “I won’t let you infect these good people!” Then, he took a hesitant half-step forward and hissed under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “Unless you wire me that fifty grand right now. If you do, I’ll tell your boss I have dementia and I made the whole thing up. I’m not even your uncle. You keep your job, I get my money.” I stared at him, my heart turning to ice. It was the exact same script. Word for word. In my past life, terrified of losing my career and the stability it provided, I had caved. I had transferred two thousand dollars to his account right then and there just to make him leave. That was the mistake that sealed my fate. Once you pay the Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane. Two thousand turned into five, then ten, until I was bled dry. Now, looking at his greedy, venomous eyes, I just smiled brightly. I reached into my blazer, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to my boss. “Sir, this is my formal resignation.” Arthur froze. My boss looked equally stunned. “Michael, have you lost your mind?” my boss asked, refusing to take the paper. “I haven’t said a word about firing you. We don’t terminate people over health rumors. Let’s just have you work from home for a few weeks until this blows over—” I held up a hand, feeling a genuine rush of gratitude for the man. “Thank you, sir. Truly. But I refuse to be a liability to this company.” I placed the resignation letter on his desk. I had already packed my personal belongings into a small box that morning. I picked it up from my cubicle and walked straight past Arthur toward the glass doors. Arthur finally snapped out of his shock and scrambled after me, blocking the elevator bank. “Boy, what kind of game are you playing?” he growled, dropping the sweet-old-man act entirely. “I’m not falling for this!” I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the elevator floor indicator. “Hold it right there!” he barked, stepping into my personal space. “You’re not going anywhere until you pay me what you owe me! Where do you think you’re going?” I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “I’m going to buy a lottery ticket.” Arthur sneered, his face wrinkling in disgust. “Don’t bullshit me! A lottery ticket? What, you think you’re going to magically strike it rich?” “Actually, Arthur,” I said as the elevator doors chimed open. “For a guy who supposedly has dementia, you’re pretty sharp. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” In my past life, on the exact day Arthur had ruined my career, I had hit absolute rock bottom. Desperate, I had bought a Mega Millions ticket on my walk home. When the numbers were drawn, I had missed the jackpot by exactly two numbers. The jackpot had been five million dollars. With five million dollars, why the hell did I need this corporate grind anyway? I stepped onto the elevator. Arthur squeezed in right behind me, his chest heaving. “You think you can outsmart me?” he sneered as the doors closed. “I’m going to watch you buy that ticket. Let’s see how lucky you really are.”

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The penalty for losing the game was supposed to be a simple, if slightly humiliating, dare: post “I’m in love with you. Just you.” to my Instagram Story. But there was a catch. It couldn’t be restricted to my Close Friends list. It had to be public. For all seventy million of my haters to see. And the real kicker? I had to screen-mirror my phone to the live broadcast and instantly open the direct messages of the men who replied. The entire internet was holding its collective breath, waiting to watch Hollywood’s most notorious serial dater—me—crash and burn on live television. They didn’t expect what actually happened. The brooding, Oscar-winning A-lister: [Are you actively trying to destroy our family?] [Delete this right now. I’m going to pretend I never saw it, sis.] [DELETE IT NOW!] The chart-topping pop idol: [Whatever you want, just name it. I’m sending my black card over now.] [Actually, Harps, please delete that post! My brother just saw it and I think my soul just left my body!] The notoriously ruthless billionaire venture capitalist: [No.] [But if you’re absolutely desperate, I suppose I could make an exception.] [Ground rules: if we do this, you cut off every other guy. Clean break.] [Wait? Didn’t I reply in less than a second?] [Why aren’t you answering?] [Fine. You don’t have to cut them off. I’m a traditional man—I just demand to be the primary husband. Make sure your little harem brings me my morning coffee.] 1 My name is Heather. In the eyes of the internet, I am Hollywood’s most manipulative, clout-chasing villain. The moment my name trends, a bloodbath ensues. If you venture into the comment sections of any pop-culture account, you’ll find variations of the same venom: [How desperate is she for relevance?] [Did her sugar daddy cut off her allowance? Why is she preying on my man? He literally has PTSD from trying to avoid her!] [Honestly, seeing her act like this makes me feel better about my own life.] And those are just the ones that don’t get flagged for community guidelines. I don’t have fans. I have a dedicated mob of anti-fans. I mute them all. The origin of this mass hatred? I happen to be a little too close to some of the industry’s most untouchable leading men. What the public doesn’t know is that most of these men are my older brother’s best friends. He’s a fiercely private, method-acting hermit who spends half the year off the grid in a Montana cabin. Before he disappears, he casually asks his high-profile buddies to “keep an eye on the kid.” Naturally, the paparazzi only catch the moments that look incriminating. Add that to the time I was photographed sneaking onto my brother’s closed set. In the eyes of the public, I was defiling their untouchable, fiercely single cinematic king. The tabloids ran with it, and the internet swallowed it whole. Just like that, I became Heather: the calculating, coattail-riding siren. To salvage what was left of my non-existent reputation, my manager, Valerie, threw me into Girls’ Getaway: Unplugged. It was an all-female, slow-paced travel reality show known for its wholesome vibes and positive PR. Please, I prayed to whatever PR gods were listening, let this save my career. 2 The premise was a four-person girls’ trip, live-streamed 24/7. The cast included Bonnie and Kendall, a comedy duo who were actual best friends in real life. Ironically, Bonnie had a very public, unrequited crush on my emotionally unavailable brother, Henry. Kendall, on the other hand, was aggressively pursuing Mason, the pop star who currently acted as my personal lackey. The final cast member was Sophia. Sophia was the golden girl. Effortlessly chic, universally beloved, and possessing a rare superpower: no matter who she was paired with, she had insane, palpable chemistry with them. It was a foolproof setup. Without a doubt, this show was tailor-made to wash my sins away. 3 Brimming with a dangerously high level of optimism, I arrived at the set. The production team had rented a sprawling, Tuscan-style villa in the hills. The interior was draped in warm linens and fresh eucalyptus—exactly the kind of healing, aesthetic sanctuary you’d expect from an all-female retreat. I was still taking in the sweeping vineyard views when I saw them: Bonnie and Kendall, practically sprinting toward me with beaming, enthusiastic smiles. I dropped my posture, throwing my arms open to embrace them. Only, they didn’t stop. They blew right past me, their momentum carrying them toward the driveway behind me. Toward the radiant, glowing Sophia. Sophia was dressed in understated vintage denim and a crisp white button-down, her makeup impossibly fresh. She flashed a smile that could disarm a bomb. Men loved her; women worshipped her. The internet had declared her the ultimate “chemistry queen,” and it was easy to see why. The live chat, projected on a monitor behind the cameras, was already having a field day at my expense: [LMAOOOO look at the clout-chaser! She really thought they were running to hug her!] [I’m screaming. You love to see a pick-me girl get completely ignored by real women.] [Thank god there are no men on this cast, otherwise she’d be playing the victim right now.] [Why did production even cast her? She ruins the whole vibe.] [Okay but honestly… I don’t mind the producers throwing her in if we get to watch her squirm like this all season.] Catching sight of the vicious comments, I immediately stepped up to defend Bonnie and Kendall. “Sophia is literally glowing,” I said to the cameras, forcing a bright, self-deprecating laugh. “I was staring at her myself! I don’t blame them for not noticing me.” Bonnie and Kendall turned around, freezing in their tracks. They stared at me, their expressions twisting into something guarded and strange. I shot them a reassuring look. Don’t worry. I’m cool with it. Sophia’s lips curved upward. It was a knowing, somewhat inscrutable smile. She gave me a polite nod of acknowledgment. I wiped my palms on my jeans and stepped forward, cautiously extending a hand. “Hi, Sophia. I’m Heather. Huge fan.” Sophia chuckled softly, her grip firm and warm. “Hi, Heather.” The chat wasted no time ripping me apart: [Ha! The second she realizes there are no men to manipulate, she starts kissing up to the most popular girl.] [Sophia is a class act. Even knowing this girl is obsessed with her brother, she’s still so polite.] [Classic social climber. Notice how she hasn’t even acknowledged Bonnie and Kendall because they aren’t A-listers?] Wait. Sophia’s brother? Who the hell was that? I racked my brain. I didn’t know any men who shared Sophia’s last name. If I did, there was no way I would only be meeting the goddess herself today. I let out a quiet, internal sigh. A disastrous opening move. Fixing this image was going to be an uphill battle through mud. Keeping my head down, I grabbed the handle of my oversized suitcase and trailed behind the trio, chanting my manager’s golden rules in my head: Speak less. Work more. Stop staring at beautiful people. Watch the live chat. 4 We reached the sweeping stone steps leading up to the villa’s main entrance. As we prepared to haul our luggage, Bonnie paused, turning back to me with an exaggerated look of distress. “Heather, your bag looks so heavy,” she cooed, her tone carrying a brittle, overly-sweet edge. “We really can’t lift it. You don’t mind carrying it up yourself, do you?” As a chronic people-pleaser who melted whenever a pretty girl looked distressed, I shook my head vigorously. “No, of course not! I’ve got it. Don’t worry about me.” Bonnie and Kendall exchanged a sharp, loaded glance. I felt a beat of confusion. The chat, naturally, erupted in glee: [HAHAHA! YES Bonnie! Give it to her! When she was trying to get Henry’s attention last month, she claimed her bag was too heavy to move!] [No men around to do her heavy lifting, so the mask slips. Love to see it.] [This is the exact kind of reality TV justice I signed up for!] I gripped the handle of my suitcase, hesitating on the bottom step. Huh? They seemed like such nice girls. Why did that feel like a targeted hit? Surely the internet was just reading too much into it. The irony was, the last time I visited Henry’s set, my suitcase was impossibly heavy. It was packed full of homemade preserves and heavy winter coats our mother had forced me to mule across the country for him. I had to play the damsel in distress just to guilt Henry into giving me my monthly shopping allowance. Before I could open my mouth to explain, the camera operators and the rest of the cast had already migrated inside the cool, marble foyer. I stood alone in the heat for a second, then let out a breath. Whatever. We had weeks of filming left. There would be time to clear the air. 5 The ice-breaker for the first night was Truth or Dare. Simple, unpretentious, and dangerously effective for reality television. A steaming hot pot bubbled in the center of the dining table. The cameras were rolling. The empty wine bottle spun, slowing down until the neck pointed directly at my chest. “Truth or Dare?” Bonnie asked, a spark of anticipation in her eyes. I rolled up my silk sleeves. “A real woman never chooses truth.” Bonnie and Kendall shared another one of those loaded looks. A tiny knot of panic tightened in my stomach. I maintained a facade of absolute calm. What was the worst that could happen? They were gorgeous, sweet women. It wasn’t like they were going to feed me to the wolves. I leaned forward, trying to look eager. Kendall’s face grew deadpan. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or anyone you’re… casually seeing?” I blinked, thrown off. “Wait, is this a Truth? I thought I picked Dare.” “We’re just asking because we don’t want your boyfriend to break up with you after you do this dare,” Bonnie explained smoothly. I let out a dry, theatrical scoff. “Please. Men are merely stepping stones on my path to greatness.” A flicker of genuine amusement flashed in Sophia’s eyes, though it was quickly masked by something more complicated. Bonnie offered a tight smile. “So, that’s a no?” I nodded with total conviction. Bonnie’s smile widened as she read the dare from a card. “Post the following to your main Instagram feed, no filters, no privacy settings: ‘I’m in love with you. Just you.’ Then, you have to screen-mirror your phone and open the DMs of the men who reply instantly.” A heavy silence fell over my end of the table. I raised a hand, feeling very much like a reprimanded schoolgirl. “What if… no one replies instantly?” “Then you just open the chat of whoever replies first,” Kendall said, entirely unsympathetic. I nodded slowly, the gears turning in my head. I pulled out my phone, typed the caption over a black background, and hovered my thumb over the ‘Share’ button. Kendall raised an eyebrow. “You’re not restricting certain people from seeing it, are you?” I hesitated, then slid my phone across the table toward them. “Do you want to press post?” I closed my eyes tightly as I heard the soft tap of the screen. Dread washed over me. What if no one texted? My reputation was already in the gutter. If I went viral as the girl who couldn’t even get a pity text from a fake love confession, the humiliation would be permanent. It’s fine, I reasoned with myself. Valerie is watching the live stream. She’ll text me to save face. The live chat was moving so fast it was a blur: [Oh my god, Bonnie is a reality TV genius! Right for the jugular!] [Look at how terrified she is! I’m living for this!] [This post is about to expose her entire roster. I cannot WAIT.] [They really put the clown makeup right on her face. I get why she’s on this show now—she’s the sacrificial lamb.] The comments were brutal, some crossing into territory too vile to read. My heart hammered against my ribs. Please. Someone. Anyone. Just text me. Perhaps the universe took pity on my pathetic internal pleading. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. A rapid-fire barrage of notification chimes echoed through the silent dining room. I let out a long, shaky exhale. Thank God. Across the table, Kendall and Bonnie’s eyes lit up the moment they heard the chimes. Within seconds, a producer had mirrored my phone screen onto the large monitor mounted on the dining room wall. I looked up at the fresh stack of direct messages. There were… a lot of them. As Kendall and Bonnie read the names on the lock screen, the smug anticipation completely drained from their faces. They went rigid. Forcing a stiff smile, Bonnie swallowed hard. “So, Heather… whose message do you want to open first?” I stared at the list of chaotic notifications, a unique brand of despair settling over me. I decided to go with the safest bet. The softest target. My brother—Henry. His contact name was saved simply as “The Spark.” I used to have him saved as “Pretentious Drama Queen” because I blocked him so often, but eventually, I got too lazy to type it out. Bonnie stared at the avatar next to the name, her voice trembling slightly. “Is… is that Henry’s private account?” I nodded, utterly relaxed. “Yeah.” The phone in Bonnie’s hand visibly shook. “Aren’t you terrified he’s going to rip you apart?” I lunged forward, snatching my phone before she could drop it into the boiling hot pot broth. “Why would he yell at me?” I asked, genuinely baffled. Bonnie’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. “Because you’re… you’re using him for clout?” I had no idea if Henry was currently yelling at me in those messages, but the internet certainly was. [Are you kidding me? Is she seriously doing this?] [She is shameless. Absolutely shameless. Hooking her claws into him on live TV?] [I mean, bad press is still press. She knows exactly what she’s doing.] [Does Heather have zero shame? What is wrong with her?] [Henry HATES people who use him for PR. Watch him absolutely end her career right now.] I turned my back to the monitor. Out of sight, out of mind. I tapped Henry’s message thread. The chat expanded on the massive screen behind me, the camera zooming in perfectly. The Spark: [Are you actively trying to destroy our family?!] [Delete this right now. I’m going to pretend I never saw it, sis.] [DELETE IT NOW!] A deafening silence dropped over the room. The only sound was a soft plop as Sophia dropped her sushi roll into her soy sauce dish, staring blankly at the screen. Everyone was paralyzed. Bonnie looked physically ill, completely forgetting she was on camera. The producers behind the lenses looked like they needed medical attention. I was the only one moving, calmly typing my reply. [Relax, Drama Queen. If I ever fall in love, it definitely wouldn’t be with you.] [It’s a Truth or Dare penalty.] The response was instantaneous. [Oh thank god. My life is spared.] The chat box on the live stream broke. It was moving so fast the text blurred into a solid white block. [AHHHHHHHHH! IS THAT ACTUALLY HENRY?!] [Wait. Holy shit. Is she faking this? Did she hire an actor to run a fake account?] [Why would she fake something that could be disproven by his PR team in three seconds?]

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