On the way to pick up my wedding dress, my fiancé, Finn Sullivan, was kidnapped. He survived, but he forgot me. Every time marriage was mentioned, he would pass out. The doctor diagnosed it as a dissociative fugue, a second personality triggered by the trauma. Then, I found out I was pregnant. “The baby might be the key,” the doctor suggested, “to unlocking the Finn who loves you.” I clutched the ultrasound report, hope blooming in my chest, and went to find him. But instead, I heard him joking with his friends. “Damn, Finn, you’re playing the long game. Faking a whole second personality just to dodge the wedding! What’s next, a third and fourth?” “Nope! I love Elvira. This is the only time I’ll ever lie to her. Once I sleep with ten more girls, I’m done.” “Only ten? That’s not enough to unlock all the achievements, man. I say you keep this charade up for another year. Elvira would marry you even if you were a ghost.” Finn’s voice turned cold as he scolded his friend. “I can’t stand to see her upset for that long! Now hurry up and find me some girls. I want the freaky ones who are still technically virgins. One every three days. Nothing can delay my wedding to Elvira!” I shredded the ultrasound report with trembling hands and walked straight back to the clinic to schedule an abortion. 1 The doctor was surprised to see me back so soon, assuming I wasn’t feeling well. When I told him I needed the procedure, he stared in disbelief. “Elvira, you both struggled so hard to conceive. If you terminate now, it might trigger your fiancé, make his condition worse!” A bitter smile twisted my lips. “If I told him the truth, that would probably kill him.” After all, he was currently luxuriating in the pleasure of playing the field, convinced he was getting away with it. I couldn’t wrap my head around it—the man who had begged me, tears in his eyes, to marry him, was now faking an illness just to cheat. The doctor couldn’t dissuade me, but he insisted on calling Finn before I signed the consent forms. “Ms. Hayes, this isn’t just your decision. Even if his illness makes him say he doesn’t want the child right now, he needs to be here to sign for you, to be with you during the surgery. If there’s a misunderstanding, it needs to be cleared up face-to-face…” I placed a gentle hand on my stomach. I didn’t stop him. I had PCOS; pregnancy was a miracle for me. Finn hadn’t cared about the risks; he’d even fought with his parents to marry me. If this child was leaving us, Finn deserved to be there to say goodbye. But as soon as the doctor explained the situation, Finn scoffed. “How much is Elvira Hayes paying you to stage this little drama? I told you, I don’t know her, let alone want to marry her.” “Tell her to stop trying to trap me with these games. Who knows if the kid is even mine?” The abrupt dial tone and the echo of his cruel laughter hung in the sterile silence of the operating room. I signed my own name and closed my eyes. When I woke up in recovery, my phone was lit up with notifications. All from Finn. [Whatever we were before, now I am me, and you are you. If you have the energy to hire actors to fool me, you should use it to move out of my house!] He was very thoughtful. He’d already rented me a fully furnished apartment in the same complex. He’d even paid the first month’s rent. To avoid suspicion, he’d signed a one-year lease with the landlord. [Consider us even. You don’t owe me for the rent.] I glanced at the blurred, bloody image on the ultrasound printout and replied calmly. [Okay. Thank you.] That rent money would be the last responsibility he ever took for this child. I stayed in the hospital for three days. He never contacted me again. But his social media was a constant stream of flashing lights and flowing alcohol. It was as if he was trying to reclaim all the wild youth he’d missed out on because of me. I knew he was posting it for me to see. I had another, burner account that followed him, and none of those posts were visible there. So I played my part. I “liked” every video. When I was checking out, I saw him and a doctor pushing a gurney down the hallway at a run. The moment he saw me, he quickly looked away, pretending I wasn’t there. But I heard the ER doctor shouting orders. “Prep OR 1! We need O-negative blood, stat! Patient has a ruptured luteal cyst, massive hemorrhage!” “What? We’re out of stock?” The doctor hung up and quickly relayed the situation to Finn. The man who had just ignored me stopped dead in his tracks and ran back towards me. “Elvira Hayes! If you donate blood for Lara, I’ll overlook you stalking me!” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “I’m not stalking you…” “Enough! Save the excuses! This is life or death!” He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the doctor. “She’s O-negative. Take whatever you need!” I struggled, but his grip was like iron. I asked him, my voice dripping with cold irony, “I thought you didn’t know me? How do you know I have a rare blood type?” I held his gaze, waiting for his answer. 2 Finn scratched his head, snapping impatiently, “Is this really the time to be asking questions? You keep saying we were in love for six years. Isn’t it normal that in a crisis, I’d instinctively remember your blood type?” But I had just had an abortion. I was still spotting. How could I possibly donate blood? And even if I could, why should I help him clean up his mess? “I just had a miscarriage,” I said flatly. “I can’t donate. Find someone else.” Finn’s face twisted in anger. “Elvira, you claim to love me, but when I ask you for a little blood, you refuse? You’d even lie about a miscarriage!” “I can’t believe you’d just let someone die! No wonder I can’t remember ever loving you!” He was right about one thing: if he had truly loved me, he wouldn’t be faking amnesia to cheat on me. He would have seen how pale my face still was. He certainly wouldn’t be forcing me to donate blood for his mistress. A monitor nearby started screaming. The ER doctor, wasting no more time, signaled for the gurney to be rushed to the OR. Finn tried to drag me to the blood bank, but I dug in my heels. Enraged, he swept me off my feet and threw me over his shoulder. “Elvira, willing or not, I’ll owe you for this. Fine! I’ll marry you on the original date!” All the fight drained out of me. He had once risked his life to save mine. I would consider this debt repaid. As I watched my dark red blood flow into the bag, my heart turned to ice, drop by drop. As soon as the bag was full, Finn sprinted off with the nurse towards the operating room. To his retreating back, I whispered, “Finn Sullivan, we’re even.” I walked out of the donation room, a wave of dizziness hitting me. My vision went black, and I collapsed. When I woke up, the doctor looked like he wanted to scold me, but it melted into a heavy sigh. “Take care of yourself. With your condition, you can’t donate blood again for at least six months.” I smiled and agreed. As the doctor left, I overheard a young nurse whispering to him. “Sir, why didn’t you tell her we couldn’t reach her emergency contact? What if she misunderstands…?” “She won’t. That girl sees everything clearly. It’s a shame she fell for the wrong man.” I picked up my phone. The doctor had called Finn over a dozen times on my behalf. Not a single call was answered. Instead, he had texted me a furious message. [Elvira, can you stop being so dramatic? Know your place!] In that moment, I was relieved he hadn’t answered. I couldn’t imagine the vicious things he would have said to humiliate me. I didn’t reply. I lay in bed for a full day before I had the strength to walk. The sun was shining outside. I went to the hospital’s rooftop garden to get some air and unexpectedly ran into Finn’s friends. They were all carrying elaborate fruit baskets and bouquets of flowers. I thought they were there for me and instinctively turned to leave. But they surrounded me, eyeing my hospital gown with amusement. “Well, well, well. Knew Finn was here with his girlfriend, so you decided to put on a little pity play, huh?” “It was just a little blood donation. Do you have to act like you’re on death’s door?” “Gotta say, the pale makeup looks very natural. Seamless. We always said you were manipulative, but Finn never believed us…” Finn’s friends always thought I wasn’t good enough for him. If he hadn’t forced them to treat me like family, they never would have accepted me. Now, playing along with Finn’s charade, they could finally unleash their true feelings. Finn came downstairs to meet them. He froze when he saw me, then his brow furrowed. “Elvira, seriously? I already promised we’d still have the wedding. Now you’re paying doctors to help you fake an illness so you can spy on me? Is this fun for you?” “Do you have any idea how suffocating this is?” “I’m telling you right now, if you keep this up after we’re married, we’ll end up divorced anyway!” 3 “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice steady. “I don’t need you to marry me.” In our six years together, he had always been free. When he wanted to drink, I sat quietly beside him, never rushing him. If I wasn’t appropriate for the occasion, I waited for his call to pick him up, then took care of him without complaint when he was drunk. When he wanted to take a trip with his friends, I booked the tickets and planned the itinerary. Even when he offered me his phone to check, I never did. I loved him, and I didn’t want to repeat my mother’s mistake—her suffocating control had driven my father to divorce. I thought I had maintained a healthy distance in our relationship. Before his “accident,” we were inseparable, still in the honeymoon phase. But now, I understood. My love was suffocating him. Was that the real reason he was faking this illness, seeking a thrill? Our eyes met. I saw no trace of affection in his gaze. The accusations on the tip of my tongue died in my throat. Finn, unsettled by my stare, grabbed a bouquet of lilies from his friend and shoved it into my arms. “Fine. Don’t play the victim after getting what you wanted. Take the flowers and go.” He still thought I was the same girl who could be placated with a small gift. He didn’t believe that the woman who swore she would marry no one but him could ever truly leave. I handed the flowers back to his friend. “These are for your girlfriend. It’s not appropriate for me to take them.” “I donated the blood willingly. You really don’t have to sacrifice yourself by marrying me.” A flicker of panic crossed Finn’s face. Shouldn’t Elvira be ecstatic? Why is she insisting I don’t have to marry her? Is she actually mad this time? Anxiety flashed in his eyes. “Elvira, I…” His friends started coughing pointedly. He quickly corrected himself. “Elvira, I’m a man of my word.” I just smiled. “You should go be with your girlfriend. I’m checking out now.” My generosity seemed to unnerve him further. He felt something was very different about me today, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. His friends, seeing his hesitation, slapped him on the back and dragged him away. “Come on, man, stop staring. Your Lara will get jealous! It’s just the usual drama—first the pity play, now playing hard to get. Same old female tricks. You’re too naive, easy to manipulate.” “Seriously! Look what you did, man. You’re not a teenager anymore. How did you manage to cause her to hemorrhage? Luckily, Lara’s understanding and doesn’t hold it against you, unlike some people who demand marriage just for donating a little blood…” Their words, intentionally loud enough for me to hear, didn’t cause the expected pain. I just felt cold, a chill that settled deep in my marrow, a cold that even the bright sunlight couldn’t warm. I watched them leave and then discharged myself. While Finn was away, I hired a cleaning service to help me pack. The woman looked at the beautifully decorated apartment, ready for newlyweds, and hesitated. “Miss, all this wedding stuff is brand new. Are you sure you want to throw it away?” “Yes,” I said. “The groom died. We won’t be needing it.” She immediately apologized and consoled me. Afraid of triggering me, she started by packing away the wedding photos and dozens of photo albums first. In just half a day, the home I had so carefully decorated lost all its warmth and joy. A cold house for a cold heart. The cleaner looked at the dozen bags filled with symbols of our love, shaking her head with a sigh. “Miss, you have to look forward.” I smiled and nodded. After she left, I made sure there was no trace of me left in the apartment. I deleted my fingerprints from the smart lock and pulled my suitcase out the door.

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We held a wedding three years ago, but my husband, a pilot, has canceled our trip to get a marriage license eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee was on a test flight. I waited at the courthouse all day. The second time, he got a call from her, made a sharp U-turn, and left me on the side of the road. Every time we scheduled it, something would happen with his trainee. Finally, I decided to leave him. But when I boarded the plane to Paris, he chased me there, frantic and desperate. 1 We’d been “married” for three years, but Mason Croft had never gotten around to making it legal. Today was supposed to be a milestone—his one-thousandth successful flight. It was also the seventeenth time he had promised we would finally go to the courthouse. But at his celebration dinner, while his supervisor was forcing shots on me, Mason was busy feeding appetizers and trading sips of wine with his trainee pilot. I was burning up with a fever, downing drink after drink until I was nearly unconscious, but he never once glanced my way. I could see the pity in our colleagues’ eyes, the unspoken “you deserve better” hanging in the air. It was obvious to everyone who I was doing this for. But after the dinner, Mason, the man who was supposed to take me to get our marriage license, stood me up again. He pulled his convertible up to the restaurant entrance and put a hand out to stop me from getting in. “Cora drank too much on my behalf,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m taking her home. You can grab a cab.” “We probably won’t make it to the courthouse this afternoon. We’ll reschedule.” He didn’t wait for my reaction. He got out, opened the passenger door, and gently helped his trainee into the seat. We’d been together for eight years, married for three. This was the seventeenth time Mason had postponed our official marriage because of Cora. Usually, this would be my breaking point. I would have dissolved into tears, screaming at him, demanding to know who his real wife was, who had actually been taking drinks for him all night. But this time, I just smiled. “Okay. Drive safe.” Mason froze, clearly taken aback by my calm demeanor. A moment later, his face hardened back into its usual indifference. “I’ll buy you a gift tonight to make it up to you.” He sped off, carefully rolling up the passenger-side window to shield a drunk Cora from the wind. He used to hate the smell of alcohol in his car. Whenever I’d had too much to drink for him, he’d put the top down, even in the dead of winter. He certainly never would have rolled up the window. It hit me then. The rules were just different when it was me in the car. The midday Miami heat was suffocating, but a strange, profound chill settled deep in my bones. I took a deep breath and put my wallet, the one holding my ID for the license, back in my purse. I knew then that our eight-year relationship had to be put away with it. 2 That afternoon, I went straight back to the airline’s headquarters and submitted my resignation. “Does Mason know you’re quitting?” my manager asked, shocked. I was, after all, the airline’s top-rated flight attendant for seven consecutive years. My future here was limitless. A bitter smile touched my lips. “I’ll tell him tonight. Not that he’ll care.” “I don’t understand,” she sighed, her expression full of regret. “You two pioneered new routes together, won ‘Best Crew’ awards together. Three years ago, even the CEO came to your wedding. Everyone was so envious. But now…” She was right. Those were beautiful memories. But memories were all they were. There was no going back. It was after ten by the time I got home. The apartment was dark and empty. Just then, a notification popped up on my phone. A new social media post from Cora, and she had tagged me. “Thanks to my amazing mentor for spending the afternoon with me! As a thank you, I’m taking him to the Jay-Z concert tomorrow! So excited!” I knew then that Mason, who had promised to be home, wasn’t coming home. This had become a familiar pattern over the past three years. I made myself a bowl of instant noodles and opened my laptop. My inbox was full of job offers from airlines around the world. My cursor hovered over the one from Air France, and without a second thought, I clicked “accept.” Then I booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two days from now. Five years ago, on a flight to Paris, Mason had experienced the worst crisis of his career. Since then, the word “Paris” had become a taboo. He refused to fly there, and he’d made sure I never did either. Mason, I thought, once I’m in Paris, we’ll never have to see each other again. 3 The next morning, I started packing. I was halfway through when Mason walked in, wearing a crisp, pink button-down. A cloud of rich, floral perfume followed him into the room. The scent hit me, and I froze. He used to despise perfume. Because of him, I hadn’t worn a single drop in years. I’d even thrown away my entire collection. It wasn’t that he hated perfume, I realized. He just hated it on me. He saw the open suitcases and paused. “Cora was too hungover to drive last night. I got a hotel room. That’s why I didn’t come home.” I glanced up at him, surprised. It was the first time in three years he’d bothered to explain himself. I just nodded, not saying a word. He walked over to me, his eyes on the luggage. “Are you packing for a flight?” “Something like that,” I said. He seemed to visibly relax at my answer. “I have to run. I just came back to grab something. Can’t stay for lunch.” “Okay.” I didn’t look up, just kept folding clothes. I had planned to tell him I’d quit over lunch, to finally put an end to our eight years together. It seemed I wouldn’t get the chance. Mason grabbed a red gift bag from the closet, picked up his jacket, and rushed out the door. CRASH! The photo frame that had hung by the door for eight years suddenly fell, shattering on the floor. Glass sprayed everywhere. I looked over. It was a picture of Mason and me at our first concert together, our hands clasped, our faces beaming. He had promised me that day that no matter how busy he got, he would take me to a concert every year. But ever since Cora became his trainee, he had forgotten. The only sound in the empty apartment was the ticking of the clock. After a long silence, I swept up the broken glass. I took the photo, a perfect capsule of our past happiness, and threw it, along with the last remnants of my feelings for him, into the trash. 4 That evening, exhausted from packing, I was lying in bed when my best friend called. “What is wrong with Mason? This is too much! Did you see his feed? He’s all over it, showing off with that homewrecker Cora.” “You guys aren’t even divorced yet! How could he?” As she ranted, I opened my phone. The first post was from Cora. In the photo, she was wearing a new Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, and in her hands was the red gift bag Mason had picked up that afternoon. I finally understood. He’d come home to get Cora’s concert gift. The caption read: “Three years since we met. So lucky to have you, Mason. Happy third anniversary!” My mind went blank. Three years? That’s right. Today was supposed to be my third wedding anniversary with Mason. We had never once celebrated it. I had completely forgotten. I let out a long breath. “He doesn’t need a divorce,” I told my friend. “We were never legally married.” “What?” “You’ve been ‘married’ for three years, and he never got a license with you?” My friend’s shriek was so loud it almost deafened me. Yes. We had a wedding three years ago. And he had canceled on me seventeen times. 5 At eleven that night, Mason came home, a rare occurrence. He took off his jacket and went to hang it on the hook by the door. He stopped, staring at the empty space where our photo used to be. “Where’s our picture?” he asked, walking into the bedroom without even putting his jacket down, a hint of panic in his voice. “It fell. It broke.” He looked towards the trash can by the door, saw the shattered glass, and his shoulders relaxed. He put his jacket aside and pulled out a shopping bag with a new Louis Vuitton purse inside. “I didn’t get a chance to give you your gift yesterday,” he said. “And today is our third wedding anniversary. So… Happy Anniversary.” He placed the bag on the bed. For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. After three years, he actually remembered our anniversary? But then I saw the receipt. The purchase time was thirty minutes ago. Cora’s post must have reminded him. He’d just picked it up on his way home. He didn’t know that I already had two of this exact same bag in my closet. I said nothing, just stared at him. “By the way,” he said, his tone shifting, “the annual airline awards are coming up. Can you… can you step aside this year? Cora’s been in the industry for three years, and her biggest dream is to win ‘Best Attendant,’ just like you. You’ve won it so many times. Can you let her have it this year?” He looked uncomfortable saying it. I had to laugh. So this last-minute gift had a price tag after all. “Fine,” I said calmly. Not just this year. Next year, the year after—I would never compete with her again. Because after tonight, I would be gone. “You… you agree?” My quick reply seemed to surprise him. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat. “Cora is my trainee. You’re her mentor’s wife. This is how it should be.” He paused, as if just remembering. “Oh, right, you’re flying tomorrow, aren’t you? What time is your flight?” “Three in the afternoon.” I looked at him, deciding to take this last chance to tell him I was leaving. But before I could speak, his phone rang. It was Cora. Her saccharine voice drifted from the phone. She was on her period, had no pads, and was calling Mason for help. He hung up and looked at me, a guilty expression on his face. “Uh… Cora’s in a bit of a jam. She’s all alone, can’t handle it. I should probably go.” For the first time, his voice held a note of pleading. I swallowed the words I was about to say and forced a smile. “It’s fine. Go.” He looked immensely relieved. He stood up, and as he was leaving, he said again, “Your flight is at three, so there’s still time. Tomorrow, ten a.m. Let’s go get the license. I promise, no matter what happens this time, I’ll be there.” A bitter smile played on my lips. He wouldn’t even give me the chance to break up with him face-to-face. The next morning, I finished packing. I didn’t go to the courthouse. I went straight to the airport. By noon, I still hadn’t received a single call from Mason asking why I wasn’t there. As I was boarding my flight that afternoon, I finally got a text from him: “Sorry, Cora wasn’t feeling well today. I just took her to the hospital. We missed our appointment. When you get back from this trip, I’ll take you to the courthouse first thing.” I felt nothing. Of course. The eighteenth time was a no-show too. “Don’t bother, Mason. I’ve quit my job. I’m on my way to Paris. After today, we will never see each other again.” I sent the message, my final message, and prepared to turn off my phone. The next second, the chat window, which had been silent for so long, began to vibrate uncontrollably. 6 The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, announcing the final boarding call. I ignored the buzzing of my phone, deleted Mason’s contact, and turned it off. From that moment on, Mason Croft and I were finished.

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1 Six months postpartum, and my husband had told me nineteen times that since I couldn’t produce breast milk, I wasn’t fit to be a mother. As our son, Leo, screamed with hunger, my husband, Landon, forgot to pick up the formula from the building’s package room for the nineteenth time. But in the pocket of his coat, I found a receipt from a rush courier service. The order details were stark: Painkillers for cramps and a heating pad for my baby. When Landon saw me holding it, he snatched it back, his voice as cold as ice. “Leo’s formula has a long shelf life. Regular shipping is fine.” He paused, his tone softening with an infuriatingly feigned concern for another woman. “But Mia’s cramps are unbearable. Every minute she has to wait is another minute of pain for her.” I pointed a trembling finger at our son, who was on the verge of crying himself unconscious. “Don’t you know that infants can get hypoglycemia? That they can’t be left to starve?” Landon’s voice was sharp with impatience. “This is all because you stopped breastfeeding after two months! Even Mia said she’s never seen a mother give up so easily!” The old me would have dissolved into tears, would have screamed and demanded an explanation. But this time, I was just tired. A deep, soul-crushing weariness had settled in my bones. Without a word, I put on my raincoat and, under Landon’s surprised gaze, plunged into the downpour. I hurried to the package room and gave the woman at the counter my pickup code. Her face was a mask of sour disapproval. She rummaged around on the lowest shelf before pulling out a dented box of formula and slamming it onto the counter so hard it fell and hit my foot. A sharp, throbbing pain shot up my ankle, which was already turning red and swollen. “Excuse me?” I stared at her, confused. She was even more agitated than I was, planting her hands on her hips. “Were you the one who called and screamed at me last night? Are you crazy or something?” She leaned over the counter, her voice rising. “I called your husband three times yesterday afternoon telling him to pick up this package. He didn’t answer. Then you call me at midnight, accusing me of being a homewrecker trying to steal your man?” I froze, the blood draining from my face. Last night at midnight, Leo had been fussy, refusing to sleep. I had paced the living room for what felt like hours, my back screaming in protest, the ten-pound weight of my son an anchor dragging me down. I’d called Landon again and again, desperate for him to come home and help, but he declined every call. A moment later, a text popped up: In a late meeting. He was with Mia. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I apologized profusely to the woman at the counter, then limped home, clutching the formula to my chest. As the rain lashed down, my phone rang. It was Landon. “You’re a stay-at-home mom,” he snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Shouldn’t you be at home with the baby? Where did you run off to now? Leo won’t stop crying. Are you even fit to be a mother?” I pressed my lips together, silent. “Answer me! You haven’t worked in six months, Norah. Has the great journalist forgotten how to speak?” “I went to the mailroom to get the formula.” There was a pause on his end, then his voice returned, cold as ever. “You left without saying a word. How was I supposed to know where you went? Fine. It’s pouring out. I’ll come down and get you.” I glanced at my swollen, throbbing ankle and refused. “No. Don’t you know you can’t leave an infant alone? It’s dangerous.” He hung up before I could finish. When I finally staggered back into the apartment, Landon was on a video call with Mia. She was asking him if a white, ethereal dress would look good for her photoshoot in the woods tomorrow. As she spoke, she preened in front of the camera, slipping the dress off to reveal nothing but lingerie underneath. I heard Landon call her “Luna,” and a sharp pain lanced through my chest. Years ago, when we were chasing stories together, he used to call me Luna. He said I was his moon goddess, for life. Now, not even a decade later, his vows had curdled into lies. Before I could even mix the formula, Leo shifted on the sofa, about to roll off the edge. I lunged, catching him just in time, startling Landon. “Norah! Are you spying on me? God, you’re so suffocating!” But then he saw our son, who had almost hit the floor, and my swollen, discolored ankle. He fell silent. Mia’s haughty voice drifted from the phone. “Norah, darling, you were a famous reporter. You should know a thing or two about privacy. I’m practically naked here!” I scoffed. So she did know she shouldn’t be seen like this. “And a little piece of advice,” she continued, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “A man is like sand in your hand. The tighter you squeeze, the faster he slips away.” Buoyed by Mia’s support, Landon’s confidence returned. “Norah, you know my temper. If you ever spy on me again—” I cut him off, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. 2 “Don’t worry,” I said. “There won’t be a next time.” I had already decided to divorce him. Of course there wouldn’t be a next time. “Come to the station at ten tomorrow. I’ll take you to see the director about coming back to work.” It was a reward for my obedience. I knew that. But since I needed to speak with the director anyway, I agreed. The next morning, my mother-in-law picked up Leo. I arrived at the TV station at nine-thirty. Without a key card, I had to wait for Landon to return from his field assignment to let me in. I called him several times. He didn’t answer. A self-deprecating smile touched my lips. He used to answer my calls on the first ring. I couldn’t pinpoint when that had changed, when he started letting it ring, or worse, just declining the call. Did he think a stay-at-home mom could have nothing important to say? Or was his mind simply too full of Mia to have room for me? I stood outside for an hour before Landon and Mia finally appeared, laughing together. His blue tie and her matching blue bow were a silent, intimate secret between them. I turned my head and saw my reflection in the glass wall—my body still soft and shapeless from pregnancy, my face pale and drawn. I instinctively shrank back. In the blink of an eye, they swept past me and into the building. Trapped outside, I called Landon again. He glanced at his phone and immediately hit decline. “Who was that?” Mia asked. Landon gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “Spam call,” he said with a smile. I stood in the biting wind for a long time before a colleague I knew took pity on me and let me in. When I finally met with the station director, he told me that the charity program for women and children I had launched before my maternity leave had been taken over by Mia. The audience, he said, now associated the show with her. He then tactfully suggested I work on my “personal image” before he could assign me any new projects. I smiled, but my nails were digging so deeply into my palms that it was a miracle I didn’t draw blood. I walked, dazed, towards the recording studio. Landon and Mia had just finished a segment on a domestic abuse case. Mia’s voice was thick with emotion, her eyes red-rimmed. Even the crew in the control room looked moved. Landon gazed at her profile, his expression a mixture of adoration and tenderness. But when he turned and saw me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What are you doing here?” Before I could answer, Mia clicked over in her high heels. “Norah,” she said with a saccharine smile, “long time no see. My, you’ve aged.” Landon came to her side, and she linked her arm through his naturally. She looked me up and down with disdain. “A woman really needs to take care of herself. You don’t want to become an eyesore.” She added, “The viewers all say they hope I host your old show permanently. I’m much easier on the eyes.” My gaze fell on her designer dress and the expensive brooch pinned to it. A sharp, familiar pain pricked my heart. I had seen both items in Landon’s online shopping cart. He had picked them out himself. As I stood there, lost in a daze, Mia pulled a bottle of anti-wrinkle serum from her purse. “Landon always says an elegant neck is the true sign of a woman’s vitality. Look at yours, it’s covered in lines.” She held it out to me. “Here, you can have this. Landon bought me so many. Consider it a thank you for letting me have your show.” I was about to refuse when Landon snatched the bottle and stuffed it back into her bag. “She doesn’t use that stuff. You keep it.” I touched my own dry, neglected skin, my heart filled with a bitter ache. I was once a celebrated journalist, vibrant and passionate about fashion. But Landon had complained that my manicures scratched him, that my perfume gave him a headache. In his eyes, only the dazzling Mia was worthy of such beauty. I was just the woman trapped at home, nursing a baby and running a household. Mia smiled triumphantly, then gasped with delight. “Oh, Landon, you bought rosewater macarons! You got these for me once when we were on assignment in Charleston. I’ve never forgotten.” She shot me a playful look. “Such a shame Norah’s allergic to roses. She can’t enjoy them.” Landon’s smile was soft and indulgent. “As long as you like them.” Only then did he seem to remember I was there. He narrowed his eyes at me, a flicker of confusion in them. It was strange. Normally, I would have been seething with jealousy. Today, I was silent. He cleared his throat. “Norah, I ordered that lobster bisque you love. It’s on its way. That should make you happy, right?” 3 A sardonic smile twisted my lips. “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, Landon? You’ve forgotten crying your eyes out in the hospital waiting room while I was in the ER, fighting for my life after an anaphylactic reaction to shellfish. His face hardened at my rejection. “Give you an inch and you want a mile, don’t you? Stay-at-home moms are always so dramatic. Mia and I have actual work to do. We don’t have time for your theatrics!” He turned his back on me and went to Mia. She shot me a smug, victorious glance. My colleagues tactfully looked away, sparing me the humiliation. They all remembered. They knew I had sacrificed my career for my family, handing my show—Landon and Mia’s show—to them on a silver platter. I forced myself to walk out of the station, my head held high. I called my lawyer and told him to draw up two copies of the divorce papers. When I got home, Landon’s messaging app was still open on the tablet. Out of trust, I had never checked his phone. But now, remembering my lawyer’s advice, I hit the screen record button and started scrolling. [Six months ago] ChasingTheSun: It’s not that I don’t love you. I just can’t handle having a baby. The career break, the weight gain… Waiting: You don’t have to say another word. I understand. You’re a bird meant to fly free, not be caged in a nursery. Waiting: As soon as she goes on maternity leave, the prime-time slot is ours. ChasingTheSun: Hehe, love you. [Two days ago] ChasingTheSun: When are you going to ask her for a divorce? Waiting: Soon. Be patient. ChasingTheSun: How can I be patient?! You promised you’d leave her as soon as you secretly gave her the lactation suppressants and her milk dried up! But you’re still dragging your feet! The baby’s going to start recognizing her soon. How am I supposed to take over then? There was a 60-second voice note from “Waiting” after that. I didn’t listen. I closed the tablet, ran to the bathroom, and retched until I was dizzy and breathless. I thought my heart was too numb to feel any more pain, but tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. I finally understood why Landon’s screen name was “Waiting.” He was waiting to divorce me. Waiting to marry Mia. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a giant, merciless fist. It was never that I wasn’t fit to be a mother. It was that Landon needed a scapegoat for his own infidelity. As I sobbed, my mother-in-law called, her voice frantic. Leo had a fever. There was no time for grief. I threw on a coat and rushed to get my son to the hospital. By the time I arrived, Leo was listless, his little body burning up. But there were no beds available in the emergency room. I pushed my way through the doors and saw why. Mia was there, staging a photoshoot where she “comforted” sick children from a local orphanage. She was using every single bed in the ER. I begged her for help, but she just sneered at me. “This is for Landon’s show! It’s being broadcast to a hundred thousand people. Do you really think we’re going to give up a bed for your one kid? Have you lost all your professional integrity as a journalist?” Seeing my son’s flushed, feverish face, I dropped to my knees and begged the doctor to help him. The doctor, caught on camera, looked uncomfortable. Mia, furious, stalked out of the camera’s frame. Once the ER door was closed, she stepped forward and ground her high heel into the back of my hand. “Ah!” A blinding, searing pain shot up my arm, and I cried out. “Useless bitch!” she hissed. “You couldn’t compete with me for the show, you couldn’t compete with me for the man, and now you’re using this little bastard to get sympathy?” She drew back her foot and kicked—not at me, but at the six-month-old infant in my arms. I screamed, instinctively curling my body around my son, shielding him with everything I had. Her heel struck my chest with a sickening thud. The door burst open. “Norah? What are you doing on the floor with Leo?” Landon’s incredulous voice filled the hallway, startling Mia. Her eyes darted around, and then she burst into tears. “Landon, I’m so sorry! I was filming the charity segment with the orphans, and Norah just barged in with the baby, trying to disrupt everything.” She sobbed, “I know this is your show, so I tried not to make a scene, but then she put the baby on the cold, dirty floor! You know how I am, I just can’t bear to see a child suffer…” Landon’s face grew darker and darker, the suspicion in his eyes igniting into full-blown rage. “Norah! What kind of mother are you? You don’t put a six-month-old baby on the floor!” I was gasping for air, the pain in my chest making it impossible to speak. All I could do was tremble and hold my son up to him.

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To cure my ‘sister’s’ supposed depression, Carter Thorne—the man who was my childhood sweetheart, my fiancé, the one who swore he’d marry no one but me—secretly married her instead. So I turned around and accepted the arranged marriage my family had brokered for me. I married Declan Blackwood, the undisputed king of New York’s elite, a man who had silently loved me for years. For seven years, he worshipped my very skin. He was a man starved, clinging to me every night as if I were air. If I had asked for the stars, he would have plucked them from the sky for me. I thought I had finally found my happiness. Then, one night, tangled in the sheets after we’d made love, I overheard him on the phone with his best friend. “Jasmine’s an international star now. When are you finally dropping Seraphina?” “What’s the difference?” Declan’s voice was a low murmur. “I’m with someone I don’t love anyway. Besides, I have to keep Sera in check, stop her from ruining the happiness Jasmine fought so hard for.” My world tilted. Later, in his study, I opened his laptop. In a hidden folder, a universe of obsession unfolded: a hundred thousand photos of Jasmine Vance. A hundred unsent love letters. The delusion was shattered. It was time to wake up. I bought a life-sized silicone mannequin and orchestrated a fire. From this life to the next, in heaven or in hell, our paths would never cross again. 1 The order confirmation for the items I needed glowed on the screen. I shut the laptop. Just three more days. Then, according to plan, I would disappear from Declan Blackwood’s world forever. I turned, and my breath caught. I was staring straight into his smiling, almond-shaped eyes. He must have stood on the porch for a while, letting the winter chill and the lingering scent of nicotine fade from his coat before daring to approach me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his warmth a familiar ghost. “Why are you still up?” he murmured into my hair. His embrace, once my safest harbor, now sent a bitter acid creeping into my heart. For seven years, he had put me on a pedestal. Everyone in our circle knew Declan Blackwood kept me, his darling wife, tucked away in a gilded cage. He’d told me it was love at first sight, that he’d adored me from afar for fourteen agonizing years. At our wedding, he’d stood at the altar with tears in his eyes, vowing that marrying me was a dream he never wanted to wake from. He knew my history. He’d used the full force of the Blackwood empire to go to war with Carter Thorne, the man who’d abandoned me. He’d sabotaged Jasmine’s career to avenge me, snarling that he despised anyone who had ever caused me pain. He was a phenomenal actor. So good that I, an award-winning actress myself, never saw the performance. A bitter memory surfaced. In the throes of passion, he’d always call me “Sera,” but the word was always slurred, thick on his tongue. I thought it was just a quirk of his passion, a sound lost to ecstasy. Now, I replayed it in my mind. J-Sera… Jasmine. The truth was a shard of ice in my gut. I lowered my head, secretly wiping a tear from the corner of my eye with my thumb. He didn’t notice, lost in his own narrative. “Your sister won the big award. Let’s just stay home from the industry party tomorrow. I don’t want you to see her and get upset.” I silently counted. This was at least the hundredth time he’d used an excuse like this to keep me out of the limelight. I used to think it was his possessiveness, a flaw I indulged with a sigh, even letting it convince me to step back from my career at its peak. Now I knew the truth. It was all to clear the stage for Jasmine. “I have a meeting with Maestro Bellini tomorrow,” I said, my voice steady. “He wants me for his next leading role. I can’t miss it.” “It’s fine, we’ll skip it. I’ll smooth things over for you,” he said, his tone dismissive. “My wife never has to work another day in her life if she doesn’t want to. I can provide for you.” But it was never about the money. I had told him once that starring in a Bellini film, earning it on my own merit, was my lifelong dream. He’d sworn then, with a fire in his eyes, that he would move heaven and earth to help me achieve it. He hadn’t forgotten. It was just that Jasmine wanted the role, too. So my dream had to become her stepping stone. Seeing my silence, he softened his tone, trying to coax me. “Sera, come on, don’t be difficult. There will be other parties, other roles. But our time together… that’s what’s precious, isn’t it?” He kissed my temple. “The day after tomorrow is our seven-year anniversary. I’m planning a surprise you’ll never forget. How does that sound?” A ghost of a smile touched my lips. “It sounds perfect,” I said. “And I’ll give you my greatest gift in return.” Our seven-year itch, Declan. We’re not going to make it. From now on, you’ll be alone. Only you. My gift to you is my absence. 2 In the dead of night, after Declan was fast asleep, his arm draped possessively over me, I slipped out of bed and went to his study. The words “I don’t love her” and the digital shrine on his computer were enough. They should have been enough to sever any lingering hope. But seven years of shared memories, of whispered secrets and easy laughter… they weren’t a phantom. They were real. I couldn’t just let them go. My feet carried me to the small, sleek safe under his desk. It was Pandora’s box, humming with a dark, seductive energy. I’d asked him about it before, during lazy afternoons spent tangled up in his office. He would always deflect, teasing me, telling me to guess the combination but never giving a hint. I had tried my birthday. His birthday. Our wedding anniversary. All wrong. Now, with a trembling hand, I typed in Jasmine’s birthday. For one heart-stopping moment, I prayed I was wrong. The safe clicked open. My heart plummeted into an icy abyss. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a pair of matching rings. The style was dated, but they were polished to a brilliant shine, clearly cherished and meticulously cared for. On the inner band, an inscription: DB & JV. Declan Blackwood & Jasmine Vance. The strength drained from my body, and a pain so sharp it felt like my heart was being carved from my chest stole my breath. Even a fool would see the truth now. Declan had never, not for a single moment, loved me. The next day, for the first time, I defied him. I went to the party. A shadow crossed Declan’s face, but he didn’t try to stop me. He simply tightened his grip on my hand. “Alright, you can go. But you’re so beautiful, Sera, you have to stay by my side. If that sister of yours tries anything, I need to be there to protect you.” He played the part of the loyal guard dog to perfection. But I knew he was just afraid I’d slip my leash and steal Jasmine’s thunder. That wasn’t my intention. I was about to stage my own death. This was my last chance to say a silent goodbye to the directors and writers who had believed in me. The moment we arrived, all eyes were on Jasmine and me. “The lead in Bellini’s next film has to be Seraphina Hayes,” someone whispered nearby. “She has the talent, and with Declan Blackwood backing her, it’s a sure thing.” Jasmine overheard. Her face soured, and she stomped over to the group. “What makes you so sure? That role is mine!” The crowd wasn’t impressed. “You’re good, but you don’t have Seraphina’s experience. A little humility goes a long way.” “Yeah, even if she’s married to a Thorne now, she’s up against a Blackwood. It’s pretty obvious who has the upper hand.” “Honestly, you win one little award and think you own the town?” Jasmine was practically vibrating with rage. “You’ll see! You’ll all eat your words!” She shot me a venomous glare. “Enjoy it while you can. We’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the night. Tramp.” With a final sneer, she shoved me. Hard. I stumbled, my knee cracking against the sharp corner of a table. Tears of pain sprang to my eyes. Beside me, Declan, my sworn protector, acted as if he’d seen nothing. He simply let it happen. I dropped my gaze, fighting the wave of acid rising in my throat. Just then, the lights in the grand ballroom dimmed. It was time for the official announcement. “Let’s give a huge congratulations to… Jasmine Vance!” “And a special thank you to our celebrated, billion-dollar-box-office screenwriter—Linden—for his support! He has graciously waived his fee for this script and even invested thirty million dollars, all to ensure that Jasmine could bring his story to life. For she is, in his words, his only leading lady, his muse!” Jasmine ascended the stage, bathed in a celestial glow. She took the microphone, her eyes finding mine in the darkness, and delivered the final blow. “You see, Seraphina? After all these years, you still can’t win against me.” “Loser!” She stood under the spotlight, a queen surrounded by her court, radiant and triumphant. I looked at Declan beside me. He was still holding my hand, but his eyes were shining with vicarious joy for Jasmine’s victory. I felt a dark, bitter laugh bubble up inside me. Yesterday, in his study, I’d found the manuscript. On the title page, the dedication was scrawled in his familiar hand: “For J.V., my muse.” Linden. The pen name he used. The name under which he poured out his soul for another woman. Even though I knew this was coming, seeing it unfold before my eyes was a fresh agony, a dull, crushing weight on my chest. Maestro Bellini found me by the bar, his expression sympathetic. “Don’t worry, my dear. There will always be a place for you in my films.” I managed a weak, sad smile and shook my head. “Thank you for your kindness, Maestro. But I’m afraid… there might not be another chance.” 3 Declan, playing the part of the oblivious, comforting husband, pulled me into his arms. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll fund a few movies for you to star in, just for fun. How does that sound?” he whispered. “Tonight, I have a surprise for you on the waterfront. My love for you is more important than any movie role.” The words that once tasted like honey now felt like cloying, stale sugar on my tongue. But to avoid suspicion, I forced myself to swallow them down. “Okay.” After making my rounds and expressing my gratitude to the industry veterans who had supported me, I was ready to leave. Declan dismissed our driver, intending to take me for a drive himself. But just as he started the engine, his phone buzzed. I glanced over. I recognized the number. It was Jasmine. His expression shifted instantly. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a calculated hesitation. “Sera, something urgent just came up at the office. Would you mind going to the waterfront by yourself?” I feigned a moment of surprise, then smiled. “Of course not. You go take care of business.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, then turned and headed back into the glittering ballroom. I started the car, but I didn’t drive toward the waterfront. I drove home. To the Blackwood mansion. The time had come. All my energy now would be focused on preparing for my death tomorrow. I gathered every trace of our life together. Online, I scrubbed our history, deleting backups from the cloud until nothing remained. The physical memories, I piled together to be burned. My phone lit up. An anonymous number. The first message was a photo: Declan, drunk and flushed, passed out on a sofa next to a smirking Jasmine. [He has a sensitive stomach, you know? But he still took all those shots for me. Hope you’re not mad, sis. ] [He may fight with the Thornes in public, snatching my roles, but did you know that behind the scenes he compensates me a hundred times over? Do you know why?] [Did you know Declan was my little shadow growing up? He’s always loved me. Marrying you was just his way of keeping you on a leash!] [You didn’t really believe someone like him would just fall in love with you for no reason, did you? Don’t be naive.] [He told me that every night, he has to imagine it’s me he’s holding just to get through it. He also said you’re just Carter’s sloppy seconds, that you’re disgusting for not even saving your first time for him!] The texts fell like an avalanche of poison. My heart was a frozen stone. I felt nothing. I simply moved faster, methodically preparing the scene. I positioned the mannequin in the bedroom, ensuring it would be consumed by the flames, then drenched the house in gasoline. After forwarding every one of Jasmine’s texts to the most ruthless paparazzi team in the city, I snapped my SIM card in two and tossed the pieces into the bushes. I pressed the ignition button on the remote detonator. Then I turned and walked toward the distant horizon. The path ahead was dark, but that didn’t matter. I knew, eventually, I would walk into the dawn. Declan, meanwhile, was completely oblivious. He looked down at Jasmine, his voice laced with an unconscious note of reprimand. “Jasmine, what are you doing here? My anniversary with Sera is tomorrow. This will make her suspicious.” Jasmine’s eyes welled with tears. “Are you blaming me?” Panic flared in Declan’s eyes. He rushed to reassure her. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, Jasmine.” She crossed her arms with a sniff, offering a grudging acceptance. The Blackwood family butler’s number flashed on his screen. Declan silenced it with a frown. After the fifteenth call in a row, a cold dread began to creep up his spine. “What is it?” he answered, his voice sharp. “Sir, it’s terrible… the missus… she… she set the house on fire and killed herself!” “We did everything we could, sir… but there was nothing to be done.”

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The day Queen Rhoslyn announced her pregnancy, she wept for her homeland. The King indulged her, leaving with 10,000 guards to escort her to Maira. The moment they departed, the Vargr Horde attacked. My betrothed died defending the gates. The Queen Mother saved me—at the cost of her honor and life. When the King returned, I knelt before him in my mother’s blood. In the final battle, he shot Queen Rhoslyn himself when she was taken hostage. After victory, the people hailed me as “The Shield of Aethelgard” and built a monument in my honor. The night before its dedication, the King dragged me to the dungeons. “You were the traitor,” he hissed, carving into my flesh with a dagger. “You sacrificed her for fame.” 1 Before the last echo of agony could fade, a hand gripped my wrist, yanking me back to a world of fire and screams. “Pearl, run! The secret passage… get through the catacombs, ride out of the city, and find your brother!” My mother’s urgent voice shattered the phantom memory. I looked at the fresh bloodstains splattered across her regal gown and understood. This was real. I had been reborn into this nightmare. In my last life, she had said these very words. She had pushed me into the darkness of the passage and then turned, a lone, graceful figure, to face the Vargr chieftain with her own fragile body. To buy me time, she had feigned surrender, a diplomatic dance that ended with her being slain by the chieftain’s own hand. A queen of virtue and grace, her name defiled, her body cast into the streets. The thought made me clutch her hand with desperate strength. “Pearl, what are you doing?” she faltered. “I have ways of dealing with these brutes. Trust me…” “No,” I said, my voice steady as I pulled a heavy sigil from my tunic. “Mother, it’s too late to chase after the King. Even if his army turned back now, Aethelgard would fall. The Vargr are butchers. If they breach the walls, not a single soul in this city will be left alive!” In my past life, it took me three agonizing days to intercept my brother’s caravan at the river crossing. By then, the capital had already fallen. Its people, slaughtered. My fiancé, Lord Robin of House Valerius, had died refusing to surrender the main gate, his body pierced by a hundred arrows. The image of his broken form, barely recognizable, sent a spike of ice through my heart. As I spoke, a blade whistled through the air, aimed for my mother’s neck. My eyes flew wide. There was no time to think. I threw myself in front of her. The pain never came. A flash of steel intercepted the dagger, and Robin was there, his own sword sinking into the chest of the attacker. My mother gasped. “Lady Elspeth!” Elspeth had been my mother’s lady-in-waiting for decades, a trusted companion. Now, a Vargr spy. The palace, I realized with a cold dread, was already infested. Robin stood before us, a grim guardian. “Pearl, the Horde is at the gates! Why haven’t you ridden to the garrison at the city’s edge for aid?” He scowled, his frustration clear. “The King’s carriage had only just departed when the Vargr appeared. I sent a raven immediately, but there has been no reply…” I shook my head, a heavy sadness settling over me. “It’s no use, Robin. He won’t believe it.” Before he left, the Queen, Rhoslyn, had complained of my “childish pranks,” and used it as an excuse to give the garrison a direct, unassailable order: no matter what happened in the capital, they were not to mobilize their troops. I held up the sigil. “Our only chance now is this forged command…” “Are you mad?” Robin retorted, his voice sharp. “Military orders are not a child’s game! The raven should have reached the King by now. We must hold the walls! Reinforcements will come!” As if on cue, a royal messenger, pale and stumbling, burst into the room, clutching a scroll. Robin’s face lit up with hope as he rushed to meet him. 2 “What did the King say? Is the army returning?” His hands trembled as he broke the seal on the scroll. I watched as the hope on his face curdled, first to confusion, then to ashen disbelief. My mother snatched the scroll from his limp fingers. She read it, cried out, and collapsed to the floor. “Gods have mercy… What have we done?” On the parchment, my brother raged. He accused the messenger of spreading treasonous lies, claiming his journey to Maira had been peaceful and serene, with no sign of any Vargr invasion. “Is my sister Pearl so bored that she now invents military crises for sport? Robin, if you continue to indulge her whims, do not be surprised when I return and punish you both!” The young messenger prostrated himself, his voice cracking. “Lord General, Princess… the Vargr… they are massing at the Sunken Gate…” Robin wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his jaw set like stone. Without a word, he turned to head for the battlements. “The men of my House live and die with this city,” he declared, his voice ringing with grim finality. “We do not surrender!” He was going to do it. Just like the last time. He would lead the last of his family’s elite guard in a hopeless defense of the walls. I shoved the forged sigil into the hands of a loyal page. “The secret passage,” I commanded. “Ride to the garrison. Bring back help.” Then I tore a strip of velvet from my sleeve, tied it over the lower half of my face, and followed Robin to the top of the wall. He raised his arm, a signal. Below, his men roared. They were going out. With Robin’s final command, the massive gate boomed shut behind him, leaving three thousand of our finest soldiers to face a tide of fifty thousand Vargr. He raised his family’s banner, his teeth gritted. “For House Valerius! For Aethelgard! Charge!” “CHARGE!” Fueled by the certainty of death, the three thousand smashed into the Vargr line like a thunderbolt, tearing a bloody path straight toward the chieftain. Robin’s longsword was a blur of silver, nearly piercing the chieftain’s skull. But in the next instant, an arrow flew from behind him, a black streak against the sky. An arrow from within his own ranks. My own bow was in my hands before I knew it. My fingers, trembling, drew the string taut. I loosed an arrow of my own, a desperate prayer. It struck the shaft of the poisoned arrow mid-flight, deflecting it just enough that it grazed Robin’s pauldron instead of his neck. But the moment was lost. The chieftain was on horseback now, surrounded by a wall of shields. The chance for a killing blow was gone. I lowered my bow, my heart hammering against my ribs. So that was it. In my past life, that poison arrow, the one that had thrown him from his horse and left his body to rot, had come from his own men. His most trusted comrade had delivered the fatal blow. Realizing there was a traitor in his midst, Robin abandoned the suicidal charge, his brow furrowed as he bellowed the order to retreat to the gate. 3 I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my knees giving way as I sank against the cold stone of the parapet. But as I started to descend the stairs, I saw Robin’s body go rigid on his horse. A masked soldier, the one riding closest to him, pulled a long, blood-slick sword from Robin’s back. He swayed, clutching his chest, and tumbled from the saddle. “Robin…” My world narrowed to a single point of horror. The gate creaked open, and I ran, tears streaming down my face, not caring about the chaos around me. I threw myself to my knees beside him. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. He coughed, a spray of dark blood staining his lips. Yet he still raised a trembling hand, trying to wipe the tears from my cheek. “Pearl… don’t cry. I’m… I’m alright.” I pressed my hands against the gaping wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood just flowed faster, slick and hot between my fingers. Why? Why was it happening again? Was I doomed to watch him die in my arms a second time? Through my haze of grief, my mother arrived, dragging the royal physician with her. “Don’t just stand there, you fool! Heal him!” The sword had missed his heart by a mere inch. But the physician’s face was grim. The blade had been poisoned. “A rare venom from the Western Isles,” he murmured, shaking his head. “In all my years, I have never seen its like.” Without the antidote, Robin wouldn’t last three days. Looking at his deathly pale face, I bit my lip until it bled and ran for the palace gates. I knew the poison. And I knew that the only antidote, the Serpent’s Kiss orchid, grew only on Mount Cinder, a peak shrouded in toxic fumes just beyond the city’s edge. Three days. It was just enough time to get there and back. But the page I’d sent with the forged sigil hadn’t returned. The garrison commander must have seen through the forgery. If I went now, he would likely imprison me for treason. I had no other choice. Three days from now was also when the Vargr planned their final assault. If I failed, it wouldn’t just be Robin who died. It would be everyone. 4 I slipped out through the secret passage, emerging into the cold, dark water of the city’s moat. I swam for my life, my lungs burning. A cold arrow grazed my leg, but I didn’t dare make a sound, just bit down on the pain and swam deeper. By the time I clawed my way to the bank near the garrison, I was a shivering, bleeding mess. I didn’t even have time to speak before a heavy blow struck the back of my neck, and the world went black. When I opened my eyes, it was to the damp, musty dark of a dungeon cell. The garrison commander, General Valerius, was an old veteran who had fought alongside my brother to win the throne. He was also our mentor, the man who had taught both me and Robin how to wield a sword. Tears burned my eyes, and I fell to my knees. “Master! The Vargr are at the gates, Aethelgard is about to fall! Robin is dying! I beg you, mobilize the army!” General Valerius stepped out of the shadows. The familiar warmth was gone from his face, replaced by an iron-hard mask of fury. “Pearl,” he said, his voice cold as stone. “The Queen’s urgent dispatch arrived not an hour ago. How long were you going to lie to me?” At his command, a guard dragged forward the bloody, beaten form of my young page. He threw my forged sigil at my feet. “The Queen was right. You forged a royal command and fabricated a military crisis. Princess or not, that is treason. A crime punishable by death.” His voice dripped with disappointment. “Is your petty jealousy of the Queen so great that you would stoop to this?” His accusation struck me like a physical blow. I sank to the floor. My hands shook as I pulled out the decree my mother had given me. “Master, I had no choice! The Vargr Horde truly is at our walls! If there had been any other way, I would never have defied a royal order…” I held it out to him. “This is a mobilization order written in my mother’s own hand, bearing her royal seal. If you do not believe me, do you also doubt the Queen Mother?” He snatched the scroll from my hand with a cold snort. I looked up, a sliver of hope piercing my despair, only to watch him tear the Queen Mother’s decree to shreds. Then he picked up a whip. “Do you take me for a fool? If you can forge a sigil, you can forge your mother’s hand. You are closer to her than anyone. Stealing her seal would be a simple matter for you.” He raised the whip. “I am warning you, Pearl. Stop these games. If you persist, this will not end with a simple flogging.”

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My parents, both Hollywood legends, were terrified I’d try to ride their coattails. They made me sign an agreement: my career was mine, but their name, their fame, was off-limits. So I clawed my way up from the bottom. During a high-wire stunt for a gritty indie film, a cable snapped. I fell. The world went black. I was hanging on by a thread, my voice a raw, trembling whisper as I begged my agent to get my parents to the hospital, to sign the surgical consent forms. But they ignored my plea. Their words, cold and sharp over the phone, were a final twist of the knife. “Don’t you dare pull a stunt like this to try and force our hand. You’ve been a manipulative child from the day you were born. Did you think we wouldn’t see right through you?” When I clawed my way back from death’s door, the first thing I saw was a post from my brother. A video from his wrap party. He was the center of a cheering crowd, my parents beaming beside him, proudly introducing him to the world as their brilliant son. The caption read: A star on the screen, but always Mom and Dad’s little prince. This time, there was no hysteria. No screaming into a pillow. Instead, I had a declaration of familial severance drawn up. And then, I walked away. 1 The piercing shriek of the heart monitor was a constant scream in the sterile white room. My agent Monica’s sobs were a muffled counterpoint, swallowed by the urgent, clipped voices of doctors and nurses. “We can’t wait any longer. His condition is critical, we need to operate now. Get his family on the phone!” Monica’s choked voice was a distant wave. “I can’t… they’re not picking up.” A nurse’s voice, sharp with urgency. “Use my phone. There’s no more time to waste.” Monica mumbled her thanks, her hands fumbling as she took the phone. Unlike all the other times, the call connected almost instantly. “Yeah, what is it?” The voice was my father’s, irritated and rough. A knot tightened in my chest, a sour, acid-like pain that cut through the physical agony. Monica’s voice was a frantic rush. “Hello, this is Jack’s agent. Am I speaking to his father?” A sharp sigh on the other end. Impatience dripped from every word. “No. Wrong number.” The pain in my chest bloomed, a dark flower of agony so intense it sharpened my fading consciousness. Monica wouldn’t give up. “But… it can’t be. Your contact in his phone is labeled ‘Dad.’” She took a breath, trying to steady herself. “Please, don’t misunderstand. Jack was in an accident on set this afternoon. He needs emergency surgery. We need you to come to the hospital and sign the consent forms.” She held the phone to my lips. I fought against the blinding pain radiating from my shattered tailbone, my blood-smeared hand shaking as I gripped the phone. “Dad…” My voice was a broken thing. “It’s Jack. It hurts… it hurts so much. Can you… can you and Mom please come?” I clung to that phone like it was the last handhold on a cliff face. But the voice on the other end was a blade of ice, sending me plummeting into the abyss. “Don’t you dare pull a stunt like this to try and force our hand. You’ve been a manipulative child from the day you were born. Did you think we wouldn’t see right through you?” Before I could gasp out another word, the line went dead. My heart felt like it was being methodically sliced apart by a razor, a pain so profound it almost eclipsed the fire in my bones. I could feel the pity in the eyes of the people around me. The lead surgeon’s face was grim. “That’s it. No more time. Sarah, go get emergency authorization from the hospital director. Now!” Through a disorienting haze, I was wheeled into the operating room. When I opened my eyes again, it was to the familiar, soulless white of a hospital ceiling. “Jack! You’re awake!” Monica, seeing my eyes flutter open, scrambled to press the call button by the bed. I managed a weak, crooked smile, trying to reassure her. She gripped my hand, her face streaked with tears, asking me again and again if it hurt. I wanted to tell her to stop crying, but my throat was a desert, too raw to make a sound. A nurse rushed in, her face flooding with relief when she saw me. “You’ve cheated death, kid. From here on out, it’s all uphill.” As the nurse went over instructions with Monica, I reached for my phone. A few messages from work colleagues. And, just as I expected, nothing from my parents. Not a single text. Not a missed call. But there on my social media feed was a new post from my brother, Julian. A flood of congratulatory comments from my parents glowed beneath it. He had wrapped his first leading role in a blockbuster last night. They had driven to the set, presented him with a new sports car, and popped champagne. He was their star, their moon, their entire universe. After a sip of water soothed my throat, I urged Monica to go home. “You’ve been here for days, Monica. Go. Get some rest.” She carefully spooned some lukewarm glucose water to my lips. “Don’t you worry about me. You’re the one who matters right now. What are you going to do if I’m not here?” I forced a smile. Even my agent cared more about me than my own blood. On the day I nearly died, my parents had been celebrating their other child. A month later, I was discharged. I turned down Monica’s offer to drive me home, stopping instead at a print shop to pick up a document I’d had prepared. The moment I stepped through the front door of the mansion, something whistled past my ear. A split second later, the sound of glass exploding against the wall behind me. A drop of blood trickled down my cheek. I wiped it away, my gaze finding my family in the living room. Mom and Julian were browsing a catalog of a new fall fashion line. Dad stood by the coffee table, his face a mask of fury. “So, you finally remembered you have a home?” I ignored his rage. “A home? You mean this place?” A month in the hospital. Besides Monica and the nurses, no one had visited. They hadn’t even sent a single text message. In this sprawling, opulent villa, if there was any place I could truly call my own, it was the stuffy, airless storage room in the attic they let me use. Julian, as if only just noticing my presence, widened his eyes, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Jack! How can you talk to Dad like that?” He turned on his actor’s charm, his face a canvas of manufactured guilt. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried we all were?” He paused, his gaze softening into a performance of contrition. “Was it because Mom and Dad were at my wrap party? Because they hung up on you? Is that why you’re angry?” Julian was always the favorite, everywhere he went. The recent illness had given his handsome face a pale, fragile quality that only made him seem more innocent. Mom clutched Julian’s hand protectively, her eyes flashing with anger as she glared at me. “When are you going to grow up and be more like your brother? Why must you always make us worry?” Her voice rose. “Julian has been so sick, and you have the nerve to be jealous? Why couldn’t it have been you who was sick? My sweet, considerate Julian…” A bitter, ironic smile touched my lips. “Worried?” I asked. “Is that what you call not sending a single message for a month? Or is it lounging on the sofa picking out new clothes while your other son has been missing for weeks?” SMACK. The crisp sound of the slap echoed through the vast living room. The hired help and the fashion consultant froze. My father was incandescent with rage. “You ungrateful brat! I never should have been soft on you, never should have let you into this industry. Look at what you’ve become!” I cupped my stinging cheek, a humorless laugh escaping my lips. Soft on me? Forcing me to sign a non-disclosure agreement about our relationship before I could even audition for a community theater play—that was being soft? Then what do you call handing Julian multi-million dollar endorsement deals and lead roles in major films on a silver platter? Philanthropists of the year? I knew my birth was an afterthought, a means to an end for Julian. He had leukemia as a child; I was the miracle bone marrow match. My entire existence was an insurance policy. But for twenty years, I’d endured the needles, the painful extractions, the sterile hospital rooms. Even if they felt no love, couldn’t they spare a little gratitude for the service I’d rendered? Apparently not. I was his personal bone marrow bank. When they needed me: “Jack, honey, this is your brother. You exist because of him. You have to save him.” When they didn’t: “You’re so young, yet so full of schemes. Always trying to compete with your brother for attention. Get out of my sight, I need to take care of him. Stop bothering me.” But God, I was so desperate for their love. I’d take any scrap they’d offer, even if it was just a moment of kindness before another procedure. But a trip to death’s door has a way of clarifying things. I would no longer beg for things that were never meant to be mine. “Dad! It’s all my fault, don’t hit him!” Julian rushed to my side, his voice thick with concern. He cupped my face, but as he did, he deliberately scraped the large, sharp stone of his ring across my cheek. “Jack, your face…” “Ugh! Get off me!” I shoved his hand away. He stumbled back dramatically, collapsing onto the plush carpet with a soft thud. The change in my mother was instantaneous. Her cold indifference vanished, replaced by frantic panic as she scrambled to Julian’s side. “Jack, are you insane?!” My father shoved me aside, rushing to his favored son. “Julian, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Julian shot me a fleeting, fearful glance before turning back to our parents, his voice trembling. “I’m fine, Dad, Mom, please don’t blame Jack. It was my fault, I just lost my balance.” My mother’s eyes were bloodshot with fury. “You ungrateful monster! Your brother was trying to help you, and you attack him?” My father’s face was darker than a thundercloud. “Get over here and kneel down. Apologize to your brother right now, or you will never set foot in this house again.” The cut on my cheek, opened by Julian’s ring, throbbed with every breath. The lines of love and indifference were drawn so clearly it was almost comical. Julian takes a calculated fall onto a soft rug, and it’s a five-alarm fire. I’m bleeding from a deliberate wound he inflicted, and they don’t even see it. I let out a short, sharp laugh. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the document I’d picked up earlier. “In that case, let’s sign the severance agreement.” I held it out, ignoring their stunned, disbelieving expressions. “Once you sever our legal ties, I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

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In the tenth year of our marriage, my husband, Adam, had an affair. He brought his mistress’s two children to me. He said the children were pitiful and needed a father. My own daughter begged him not to leave, but he was unmoved. I didn’t fight him. I took our daughter and left. Fearing she would be mistreated by a stepfather, I never remarried. Years later, my daughter found a good man. My granddaughter was adorable, and I spent my days caring for her. Life was happy and peaceful. On my sixtieth birthday, my daughter and son-in-law said they were swamped with work. My granddaughter had a last-minute tutoring session. They promised to celebrate with me the next day. But that night, I came across a local video on my phone. In a luxurious private room at a hotel— My daughter and her family were standing with Adam. And his mistress’s two children. The six of them were gathered together, singing “Happy Birthday” to the other woman. And my daughter called her, “Mom.” 1 My daughter insisted that my sixtieth birthday had to be a grand celebration. I told her not to spend so much money. “No,” she said. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked all these years. This has to be a proper celebration.” Her words warmed my heart. I was deeply touched. All these years, I had raised her alone. I watched her grow up, get married, and have a child of her own. My son-in-law was a good man, treating me like his own mother. My granddaughter was a sweet, lovely child who called me “Grandma” in the most adorable voice. I was happy. The pain of Adam’s betrayal had slowly healed over the years. So, when my daughter brought up the idea of a big party, I was genuinely moved and looked forward to the day. When you get older, you crave the liveliness of family, the feeling of being surrounded by your children and grandchildren. It gives you something to look forward to. On the day of my birthday, I woke up early. I tidied myself up, took my granddaughter, Rebecca, to school, and left breakfast on the table for my daughter and son-in-law before they left for work. My daughter, Eva, had promised they would finish their work in the morning and come home early to start the party. I stayed home, cleaning the house, waiting for them. But I waited and waited. The agreed-upon time came and went, and Eva still wasn’t home. Worried something had happened, I was just about to call her when my phone rang. It was her. “Mom, something important came up at work, for both me and Will. It’s so sudden. We can’t get away. I don’t think we can celebrate your birthday today…” Her voice was full of guilt. I was disappointed, but their careers were more important. I tried to sound cheerful. “It’s okay, dear. Work comes first. You two focus on your jobs. I’ll go pick up Rebecca from…” “Oh!” She cut me off before I could finish. “Mom, it’s your birthday. You should take a break. A friend of mine is passing by the school this afternoon and will pick Rebecca up and bring her to my office. You just stay home and rest.” Thinking of how hard Eva was working, and how young Rebecca was, I protested. “Let me get her. You’re so busy, and she’s at that rambunctious age. She’ll distract you from your work.” At that, Eva sounded agitated, her voice rising. “No, really, it’s on my friend’s way. Mom, don’t worry about it. Just rest at home. I have a meeting soon, so I have to go.” She hung up before I could say another word. Listening to the dial tone, I sighed. Eva had been working so hard lately, she’d lost weight. I went back into the kitchen to stew a chicken for her and Will, to help them regain their strength. The chicken needed to cook for a long time, and I had already finished the housework. So I sat on the sofa, took out my phone, and decided to rest for a bit. When you’re older, you find simple pleasures in things like scrolling through videos. I opened the app, swiped through a few, but nothing caught my eye. Just as I was about to close it, I accidentally tapped on the “Local” feed. And I saw her. I recognized the back of her head instantly. It was my daughter, Eva. 2 The video had been posted half an hour ago. I tapped on it. The scene was a private room in a hotel. My daughter stood at a table, my son-in-law beside her, holding Rebecca’s hand. All three of them were smiling. Eva turned her head slightly, and the camera panned. And then, I saw Adam. If there was one person in this world I hated, it was, without a doubt, Adam. We had fallen in love when we were young. I thought we would have a lifetime of happiness together. But in the tenth year of our marriage, his first love’s husband died in a car accident, leaving her a widow with two young children. Such a pitiful sight. At first, he helped them secretly, behind my back. When I found out, we had a huge fight. His face was red with fury as he called me heartless. Then, he came to me, with his first love’s two children in his arms, and handed me the divorce papers. “Leo and Violet are too young,” he said. “They can’t be without a father.” So he was divorcing me to be with his first love, to become a father to these two children. As he said this, our own daughter, then named Amy, clung to his leg, sobbing, begging her daddy not to leave. But Adam turned and walked away without a second glance. I didn’t prolong the agony. I took most of his assets and left with our daughter. I changed her surname to mine, Wang. From Amy, she became Eva. Fearing she would be mistreated by a stepfather, I never remarried. I devoted my life to her, watching her grow, go to university, fall in love, get married, and then have the adorable Rebecca. And through all of this, Adam never once appeared in our lives. I heard rumors that he and his first love never had children of their own, that they raised her two children as their own, tirelessly and without complaint. Eva had once told me that she hated Adam as much as I did. I thought that she, who had memories of the divorce, would remember my pain and shun them like the plague. But I never imagined they were still in contact. Not only that, in the video, Eva and Adam stood side by side, heads bowed in conversation, with not a trace of hatred between them. Eva was even leading the “Happy Birthday” song. My son-in-law and Rebecca clapped along, and the mistress’s two children, now grown, joined in the singing. And the woman in the center of their circle, the star of the show, was Adam’s first love, Sophia. She was as radiant as ever, dressed in a beautiful gown, still treated like a princess. She and I share the same birthday. And the cruelest joke of all— My daughter, Eva, the light of my life, after the song finished, walked up to Sophia, hugged her, and called her, “Mom.” 3 My phone slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor, the video still playing on a loop. My chest ached, but more than the pain, there was a sense of disbelief. I tried to find an excuse, any reason to make it not true. My daughter, who had been my whole world, who had witnessed her father’s cruelty, who had seen how Sophia played the innocent victim while destroying our family—how could she call that woman… Mom? I sat on the sofa for a long time, numb, until the acrid smell of something burning pulled me back to reality. The chicken soup had boiled dry. I rushed to turn off the stove, my mind in a turmoil. I reached for the pot with my bare hands, searing my fingers. A large red welt immediately appeared. Just as I was about to treat the burn, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a delivery man holding a cake. The cake I had ordered for myself. A small one. When you’re old, you tend to get sentimental. After Eva’s call, I had gone online and ordered a small cake. A celebration for one is still a celebration. I placed the cake on the coffee table and stuck a few candles in it. I clasped my hands together and closed my eyes to make a wish. I had had my wishes all planned out. I wish for my precious daughter to have a happy and smooth life. I wish for my son-in-law to love my daughter forever. I wish for my adorable Rebecca to be healthy and smart. Those were the wishes I had intended to make. But now— When I closed my eyes, all I could see was Eva lying to me about working late, then taking her husband and child to celebrate Sophia’s birthday. In the video, Sophia was surrounded by people, her birthday celebration so lively. They looked like a real family. Unlike me, alone and cold, a clown, a joke. The child I had given birth to had become a knife plunged into my heart. The pain was unbearable. Tears, useless and unwelcome, streamed down my face. I wiped them away and made a new wish. “I wish… that for the rest of my days, I will be happy.” That’s right. For so many years, all my wishes had been for my child. Never for myself. And now, I saw how little it was worth. I took a couple of bites of the cake. It was too sweet, cloying. I glanced at the time. It was already eleven at night. Usually, by now, I would have finished all the housework, put the child to bed, and gone to sleep myself. But tonight, I couldn’t sleep. A moment later— I heard a noise at the front door. Eva tiptoed in, but as she passed the entryway, she saw me sitting in the living room. She froze, a flicker of panic in her eyes. My son-in-law and Rebecca followed behind her, chattering about the birthday party until they saw me and fell silent. Rebecca, trying to act innocent, blinked her big eyes, held out her arms to me, and said she missed her grandma and wanted a hug. But as she ran towards me, I didn’t scoop her up with my usual affection. This child, from the moment she was born, I had poured all my love into her, just as I had with Eva. My son-in-law had no parents, and they were both so busy. In this big city, expenses were high. I had taken care of Rebecca so they could work without worry. But she, so young, had also betrayed me, just like her mother. Eva walked towards me, still trying to pretend nothing was wrong. She rubbed her shoulders and complained about how busy her day had been, promising to make it up to me tomorrow. Her eyes fell on the small cake on the coffee table, and she paused. “Mom, you bought yourself a cake?” Maybe it was because my cake was so small, or maybe because the one they had for Sophia was so large, but the guilt in her eyes deepened. I saw no point in beating around the bush. I asked her directly, “Eva, where were you today?” She froze, her eyes searching my face, as if looking for something. In the end, she chose to play dumb. “Mom, what are you talking about? I was at work.” She glanced at Will and Rebecca. Will nodded quickly. “That’s right, Mom. I was swamped today. My back is killing me.” Rebecca, mimicking her father, shook her head like a bobblehead doll. “Grandma, we didn’t go eat cake today, we didn’t—” Children are not very good at lying. The more they talk, the more they reveal. Eva didn’t even have time to cover her mouth. She could only offer a strained smile, her eyes darting around as she tried to come up with another lie. “Mom, don’t misunderstand. Rebecca was getting restless at my office, so I bought her a small piece of cake.” The flimsy lie was a deep disappointment. I took out my phone, found the video, and tossed it in front of her. She froze, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to explain. But in the end, she sighed, flopped onto the sofa beside me, and adopted a defiant tone. “Oh, Mom! It’s been so many years! I know you hate Dad, but he and I are related by blood. For your sake, I’ve barely seen him all these years. Isn’t that enough? You’re so old now, what grudges can’t you let go of? Even if you can’t, don’t drag me into it! Have I ever missed one of your birthdays? Aunt… Sophia has the same birthday as you. She never says anything, but I know she wants the family to be together. I figured, since we live together, we can celebrate your birthday any day. So I celebrated with her first, and I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. What’s the big deal? Mom, you’re not a child anymore. Stop throwing tantrums! Will and I are exhausted from work every day. Being with Dad is actually relaxing for me. Can’t you just try to see things from my perspective for once?” Her whining words chilled my already cold heart. “So,” I asked, “you’re blaming me for keeping you from your father?” I looked at Eva. She didn’t resemble Adam at all; she looked more like me. That’s why, when we divorced, Adam had poured all his fatherly love onto Sophia’s two children, especially her daughter, Violet. The first time I saw her, she was only six, but she was the spitting image of Sophia. Adam adored her. Back then, Eva had cried hysterically, curled up in my arms, asking me over and over, “Mommy, why doesn’t Daddy want me? Why is he going to be someone else’s daddy? Doesn’t he love me anymore?” Seeing her cry broke my heart. The child I had carried for ten months, saddled with such an irresponsible father. It was a tragedy. But now, it all seemed like a joke. Eva, oblivious to the change in my tone, started to whine like she always did. “Mom, that’s not what I mean. But think about it, Dad is getting old. No matter what, I have his blood in me. After so many years, shouldn’t the hatred have faded? And Aunt Sophia… she’s actually a very nice person. She only stole Dad away because she was worried Leo and Violet wouldn’t have a father. She even apologized to me and buys me gifts, treats me like her own daughter. Whatever happened in the past, you’re old now. Why do you have to keep clinging to that old baggage?” Her complaints were laughable. The father who had abandoned her without a backward glance, the father she had cried for in the middle of the night, asking me why he didn’t want her. And Sophia, the other woman, who had bought her a few gifts and was now forgiven? I shook her hand off me. “Eva, so in your eyes, my not forgiving Adam and Sophia is me being unreasonable?” She nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course it is! I was young then, I’ve forgotten most of the bad stuff. When I close my eyes now, all I remember are the good times with Dad when I was a little girl. We were so happy then. So, Mom, I hope you can forget too. We can be a family again, like before. Aunt Sophia is really nice, you two could probably be like sis… ah!” Before she could finish, I slapped her across the face. She shrieked, jumped to her feet, and clutched her cheek, yelling at me, “Mom, what did you hit me for?! With a temper like yours, it’s no wonder Dad prefers gentle, quiet Sophia!” With that, she ran into her room, crying. My son-in-law and Rebecca followed, trying to comfort her. The door was left ajar. I could vaguely hear their voices. “…getting old and senile…” “…holding a grudge for a lifetime…” “…cranky old woman…” “…so annoying…” And more. These were the words of the daughter I had loved for half my life. In that moment, my heart truly died. I stood up, went to my room, packed my bags, and left the homeowners’ association group chat on my phone. Eva and her husband had worked hard for years, but the housing prices in the capital were astronomical. They were still paying off their mortgage every month. I had felt sorry for them, so I had been supplementing their income with my pension and paying their mortgage, as well as their utilities, groceries, and even Rebecca’s tutoring fees. Now that I was leaving, I would no longer be contributing. Whether they could afford it on their own was no longer my concern. Besides that, I had another property that no one, not even Eva, knew about. I had bought it as a precaution against my son-in-law, in case he turned out to be like Adam. The property was in my name, and I had planned to transfer it to Eva after I was gone. Now, it seemed, that was no longer necessary. That property would be my new home. With a handsome pension every month, I could live quite comfortably on my own. When I left my room, Eva was still crying. The cake was still on the table. Everything was a mess. I dragged my suitcase and left without a second of hesitation.

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My husband’s cousin switched my daughter with her own while I was in a delirium after childbirth. So I waited until she was sleeping soundly, high on her triumph, and I switched them right back. Day after day, she tormented her own child while showering mine with every affection she could muster. I would watch and wipe my tears. What a human tragedy. She deserved it. 1 The day my daughter was born, I was up all night, engrossed in a gothic novel about a changeling. Just as I reached the most thrilling, heart-pounding part, my water broke. I grabbed the arm of my handmaid, Ruby, and said with a tremor in my voice, “Watch my baby! Don’t let anyone switch them!” The labor was brutal. The entire wing of the house was in chaos. The pain was so intense I blacked out, but just before I did, I heard another maid shouting, “Sir! Sir! It’s Miss Lillian, she’s in labor too! You must go to her!” I reached out, grabbing for my husband, Brayton. “Don’t go…” I clung to his sleeve, but he pried my fingers off, one by one. His voice was soft, yet unyielding. “I have to go to Lillian. She’s delicate, not resilient like you are.” The pain consumed me, and I fainted. When I next opened my eyes, Ruby was kneeling by my bed, sobbing. “My lady, they’ve taken the young miss! She’s been switched!” “What?!” I whipped my head around to look at the novel on my bedside table. The story I had just been reading… was now my own. 2 Through her tears, Ruby told me what happened. The baby was born while I was unconscious, but my husband, Brayton, had dismissed all the other maids and the midwife, sending them to Lillian’s side. Only Ruby remained to look after me. Remembering my warning, she’d made a small mark with rouge on our daughter’s heel before going to fetch hot water. When she returned, the mark was gone. The room had been in turmoil, and she hadn’t gotten a clear look at the baby’s face. Without that mark, she would have never known. “Was anyone else in this room?” I asked. “Celeste, Miss Lillian’s personal maid. She came in with a basket, saying she’d brought you some food. She saw I was in a hurry and offered to watch you and the young miss, so I…” Ruby prostrated herself, banging her head on the floor. “I deserve to die, my lady! I am a worthless servant!” “No,” I said, my voice a raw whisper. “You did well. Now, I have a task for you. Do this, and you will have redeemed yourself.” “Yes, yes! I would die for you, my lady!” “Stand guard here. Don’t let anyone in, and don’t let anyone notice that I’m gone.” “My lady, where are you going?” “To get my daughter back.” 3 I picked up the baby girl who had been placed in the cradle. She was dressed in the soft satin I had prepared for my own child, but her face was pale, her breathing shallow as a thread. Her cries were as faint as a kitten’s mewling. This was not my daughter. My daughter had let out a lusty wail the moment she was born, so loud it had pierced through my haze of pain. My daughter had been switched. Luckily, Celeste hadn’t been gone long. “No one should be coming for a while,” I instructed Ruby. “If she dared to switch the babies, she must have made sure the coast was clear.” “My lady, let me go for you!” “I need you here to cover for me. This is something I have to do myself.” I lifted the child and, forcing my weak, postpartum body to move, I followed. The corridors were eerily empty, as if they had been deliberately cleared. I spotted Celeste’s figure in the distance and trailed her silently. She was clearly nervous, clutching the baby and hurrying along without ever looking back. She never noticed me. She went straight to Lillian’s rooms. Outside Lillian’s door sat a shabby, soiled cradle, with flies buzzing around it. She placed my daughter in that filthy basket and went inside. In that split second, I sprinted across the yard and switched the babies back. My own daughter was heavy in my arms, a solid, reassuring weight. I was about to turn and run, but then I heard voices from inside the room. Lillian’s voice was thick with tears. “Brayton, my love, I had no choice. Our daughter is so frail. If she stays with me, she won’t get the care she needs. Lady Clara is so much more capable than I am.” My husband, Brayton, scoffed. “She only got to be my wife because of her family’s status. If she hadn’t stolen your place, our daughter would have been the true heir.” Lillian quickly soothed him. “Don’t be angry, my love. Our daughter can still be raised as the legitimate one. Think of it as my gift to you.” “Don’t worry,” Brayton said. “Clara won’t have any more children. I’ve been putting a drug in her water to make her barren. From now on, her only purpose will be to raise our daughter.” “But won’t she suspect something?” “I’ve told her this child is from your previous marriage, that you came to me for shelter after your divorce. She won’t doubt it. With me here, you have nothing to fear.” “Oh, Brayton,” Lillian sighed. “After everything I’ve been through, I finally see that you are the only true man…” Inside, the lovers murmured sweet nothings, while outside, in the yard, mosquitoes began to land on the infant in the dirty cradle. I clutched my child and slipped away, back to my own rooms, a bone-deep chill seeping into me. 4 When I returned, Ruby was frantically searching the yard for me. Seeing me return with the baby, looking like a ghost, she rushed to my side. She helped me back into bed, covered me with thick blankets, and pressed a cup of hot tea into my hands before turning to care for my daughter. I stared at the steaming tea, the lovers’ conversation echoing in my mind. A wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed the cup away. “Everything from the kitchen today—the water, the tea, the porridge—throw it all out.” Ruby looked at me, confused, but said nothing, simply nodding and taking it away. Still feeling uneasy, I had the servants take every pot and pan from my private kitchen and scrub them clean that very night. Once I was alone, I sat on the bed for a long time, trying to calm my racing heart, before the tears finally came. When I married into the Brayton family, they were so poor they couldn’t afford meat. The entire family scrimped and saved to support Brayton’s studies, but it was never enough. Brayton, a frail scholar, tried working at the docks and broke a rib under the weight of two sacks of grain. The ten silver pieces he got in compensation were what his family lived on, gnawing on the price of his broken bone. Later, he tried copying texts for a bookshop. He knocked over a candle and burned half his face and one of his eyebrows. Though he healed, the shop gave him two silver pieces for his trouble, and his family gnawed on the price of his eyebrow for a few more months. When he was healed again, he couldn’t find work anywhere. He collapsed from hunger on the street, and I was the one who found him. Brayton was refined and eloquent. I fell for him quickly. He immediately came to my family to propose. My father looked down on his family’s poverty, but he couldn’t dissuade me. With my family’s money, Brayton passed his exams, secured a minor official post, and his fortunes finally turned. But his position was new and his salary modest; our household was still supported entirely by my dowry. Just as our lives were getting comfortable, his cousin, Lillian, showed up at our door, heavily pregnant. She knelt and begged him to take her in. They had been betrothed once, but after Brayton’s family fell into ruin, Lillian had married another man. It turned out he was a monster who beat her daily. She’d divorced him and now had nowhere to go but to her cousin. I took her in out of pity. I never imagined she and Brayton would conspire against me. A child from a previous husband? That was a lie. The two of them must have been entangled long before. This child was Brayton’s. But now, I had switched the child back. I was morbidly curious to see what kind of twisted drama they would create.

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My childhood best friend, Julia, could put movie stars to shame. The line of guys trying to win her over could probably stretch from our front door all the way to Paris. One day, I asked her if I could cut in line. She shot me a withering glare and told me I was nuts. “Fine,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “If I’m nuts, then I’ll be a maniac. From now on, Julia, I’m making it my mission to destroy every chance you have at romance.” 1 From that day forward, whenever a new suitor tried to confess his undying love for Julia, I’d be there to run interference. I’d cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “You know she barely showers, right? Maybe once every ten days! And the athlete’s foot? It’s a full-on fungal jungle down there. The second she takes off her shoes, it’s a biohazard. The smell could knock a buzzard off a garbage truck!” Every time, without fail, Julia would erupt. “Leo, you are so dead!” Julia and I were the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts, practically joined at the hip since birth. She was the kid all the other parents compared theirs to—not just beautiful, but brilliant, too. The line of guys after her was endless. The first thing she did every morning when she got to class was to clean out her desk, tossing the mountain of breakfast offerings from her admirers my way. Thanks to Julia’s popularity, I saved a fortune on breakfast, money I happily spent on my comic book collection. Of course, it wasn’t a one-way street. I earned my keep. I’d often do her chores at home so she could study in peace. Sometimes, I even took her beatings. Her father was an alcoholic with a bitter resentment for not having a son. Her mother, frail and worn down, had only managed to give him one child—a daughter. Having the son he so desperately wanted was an impossibility, a fact he never let them forget. He’d use any excuse to lash out, drunk or sober. The phrase I heard most often was how he’d drawn the worst lot in life, saddled with a useless wife who couldn’t produce an heir and a daughter who was nothing but a drain on his wallet, a source of endless shame. But Julia had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Every time he said it, she’d fire right back. She’d tell him her mom was the best mother in the world, and she wasn’t a “drain on his wallet.” The real failure, the most pathetic man on earth, was the one standing right in front of her, hitting his wife and child. Her defiance always earned her a beating. Her mother would just plead with her to endure it. “Once the liquor wears off, he’ll be fine,” she’d whisper. Julia refused to yield. “You’ve endured it for years, Mom,” she’d sob, wiping tears from her swollen face. “Has he ever stopped? Has he ever gotten better?” One time, her dad pulled off his leather belt and came at her. Without thinking, I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around his legs. “Run, Julia, run!” I screamed. But she just stood there, rooted to the spot. “I’m not running,” she said, her voice trembling with rage. “If you have the guts, then just kill me.” Her dad roared at me to let go or he’d beat me too. But I clung on for dear life. In my world, Julia was someone I had to protect, no matter what. And so, the belt came down, again and again, biting into my back. The leather cracked against my skin, and I howled in pain. It was my parents, bursting in, who finally stopped him. Later, as my mom was dabbing antiseptic on my wounds, she sighed. “You silly boy. When someone’s coming at you with a belt, you’re supposed to run.” “I couldn’t,” I mumbled. “If I ran, what would happen to Julia?” My mom’s expression softened. “You little idiot, I know you like her. Why didn’t you just grab her and run together?” My face flushed crimson. “I don’t like her like that! I just… I couldn’t stand to see her get hurt.” She didn’t scold me for taking a beating for Julia. Instead, her heart ached for her. Whenever Julia came over to study or just hang out, my mom would see the fresh bruises on her arms and legs. “Oh, sweetie,” she’d say, her voice thick with sorrow. “Does it hurt?” Julia would always put on a brave face. “Not at all, Mrs. Gable.” My mom would gently apply ointment to the welts, her own eyes filling with tears. But in the late 90s, in our small town, what could a woman do? The word “divorce” was a sin, a brand of shame no one wanted to bear. 2 Julia had once begged her mom to leave him. Her mother had slapped her for it, the first and only time she ever raised a hand to her daughter. She’d accused Julia of trying to turn her into a shameless, ruined woman. Julia had endured countless beatings from that man without shedding a tear. But that one slap from her mother broke her. After that, she never mentioned divorce again. She never spoke of how pitiful her mother’s life was, or how unlucky she’d been. By the time we got to college, Julia had essentially cut off all contact with her family. She put herself through school with scholarships and part-time jobs, rarely going home even for holidays. My mom, her heart still aching for the girl next door, would always slip me extra cash. “Take care of Julia for me,” she’d say. College changed Julia. The walls she built around herself grew higher, her aura turning cool and distant. Her gaze held a frosty beauty that kept everyone at arm’s length. She was tall and slender, with delicate features that could silence a room. She didn’t have to do anything; her mere presence made everything else fade into the background. On the campus message boards, in the annual poll for “Campus Queen,” she won by a landslide. The number of guys trying to win her over was astronomical. I could have funded my lunch for a week selling her love letters for scrap paper. Everyone knew we were close, and they knew we weren’t a couple, so they all tried to use me to get to her. Until that one day, when I asked her, “Can I cut in line?” She gave me a long, serious look. And then she told me I was nuts. So I went to war. Anyone who asked for her number got the same story: Julia had a nasty case of athlete’s foot and a deep-seated aversion to showering. A real biohazard. Incurable. Whoever ended up with her was in for a lifetime of misery. The campaign was surprisingly effective. The number of suitors dropped dramatically. Julia seemed to enjoy the peace and quiet. But then, a new post appeared on the campus forum. It was a detailed, sob-story account of Julia’s tragic childhood—the alcoholic, abusive father, the constant fighting, the misery. It painted her as a brave, struggling girl putting herself through school against all odds. The post went viral, shooting to the top of the forum’s hot list. My carefully crafted rumors about her hygiene were instantly forgotten. A wave of misguided chivalry swept the campus. The floodgates opened, and the number of guys pursuing her was greater than ever before. They weren’t just admirers now; they were would-be saviors. Her dorm hallway became a permanent staging ground for guys wanting to fetch her water, save her a seat in the library, or just straight up offer her money. Overwhelmed and furious, Julia put a price on my head. She was convinced I had leaked her secrets, and she swore she would make me pay. Julia had always been the queen bee of our neighborhood, the undisputed leader who would ruthlessly crush anyone who crossed her. 3 My entire life had been lived under her reign of terror. So when I heard she had issued a campus-wide manhunt for me, my first instinct was to hide. But I had severely underestimated her influence. I thought I’d be safe in the men’s dorm, but her legion of admirers, eager to curry favor, formed a posse. They dragged me from my room and presented me to her like a captured fugitive, all of them clamoring for credit. She dismissed her followers and grabbed me by the ear, parading me across the campus green. She dragged me to a secluded spot behind the library and ordered me to kneel and confess. “Julia, I swear on my life, you’ve got it wrong,” I pleaded. “I didn’t post that.” She stared at me, her eyes like chips of ice. “And you expect me to believe you, Leo? In this entire university, so far from home, who else knows about my family? It was you. Who else could it be?” “It really wasn’t me.” How could I even begin to explain? She was right. Here, hundreds of miles from our hometown, I was the only one who knew her story. I’d followed her here, secretly applying to the same northern university when I found out where she was going. I remembered my mom’s teasing words before I left. “You’re not fooling anyone, you little idiot. You think you’d move to a frozen wasteland like this if you weren’t crazy about that girl?” “Who else could it be?” Julia pressed. “Did you tell someone else my story?” It was her deepest, most private pain. People had asked, but I had never, ever told a soul. “No, Julia, I swear. I didn’t post it. I’ve never told anyone.” Her expression shifted, a flicker of something old and painful in her eyes. “You think I’d believe you? When we were kids, you’d sell me out for a piece of candy. Why wouldn’t you sell my secrets now for a little attention or a few bucks?” Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She was talking about hide-and-seek. Julia was a master at it, always finding the most impossible hiding spots. But I knew her habits, and I could always find her. One time, another kid offered me a caramel—her absolute favorite kind—if I revealed her location. She’d been found, lost the game, and fumed at me for half a day, vowing never to speak to me again. What she never knew was that the caramel was for her. I’d saved it, waiting for her anger to cool. I gave it to her later that week, a peace offering. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. We were sitting on a thick branch of an old oak tree. She ate the caramel, her face breaking into a radiant smile. She carefully folded the waxy wrapper and handed it to me. “Here,” she’d said. “You keep this for me.” I had treasured that little piece of paper. Seeing her happy made me happier than any candy could. And now, for her to throw that memory in my face… it hurt more than I could say. “Julia, you really don’t believe me?” I asked, looking up at her. Her eyes suddenly reddened. “Leo, you know how much I hate this. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I never have, and I never will. You’ve really crossed a line this time, Leo.”

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For three years, my wife, Victoria, was a fixture in the headlines. This time, the story was: “Z-LIST ACTOR’S SHAMELESS THEATER FLING WITH MARRIED HEIRESS. HE KNEW.” A reporter ambushed her. “Doesn’t your husband get angry?” She answered with regal disdain. “He’s just the man who married into my money. He’s hardly fit to be seen.” Later, she would kneel in the snow, begging me to come back. “Leo, forgive me! Don’t you love me?” I threw her own words back at her. “I’m just a kept man who isn’t fit to be seen. How could I ever be worthy?” 1 【Riverton Cinema, 10 PM tonight.】 It was a rare weekend off, but one text from Evan, and I was clocking in for my other job. Evan had been coasting on Victoria’s money in the entertainment industry for three years. With mediocre talent and even worse luck, he was firmly cemented as a Z-list actor. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Victoria, as part of my marital duties, had forced me to be his assistant. And he, in turn, paid my salary. He was notorious for calling me at all hours. Last New Year’s Eve, on one of the few nights Victoria was actually home, Evan called to demand I bring him cold medicine. Snow was falling in a dizzying white curtain as I delivered both the pills and myself to his doorstep. I was happy. And a little desolate. At the cinema, a cluster of young students were whispering excitedly. “I think I just saw Evan!” “My source says he booked a whole VIP theater for his married rich-lady girlfriend.” “The whole theater? Can you imagine? I bet it gets wild in there.” … I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. These kids were bold. They might actually try to sneak in and walk right into the middle of Victoria and Evan’s… tender moment. In Victoria’s eyes, Evan was a pure, innocent angel with a handsome face and a great body. She wouldn’t mind him getting photographed or dragged through the mud online; she’d just blame me for not doing my job properly. And a furious Evan would dock my pay. So, I slipped past the students and had a word with the theater staff. Leveraging Victoria’s name, I had a few extra security guards posted at the entrance. Once I was sure the fortress was secure, I went inside. The screen was playing a newly released blockbuster, a film Victoria had poured money into just to get Evan a bit part as some eye candy. Yes, eye candy. For all his masculine posturing, the best a pretty boy like him could do with a sugar mama was be a living ornament. In the fifth row, the prime viewing spot, Victoria was tipping Evan’s chin up, giving him a feather-light kiss. I had to admit, Victoria was stunning. Even next to a fresh-faced actor like Evan, her powerful aura was undeniable. I casually snapped a photo. It was, in a way, a beautiful picture. A notification popped up on my phone. It was Evan. 【Are you here yet?】 It seemed he was getting anxious to officially marry into the family fortune. I didn’t reply, continuing my surveillance. Annoyed that his attention was on his phone, Victoria grabbed his chin and pulled him into a more heated kiss. I rolled my eyes. Some things you just can’t unsee. Did he really think that forcing me to watch a live stream of him seducing my wife would make me so heartbroken I’d demand a divorce? The truth was, Victoria was the one who had forced me into this marriage, grinding my dignity into the dust. She wasn’t done torturing me yet. She wouldn’t let me go that easily. Suddenly, the whole charade felt pointless. I replied to Evan: 【Mr. Hayes, my apologies, I’m taking a sick day. Lucy will be there shortly.】 Lucy was Evan’s other assistant, a young girl who looked up to me. Message sent. I turned off my phone, refusing to listen to his inevitable tantrum. Leaving the theater, I walked along the riverbank, hoisting myself up onto the railing to feel the wind on my face. I used to love Victoria. She was a strong, brilliant, formidable woman. For her, it was love at first sight, and she pursued me with a fiery passion that defied convention. Weighed down by my own baggage, I rejected her time and again, but she was relentless. What finally broke through my defenses was the day I came to work with a raging fever, and she forced water and medicine past my lips with her own hands. It’s a shame her devotion had such a short shelf life. But maybe that was for the best. 2 The next morning, my phone’s ringing jolted me awake. It was Lucy. “Leo! It’s all over the internet! There’s a video of Evan with Victoria… they’re saying he’s a homewrecker! The story is blowing up, and I don’t know how to get it off the trending list… But he totally deserves it! God, Leo, you’re incredible. I don’t know how you work for him and stay so calm watching him pull all this crap.” Lucy, bless her righteous young heart, was vehemently cursing out her own boss. I was touched. “Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ll handle it.” After hanging up, I clicked the link she’d sent me. The video was two minutes long, starting with the light kiss I’d witnessed and escalating from there. In the final shot, Victoria’s hand was resting on Evan’s lower back. The implication was obvious. The comments section was brutal. 【The only thing they didn’t do was take their clothes off. And he still pretends to be so innocent, saying his mom won’t let him show his abs. LMAO.】 【CANCEL HIM!】 【Get Evan Hayes out of showbiz!】 … The article also included the picture of me sitting on the riverbank railing, under a salacious headline: “Z-LIST ACTOR’S SHAMELESS THEATER FLING WITH MARRIED HEIRESS. A KNOWING HOMWRECKER, PUSHING THE HUSBAND TO THE BRINK.” Someone had been following me? That was… unsettling. I scrolled through the comments. The top ones were a mix of people trashing Evan and Victoria, and others doing deep dives into Victoria’s family background and Evan’s less-than-honorable climb up the ladder. Me, the “husband on the brink,” was barely mentioned. This leak felt like it was about more than just Evan. Was it one of Victoria’s business rivals? After a moment’s hesitation, I forwarded the article and my suspicions to Victoria. She didn’t reply. She probably didn’t care. I wasn’t in a hurry either. I started drafting a crisis PR statement for Evan. As I was working, a text from Evan himself came through, dripping with provocation: 【Leo, I checked the cinema’s security footage. I saw you there. Jealous watching Victoria all over me? Ha. I thought you were clueless, but it turns out you’re just a coward who can take it. She doesn’t love you. Do yourself a favor, take off the horns, and divorce her!】 My patience, already thin, snapped. I forwarded him the link to the viral article. 【Evan, from where I was sitting, I couldn’t have possibly shot a video that clear.】 3 After a quick shower, I video-called Lucy. We worked until noon before things were finally under control. Throughout the morning, Evan called me repeatedly. I could perfectly picture his pathetic, frantic face. I used the excuse of being busy to ignore his tirades. He didn’t need my comfort. After double-checking the statement we’d issued, I went back to the original viral post, studying it again. Finally, I decided to contact the blogger who broke the story to ask about the video’s source. My private message went unanswered, like a stone dropped into the sea. Whatever. Time for a break. I was coming down with a cold. I quickly boiled some dumplings, ate them, and collapsed into bed to catch up on sleep. I’m a light sleeper. The roar of Victoria’s sports car pulling up to the house woke me. By the time she stormed upstairs and burst through my bedroom door, I was already dressed. “Leo, do you really think that by destroying Evan, I won’t just find another Evan? A new pretty face to replace him?” she snarled. When she was chasing me, she’d fret over the slightest frown on my face, showering me with concern and gifts. And now? Now she looked like she wanted me dead. “I’m not that naive,” I said, my hand in my pocket, secretly turning on my voice recorder. “And I know you. You might like Evan, but you’d never throw away the career you fought so hard for just for him. You’ve been investing in him for years; you expect a return. In this movie, his role is small but charming. It could have been his big break. This scandal affects his marketability, maybe even your company’s stock. That’s why you’re so angry, isn’t it?” Every time she wanted to provoke me, she either shamed me for being the man who married into her money or threw cash at Evan to spite me. She probably didn’t realize that neither of those things could hurt me anymore. All I wanted was a peaceful divorce. Victoria looked slightly taken aback, but she doubled down. “Glad you know your place!” I pressed on with my negotiation. “I couldn’t find the truth you wanted me to find all those years ago. But I’ve been your husband for three years. You’ve had lovers, you’ve ruined my career, and you’ve forced me to be Evan’s glorified gofer. You’ve seen it—my life is a miserable, chaotic mess, and I’m barely making any money. Your anger should be satisfied by now, right? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I want to make a deal. If you agree, I will do everything in my power to clean up Evan’s image and help you salvage yours.” Victoria’s voice was ice. “Your terms.” “I want a divorce. Don’t worry, I won’t take any of your assets, we’ll stick to the prenup. Evan has to pay me my outstanding salary, and you will give me a substantial sum for my silence.” She sneered. “You’re dreaming!” Just then, her phone began vibrating violently. Victoria shot me a glare and went out to the balcony to take the call. When she returned, her face was a mask of grudging acceptance. “Fine. I agree.” I clicked the button to save the recording. “Pay the deposit first. Then I’m at your disposal.” To her credit, Victoria was generous. A hundred thousand dollars appeared in my account almost instantly. “Get changed,” she commanded. “Put on a decent suit. You’re coming with me to the office.” “Fine,” I said, playing my part. I took a quick shower and put on my most expensive suit. Victoria’s face was a mask of impatience. “You’re not young and cute like Evan. What’s taking you so long to change a damn shirt?” I grit my teeth and said nothing. Her eyes then fell on the jacket I had just taken off. “Did you go to the river on purpose?” Had she found the recorder? 4 I forced myself to remain calm. “The media is a beast. Why would I risk making things worse? You can check my phone. Evan’s scandal has nothing to do with me.” At my words, Victoria snatched my phone from the nightstand, unlocked it with a practiced flick of her thumb, and began to search it. My password was her birthday. A small performance to maintain the illusion of the devoted, dependent husband. The day we divorce, if I don’t change it, I’m a dog. After two minutes, she tossed the phone back at me. “You’d better not be playing games with me,” she warned. “You know I wouldn’t dare,” I said placatingly. “You’d better be right,” she hissed, her anger simmering again. “If you don’t fix this, I won’t even bother to collect your corpse.” …I swear she has some kind of rage disorder. Honestly, why can’t she just chill out? “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll make sure to die far, far away.” Besides, when you’re dead, you’re dead. I couldn’t care less what happens after. I made an excuse to tidy the room, using the opportunity to pocket the voice recorder. “Stop fussing,” Victoria snapped, slapping my arm. “I want to see your plan.” “Right.” I sent her the draft Lucy and I had worked on all morning. Seeing her displeased expression, I explained, “Right now, all we can do is suppress the story. Do you have any public events coming up?” “The Zhao family’s charity gala. In three days.” I nodded. “Should I go with you? I can play my part, follow your lead completely.” “Fine.” Victoria closed the document, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Let’s go,” she said, her tone imperious. “Okay.” In the car, I tried contacting the blogger again. Still nothing. Just as we pulled up to her office building, I received an anonymous text. 【Are you sure you want to help Victoria? She’s been unfaithful.】 I instinctively called the number. No answer. Just as I was about to text back, I heard Victoria’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle. “What are you so busy with?” I looked up to see her standing by the luxury car, clearly waiting for me to open her door. The performance had begun. I hurried to open it for her. She gave me a radiant smile. “Thank you, darling.” I played the dutiful husband at her company event, and then she came home with me, watching me work like a hawk. I had no chance to export the audio from the recorder or even think about who sent the anonymous text. Late that night, a call from Evan finally lured her away. Only then did I reply to the number: 【I have to help her.】 The reply was instantaneous: 【I want to see you.】 My guard went up immediately. 【Who are you?】 Could this be the person who had somehow bypassed my security measures and filmed Victoria and Evan in the theater? The person insisted: 【I want to see you.】 5 Lucy had been complaining to me just an hour before that killing the story was proving incredibly difficult. Now I knew why. This person was likely behind it. Still, what was there to fear? I was a grown man. The money was what mattered. So, I asked the mysterious figure: 【Meet now?】 Again, an instant reply: 【The viral post has been deleted.】 I immediately checked my bookmarked link. It was dead. This person was for real. I quickly asked for a meeting place. Half an hour later, I arrived at the designated private room in a high-end club. A young man at the door handed me a blindfold. I put it on without protest. Once I was led inside the room, my eyes quickly adjusted to the blackness behind the blindfold. “Who are you?” I asked into the darkness. “Can you tell?” It was a woman’s voice, melodious and soft. I had assumed it was a man playing games, but my mystery helper was a woman. I have a good memory for voices, and I was certain I’d never heard hers before. “I don’t know you,” I replied. She guided me to a seat. “Then we’ll get acquainted later.” “Why are you helping me?” I asked. She didn’t answer, instead busying herself with making tea. I was baffled but didn’t want to anger her, so I just sat there, numbly compliant. She must have put something in the air, or the tea. I actually fell asleep. When I woke with a start, my first instinct was to tear off the blindfold, but a warm, smooth hand pressed gently on mine. “Don’t.” She was still here. “Sorry, I fell asleep.” “It’s fine.” I sat up straight. “You won’t interfere with me clearing Evan’s name anymore, will you?” “I’ll help you.” “And Victoria’s company?” After a long silence, she said, “I’ll help with that, too.” When the young man helped me remove the blindfold, I realized it was already dawn. I walked to a nearby breakfast spot and ordered crab-filled soup dumplings and a bowl of sweet soy milk. As I ate, I checked the online situation. She worked fast. Searching for Evan’s name no longer brought up any negative keywords. I specifically checked his social media pages; all the hateful comments were gone. Fed and watered, I drove home. Victoria was sitting in the living room, her face taut with anger. The moment she saw me, she sneered, “Leo, which little tramp were you out seeing all night?” The hypocrisy. Did she forget that she was the one who ran off to see Evan in the middle of the night, giving me the window to do my own thing? But she was the client now. I couldn’t provoke her. “I was busy dealing with the online mess,” I explained. “Check for yourself if you don’t believe me. Only a few die-hards are still yelling about Evan, and new trending topics are popping up. Their attention will shift.” This only made her angrier. She snatched a manila envelope from the coffee table and hurled it at me. “Leo, why don’t you explain this!”

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