Chapter 1 After living in a different state from my husband for an entire year, I ran into one of his female coworkers at the mall. She smiled brightly and greeted me, “Congratulations! I heard the amazing news about your new baby girl.” I froze, struck by lightning. Without noticing the color draining from my face, she continued, “I’ll definitely be at the baby’s welcome party this weekend!” As she spoke, she waved an elegant, gold-embossed invitation in her hand. “The design on this is absolutely stunning. So thoughtful.” I forced a stiff smile, pretending to be calm as I took the invitation from her hand to get a closer look. Under Father, I saw my husband’s name: Mark Sterling. Under Mother, a name I didn’t recognize: Chloe Bennett. I silently memorized the hotel address on the card and handed it back. “Thank you. See you this weekend.” When the weekend arrived, I drove to the upscale hotel listed on the invitation. The venue was bustling with people. A beautiful, well-dressed woman stood by the entrance, holding a one-month-old baby girl as she greeted guests. She smiled warmly as I approached. “You must be one of my husband’s coworkers! He always says his office has so many beautiful women. Please, come on in and take a seat.” … A violent storm raged in my chest. I glanced at the baby girl in her arms. She had fair skin and features that undeniably mirrored Mark’s. I kept my face entirely expressionless. “Where’s Mark?” He was nowhere to be seen in the hall. However, I did spot several familiar faces—Mark’s relatives. I had only met his extended family once at our own wedding seven years ago, but I have a sharp memory and recognized a few of the older aunts and uncles. I couldn’t believe Mark had the audacity to publicly parade his illegitimate daughter in front of his entire family. “Mark went to pick up my in-laws. He should be back any minute,” Chloe answered cheerfully. Another gaping hole tore through my heart, the pain so sharp it was suffocating. Just two days ago, my parents-in-law told me they had booked a senior bus tour to Florida. They said they would be traveling for two weeks. Worried their social security wouldn’t cover all their expenses, I had transferred them an extra $1,500 as a vacation fund. They had been in poor health for years, constantly relying on medication, and had never traveled. When they said they wanted to get away and relax, I fully supported them. For the past seven years, I had treated them like my own flesh and blood. To my face, and to everyone else, they always praised me for being a rare, devoted, and filial daughter-in-law. I never imagined they were treating me like a complete fool, helping Mark deceive me. Chloe didn’t notice the turbulent emotions swirling in my eyes. She guided me over to the section reserved for Mark’s colleagues. As soon as we approached, a middle-aged man looked at Chloe with envy. “I’m so jealous of Mark. Not only does he have a gorgeous wife, but an even more beautiful daughter.” The men and women at the table chimed in, one after another. “Chloe, you really won the lottery. When you quit your job to be a stay-at-home mom, I was a little worried for you. But it’s been over six years, and you and Mark are still so happy. Now you have this beautiful symbol of your love. I’m so thrilled for you.” My hands clenched into tight fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. I had only been married to Mark for seven years. He had been cheating on me with Chloe for over six. What was even more laughable was that during those agonizingly long seven years, I suspected absolutely nothing. Even this morning, he had sent me his usual good morning text with a kissing emoji, saying: Morning honey, I miss you so much. For seven years, I thought we had a wonderful marriage. He never lost his temper. He told me his salary was $10,000 a month, and he always gave $9,000 to me, keeping only $1,000 for his own expenses. Every year with his holiday bonus, he would buy me a piece of gold jewelry. Just from those pieces alone, I had saved up quite a bit. A year ago, he sat me down and told me he had a chance to be transferred to a branch a few states away. The promotion would increase his salary by $5,000 a month. “We have to plan for Leo’s future,” he had said. “College, a house… everything costs money. I want to earn more to secure our son’s future.” After careful consideration, I agreed to let him take the out-of-state transfer. Only now did I realize that he was like the dark of night—I had never been able to see him clearly at all. “Mark is amazing. He’s been the top sales rep for years now. His base is $10k, sure, but he rakes in massive commissions every single month.” “He’s a great provider and treats his wife like a queen. Such a rare, good man.” Commissions. I finally understood. He had told me his base salary, but all those massive commission checks went straight to funding his second family. Chloe’s face beamed with happiness. “We are very blessed.” Another coworker sighed enviously, “Time flies! We were just at your wedding six years ago, and now you have a baby.” They even had a lavish, public wedding. When Mark and I got married, we just had a small, modest reception in his rural hometown. He never invited any of his coworkers. I stood silently in the crowd, listening to the hidden, sickening secrets of my husband’s double life. A female colleague linked arms with Chloe, asking for advice. “Chloe, you really know how to manage a husband. Teach me! How do you get Mark to be so obedient and treat you so perfectly?” I, too, was curious. I cast a discreet glance at Chloe. Her smile radiated the carefree bliss of a woman who had never worried about paying a single bill. “Mark is just a genuinely good person. It’s my blessing to have met him,” Chloe said. “But marriage is about understanding. If you’re ever worried about a man’s loyalty, you have to control the finances. Mark hands over his entire paycheck to me; he only keeps a few hundred bucks a month for cigars and golf.” “And every year, he uses his massive year-end bonus to buy me genuine Cartier diamond bracelets. A man’s heart is wherever his money goes!” My already shattered heart took another brutal hit. His bonuses went to buying her Cartier diamonds? What had he been giving me all these years? Cheap gold-plated trinkets. Emotions surged up my throat like a tidal wave. They were chatting so enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing there like an iceberg—silent, entirely out of place. Chloe’s phone rang. She smiled. “Mark is calling me.” She casually handed the baby over to me. “Could you hold her for a second?” I froze. The baby girl, soft as cotton, lay quietly in my arms. She stared up at me with bright, shiny eyes, not crying or fusing at all. I looked down at her with a heavy, complicated heart. Even though I was on the verge of a total breakdown, looking at this fragile little creature, I forced my emotions back down. Chloe was standing right next to me, and Mark’s voice drifted clearly through the phone speaker. “Honey, you just finished recovering from childbirth, please don’t overwork yourself today.” “I picked up my parents. Traffic is a little heavy, so don’t stress, we’re on our way.” Chloe replied with gentle understanding. “I’m not tired at all. Drive safe, don’t rush.” As soon as she hung up, the crowd swooned. “You two are so in love! Even at work, he texts you every hour.” “You’ve been together for so long, and the spark hasn’t faded at all. If anything, he’s more obsessed with you!” “Mark acts like he’s terrified you’ll run away. Chloe, you really found a unicorn. Even if every other man in the world cheated, Mark absolutely never would!” I used to think Mark was deeply devoted to me, too. He called me once a day, sent me a text every morning. Though the calls were never long—usually under a minute—I never suspected he had ulterior motives. Between my job, managing the household, and raising our son, my time was entirely consumed. He said work was demanding, so I understood the brief calls. I never expected that he was sharing the intimate, meticulous details of his daily life with another woman. I carried the baby to an empty seat and sat down. Suddenly, I noticed a piece of custom gold jewelry clasped around the baby’s tiny wrist. The charm was shaped like an intricate guardian angel. I recognized it instantly. Seven years ago, when I first found out I was pregnant with boy-girl twins, my mother went to a famous jeweler to custom-design a pair of matching gold angel pendants. She even traveled across the state to have them blessed by a bishop at our hometown cathedral. But fate was cruel. There were complications during delivery. Only my son survived. I was completely devastated. The physical trauma ruined my body, making it impossible for me to ever have a second child. My son, Leo, had worn the boy’s angel pendant on his wrist since the day he was born. The girl’s pendant had been carefully locked away in our home safe. Every time I thought of the daughter I lost, I would hold that little gold angel and cry until I couldn’t breathe. My hand trembled as I touched the lifelike wings of the charm on this baby’s wrist. I gently turned it over. Engraved clearly on the back was a single name: Joy. That was the name I had spent months picking out for my unborn daughter. I wanted her life to be filled with nothing but joy. “My daughter’s name is Joy. Mark picked it out,” Chloe smiled, walking over to sit beside me. “That jewelry was custom-made by Mark, too. You have no idea how much he loves having a daughter.” My heart cracked into tiny, jagged pieces, but I kept my composure. “He treats you very well.” Chloe smiled, treating me like an old friend. “You must be relatively new to the company, right? I used to know all the senior staff before I left. Mark told me they had a lot of new hires recently.” I forced a hollow “Yeah” past my lips. “The company has great benefits, but the travel is awful. Thankfully, Mark hasn’t had to travel for work for the past year.” “He used to be on business trips constantly—sometimes we wouldn’t see each other for half the month. But we finally made it through the hard part!” A bitter, cynical smile touched the corners of my mouth. “Yeah, you did.” Before Mark was “relocated” a year ago, he used to go on business trips for about two weeks out of every month. I used to feel so bad for him, constantly flying from city to city. I never let him worry about anything at home. When his parents got sick, when they were hospitalized, when they needed 24/7 care—I handled all of it. Even as our physical intimacy dwindled over the years, I never complained. Now I realized he was never on business trips. He was just taking turns living in a completely different house. Chloe made no move to take the baby back, occasionally standing up to greet passing friends. She looked down at the baby resting peacefully in my arms and looked surprised. “My daughter really likes you! Usually, when my friends try to hold her, she screams.” “You’ve been holding her for a while now and she hasn’t made a peep. It’s like magic.” “Probably because I have a child of my own,” I said flatly. “I have experience.” She was thrilled and didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. “Could you watch her for just a little bit longer? I need to go greet some guests arriving at the front.” I gave a slight nod. She walked away, completely at ease. I stared at the massive banner hanging in the center of the banquet hall. Congratulations to Mark and Chloe on the One-Month Celebration of their beloved daughter, Joy! My veins felt like they were pumping crushed glass. My son, Leo, never had a one-month celebration. At the time, our whole family was drowning in the grief of losing his twin sister. Mark had suggested we skip the party. My parents disagreed, arguing that celebrating the surviving baby was important, but Mark adamantly refused. He claimed the pain of losing his daughter was just too much to bear. But now he finally had a daughter, and he could throw a joyous, lavish party for her! I was the only one still mourning the daughter who never got to live. Suddenly, my mother-in-law called my cell phone. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed answer. “Clara, did you not see my text?” her voice sounded completely normal. “No,” I replied, my voice as cold as ice. “Are you at the grocery store? It sounds noisy over there.” “Check your messages. I can’t hear you clearly, just text me back.” She hung up. I opened my messages and saw a text from twenty minutes ago. Clara, a relative back home just had a baby, and I need to send a gift. I don’t have enough cash on me. Wire me $3,000. It’s proper etiquette, we can’t afford to be rude. The pads of my fingers turned white as I gripped the phone. My blood boiled. This entire family wasn’t just treating me like an idiot—they wanted me to play the ultimate sucker, bankrolling the cash gift for my husband’s bastard child! I laughed out loud, purely from rage. I didn’t reply. She texted again, rushing me: Hurry up and transfer it! We have to maintain our manners. The Sterling family cannot lose face. I still didn’t reply. I would wait for her to show her face at the venue. Soon enough, another message popped up. I always thought you were a reasonable woman. I never expected you to be this stingy. Forget it. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll figure it out myself. A mocking sneer formed on my lips. I treat you like my own daughter. You’re the best daughter-in-law in the world. Our family must have done something incredibly right in a past life to get you. All of it was a disgusting, manipulative joke. When Chloe walked back over, she was on the phone. I could hear Mark’s voice loud and clear through her receiver: “Honey, my mom got another piece of gold jewelry for our princess.” “I told her she didn’t have to, the baby has enough jewelry, but Mom insisted.” Mark added specifically: “This piece is different, though. It’s got an angel design and was blessed by the Bishop. It’s highly symbolic, not just some standard jewelry store piece.” My blood pressure spiked so hard my vision blurred. Two days ago, my son left for a summer camp. Before he got on the bus, my mother-in-law told him to take off his gold angel bracelet so he wouldn’t lose it. My son took it off and handed it to her for safekeeping. I never imagined this old woman would steal my son’s protective charm and give it to her son’s illegitimate daughter! Chloe smiled sweetly. “Aww, please thank Mom for me. That is so incredibly thoughtful.” My mother-in-law’s voice chimed in through the phone: “No need to thank me! It’s my duty as a grandmother. You gave me a beautiful, precious granddaughter, I’m the one who should be thanking you. We’ll be there in just a minute, thanks for holding down the fort with the guests.” Hanging up, Chloe reached out to take the baby, but caught sight of new guests arriving in the distance. She quickly hurried off to greet them again. I continued holding the illegitimate child. She was still remarkably quiet in my arms. I looked down at her and whispered self-deprecatingly: “Don’t worry. Your welcome party is going to be something everyone remembers for the rest of their lives.” Finally, I heard the commotion of Mark and his family making their grand, belated entrance into the hall. Carrying his child, I walked straight up onto the venue’s center stage. Just as I heard Mark ask Chloe, “Honey, where’s our baby?” I raised the microphone to my lips. My voice echoed like cracking ice through the venue speakers: “Husband, your bastard child is right here in my arms.”

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Chapter 1 Arthur Sterling was the CEO of Sterling Enterprises, and our company’s biggest client. Yet, every time he finished a meeting at our office, he would walk past my desk and ask a very strange question. “Ms. Hayes, are you desperate for money lately?” I thought he was insulting me. Until today, when he stood in front of me again and lowered his voice: “If you are truly in a difficult situation, you can tell me directly.” I was just about to ask him what he meant when a line of glowing, floating text suddenly drifted across my vision. 【He’s asking you this because he is your online boyfriend.】 Online boyfriend? But I’ve never dated anyone online. 【Your real boyfriend is using your identity to catfish him.】 【He has already scammed him out of $150,000.】 【If you don’t do something right now, you are going to take the fall and go to prison.】 【And your boyfriend will take the money and fly far away with his mistress.】 The file folder in my hands smacked onto the floor. Everyone in the office turned to look at me. I crouched down to pick up the papers, my fingertips trembling violently. Arthur bent down as well, picking up the top sheet of paper for me. He handed it back, his voice low: “Why do you look so pale?” I looked up at him. In his eyes, there was scrutiny, restraint, and a kind of exhaustion I couldn’t quite read. I replied, “I’m fine.” The floating text was still scrolling. 【Do not speak recklessly.】 【Right now, all surface-level evidence points to you.】 【The profile picture is yours, the lifestyle photos are yours, and the Instagram captions are yours.】 【The bank account receiving the money is legally registered under the name Clara Hayes.】 My back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. Arthur looked at me for a few seconds, as if he wanted to keep asking. Finally, he just said, “Do you have time after work?” The looks in my co-workers’ eyes immediately shifted. My supervisor peeked out from the conference room door, smiling cautiously: “Mr. Sterling, is there an issue with the project? I can have the project manager walk you through it.” “No need.” Arthur didn’t look at anyone else, keeping his eyes entirely on me. “I want to speak with Ms. Hayes privately.” My palms were slick with sweat. He already suspected me. Or rather, he fully believed I was the woman who had taken his $150,000. I forced myself to stand steady. “Mr. Sterling, I apologize, but I have plans tonight.” His gaze darkened. “Tomorrow, then.” It wasn’t a negotiation. It wasn’t a threat, either. But he clearly had no intention of letting this go. I nodded. “Okay.” After Arthur left, the office exploded. “Clara, do you know Mr. Sterling?” “Why did he ask for you specifically?” “Are you secretly dating the client behind our backs?” I didn’t answer a single question. I sat back at my desk and stared at my phone screen. Derek had texted me half an hour ago. “Babe, come home early tonight. I’m making your favorite sweet and sour chicken.” It was followed by a kissing emoji. In the past, seeing that would have made me feel sweet. Now, it just felt terrifying. Derek and I had been together for three years. He didn’t have a stable job. But he always claimed he was day-trading and investing—sometimes making a quick buck, sometimes taking a loss. Whenever I pushed him to get a real job, he would hug me and say: “Clara, just give me a little more time. I promise I’ll give you a good life.” I believed him. Because he was always generous with me. After work, I didn’t go straight home. I sat in the convenience store downstairs from my office and bought a bottle of water. As I twisted the cap off, my hands were still shaking. The floating text intermittently appeared again. 【Don’t confront him directly.】 【Derek is a great actor. His first reaction will be to deny it, and then he’ll accuse you of trying to climb into Arthur Sterling’s bed.】 【First, ask him if he knows Arthur.】 【The burner phone is hidden inside the bottom lining of the living room sofa.】 【The passcode is your birthday, backward.】 I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to believe the floating text. But Arthur’s reaction today, combined with Derek’s spending habits over the past six months, made everything line up perfectly. When I got home, Derek was transferring takeout into proper bowls. Seeing me, he smiled gently. “You’re back? Why are you so late today?” I stood in the entryway, not even taking my shoes off. “Derek, do you know Arthur Sterling?” The chopsticks in his hand paused for a fraction of a second. “Who?” He quickly smiled. “The CEO of Sterling Enterprises? How would I know him?” I stared at him. “Oh. It’s just that he’s been paying a lot of attention to me lately at work. I thought maybe you guys knew each other.” The smile on Derek’s face faded. “Clara, what is that supposed to mean?” He put the chopsticks down, his tone instantly shifting to defensive and victimized. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings for the guy.” I didn’t speak. He grew more agitated: “You look down on me because I don’t have a corporate job, don’t you? Do you think I’m not good enough for you? Have you been wanting to find a rich guy this whole time?” In the past, I would have panicked. I would have explained myself. I would have comforted him first. But today, I only felt a freezing chill. I said quietly, “I was just asking.” Derek stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly softened and walked over to hug me. “I’m sorry, I’m just too sensitive. I’m so scared of losing you.” I didn’t push him away. I didn’t hug him back, either. The glowing text drifted over his shoulder. 【See that?】 【He’s not feeling guilty.】 【He’s just testing you to see how much you know.】 Late that night, after Derek had fallen into a deep sleep, I slowly slid his arm off my waist. I walked barefoot into the living room, not daring to turn on the lights. There was a narrow tear in the fabric under the left side of the sofa. I reached my hand inside and felt something hard. An old smartphone. Black casing, matte screen protector. I held the power button. The screen lit up, asking for a passcode. I typed in my birthday, backward. It unlocked. In that moment, the blood in my veins ran ice cold. The phone was logged into an alternate WhatsApp account. The profile picture was me. The display name was “Ellie.” The status updates were filled with fragments of my daily life. The cake I burnt last weekend. The view from my office lobby on a rainy day. A picture of my back taken when my best friend and I went to the beach. There was even a selfie I had posted on Instagram two years ago and subsequently deleted. Except, all the captions had been altered. They had been rewritten to sound like a gentle, fragile, lonely woman who was incredibly good at playing the victim. Pinned to the top of the chat list was the name: Mr. Sterling. I tapped into it. The chat logs were dense. “Ellie” talked about how exhausted she was, and how her family was forcing her to go on blind dates. “Ellie” said she didn’t want to bow to reality, but she truly had no money. “Ellie” said if someone could just pull her out of this hole, she would remember it for the rest of her life. Arthur didn’t reply often. But every response was earnest. “Don’t make decisions against your heart just for money.” “If you just need cash to bridge the gap, I can help you.” “Worry about paying it back when you’re financially stable.” Then came the transfer receipts. $3,000. $5,000. $10,000. $20,000. $50,000. Up until the very last transaction, three days ago: $60,000. The excuse was that my mother was hospitalized and needed the money for surgery deposits. Meanwhile, my mother was back in Ohio playing pickleball every single day, healthy enough to scream at my dad for half an hour straight over a missed shot. I kept scrolling down the chat list. There was another conversation. The contact name was Vanessa. The profile picture was a woman wearing heavy makeup. Vanessa: Did Arthur go to Clara’s office again today? Derek: Yeah. Vanessa: Is he suspicious? Derek: Probably. The real Clara isn’t as soft and submissive as the character I play. He’ll realize something is off sooner or later. Vanessa: Then let’s wrap this up. Don’t drag it out. Derek: I’m going to scam him for one last $100,000 “wedding ring” fund. Once the money clears, I’m taking you and we’re leaving. Vanessa: What about Clara? Derek: The bank account is in her name, the photos are hers, the persona is her. If shit hits the fan, she can explain it to the cops herself. Vanessa: True, she’s the perfect scapegoat. Perfect scapegoat. Those words twisted like a knife in my chest. Derek and I had been together for three years. I had paid his rent, transferred him money for groceries, and eaten instant ramen with him during his lowest points. He told me I was the best girl he had ever met in his life. It turned out that by “best,” he meant I was the best human shield to take a felony charge for him. I took out my own phone and hit record. I started by filming the burner phone’s exterior. Then the device serial number. The login details. The account information. The chat logs with Arthur. The transfer details. And finally, Derek and Vanessa’s conversation planning the split. I recorded it page by page, until my arms ached and my eyes stung. Right as I was finishing, a new message popped up from Vanessa. Vanessa: Have Clara go meet Arthur in person tomorrow. Vanessa: If she physically sits in front of him, he’ll definitely believe it. Vanessa: When it goes down, just say the account is hers and she asked you to handle the communication for her. You’re just a messenger. Derek: Will do. She’s easy to manipulate. I stared at those words and suddenly smiled. I smiled until my eyes burned. I heard him shifting on the mattress in the bedroom. I immediately locked the screen and shoved the burner phone back into the base of the sofa. When I climbed back into bed, Derek groggily pulled me into his arms. “Babe, where did you go?” I closed my eyes. “Just getting some water.” He kissed my hair. “Good girl.” My body was entirely rigid. I didn’t move an inch. The floating text slowly appeared above us. 【First piece of evidence acquired.】 【But it’s not enough.】 【Tomorrow, he’s going to propose to you. He’ll use marriage to bait you into his trap.】 【Do not go soft on him.】 The next day, Derek acted as if nothing was wrong. He warmed up milk for me, squeezed my toothpaste, and held me tightly before I left for work. “Clara, come home early tonight. I have a surprise for you.” I looked at his face. “What kind of surprise?” He smiled adoringly. “You’ll find out tonight.” I smiled back. “Okay.” When I got to the office, the very first thing I did was back up the evidence. One copy uploaded to a secure cloud drive. One copy emailed to a brand new email address. And another copy saved to a flash drive, tucked securely into the innermost zipper of my purse. I couldn’t take any chances. If Derek could open a bank account in my name, it meant he had my social security number and ID information. Maybe he stole it last year when he suggested we open a joint savings account. Or maybe even earlier. At the time, he had said: “We’re going to save up for a house together, we need a joint account.” He held my driver’s license and had me blink at the banking app’s facial recognition screen. I didn’t even suspect a thing. Looking back, every time he said “Let me help you,” it was a trap. In the afternoon, Arthur’s assistant walked into our department. His name was Mr. Bennett. He wore a dark suit and spoke very politely. “Ms. Hayes, Mr. Sterling wanted me to confirm: is 7:00 PM at The Grand Court Restaurant still convenient for you?” All my colleagues perked their ears up. I nodded. “Yes, it is.” Assistant Bennett visibly sighed in relief. “I can pick you up downstairs.” “No need, I’ll get there myself.” He hesitated for a moment but didn’t insist. After work, I went to The Grand Court. Arthur had booked a private dining room. It wasn’t a romantic setting; it felt more like a boardroom. When I walked in, he was already there. He wore a dark grey dress shirt, cuffs neatly buttoned, and there were only two glasses of warm water on the table. He stood up and pulled a chair out for me. “Sit.” I sat down, my palms sweating. Arthur noticed. But he didn’t immediately slam the bank transfers on the table to interrogate me. And he didn’t use his status as my client to pressure me. He simply asked, “Have you truly not run into any financial difficulties recently?” He had asked this same question many times. But this time, I knew why. I asked back, “Mr. Sterling, why do you constantly assume I’m desperate for money?” Arthur fell silent for a moment. “Because you told me you were.” My heart sank. “When did I ever say that?” He looked at me, his eyes complex. “Many times.” I gripped my water glass. “I don’t remember.” He asked again: “Then do you remember what the reason was the very first time you asked to borrow money from me?” I shook my head. “I have never asked to borrow money from you.” The private room went dead quiet. The light in Arthur’s eyes slowly dimmed—not into anger, but as if the last shred of hope he was clinging to had just been crushed. He pulled out his phone and pushed it across the table toward me. On the screen was his chat log with “Ellie”. “Ellie” had sent a photo of me at a bookstore. That photo was taken by Derek. I was standing in front of a bookshelf, turning back to smile at the camera. I used to love that picture. But now, beneath the photo was a caption that I had never written. “Mr. Sterling, sometimes I feel like I just can’t hold on anymore.” Arthur had replied: “Don’t carry it all by yourself.” I stared at those words, my chest tight with a mix of fury and sorrow. My face, used to feign weakness. My life, used to stage a play. I looked up. “Mr. Sterling, if someone scammed you out of a lot of money, what would you do?” Arthur looked at me. “It depends on whether it was intentional.” I froze. His voice was very low. “I’m not afraid of losing money. I’m afraid that I’ve become so blind I can’t even tell if the person I like is real or fake.” My breath hitched. He wasn’t just trying to catch a scammer. He was scammed out of his money, and his feelings. Yet, even after meeting the real me in person, he hadn’t exposed me in public, and hadn’t cornered me in front of my colleagues. He booked a private room, closed the door, and left me my dignity. The glowing text drifted past. 【You can show your hand now.】 【He suspected you, but he never wanted to destroy you.】 【The person who truly wants to destroy you is waiting for you at home.】 I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I pulled the flash drive and my phone out of my purse. “Mr. Sterling, I have evidence.” His gaze sharpened. I slid the USB drive across the table. “The person you’ve been texting… wasn’t me.” “It was my boyfriend. Derek Cole.” Arthur didn’t speak right away. His face was cold, like jade trapped under frost. I knew how absurd that sentence sounded to him. He had waited for six months, tested the waters for six months, suspected me for six months. And now I was telling him that the person on the other side of the screen wasn’t me. It wasn’t even a woman. He stared at the chat logs on my phone for a very long time. The private room was deathly silent.

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Chapter 1 Clutching the late-stage stomach cancer diagnosis, I sat on the cold hospital bench. I dialed my husband, Julian Vance. “The doctor says I need surgery. It’s going to cost a hundred thousand dollars out of pocket… can you lend me some money?” “Lily, our prenup is very clear. We keep our finances separate.” “Your illness is a personal liability. I shouldn’t be expected to take on that risk.” “Just set up a GoFundMe and post it on your socials.” Over the phone, I could faintly hear our son’s childish, excited cheer: “Aunt Chloe, Daddy bought this gift for you! I wish you were my mommy!” “Well, you can call me Mommy if you want to.” A young woman’s smiling voice echoed through the receiver: “Julian, thank you for the investment. The five hundred thousand just hit my account…” I numbly hung up the phone and walked back to our cold, empty house. Late that night, Julian brought our son home and saw me sitting quietly on the sofa. He walked over, his thumb gently brushing the corner of my eye. “Lily, I’m doing this for your own good.” “In the adult world, no one is a safe harbor for anyone else.” “You have to learn to provide your own safety net, otherwise, how will you survive in this society?” I nodded calmly, turned to go back to the bedroom, and called my lawyer. “Help me draft the divorce papers.” … After hanging up, I shoved the diagnosis report to the very bottom of my medical folder. From the living room came Leo’s laughter. “Daddy, Aunt Chloe says she’s taking me to the indoor water park this weekend!” Julian replied softly, “Finish your homework first.” Julian and I had been married for seven years. Leo was six years old. The night he was born, I suffered massive hemorrhaging. Julian had gripped my hand outside the operating room, his eyes red. “Lily, you and the baby both have to make it.” The first time Leo called me “Mommy,” he was only ten months old. He threw his arms around my neck, drooling all over my face. I was so happy that day I took dozens of videos. But now, my own flesh and blood had just said on the phone: I wish Aunt Chloe was my mommy. The door pushed open. Julian stood in the doorway, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding a scarf. “Leo picked this out for you.” He walked over and draped the scarf over my shoulders. His movements were incredibly light. So light, it was as if there were no GoFundMe, no cancer diagnosis between us. And no other woman that he favored. He remembered I hated the cold. He remembered I didn’t drink cold water before bed. But he conveniently forgot that I would be terrified when I was dying. “You don’t look well today.” I looked at him. “I have late-stage stomach cancer.” His fingers paused. A second later, he looked down and adjusted the edge of the scarf. “Lily, don’t try to scare me with things like that.” “Where’s the report?” I gave a small smile. “Didn’t you say my illness is a personal liability?” Julian looked up at me. “I was talking about principles.” “Principles aren’t cold-blooded.” I asked: “So telling me to start a GoFundMe is also a principle?” He frowned. “Lily, I don’t like it when you twist my words.” “Telling you to crowdfund gives you another option.” “Adults can’t dump all their risks onto their partners.” I unlocked my phone and pushed a credit card transaction screenshot in front of him. Fifty thousand dollars. A luxury jewelry boutique. Recipient: Chloe Bennett. Julian barely glanced at it, his expression completely unfazed. “Chloe just got back from overseas and is heading up a new project. She needs to meet investors.” “Looking the part is a business expense.” I nodded. “And the five hundred thousand?” Julian’s face finally darkened. “Lily, do you really have to put yourself in a position to compete with her?” Footsteps padded toward the door. Leo ran in clutching his Legos. “Daddy, Aunt Chloe said she’ll help me build this tomorrow!” He stopped when he finally noticed me. The smile on his face faded instantly. “Oh. You’re here, Mommy.” I asked him, “What did you say on the phone earlier?” Leo’s eyes darted away. “I didn’t say anything.” Julian spoke up, his voice low. “It was just a kid talking nonsense. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” I looked at my son. “Leo, do you want Aunt Chloe to be your mommy?” He clutched his Legos tighter, his voice very small. “Aunt Chloe says even though she’s not my mommy, she understands me better.” “She doesn’t force me to do homework, and she doesn’t get sick all the time.” The room went dead silent. My fingertips curled slowly into my palms. Julian looked at me. “He’s just a child. Don’t take it to heart.” I asked calmly, “Are you?” He stiffened. I took the scarf off and placed it back into his hands. “Julian, tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. My lawyer’s office.” He looked as if he’d just heard something absurd. “Because of a title?” “No.” I looked at him. “Because today, I finally realized there is no place for me in this house.” Julian stared at me, dropping his tone. “Lily, stop throwing a tantrum.” “You’re in a bad mood right now. I can tolerate this.” He reached out to touch my head. In the past, whenever he did this, my heart would soften. But this time, I tilted my head away. His hand froze in midair. I said: “I don’t need your tolerance.” “I just need your signature.” The next day, Julian didn’t show up at the lawyer’s office. I waited until eleven-thirty. He sent a text. 【Chloe has a big project pitch today. I can’t get away.】 Another text popped up right after. 【If you really want a divorce, have your lawyer contact me.】 I stood on the street corner, clutching my purse. I didn’t reply. I turned around and went to the hospital. The doctor looked over my scans, his expression heavy. “Ms. Morgan, I strongly advise you to be admitted immediately.” “If we want to fight for a chance at surgery, you cannot delay the preliminary treatments.” I asked: “How much will it cost?” The doctor gave me a number. One hundred thousand dollars. I nodded. “I understand.” At the billing window, I swiped three different cards. Insufficient funds. The clerk looked up at me. “Is your family not here with you?” I said, “No.” When the word slipped out, even I froze for a second. I had a husband. I had a biological son. But standing in front of the hospital billing window, I was completely alone. That afternoon, I went home to get my passport and social security card. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard a woman’s laughter in the living room. Chloe was sitting on the sofa. She was wearing a beige dress suit, and on her wrist was the fifty-thousand-dollar Cartier bracelet. Leo was draped over her lap, playing on his iPad. Julian stood next to her, pouring her a glass of warm water. Before handing it over, he tested the temperature against the back of his hand. He used to test my water like that. Back then, I thought it was love. Now I knew: it wasn’t that he was incapable of being gentle. He was just selective. Seeing me, Chloe immediately stood up. “Lily, you’re back.” She sounded perfectly sweet. But the bracelet on her wrist caught the light. The glare made my eyes hurt. I had lingered by the display case for that exact bracelet on my birthday. Julian had said to me: “Things like this aren’t practical.” “You’ve never been a vain person.” Now, it was shining on Chloe’s wrist. Julian glanced at me. “Why are you back?” I looked at him. “This is my house.” Chloe’s face paled slightly. Julian set the water glass down. “Chloe’s pitch was a success. I brought her back to grab a file.” “And let Leo hang out with her for a bit.” And. I was standing in line at the hospital trying to pay for cancer treatment. He was in my house throwing a celebration for another woman. Leo looked up from his iPad. “Mommy, can you be a little quieter?” “Aunt Chloe is really tired today.” I looked at my son. Suddenly, I remembered when he was three and had a terrible fever in the middle of the night. He was convulsing, clinging to my neck, crying. “Mommy, don’t go.” I didn’t close my eyes for a single second that night. Julian called his name in a low warning: “Leo.” But it was just a name. No reprimand. No correction. Chloe hurriedly patted the child’s head. “Kids just say things, don’t mind him, Lily.” She paused, her tone growing even softer. “Though… Julian did mention your health hasn’t been great.” “I’ve been working on my EmpowerHer Wellness Initiative lately, and I’ve seen a lot of cases like yours.” “Women need to have their own financial independence.” “You can’t just get sick and turn your pain into a bargaining chip to extort others.” I looked at her. “Did he teach you that line?” She flushed. Julian frowned. “Lily, stop being so passive-aggressive.” I didn’t say another word. I walked into the bedroom to pack my documents. Julian followed me in and shut the door. “Did you go to the hospital today?” I put my passport in my bag. “Yes.” “What were the results?” “Late stage.” His eyes shifted. But quickly, he pushed whatever emotion that was back down. “Show me the report.” I looked up. “What are you looking for?” “Trying to figure out if I’m still worth the investment?” Julian’s face darkened. “Lily, do you have to be this bitter?” “I just want to verify the situation.” I zipped my bag. “There’s no need.” He blocked the doorway. “Don’t leave today.” I gave a dry laugh. “Why?” “Afraid I’ll drop dead outside and there’ll be no one to pick up the kid from school?” He fell silent for a second. And in that second, the answer was crystal clear. From the living room, Leo yelled: “Daddy, Aunt Chloe says we’re going to get truffle pizza!” Julian turned his head and answered: “Wait for me.” I stared at his profile. He used to answer me like that too. I’d tell him Leo had a fever. He’d say, Wait for me. I’d tell him I was breaking down. He’d say, Wait for me. Later, I finally understood. His “wait for me” was never a promise. It was a delay tactic. I walked past him. He suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Lily.” His voice dropped, the way he used to coax me. “Don’t make this difficult for me.” I turned to look at him. “Julian.” “You make staying alive difficult for me.” “Do you really think I care about making things difficult for you?” I listed the small condo I owned before we got married for an emergency quick sale. Hearing my asking price, the realtor fell silent for a few seconds. “Ms. Morgan, this price is incredibly low.” “Are you absolutely sure?” I said, “I’m sure.” After hanging up, I sat in the hospital stairwell. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Chloe had posted a new update. In the photo, she was standing on a presentation stage. The screen behind her read: 【EmpowerHer Wellness Initiative】 The next slide read: 【Healing isn’t about pills; it’s about spiritual rescue.】 Julian was sitting in the front row, looking up at her. I hadn’t seen that kind of patience from him in years. The caption read: 【Only when you are firmly supported do you dare to move forward.】 Someone commented: 【The way Mr. Vance is looking at you! So sweet.】 Chloe replied: 【He said I deserve to be seen.】 I stared at it for a long time. Then I locked my screen. The husband of a stomach cancer patient tells his wife to crowdfund her treatment. Then he turns around and invests in a wellness course for another woman. I guess you can put life’s most absurd tragedies into a PowerPoint after all. The doctor notified me it was time to check-in for admission. I took the deposit slip to the window. The clerk told me I was short forty thousand dollars. I called Julian. This time, he picked up. “What is it?” The background was quiet. Sounded like a conference room. I said: “I’m forty thousand short for my hospital deposit.” “Consider it a loan.” The other end of the line paused. “Lily, it’s not that I won’t give it to you.” “But your treatment plan hasn’t even been finalized yet.” “Blindly throwing money at it isn’t rational.” I closed my eyes. “The doctor says it can’t wait.” “Of course the doctor would say that.” His tone was perfectly steady. “Start with the basic treatments. We can talk when there’s a definitive plan.” I asked: “Is Chloe’s project plan definitive?” His voice went cold. “Don’t drag her into everything.” “Her project has societal value.” “What you’re doing right now is an emotional expense.” An emotional expense. I looked down at the medical bill. I let out a sudden laugh. “Julian, I’m dying of cancer, and you call it an emotional expense?” He stayed quiet for two seconds. “You know that’s not what I meant.” I opened my mouth to speak. Then I heard Chloe’s voice over his phone. “Julian, the investors are here.” Julian immediately said: “I have to go.” Right before he hung up, he added: “I had my assistant compile a list of medical relief grants and crowdfunding platforms for you.” “Stop rejecting the solutions people offer you.” The call ended. Less than a minute later, his assistant emailed me a document. The subject line was: 【Guide to Setting up Personal Crowdfunding for Critical Illnesses】 I stood in front of the billing window, my fingers stiff and freezing. The contract for my condo was signed that same night. The buyer negotiated ruthlessly. I didn’t counteroffer. As I signed the papers, the realtor asked quietly: “Ms. Morgan, do you have any family to help you?” I stared at my signature. “Yes.” “But they’re very busy.” Busy applauding another woman. Busy treating my cancer like an emotional expense. Busy teaching me to be independent. That night, I went back to the house to pack my hospital bag. There was a pair of unfamiliar heels by the door. The smell of soup drifted from the kitchen. Chloe was wearing my apron, ladling soup into bowls. Leo was sitting at the dining table. “Mommy Chloe, that smells so good.” Leo turned, saw me, and froze instantly. “I… I said it wrong.” Julian walked out of his home office. Seeing me, his brows knitted together. “Why are you coming back without letting anyone know again?” I looked at him. “Do I need to make an appointment to enter my own house?” Julian lowered his voice. “The kid didn’t mean anything by it.” I walked over to the table. There were three sets of bowls and silverware. None for me. Suddenly, I realized asking questions was pointless. They weren’t having a spontaneous celebration. They were already practicing being a family of three. Chloe’s eyes reddened. “Lily, I really didn’t mean to take your place.” “Leo is just lacking companionship.” “He said you always look so sick lately, and it scares him.” I looked at her. “So you taught him to call you Mommy Chloe?” Chloe bit her lip. “No, I didn’t.” Julian’s face went dark. “Lily, leave the child out of adult conflicts.” I laughed. “Adults?” “I gave birth to him.” “You two hand him a knife to stab me with, and now you say ‘leave the child out of it’?” Leo burst into tears. “Daddy, I don’t like Mommy when she’s like this!” “She’s so mean!” Julian immediately hugged him, soothing him softly. “It’s okay, Daddy’s here.” Then he looked up at me, his eyes icy. “You’re sick, I can understand that.” “But don’t take your pain out on our child.” I looked at Leo crying in his arms. I looked at Chloe standing beside them with red eyes. I finally understood that in this house, I didn’t even have the right to lose my mind. I turned and walked into the bedroom. I grabbed my hospital bag and dug out our marriage certificate. In the nightstand, there was a set of matching light-blue family outfits. I had bought them a month ago. Back then, I didn’t know I had cancer. I thought we could wear them as a family of three for Leo’s parent-teacher day at school. I didn’t need them anymore. When I went to leave, Julian was standing by the front door. His voice was heavy. “Lily, if you walk out this door tonight, don’t expect me to come to the hospital and beg you to come back.” I stopped in my tracks. I looked back at him. “Julian, have you ever begged me for anything?” He froze. I didn’t wait for an answer. Because the answer had been there all along.

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On senior portrait day, my boyfriend, Tayler, took over two hundred photos of Flora, the campus it-girl. He was the president of the university’s photography club, a master of finding the perfect angles, capturing the way the light fell. Flora stood beneath the golden oak trees, smiling softly. “Am I being too much of a pain?” Tayler didn’t look up from his viewfinder, his voice dripping with gentleness. “Never. You look beautiful in every frame.” When it was my turn, I nervously smoothed down my dress and stepped into the frame. But Tayler only clicked the shutter twice, barely looking. “Alright, we’re done.” I froze. “That’s it?” He frowned, a familiar flash of irritation crossing his face. “You’re just not photogenic, Iris. Let’s not waste everyone’s time.” I looked at the screen of his camera. There were exactly two shots of me. In one, my eyes were half-closed. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches cut my face completely in half. I asked him to take a few more. Instead, he pulled out his phone and posted on the student forum: [$20 bounty for anyone willing to take a few quick graduation shots of my girlfriend.] Within thirty minutes, a user with a blank profile picture slid into my DMs. I sent over my location, typing out a quiet warning: “Just so you know, I don’t photograph well.” The reply came almost instantly: “That’s just because whoever took your photos didn’t know how to guide you.” When the shoot was over, he sent me the raw files. I stared at my phone, completely speechless. For the first time in my life, I realized I could actually look beautiful. What was even wilder? This twenty-dollar photographer seemed infinitely more professional than the president of the photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No heavy edits, no filters. Just different angles of me. I was standing there, my eyes bright with a spark I didn’t even recognize. “Your features are great,” he texted. “You just tense up the second you see a lens.” Whenever Tayler used to shoot me, his go-to line was always: “Can you just smile naturally for once?” After three or four clicks, he would lower the camera with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then he’d roll his eyes, blaming me. “You have zero camera presence.” He said it so often that I started believing it. Eventually, whenever a camera was pointed at me, my instinct was to look down, to hide, convinced I would look terrible. My phone buzzed. My roommate, Katie, had forwarded Flora’s latest post. A perfect nine-grid layout of graduation portraits, all taken by Tayler. Flora stood beneath the old oak trees, her hair caught in a flawless, cinematic breeze. “So incredibly lucky to have the photography club president as my personal shooter! ” The comments were already flooded: “These could literally be the university’s official catalog!” “Flora is the ultimate college sweetheart.” Flora had replied with a blushing emoji: “He’s seriously so good at directing! I was so nervous, but he kept making me laugh.” I zoomed in on her photos, a quiet, familiar ache settling in my chest. It wasn’t that Tayler didn’t know how to guide someone. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to make a girl feel comfortable. He just never cared to try with me. Just then, a notification popped up from the official university app: [Admissions Campaign: Search for the New Face of the University.] [Submit a headshot and a one-minute video introduction. The winner will be featured in next year’s national admissions campaign.] I instinctively swiped it away. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Tayler had made sure I knew that. But then, a message from the twenty-dollar photographer lit up my screen: “Did you see the admissions post?” I blinked, surprised. “Yeah, I did.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” He replied immediately: “Trust me. No one is more suited for this than you.” A few seconds later, another message came through: “They aren’t looking for a plastic pageant queen.” “They’re looking for someone real. Someone who makes people want to step onto that campus.” I stared at his words for a long time, unable to move. Then, he sent over a structured shoot schedule: Three days of practice with camera presence, three days of shooting on-campus locations, and three days of editing the final one-minute video. A sudden wave of emotion hit me, making my throat tight. The truth was, I used to love photos. But over the four years I’d spent with Tayler, I had slowly learned to fear the camera. The next morning, the moment I walked into the photography club room, Tayler spotted my printout of the application form. He frowned. “Iris, are you seriously entering this?” I nodded. “Yes.” He let out a scoff, as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “The face of the university? Come on. Don’t do this just because you’re throwing a tantrum over the graduation photos.” Flora was sitting beside him, offering a sweet, pitying smile. “Iris, honestly, working behind the scenes is wonderful too. Being the public face of the school comes with so much pressure. If the photos don’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” In the past, those words would have made me shrink instantly. But this time, I simply folded the form and tucked it into my bag. “Whether I’m good enough is for the committee to decide,” I said quietly. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Tayler’s face darkened. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My phone buzzed. It was the photographer: “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library.” “We’ll do our first shoot.” “No need to overthink it. Just show up as you are.” I looked down at the screen, took a soft breath, and looked up at Tayler. “I have a photographer.” Tayler’s jaw tightened. “Without me, you won’t even have a single photo worth showing.” I ignored him and walked out. At four o’clock, I stood at the west entrance of the library. For years, when Tayler took photos, I was the helper in the shadows. When he shot Flora, I was the one carrying his heavy lenses, holding the reflector, passing him water bottles, and watching their bags. If Flora’s dress was slightly out of place, I was the one who rushed over to smooth it down. Afterward, Tayler would have me import and organize the files. But when it came to me, he wouldn’t even bother adjusting his camera settings. Today, for the first time, I didn’t have to stand outside the frame. The photographer didn’t rush to lift his camera. He just had me stand near the stone steps. “Relax your shoulders,” he said. “Forget about the lens.” “Pretend it isn’t there. Look at the wind, look at the trees, look at whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my body still stiff. He met my eyes. “Iris. The camera isn’t Tayler. It’s not going to criticize you.” A sudden sting hit the back of my throat. My eyes welled up, and I quickly looked up to blink away the tears. He didn’t rush me. He just waited, letting me find my footing in the quiet space. We shot for half an hour. He didn’t talk much, but his directions were clear and reassuring. “Don’t clench your dress.” “Look at that maple tree on the left.” “Now, look back at me.” “Perfect. Keep that expression.” For the first time, I realized that taking photos could actually feel effortless. The next morning, Tayler messaged me in the club group chat. “Need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Flora is shooting her admissions portfolio.” Normally, I would have agreed without a second thought. But this time, I replied: “I’m shooting my own photos this afternoon.” The group chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, Tayler private-messaged me. “Are you seriously taking that twenty-dollar Craigslist guy seriously?” “Flora’s portfolio is the club’s priority right now. Don’t hold back actual work.” I stared at the words “actual work.” I wanted to laugh. To him, “actual work” meant Flora. My graduation portraits, my dreams, my attempt at finding my courage—none of it was real work. That afternoon, I went to the science building for my video shoot. Passing the track field, I saw Tayler shooting Flora. She stood in the center of the grassy field, bathed in gorgeous afternoon light. Tayler was kneeling, constantly shifting his angles. “Take your time. Turn your head when the breeze hits.” “If you can’t smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more.” Flora laughed. “Am I being super high-maintenance?” Tayler’s voice was incredibly gentle. “Not at all. You have amazing camera presence.” I stood by the edge of the track, my hands slowly tightening into fists. So he did know how to soothe someone. He did know how to make a girl feel safe in front of a lens. It was just that the girl was never me. My photographer noticed my expression, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he held the camera out toward me. “Today, we’re doing motion,” he said. “Just walk, look at the camera, and tell me why you love this university.” I looked down. “I don’t know what to say.” “Then just pretend you’re talking to me.” I thought about it for a long moment before looking up at the lens. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said softly. “It makes me feel like, as long as you don’t give up, even the most ordinary person can find their own strength.” He didn’t interrupt. When we finished, he showed me the playback. In the video, I wasn’t as sweet or practiced as Flora. But I was real. That evening, students in the admissions group chat started sharing their raw materials for feedback. My photographer had helped me pick a candid shot of me near the library’s side entrance. Almost immediately after I posted it, a comment popped up: “Is that Iris?” “Wow, there’s so much emotion in this shot.” I held my phone, a tiny, warm spark blooming in my chest. But Tayler was quick to dampen it. “It’s just an atmospheric shot,” he texted. “Tricking the eye with lighting and composition.” “Admissions needs a well-rounded representative, not a glamor shoot.” Flora chimed in right after: “Exactly. Video is so much harder than photos. Motion easily exposes your angles and expressions.” I stared at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but I didn’t feel the usual panic. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain or prove myself to them. I only typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” That night, my photographer sent over a new plan. “Tomorrow, we shoot by the graduation wall.” “Don’t be afraid.” “Just be yourself.” By the deadline, I submitted my video. I had watched the one-minute clip at least fifty times. It opened at the west entrance of the library. I was walking up the steps holding a stack of books, turning back to catch the lens. The middle featured the track field, the labs, and the graduation wall. The final shot was me standing by the main gate, saying: “I hope that when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself too.” My fingers were shaking when I clicked submit. My photographer texted me: “You did amazing.” “Now, get some sleep.” But sleep wouldn’t come. I had spent years hiding behind others. For the first time, I had put myself on display. Three days later, the preliminary list was released on the Admissions Office’s social media page. First Place: Iris Wen. Second Place: Flora Lin. I stared at the screen, paralyzed. My roommate Katie screamed, throwing her arms around me. “Iris! You’re first!” “You actually got first!” Before I could even process the joy, the photography club group chat erupted. “Iris is first?” “Flora is second?” “Tayler’s shoot actually lost?” Tayler remained silent. Until someone tagged him: “President, what do you think?” He finally replied: “I’m sure the administration will verify the authenticity of the materials.” In that instant, my heart sank. He didn’t congratulate me. He didn’t ask how I had managed to pull it off. His immediate reaction was that it had to be fake. Flora private-messaged me soon after. “Iris, you’re so amazing! But is your photographer a professional?” “To get quality like that for twenty dollars… it doesn’t really feel like a regular student did it.” Naturally, someone screenshotted her message and leaked it to the group chat. The tide turned instantly. “Yeah, that quality is definitely not twenty dollars.” “Did she hire a professional agency to boost her?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “Aren’t admissions ambassadors supposed to represent real students?” “Does her photographer have connections in the admissions office?” Before long, a thread appeared on the student forum: [Admissions preliminary results controversy: Did a certain female student hire an agency to fake her portfolio?] [Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar photographer to produce a campaign-level video?] The comments grew vicious. “Wasn’t she famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly she looks like an indie film star? Who’s buying that?” “She must be desperate for attention.” I stared at the screen, my fingers turning cold. Tayler’s text popped up: “Who is this photographer, really?” “Did he bring in a professional team for you?” “Iris, the admissions campaign isn’t a private photoshoot. Don’t use the university’s image to feed your vanity.” I stared at his words for a long time before replying: “You think I cheated too?” He shot back instantly: “You know better than anyone how unphotogenic you used to be.” The words stung like a needle to the chest. Even when I succeeded, even when I looked beautiful, he refused to believe it was really me. To him, I was a lie. That afternoon, I got a call from the admissions office. “Iris Wen? Please come down to the administration building.” “A student filed a formal complaint alleging your submission was produced by a commercial team, heavily edited, and benefited from unfair resources.” “We need to verify the authenticity of your files.” I stood in the hallway of my dorm, my mind going blank. My phone buzzed. My photographer had sent a message: “Deep breath.” “Don’t be scared.” “You didn’t suddenly become beautiful.” “You were just finally photographed the way you deserved.” Staring at his words, the warmth slowly returned to my fingers. But then Tayler sent another text: “I’ll go with you.” “I can testify to how you usually perform in front of a camera.” I held my phone tightly as I walked toward the administration building. The forum was still blowing up. “She actually went in for questioning?” “So it’s true?” “An admissions ambassador represents the school’s integrity. Cheating is a joke.” “I bet she has a thing going on with that photographer.” My steps faltered. Those words were worse than being called ugly. They weren’t just questioning my photos; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the office, the admissions director, a marketing coordinator, and the dean of student affairs were waiting. On the desk lay printed screenshots of the forum posts and stills from my video. The director looked at me with a grave expression. “Iris, a student has filed a formal report claiming your submission was the work of a commercial agency.” “There are also allegations of improper relationship and resource trading with your photographer.” “This campaign represents the integrity of our university. We must take this seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical blow. I handed my phone over. “I didn’t hire an agency.” “It isn’t heavily edited.” “The photographer is someone Tayler hired off the student forum.” “For twenty dollars.” The director reviewed the chat logs and the transaction receipt, but his brow remained furrowed. “But looking at your past student records and club photos, the difference in camera presence is indeed stark. We need an explanation.” Just then, Tayler knocked and entered. The director looked at him. “Tayler, you’re the head of the photography club. Are you familiar with Iris’s past camera performance?” I looked at him. In that split second, a tiny, foolish shred of hope flickered in my chest. He knew he was the one who posted the forum ad. He knew my terrible graduation photos were the result of his own careless clicks. Tayler hesitated. “She’s… not unattractive.” My chest loosened slightly. Then he continued: “But she was always incredibly stiff in front of a camera.” “I’m not saying she cheated.” “But the level of this portfolio… it doesn’t look like the work of a twenty-dollar amateur.” The office fell silent. He hadn’t outright accused me of lying, but he had neatly validated every doubt. I stared at him. “Tayler. You know exactly who posted that ad.” “You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw twenty dollars at a stranger to get rid of me.” “And now that someone else took the time to do it right, you think it’s fake.” “You don’t doubt the photographer.” “You just can’t stand the fact that I look beautiful in a photo that you didn’t take.” Tayler’s face froze. The door creaked open. Flora was standing there, her eyes rimmed with red. “Director, may I say something?” she whispered. “I don’t doubt Iris at all. I just… I know how much she used to hate the camera.” “I’m just worried that someone took advantage of her desire to prove herself and over-packaged her…” She trailed off, leaving the unspoken accusation hanging in the air. My hands and feet went cold. The director sighed. “Iris, until we clarify this, your preliminary ranking will be suspended.” “Please provide the raw files, behind-the-scenes footage, and the photographer’s contact details.” I walked out of the office. A crowd of students had gathered in the hallway. “Suspended? That basically means she’s guilty, right?” “It’s just a school campaign, why go to such lengths?” As I reached the stairs, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Iris, why did the university just call us?” “It’s just a picture, don’t let this ruin your graduation.” “Mom, I didn’t lie,” I whispered. A beat of silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice cut in: “If you didn’t lie, why is the school investigating you?” My fingers were completely numb as I hung up. Tayler caught up to me. “The best thing you can do right now is blame the photographer,” he said quickly. “Say you didn’t know he brought in an outside team. The school will go easy on you.” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Now you’re worried about me?” “But Tayler, wasn’t he the twenty-dollar photographer “you” found?” Tayler went rigid. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from the photographer: “I’m downstairs at the admin building.” “Iris, don’t worry.” “I’ll clear this up.”

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The day we moved into our first home, Elliot asked me to set the keypad lock code. I typed in our wedding anniversary: 0521. He glanced at the screen, reached out, and casually changed it to a different sequence. “This is easier to remember,” he said. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But later, I noticed. 0912 was everywhere. The front door, the digital safe, his phone passcode, his Apple Pay—all of them were 0912. It wasn’t until I went to connect to the Wi-Fi and saw the network password, “celine0912”, that the pieces finally clicked. Celine. His ex-girlfriend. 0912 was her birthday, September twelfth. The birthday of a woman he had broken up with five years ago was woven into the security of our home, guarding every threshold of our life together. And mine? This year, I told him three days in advance that Saturday was my birthday. He said he’d remember. I spent Saturday afternoon cooking a full dinner, waiting at the dining table from six o’clock until eleven. When he finally pushed the door open, he reeked of alcohol. “Just had a quick dinner with some colleagues,” he muttered. But then his phone, tossed carelessly onto the table, lit up with a text from his ex-girlfriend’s mother: “Thank you for coming to Celine’s birthday party tonight, Elliot. She was so happy to see you.” I stared at the cold, honey-glazed short ribs on the table, and then at that glowing screen. It was time to change the code that guarded every lock in my life. … When the trash can lid slammed shut, the entire dinner became a blurred mess. The dark, sticky sauce of the short ribs bled into the lemon-butter cod, ruining any trace of what they had been. I tied the trash bag tight and dragged it to the front door. In the master bedroom, the shower was running. When Elliot walked in, he’d offered only a curt, “I already ate, don’t wait up,” before heading straight upstairs. He hadn’t even glanced at the dining table. My phone buzzed in my hand. A voice message from Mary. “Flora! Happy birthday, babe! What did Elliot get you? Spill!” I stared at the 59-second audio file for a long time. I typed back: “It was nice. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” Then I flipped the phone face down on the kitchen counter. The shower stopped. The soft hum of a hair dryer drifted from the bedroom. I picked up my phone and re-read the text. “Thank you for coming to Celine’s birthday party tonight, Elliot. She was so happy to see you. —Mrs. Davis.” I switched off the living room lights and walked upstairs. Elliot was leaning against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. His hair was damp, the duvet only half-covering him. My instinct was to grab a dry towel for him. My hand even hovered near the edge of the bed before I stopped myself. I sat down beside him. “Elliot.” “Yeah?” “Today was my birthday.” His fingers paused on the screen. “I know. Didn’t I say we’d make it up to you?” He hadn’t. I remembered every word. “You didn’t say that.” “Well, I’m saying it now. I’ll take you somewhere nice this weekend.” “You went to Celine’s birthday party today.” He locked his screen, turned his head to look at me, his brow furrowing. “Her mom called me three times. I’ve known their family for over a decade, Flora. I couldn’t just blow them off.” “You could have come home to eat with me first.” “By the time I got back, what time would it have been? You’d have been asleep anyway.” “I wasn’t asleep. I had four dishes sitting on the table from six to eleven. I was waiting for you.” He didn’t answer that. After a few seconds, he sighed. “Alright, I get it. Next weekend. I’ll make it up to you.” I looked at his phone screen, which had lit up again. “All of your passwords are 0912.” “I told you, I just set them randomly. It’s easy to remember.” “My birthday is also September twelfth.” His fingers froze over the screen. The hands of the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked through the silence. “Well, isn’t that perfect then?” he said, trying to soften his voice. “It’s the same day. It’s not like I don’t know when your birthday is.” “You know, but you chose to spend it with her. You didn’t come home to spend it with me.” Elliot tossed his phone onto the nightstand with a sharp clack. “Flora, what do you want from me? Are we really going to fight over a birthday? I said I’d make it up to you. What more do you want?” I looked at him. His frown was deep, etched with an impatience that felt like it had been building for a long time. I didn’t say another word. I turned off the lamp, lay down, and turned my back to him. He rolled over. Within two minutes, his breathing was slow and even. I stared into the dark, perfectly still, counting to a hundred and twenty. Then I slid my phone out, dimmed the brightness to the absolute minimum, and opened Safari. I typed in three words: “apartments for rent”. After twenty minutes of scrolling, I bookmarked three listings. Then I scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I’d saved last month. “Charles Alden, Divorce Attorney.” It was too late to call now. I’d do it tomorrow. I locked the phone and closed my eyes. Every lock in this house was still secured by the exact same numbers. “It’s the same day,” he had said. “It’s not like I don’t know.” But of the two women who shared that birthday, he only remembered to celebrate one. The next morning when I went downstairs, he was already putting on his shoes. “I’m in a rush,” he said, pulling open the door. The keypad lit up briefly. “Wait,” I called out. “You said you’d make it up to me. When?” “Next Saturday. I’ll book a restaurant.” “Don’t book French food. I don’t eat it.” He glanced back at me. “Fine.” The door clicked shut, and the lock’s screen glowed for two more seconds. I dialed Charles Alden’s office. We scheduled a consultation for tomorrow afternoon at three. He told me to bring the deed to the house, our marriage certificate, and bank statements. I texted Mary: “Are you free the day after tomorrow? I need to see you.” She replied instantly with a barrage of questions. I typed back three words: “In person, please.” I sat at the kitchen island and poured myself a glass of water. On the bottom of the glass was a faded, barely visible letter: “C”. I stared at it for a moment. Then I set it back in the cupboard and left for work. Mr. Alden flipped through my documents, jotting down notes on his legal pad. “Flora, I’ll be straight with you. From a financial standpoint, this marriage offers you very limited protection. Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed with a divorce?” “I am.” “If we go to court, we’ll need evidence of an irretrievable breakdown. Can you share the primary reason?” I paused for a few seconds. “Every password in our home is his ex-girlfriend’s birthday. The front door, the Wi-Fi, the safe, his phone passcode, his payment accounts. All of them are 0912. The Wi-Fi network is literally named “celine0912″.” Mr. Alden looked up from his pad. “How long has this been going on?” “Three years. Since the day we moved in.” “Have you brought this up with him?” “Twice. He told me he set them casually because they were easy to remember, and that I was being overly sensitive.” Mr. Alden drew a thick line across his pad. “Understood. I should have a draft of the separation agreement ready for you in three to five business days.” “Thank you.” I left the law office at four in the afternoon. Walking past a bakery, I spotted a tiny single-serving cake in the display case, complete with a thin, unlit candle. I stared at it for a few seconds, but I didn’t buy it. When I got home, Elliot wasn’t back from work yet. I slipped off my shoes and stood in the middle of the living room, really looking at the space for the first time. The sofa was a deep, cold charcoal grey. I preferred warm tones. The curtains were a stark, sterile white. I preferred textured linen. On the bookshelf was a row of untouched French novels in their original bindings. I didn’t read French. The house had been fully furnished before I moved in. Elliot had told me there was no point in redoing it. I knelt by the bed, pulled out the digital safe, and punched in “0912”. The lock clicked open. Inside lay our marriage certificate, the property deed, and a few insurance policies. At the very bottom, tucked away, was a small black velvet jewelry box. I pulled it out and opened it. A silver band. Engraved on the inner loop in elegant cursive were the words: “Celine 0912”. Elliot rarely wore his wedding ring; he usually kept it on the nightstand. But this ring was kept in the safe, locked away at the very bottom. I closed the box, slipped it back into its corner, closed the safe, and pushed it back under the bed. Then I opened his side of the closet. In the far corner sat a heavy canvas tote bag. I unzipped it. Inside was a stack of postcards and a bundle of letters. The top postcard was written in delicate, flowing handwriting: “Elliot, Paris is breathtaking. Next time, let’s come here together.” It was signed with a single letter: “C”. I flipped through them one by one. Paris, London, Iceland. Each bore the same signature: “C”. The postmark on the last one was from four years ago. They had broken up five years ago. He hadn’t thrown a single one away. I put them back in order, zipped the bag, and pushed it back into the dark corner of the closet. My phone buzzed with another frantic voice note from Mary. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I won’t sleep tonight.” I texted her back: “The safe passcode is 0912. Inside, there’s a ring engraved with his ex’s name and birthday.” Mary’s reply was a single-word text: “Jesus.” I met Mary the next day at a quiet diner near my office. The moment she sat down, she grabbed my hands. “Don’t say a word yet. Just eat.” She ordered me a bowl of hot chicken ramen. I pushed the bowl slightly to the side and laid out everything—the code, the ring, the postcards, and the night of my birthday. She listened in complete silence. “He didn’t change a single thing when you got married?” she asked quietly. “He said it was easier this way.” “The sofa, the curtains… did you actually like them?” “No.” Mary leaned back in her booth. “This place… he decorated it when he was still with Celine, didn’t he?” “The renovations were finished the year they broke up.” “So her birthday is the code. Her taste is the decor. Her ring is in the safe, and her letters are in the closet. Flora, you didn’t marry Elliot. You moved into a hollow shell she left behind.” My fingers tightened around the crumpled napkin on the table. “I know.” “You knew?” “I didn’t just find out today.” Mary looked at me, her expression a mix of sorrow and confusion. “Then why did it take you this long to walk away?” “I kept telling myself that things would get better with time. But it’s been one thousand and ninety-six days, Mary. And he hasn’t changed a single password.” Mary’s eyes welled with tears. “What did the lawyer say?” “He’ll have the draft ready in three to five days.” “And the house?” “He bought it before we got married. It’s his.” “So you walk away with nothing.” “I don’t want any of it anyway.” Mary pressed her lips together tightly. “You’re moving in with me.” “Not yet. There’s one last thing I want to do.” “What?” “He said he’d make up my birthday to me this weekend. I want to see where he takes me.” On Saturday afternoon at five, Elliot sent me a pinned location. It was a trendy Japanese izakaya downtown. When I arrived, he was already flipping through the menu. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.” I ordered two simple dishes. Elliot added a carafe of sake and a platter of salmon sashimi. When the food arrived, I picked up my chopsticks. “Have you been here before?” “A few times,” he said, pouring the sake. “The food is great.” “Who did you come with?” His hand froze mid-pour. “Just some work dinners.” I pulled out my phone, opened Yelp, and searched for the restaurant. The very first featured review had six photos attached. The last photo was a selfie of Celine. The review ended with: “We come here every year for our anniversary. The staff always recognizes us. Thank you, Elliot, for taking me.” The timestamp was four years ago. The username: “LunaOnTheMoon”. I turned the screen and slid the phone across the table toward him. Elliot’s face paled. “You went looking for this?” “It’s the first review on Yelp, Elliot. I didn’t have to look.” “That was a long time ago, Flora.” “So to make up my birthday to me, you brought me to the place you always took her. And you ordered the exact same dishes.” He set his chopsticks down, his voice dropping an octave. “Flora, aren’t you tired of this? I brought you here because the food is good. What does it matter who I came here with before?” “Then tell me one dish that I actually like.” He stared at me. “What?” “Just name one thing. What is my favorite food?” The surrounding tables were filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and chatter, making the silence at our table suffocating. Elliot opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re not a picky eater.” “Okay, let’s try an easier one. What is one thing I “don’t” eat?” He didn’t answer. “I don’t eat raw fish, Elliot. I never eat sashimi. I told you that the first month we moved in together. You just ordered salmon sashimi.” “You never made a big deal out of it.” “I told you. You just didn’t listen. Your memory was already too full of 0912.” His jaw clenched. “What are you trying to do here, Flora?” I laid my chopsticks down, picked up my purse, and stood up. “I’m leaving.” “Flora.” I didn’t look back. “Do you have to make a scene out of everything?” he called after me. I pushed through the door and walked out. A light drizzle was falling. I stood under the awning of a neighboring shop, waiting for an Uber. My phone buzzed. A text from Elliot: “You’re overreacting. It was just a dinner. Was that really worth storming out?” I silenced my notifications and got into the car. The rain streaked down the window, leaving long, distorted tracks. I texted Mary: “It’s done. Please get the guest room ready for me.” On Sunday morning, Elliot left to play basketball. I pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started packing. My clothes, my skincare, a few books—it barely filled half the suitcase. My jewelry box held only a pair of studs and a simple necklace, both of which I had bought for myself. I looked around the master bedroom. That was it. That was everything I owned in this house. One thousand and ninety-six days, reduced to half a suitcase. I rolled the bag to the front door, put on my coat, and took one last look. Our framed wedding photo still sat on the entryway table. I left it there. I reached for the keypad on the door and found the settings menu. “Current code: 0912.” “New code.” I stared at the blinking prompt for a second. Then I punched in four digits. The code I had set on our very first day here. Our wedding anniversary. The one he had deleted right in front of me. I changed it back. “Confirm.” The lock let out a soft chime, and the screen went dark. I walked out, pulling my suitcase behind me, and the door clicked shut. I took a cab to Mary’s place and rolled my suitcase into her spare room. Mary helped me make the bed, stopping halfway through. “Are you holding up okay?” “I’m fine.” “Do you need to cry? It’s okay to cry.” “No, I don’t.” She slipped the pillowcase on and patted it smooth. “Are you hungry? I made some chicken soup.” “Yes, please.” I was sitting at her kitchen counter sipping the warm broth when my phone started vibrating. Elliot called three times in a row. I let them go to voicemail. Then the texts started. “Where are you?” “Why isn’t the door code working?” “Flora, answer your phone.” When he called a fourth time, I picked up. “What the hell is going on?” His voice was loud, vibrating with a frustration that suggested he’d been standing on the porch for a while. “I changed the code,” I said quietly. “To what?” “I’m not telling you.” “This is my house, Flora. You changed my lock and you’re not telling me the code?” “You’re right. It is your house.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Stop being dramatic, alright? Just come back and change the code.” “I’m not coming back, Elliot.” “You’re throwing our marriage away over a dinner?” I held the warm bowl in my hands, watching the steam rise. “It was never about the dinner.” “Then what is it?” “Because that house was never my home.” “You lived here for three years! How was it not your home?” “The door code was her birthday. The safe held her ring. The closet held her letters. The restaurants we went to were the ones you shared with her. I lived there for three years, Elliot, but I never actually moved in.” He went silent. “Call a locksmith,” I said. “I’m not giving you the code.” I hung up. Mary sat across from me, watching me quietly. After a moment, she said, “Eat your soup before it gets cold.” “Okay.” I finished the soup. My phone buzzed again a few times. I turned it on silent and placed it face down on the table. About half an hour later, the screen lit up with a text from Elliot. “Locksmith just left. I’m in.” “And I changed the code back.” I stared at the screen, took a screenshot of the message, and saved it to a folder labeled “Evidence”. “He changed it?” Mary asked, noticing my expression. “Probably back to 0912,” I said with a faint smile. Mary sighed. “He can change the numbers back all he wants, Flora. But he can’t get you back.” Outside, the sky was turning a deep twilight blue. Mary’s living room was bathed in a warm, amber glow. Sitting on her sofa, I realized something. In the three years I had lived in Elliot’s house, I had never once noticed the color of the light.

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Because he was terrified his fallen comrade’s sister would be sent back to her impoverished hometown to suffer, my fiancé did the unthinkable. Overnight, Wyatt withdrew our joint military marriage application and filed a new one with Daisy. By the time the news reached me, there was only twenty-four hours left before the approval deadline. His young adjutant, Cooper, stood in my office, his face a mask of awkward apology. “Dr. Campbell, Captain Dominic said it’s a matter of saving a life. It’s a mercy.” “It’s a paper marriage. Just a legal loophole so Daisy can get base housing and medical coverage for her treatments. He knew you’d be the only one who could truly understand his sacrifice.” I picked up the signed leave authorization form on my desk—the one meant for our honeymoon—and ripped it into tiny, jagged pieces. “I don’t understand it,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “But I will stay out of his way.” … The shredded paper fell like artificial snow over my scuffed linoleum floor. Cooper’s face flushed a deep, painful crimson. “Dr. Campbell, Captain Dominic… he really had no choice—” “Address me as Dr. Campbell,” I interrupted, my tone flat, devoid of the warmth I usually carried. Cooper froze, his mouth parting slightly before he ducked his head. “Yes, Dr. Campbell.” “The Captain wanted me to tell you… as soon as Daisy’s status is secured and her treatment is underway, he’ll file for divorce and reapply with you immediately.” “He said… he said you are the only woman he has ever loved.” I picked up my scalpel from the tray and placed it deliberately into the sterilization box. The metal clicked against metal, a cold, final sound. “Who he loves is his own business,” I said. “But my name only goes on a marriage license once.” “Go back and tell him that Fiona Campbell does not wait on a bench for a backup slot.” Cooper’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth to speak, but the pager on my hip buzzed violently. The nurse’s station line was ringing at the same time. “Dr. Campbell, the patient in Bed 17 is in V-fib. We need a crash cart, now!” “On my way.” I hung up the receiver and grabbed my white lab coat off the hook. Before crossing the threshold, I spared Cooper one last look. “Are we done here?” He shook his head mutely, stepping aside to clear my path. I bolted down the corridor. But at the far end of the hallway, near the frosted glass windows, I caught sight of Wyatt. He was still wearing his tactical fatigues, shoulders tense as he stared out at the gray afternoon. Daisy stood beside him, holding a dark woolen coat, trying to drape it over his broad shoulders. Wyatt didn’t look at her; his gaze remained fixed on the horizon outside. But Daisy saw me. Her hand paused in mid-air, and she offered me a soft, timid smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I pulled my gaze away and pushed through the double doors of the trauma bay, the ghosts of our past rushing in to fill the silence. Wyatt and I had known each other for twenty-two years. We grew up in the same military housing, running wild across the sun-baked lawns of the base. He was the boy who chased off the bullies who threw rocks at me; I was the girl who patched up his torn school uniforms with clumsy stitches. Eventually, he entered the elite special forces, becoming the golden boy of the entire division. I earned my medical degree and climbed the ranks to become the hospital’s youngest attending cardiothoracic surgeon. To everyone on base, we were the perfect match. A foregone conclusion. When Wyatt got the keys to our two-bedroom officer’s quarters, he carried me over the threshold and spun me around three times, laughing. “Fiona,” he’d breathed into my hair, “we finally have a home.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Welcome home, Wyatt.” I designed every inch of that apartment myself. Wyatt’s deployments were relentless; he was rarely there. So, I took two weeks of saved leave, dragging myself through every home goods store and hardware shop in the city. On the day he returned, I covered his eyes at the door. When he opened them and saw the warm lights, the soft linen curtains, and the framed photos of us, he couldn’t speak for a long moment. Then he pulled me into his chest, his grip so tight it bruised, his eyelashes damp against my cheek. “Thank you, Fiona. I know how hard you worked.” I shook my head, burying my face in his neck. “It wasn’t hard. Not for us.” At our engagement party, the entire base showed up. Wyatt’s father, the retired Colonel Dominic, clapped him on the shoulder and roared, “You lucky bastard, you finally locked her down.” Mrs. Dominic took my hand, sliding a heavy, vintage gold filigree bracelet onto my wrist—a Dominic family heirloom. “Fiona, if Wyatt ever treats you poorly, you come straight to me. I’ll set him straight.” I smiled, a lump forming in my throat. Later that night, Wyatt slipped the diamond ring onto my finger and whispered in my ear, “Fiona Campbell, you’re stuck with me for life. Don’t you dare try to run.” Then, a month after our engagement, Daisy arrived. She was the younger sister of Garrett, Wyatt’s closest teammate. Garrett had taken a bullet meant for Wyatt during an ambush overseas. That debt was a thorn embedded deep in Wyatt’s soul. Daisy’s parents were long gone; Garrett had been her sole provider and protector. And now, he was in a military cemetery. Wyatt brought her back from her remote, impoverished hometown and settled her into the base guest lodge. He told me, “Fiona, she’s my responsibility now. I owe Garrett her life.” I nodded, understanding the weight of military brotherhood. “I know.” I went with him to the lodge to welcome her. She was fragile, painfully thin, swimming in oversized, worn-out clothes. When she saw Wyatt, her eyes lit up with a desperate intensity before she quickly cast them down, murmuring, “Hi, Wyatt.” Wyatt handed her a basket of fresh fruit. “We’re going to take care of you. Think of this place as home.” Daisy shook her head, tears spilling over her lashes. “I don’t have a home anymore.” Wyatt’s entire frame went rigid with guilt. I stepped forward, taking her cold hands in mine. “Don’t cry,” I told her gently. “We will be your family now.” I took her shopping for new clothes, bought her warm meals, and even suggested she move into our new apartment so she wouldn’t be lonely. But Wyatt refused. “It’s not appropriate,” he said. At the time, I thought he was looking out for my privacy. Now, I realized he was protecting his own boundaries—or perhaps, testing them. Daisy began to call Wyatt constantly. A headache on Tuesday, a sudden panic attack on Thursday, insomnia on Saturday. No matter what Wyatt was doing, no matter what training exercise he was leading, he would drop everything and run to her. Rumors started circulating through the close-knit base quarters. People whispered that Wyatt treated Daisy with more tenderness than he ever showed his own fiancée. I brushed it off. I trusted Wyatt. I trusted twenty-two years of shared history. Until the evening of our formal engagement dinner. I was wearing a simple, elegant white silk dress, my arm looped through Wyatt’s. He looked incredibly handsome—his dress uniform immaculate, his medals gleaming under the chandelier lights. We went table to table, clinking glasses, bathed in a sea of warm wishes. “To a long and happy life.” “To the perfect couple.” Wyatt smiled, thanking everyone with easy charm. But just as we reached the Colonel’s table, Wyatt’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and his smile vanished. “Excuse me,” he muttered, dropping my hand, and walked out of the banquet hall without another word. I stood there, holding my champagne glass, my smile frozen in place. The chatter in the hall slowly died down. Dozens of eyes turned toward me, thick with pity. Mrs. Dominic walked over, gently pressing her hand over mine. “Fiona, sweetheart, don’t worry about him. Let’s raise a glass.” I forced a smile and swallowed the champagne. It burned all the way down. Wyatt returned twenty minutes later. He pulled me into a quiet alcove, his voice a frantic whisper. “Fiona, I have to go.” “Daisy just slit her wrists at the lodge.” My stomach dropped. “Is she… how bad is it?” “I don’t know. The front desk clerk called. There’s a lot of blood.” There was a panic in his voice I had never heard before—not even when he was preparing for combat. I looked at him, searching his eyes. “Wyatt, tonight is our engagement dinner.” He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. “I know.” “But a life is on the line.” “I’ll explain everything when I get back.” He didn’t wait for my reply. He turned and ran. I watched his back disappear through the heavy oak doors, my fingers trembling so hard the champagne glass nearly slipped from my grasp. I drank the rest of the night’s toasts alone. Wyatt didn’t come home that night. The next morning, my pager woke me. An emergency trauma case had just arrived. I rushed to the hospital, scrubbed in, and operated for eight grueling hours. By the time I stepped out of the surgical suite, the sun had already set. Exhausted, I peeled off my scrubs, ready to head back to an empty apartment. But as I walked down the recovery ward, I saw them through the glass of Room 304. Daisy was sitting up in bed, looking pale and fragile, a thick white bandage wrapped around her left wrist. Wyatt was sitting on the edge of her mattress, holding a bowl of soup, carefully blowing on it before offering her a spoonful. “Just a little more,” he coaxed, his voice incredibly soft. “You haven’t eaten all day.” Daisy shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t, Wyatt.” “I’m so useless. All I do is cause trouble for you.” Wyatt set the bowl down on the bedside table and gently stroked her hair. “Don’t say that. I’m right here.” “Your brother trusted me to keep you safe. I am going to take care of you for the rest of your life.” Daisy’s tears flowed faster. She leaned forward, burying her face against his chest, her shoulders shaking. “Wyatt, you’re too good to me.” Wyatt wrapped his arms around her, gently patting her back. I stood frozen in the hallway, watching the quiet intimacy of the scene. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket. An automated calendar alert popped up on the screen. Happy Birthday, Fiona. The chime caught Wyatt’s attention. He looked up and saw me standing on the other side of the glass. His entire body stiffened. He stood up quickly, sliding his hands out of his pockets. “Fiona, let me explain.” Daisy peered out from behind him, her voice small and trembling. “Dr. Campbell.” I looked at the two of them, and a sudden, sharp laugh bubbled up in my throat. It felt entirely absurd. Without saying a word, I turned on my heel and walked away. Wyatt chased me down the corridor, catching my wrist near the exit. “Fiona, please. Don’t do this.” “Daisy was just in a dark place—” “Let go of me,” I said, my voice ice-cold. He froze, startled by the utter lack of emotion in my tone. I wrenched my arm free and walked out into the cold night air without looking back. That night, I went back to our new apartment alone. I opened a bottle of red wine, sat on the bare hardwood floor of the living room, and stared at the wall. My phone lit up repeatedly with texts from Wyatt. Fiona, I’m so sorry. Fiona, where are you? Please talk to me. I didn’t answer a single one. I just held the wine bottle, slowly drinking until it was empty. “Happy birthday, Fiona,” I whispered to the quiet room. An icy cold war settled between us. Wyatt came to the hospital every single day. I told the nurses to tell him I was in surgery or consultations. So, he sat in the waiting room, from early morning until late at night, hoping for a glimpse of me. Everyone in my department noticed. One of the residency interns eventually pulled me aside. “Dr. Campbell, did you and Captain Dominic have a fight?” I shook my head. “No.” It wasn’t a fight. It was the slow, agonizing death of an expectation. A week later, Wyatt cornered me in the hospital parking garage. He was leaning against the driver-side door of my car, smelling faintly of cheap whiskey and exhaustion. “Fiona, what do you want from me?” he asked, his voice cracked with fatigue. “We need to talk.” I stared at him, refusing to offer a lifeline. He unlocked my passenger door, gently nudged me inside, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and drove in silence, pulling up to the curb outside our apartment building. “Fiona, I know I messed up.” “I shouldn’t have walked out on our engagement dinner.” “I shouldn’t have been with someone else on your birthday.” “But I didn’t have a choice.” “Daisy… she’s barely hanging on.” “She has nobody. Her brother died saving my life.” “If I don’t look after her, she’s going to end up dead. I can’t have Garrett’s blood on my hands.” I listened to him, my gaze fixed on the glove compartment. He turned to face me, desperation rolling off him in waves. “Fiona, you’re the strongest, most generous person I know.” “You’re not like her.” “You’re independent. You have your career. Even without me, you’d survive. You’d thrive.” “But she can’t.” “If I leave her, she won’t make it.” I finally turned my head to look at him. “And so?” “So, you sacrifice me to save her?” He flinched, the words striking him like a physical blow. “That’s not what I mean.” “Then what do you mean, Wyatt?” “Tell me. What exactly am I to you?” He went silent. The air inside the car grew cold and heavy. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Fiona, you are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry.” “I love you.” He said he loved me. But the words felt like a hollow punchline. After that night, nothing changed. Wyatt continued to cater to Daisy’s every whim, and Daisy continued to accept his devotion as her birthright. The only difference was that they began to hide it from me. Wyatt stopped showing up at the hospital. The daily texts and calls dried up. We lived in the same small military community, yet it felt as though we were separated by an ocean. Sometimes, driving home from a late shift, I’d see his truck parked outside the lodge where Daisy lived. It would stay there until dawn. Sometimes, sitting in the hospital cafeteria, I’d overhear the nurses whispering. Did you hear? Captain Dominic took Daisy to that new movie downtown. He bought her that expensive necklace from the jeweler on Main Street. I heard she practically moved into his place. I never tried to confirm the rumors. I was too afraid of the answers. My heart felt like it was being slowly roasted over a low flame—a quiet, dull ache that never went away. I stopped sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them together. I lost weight, the stress carving hollows under my cheekbones. Eventually, the Chief of Surgery called me into his office. “Fiona, you look exhausted.” “Is everything alright at home?” I shook my head. “Just tired. It’s been a busy month.” He signed a slip of paper and handed it to me. “Take some time off. Reconnect with yourself.” I took the leave slip and walked out. My chest felt entirely hollow. I didn’t know where to go. Ultimately, my feet carried me back to the apartment. I told myself I needed closure. A final answer. When I unlocked the door, a pair of delicate women’s flats—not mine—were sitting neatly on the entryway rug. Wyatt’s uniform jacket was draped carelessly over the living room sofa. I walked down the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bedroom door was cracked open. From inside came the soft sound of a woman’s laugh, followed by a man’s low, murmuring reply. My legs felt like lead. I stood outside the door, but I couldn’t find the courage to push it open. Before I could decide, the door swung inward. Daisy stepped out, wearing my favorite silk robe. She froze when she saw me. Then, a slow, gentle smile spread across her face. “Oh, Dr. Campbell. You’re home.” Her hair was damp, smelling of my lavender body wash. I stared at her, my hands shaking uncontrollably. “Where is Wyatt?” She pointed over her shoulder. “He’s in the shower. He had a really long day.” I looked past her. Through the gap in the door, I could see our bed. The sheets were tangled and messy. Two half-empty wine glasses sat on the nightstand. A sudden, roaring rush of adrenaline hit me. I turned and ran. I ran down the stairs, out of the building, and into the cool night, running until my lungs burned and I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted to escape the reality of that hallway. I checked into a hotel downtown and stayed there for a week. Wyatt never called. Not a single text message. It was as if I had simply ceased to exist in his world. A week later, my phone finally rang. It was Cooper. His voice was strained as he delivered the news: Wyatt’s expedited marriage paperwork with Daisy had been officially approved by the base commander. I listened to him, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just thanked him, hung up, and stared out the window. The sky was a brilliant, mocking blue. The clouds drifted lazily by. The world kept turning, completely indifferent to the fact that my life had just collapsed. I called the Chief of Surgery. “I want to volunteer for the transfer to Mist Island,” I said. There was a long, heavy silence on the line. Mist Island was a remote outpost off the rugged northern coast of Maine. Cold, perpetually shrouded in thick fog, and barren. The medical facilities there were primitive, barely a step above a field clinic. For a rising surgeon like me, going there was career suicide. “Fiona, are you sure about this?” the Chief asked gently. “I’m sure,” I replied. “I won’t regret it.” He sighed over the line. “I’ll keep your position open here. If you ever want to come back, just say the word.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Thank you. But I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” I packed my things the next afternoon. It didn’t take long. A few suitcases of clothes, some medical journals, and the vintage stethoscope Wyatt had gifted me when I passed my board exams. I left the stethoscope sitting on the kitchen counter. I didn’t need any more ghosts. The transfer orders came through swiftly. I rolled my suitcase out of the hotel lobby, telling no one. I wanted to vanish, to slip away like I had never been there at all. On my way to the airport, my phone buzzed. It was Mrs. Dominic. “Fiona, sweetheart, where are you?” she asked, her voice tight with panic. “Are you leaving?” I remained silent. “Fiona, please don’t do this. Wyatt is an idiot, he’s completely lost his mind, but he’ll wake up. Just give him time to realize what he’s throwing away. I’m begging you.” I could hear the tears in her voice. A single, hot tear finally escaped my eye and ran down my cheek. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dominic,” I whispered. “I’ve run out of time to wait.” I hung up and switched off the phone. The taxi pulled up to the terminal. I grabbed my bags and walked into the crowded airport. Over the loudspeaker, a calm voice announced the boarding call for the flight to Portland, Maine, with the ferry connection to Mist Island. I looked down at my boarding pass. Mist Island. A cold, lonely name for a cold, lonely place. But maybe that was exactly what I needed. Before handing over my ticket, I took one last look back at the city I had called home for over two decades. Goodbye, Wyatt. Goodbye, girl I used to be. The plane climbed through the clouds, and I watched the city shrink into a tiny grid of lights until it was swallowed by the gray mist. I let the tears fall silently against the windowpane. Wyatt, you have no idea how much I loved you. I would have given up everything for you. But now, I am entirely out of love. From this moment on, we owe each other nothing.

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An hour after Gina’s graduation dinner started, David still hadn’t shown up. The dozens of calls I’d made to him had all been declined, and the only response to my text messages was a cold, automated reply: “On my way.” Gina stood up and sat back down five times, her head lowered, her fingers nervously pleating the hem of her dress. She was staring at her speech, utterly paralyzed by the line: “I want to thank my parents.” When I finally reached my breaking point and walked out of the private dining room— I saw David in the banquet hall right next door. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cynthia, his widowed first love. Smiling in front of them was Cody, Cynthia’s son—a boy whose SAT scores were three hundred points lower than my daughter’s. “Thank you, Mom and Dad, for raising me!” the boy said, giving them a theatrical bow. David had his arm draped warm and familiar around Cynthia’s waist, a proud, gentle smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he nodded in approval. Amidst the roaring applause of the room, I stood in the doorway and watched them for what felt like an eternity. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. I turned on my heel and walked back to my daughter’s table. “He’s not coming, sweetheart,” I said softly. “Just go up there and say whatever you want.” I reached out, gently smoothing away the tight, painfully polite smile on her face. “And as for what we discussed before…” “Mom agrees. We’ll do it your way.” … Gina’s eyes widened instantly. “Really?” I gave her a reassuring nod and patted the back of her hand. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Her speech wasn’t long—maybe five minutes in total. Aside from thanking her high school teachers, the only family member she mentioned was me. “I want to thank my mother,” she said, her voice clear and resonant. “Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here today.” I watched her speak with such poise and grace. My heart swelled with pride, but beneath it lay a bitter, aching sorrow. Beside me, the relatives on David’s side of the family scowled. “She didn’t mention her father once?” David’s mother muttered, her face hardening. “I always said girls shouldn’t get too much education. It just makes them ungrateful.” David’s sister sneered, her eyes darting toward me. “Mom, don’t just blame the kid. She only says what her mother feeds her.” “My mom didn’t teach me anything,” Gina said. Before I could even open my mouth to fire back, my usually quiet, reserved daughter was standing right behind them. “You’re complaining about my dad, but where is he?” My mother-in-law and sister-in-law froze, their lips curling into defensive sneers. “Your father is a busy man! He obviously got held up by something important. What’s the big deal?” “Exactly. He’s just late, it’s not like he’s dead.” “But you? You’re just an ungrateful little brat. No respect for family.” Gina’s eyes welled with tears, and she opened her mouth to argue, but I gently pulled her back. “It’s not worth it, sweetheart,” I murmured, comforting her. After all, to the two of us, he might as well be dead anyway. The dinner wrapped up around eight-thirty. It wasn’t until Gina and I had walked out the very last guest that we finally made our way out of the venue. At that exact moment, the doors to the adjacent banquet hall swung open. Before Gina could brace herself, she was looking right at David. He was walking out hand-in-hand with Cynthia, her arm looped intimately through his. “Dad…” Gina’s voice cracked, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “Why are you—” “Oh, Professor Foster, is this your daughter too?” one of the high school teachers walking past paused, looking confused. “How did she do on her exams? Was she celebrating next door as well?” Behind them, Cynthia’s son, Cody, stiffened, his smug expression faltering. Cynthia cast a hurt, vulnerable look at David and slowly slipped her hand out of his arm. “I don’t know her,” David said suddenly. “She’s not my daughter. She must have mistaken me for someone else.” A cold shock rippled through my veins. I stared at him, utterly incredulous. “David, you—” “Mom, don’t,” Gina whispered, her hand clutching my arm. She was shaking violently, yet she was still trying to force a fragile, heartbreaking smile onto her face. My heart bled for her in that moment. The sheer cruelty of it. “You’re right, we did,” I said, looking David dead in the eye, each word dripping with quiet venom. “This is my daughter. And we have absolutely no idea who you are.” We turned and walked away. For a fleeting second, a flicker of hesitation crossed David’s eyes. But in the end, he didn’t follow us. An hour later, the front door clicked open. David walked in, smelling heavily of alcohol. “Cody had his graduation dinner tonight too. I was just standing in as his father to give them some support,” he explained casually, kicking off his shoes. “I only said that back there because I didn’t want Cody to feel bad by being compared. It would affect his self-esteem.” “We can take your teachers out for another dinner later.” He reached out to pat Gina’s shoulder, but she flinches away, stepping back into the shadow of the hallway. “There won’t be a next time,” I said, watching his face tighten. “The teachers are leaving for vacation. Tonight was the only night everyone could make it. Next up is move-in day.” A suffocating silence settled over the living room. David drew his hand back, his brow furrowing as he looked at our silent daughter. “Fine, forget it then. Gina, you’re an adult now. Don’t be so petty over minor things. The real world won’t coddle your little tantrums.” He turned, walked into his bedroom, and shut the door behind him. Gina stood frozen in the middle of the room, fighting to hold back her tears. I didn’t argue with him. Instead, early the next morning, I handed her a heavy folder. “Sweetheart, I need a favor,” I said gently. “Take a look. Does this divorce agreement look okay to you?” Gina gasped, her entire body tensing as the words registered. “I… my friend’s mom is a really good lawyer. I can ask her to look it over!” The pure, unadulterated relief on her face made my throat tighten with unshed tears. Gina had actually asked me to divorce him three years ago. It was right after Cynthia reappeared in his life and moved into the apartment directly downstairs from us. David was a university math professor. Whenever Gina asked him for help with a calculus problem, he would scowl and snap that he didn’t have time to teach her. Yet, with a single pouty request from Cynthia, he tutored Cody in math every single day for three years without fail. For three years, he never showed up to a single parent-teacher conference for his own daughter. But for Cody’s? He was always there, seated in the front row, perfectly on time. I had screamed, cried, and demanded to know if he even wanted this family anymore. But he would only adjust his glasses, looking at me with a cold, detached pity, as if I were hysterical. “Cody has a weak foundation, so my guidance actually helps him,” he would say. “Gina’s grades are mediocre; tutoring her won’t change much. I don’t invest in low-return ventures. Stop being so emotional and fabricating rumors about Cynthia and me.” He was always so logical. So rational that when Gina graduated valedictorian of her class, his only response to her text was three words: “Not bad, dear.” And then he spent the entire night in his study, painstakingly mapping out a college application strategy for Cody, who had scraped by with a dismal SAT score. “Mom, why don’t you just leave him? Come with me. I’ll take care of you when I grow up, okay?” Gina had told me that a long time ago. Back then, wanting to protect her peace of mind so she could focus on her studies, I had swallowed my pride and smiled, telling her I was fine. But now, there was no reason to pretend. He didn’t want this home, so I was finally going to grant my daughter’s wish. I was letting go. The sharp ring of the doorbell shattered my thoughts. It was Cynthia and her son. “I really didn’t think things through yesterday. I’m so sorry for making things awkward,” Cynthia said, biting her lower lip with practiced vulnerability. “David is just too kind. I only casually mentioned the dinner, and he insisted on playing the father role. But there’s absolutely nothing going on between us, I swear.” “Yeah, Mrs. Foster, sorry about stealing your daughter’s dad for the night,” Cody piped up, a smug grin plastered across his face. From the kitchen behind me, I heard the sharp clatter of a glass slipping from Gina’s hand and shattering. “I know,” I said, my voice dead calm. I extended my arm, blocking Cody as he tried to push past me into the foyer. “But then again, you would know all about having to steal a father.” Cody’s smirk vanished, his face darkening with rage. “What did you just say, you old bitch?” He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a fist. But my eyes locked onto the chain around his neck. My throat closed. “What is that? Where did you get that?” “Rachel, what do you think you’re doing!” A voice boomed from the hallway. David stepped out of the elevator, instantly throwing himself between me and Cynthia’s family. He shielded them like they were his own, the three of them forming a perfect, united front. “David, I just wanted to apologize to Rachel, but she started calling Cody names…” Cynthia whimpered, her eyes pooling with tears. Before David could unleash his fury, I pointed a trembling finger at Cody’s neck. “David, how dare you give Gina’s guardian angel medallion to him?” David froze, the anger dying on his face as the words lodged in his throat. The gold guardian angel medallion had been crafted from my own grandmother’s dowry jewelry. Gina had worn it every single day of her life for fifteen years. “It’s just a necklace,” David said, recovering his cold demeanor. “Cody was getting frequent colds back then, so I gave it to him for protection. Rachel, why must you always obsess over such trivial things?” I slowly lowered my hand. A cold. A trivial thing. When that medallion went missing, my daughter was in the ICU with severe pneumonia, fighting for her life. As she lay there with an oxygen mask strapped to her face, she was crying, blaming herself for losing her precious necklace. And all this time, it was a joke. “Fine. I won’t care anymore,” I said, looking at David. A strange, liberating smile spread across my face. “Go and be their family, David. Gina and I don’t need you anymore.” For the first time, David’s composure cracked. “Why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion?” he muttered, shooting a frustrated look at Gina behind me. “No wonder she’s turning out just like you—completely incapable of rational thought!” I smiled faintly. “We’ve been rational for long enough.” I took my daughter’s cold hand in mine. “If you won’t leave this house, we will.” David violently slammed the door shut behind him, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as they left. “Mom, I’m sorry,” Gina whispered, her knuckles white. “You guys are fighting because of me again…” My heart broke for her, and I instantly squeezed her hand. “Gina, you have never, ever been the problem. Let’s pack our bags today and move back to my old apartment, okay?” Through her tear-filled eyes, she nodded vigorously. David didn’t notice we were gone until the following morning. He sent me a single text: “?” It was his usual concise, arrogant style, waiting for me to call him and beg for forgiveness. I didn’t bother to reply. By the third day, losing his patience, he added Cynthia and Cody to our family group chat. “From now on, Cynthia and Cody are part of the family,” he announced. “If you need anything, just talk in this group.” Cynthia immediately shared a photo of the three of them dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Cody quickly followed with a smug caption: “Thanks for the brand-new gaming laptop, Uncle David! Runs smooth as butter!” A five-thousand-dollar custom gaming rig, and David didn’t even blink. Yet, when Gina had asked for a five-hundred-dollar laptop for her college classes, he had lectured her on vanity and greed. I didn’t have the energy to watch their pathetic performance. I left the group, and Gina did the same. David’s call came through almost instantly. “Rachel, what is the meaning of this?” “It means we’re getting out of the way so the three of you can play house,” I said, my tone indifferent. “Is there a problem?” “How much longer are you going to keep up this childish act?” David sounded utterly exhausted, as if he were the victim here. “You pack up and leave without a word, and now you’re going out of your way to humiliate Cynthia and Cody. Have you ever stopped to consider the position you’re putting me in?” He spoke with such self-righteous indignation. I simply hung up. I was done wasting my breath on him. We cut off all contact. But a week later, Gina realized she had left a vital document behind, and we had to return to the house to retrieve it. The moment I unlocked the front door, we were greeted by the warm, cozy sight of David, Cynthia, and Cody sitting around the dining table, laughing. “It has a very modern, artistic feel. I love it,” David was saying. He unbuckled the sleek leather watch from his wrist and carelessly tossed it into the trash can. In its place, he slipped on a crude, poorly made woven bracelet Cody had gifted him. That watch was the birthday present Gina had bought him last year, using an entire year’s worth of academic scholarship money. Gina stood frozen in the entryway. A quiet, hollow laugh escaped her lips. Without a word, she opened her hand and let the designer tie she had bought for his upcoming birthday drop straight into the trash. David spun around at the sound. A brief wave of embarrassment washed over his face when his eyes met ours. “Cynthia wanted to celebrate my birthday, and their apartment downstairs had a leak, so I told them to come up,” he explained quickly. Neither I nor Gina gave him a response. We walked past them as if they were ghosts, searching the rooms for what we had left behind. “It’s been a week, and today is my birthday. Are you two still going to give me the cold shoulder?” David grumbled, his brow furrowing. I looked up at him. “Yesterday was Gina’s birthday. Did you remember?” Their birthdays were only a day apart. David’s face drained of color. In the bedroom, Gina found her document, grabbed my hand, and silently led me toward the exit. David took a sharp breath and chased after us to the elevator, opening his mouth as if to explain. But behind him, Cynthia let out a soft, dramatic cry. “Ow! My wrist…” David frozen. He stopped in his tracks. He didn’t take another step toward us, and we didn’t look back. I thought we would quietly drift apart like this until we finally left the country. But I never anticipated what would happen next. Just days before our departure, Gina was hit by a car. By the time I rushed to the hospital, I was covered in a cold sweat, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Thank God she had reacted quickly enough to avoid the full impact. Aside from a fractured leg and a mild concussion, she was going to be fine. When she finally woke up and saw me, the tears instantly began streaming down her face. “Mom… the money in my account is gone. Thirty thousand dollars… all of it, gone…” My brain went entirely numb. That money was the prestigious academic merit grant she had received from the school district. She had seen the notification of the transfer and panicked, rushing out to the bank to dispute it. In her state of distress, she hadn’t seen the speeding sedan crossing the intersection… But there was only one other person in the world who knew the PIN to her savings account. I drove straight back to the house and slammed the debit card onto the table in front of David. “I transferred the money,” David said, entirely unbothered by my fury. “I bought Cody a small studio apartment near his campus. He’s an art student; dorm life doesn’t suit him. He needs his own creative space. My funds were temporarily tied up, so I just borrowed it for a bit.” “David!” My nails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. “That was Gina’s money!” “She doesn’t need it right now anyway,” David replied coldly. With a violent crack, my palm connected with his face. I couldn’t hold back anymore. “That was her money! How dare you steal from her? She was hit by a car because of what you did! She almost died!” “What?” A flash of panic finally broke through David’s stoic facade. “A car accident? Is she—” “Rachel, I know you’re upset, but how can you lie about something like that?” Cynthia’s soft, whimpering voice cut in. “I literally just saw Gina downstairs a little while ago and said hello.” She lowered her head, looking like she was on the verge of tears. “We’ll pay the money back. If it makes you feel better, I’ll drop to my knees and beg your forgiveness right now.” She made a show of sinking to her knees, expecting David to stop her. And he did. David’s expression hardened instantly. “Rachel, you’re still the same pathological liar,” he sneered, looking down at me. “Even if I did take her thirty thousand dollars, so what? I raised her for eighteen years. Is thirty thousand dollars too much to ask in return?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Gina. My call to her from earlier was still active. “Mom, I heard everything,” her fragile, raspy voice came through the speaker. “Let him keep it. Consider the thirty thousand dollars my final payment to him. We’re even now.” I didn’t know a heart could feel so entirely hollowed out. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out David’s voice as he spoke. “I’m taking Cynthia and Cody on a trip this week,” David said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he guided Cynthia toward the door. “Next week, when school starts, we’ll all drive up to Boston together.” I didn’t say another word. The next morning, I walked into his study and laid the signed divorce papers and Gina’s declaration of parental estrangement flat on his desk. Who said we were going to Boston with you? My daughter hadn’t just been accepted to Ivy League schools in the US. She had also received a full scholarship to Oxford. “Mom, do you think you’ll ever regret this?” Gina asked quietly a week later, sitting in her wheelchair at the airport gate. “You’ve been married to Dad for so long.” “Do you think you’ll regret it?” I asked, looking down at her. “You’re so young, and you’re moving across the world with your mother on your shoulders.” We looked at each other, and then, at the exact same moment, we both laughed. Neither of us would ever regret this. That was all that mattered. Gina had only panicked about the stolen money because she was worried about our expenses abroad. But she didn’t know that my career and personal savings were far greater than she could have ever imagined. We had all the leverage in the world to leave that toxic shadow behind. Ten hours later, our flight touched down in London, a vast, open sky welcoming us to our new life. The moment we turned our phones back on, both of our devices began vibrating violently.

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The day the official buyout notice for my mother’s old house arrived, I received a text from an unknown number claiming to be my future self. “In two weeks, the city will release a geological report declaring the redevelopment zone unstable. The buyout will be canceled. If you don’t want to get stuck with a worthless piece of property, sell it now!” Without a single shred of hesitation, I sold the house—which was set to net me ten million dollars in government compensation—to a buyer for a mere five million. As soon as the paperwork was finalized, I walked back to the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Ryan. I opened the front door to find his self-proclaimed “tomboy best friend,” Roxy, draped over his lap. She was wearing my favorite silk camisole nightgown, laughing so hard her chest shook against his shoulder. “I swear to God, Ryan, it was the easiest scam of my life!” she wheezed, her voice dripping with malice. “I just bought a burner phone, pretended to be her from the future, and told her the redevelopment was getting canceled. And that absolute idiot actually bought it! She sold a ten-million-dollar property for half-price!” She slid her hand suggestive down Ryan’s thigh. “Come here, let me check if sleeping with that brainless charity case has made you go soft, too.” I stood in the doorway, my face completely expressionless. I knew the text was fake. I knew it was a scam. But what they didn’t know was that I actually had lived through this before. I was the one who had truly returned from the future. … The moment Ryan saw me standing there, his entire body went rigid. He scrambled to push Roxy off his lap, his voice trembling as he tried to smooth things over. “Gwen… hey. Don’t get the wrong idea…” Roxy ran a hand through her hair, deliberately tilting her head to expose a fresh, angry red mark on her collarbone. She looked at me, her eyes bright with flushed, triumphant defiance. “Oh, come on, Gwen. A bro can sit on her boy’s lap, can’t she? Or are you going to throw another one of your petty little tantrums?” Ryan offered a weak, defensive shrug. “Gwen, you know how she is. I don’t even see her as a girl. We’re basically brothers. It’s just how we joke around.” Roxy grabbed Ryan’s hand and pressed it flat against her chest, laughing with a terrifying lack of shame. “Exactly. I wouldn’t touch this idiot with a ten-foot pole. See? Feeling each other up is like rubbing my own hands together. Zero chemistry. Right, Ryan?” Ryan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes lingered on her skin with a hunger that made my stomach turn. I felt like an intruder in my own home, a third wheel to their sickening, unspoken domesticity. Without saying a word, I walked past the couch and pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The heavy, unmistakable scent of sex hit me instantly. Our sheets were tangled, and their discarded underwear lay scattered across the floor. On the nightstand, the framed photo of Ryan and me had been knocked over, the glass shattered into a dozen jagged pieces. Ryan hurried in behind me, his tone suddenly firm, bordering on a command. “She’s been having terrible nightmares lately, Gwen. She can’t fall asleep unless someone’s with her. I’m letting her have the master bedroom for a few days. You can crash in the guest room.” When I didn’t immediately argue, he quickly added, “Look, I swear to you, she’s just my bro. Even if we sleep in the same bed, I have zero interest in her. Don’t start a fight over this. Just be reasonable.” I looked down at the trash can beside the bed. Several used condom wrappers clung to the plastic liner. I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of grief rising in my throat and forced my voice to remain flat. “Fine.” Ryan blinked, clearly taken aback. He had expected the usual—screaming, crying, the hysterical rage of a woman pushed to her absolute limit. “You’re… not mad?” I forced a tight, empty smile. “Why would I be? You’re brothers. It’s completely normal for brothers to sleep in the same bed, isn’t it?” He stared at me, his brow furrowed, searching my face for any sign of a trap. Before he could speak, a sharp screech echoed from the living room, followed by Roxy’s demanding yell. “Ryan! Get your ass back in here right now! Your back-scrubbing technique is trash, and you stopped before I was done. Come back and serve your daddy!” I had already decided to let Ryan go. I had already decided to ruin him. But as I watched him sprint back to her without a second thought, a physical ache still bloomed behind my ribs. I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began packing. But when I unlocked my jewelry box inside the dresser drawer, my breath caught. The gold filigree bracelet—the only heirloom my mother had left me—was gone. Only two people in the world knew the combination to that drawer: me and Ryan. In my previous life, today was the exact day Roxy had moved in and claimed our bedroom. Back then, I had lost my mind. I had screamed at them, calling Roxy every vile name in the book. Ryan had slapped me across the face, storming out to comfort a “crying” Roxy, leaving me alone on the bedroom floor to weep in the dark. I had been so consumed by the betrayal that I hadn’t realized my mother’s bracelet was missing until it was far too late. Until I was already dead. I walked out of the bedroom, my hands trembling. The sound of muffled giggles and running water drifted from the guest bathroom. I pushed the door open. Ryan was standing over the bathtub, his shirt off, rubbing a sponge over Roxy’s bare back as she sat in the water. “Ah!” Roxy shrieked, covering her chest in a highly performative display of modesty. “Gwen, are you insane? Do you have zero respect for boundaries? Don’t you know the difference between men and women?” Ryan immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her body from my gaze, his eyes blazing with fury. “Gwen! This is too much!” I quietly lowered the phone I had used to record them. The sheer, unadulterated hypocrisy of it was almost comedic. A grown woman was letting my boyfriend wash her naked body, yet she was lecturing me on boundaries. In the past, every time Ryan slipped out of bed in the dead of night because Roxy called, he told me I was being insecure. When they kissed at a party, he claimed it was just a stupid dare, mocking me for being unable to take a joke. Even when I caught them tangled in our sheets, his friends called me crazy, telling me I was “ruining the vibe.” They insisted they were just friends. If they wanted to be together, they argued, they would have done it years ago. He wouldn’t have proposed to me. Now, they stood together like an allied front, with Roxy wrapped in a towel, glaring at me from behind Ryan’s shoulder. Roxy smacked his arm playfully. “Your wife just saw your daddy naked, Ryan! Are you just going to stand there? I thought you were a man! You weren’t this quiet when you were making me scream earlier!” Ryan turned his anger back to me. “Gwen, I’ve explained this a thousand times. We are friends. I was just helping her wash her back. It’s not a big deal! Why do you always have to make that face?” Seeing my silence, his tone softened into a patronizing coo. “Come on, babe. Just apologize to her. She’s incredibly forgiving. She’ll let it go.” I stared into his eyes, refusing to budge. Just as his jaw tightened in anger, I threw the empty jewelry box at his chest. “Where is my mother’s bracelet, Ryan? Did you steal it?” He flinched, his eyes darting away. “Steal? That’s a pretty harsh word, don’t you think? We’re getting married, Gwen. What’s yours is mine. You never even wear the damn thing anyway. I sold it to help Roxy put a down payment on her new place.” I stared at him, my vision blurring. “You knew that was the only thing I had left of her!” Roxy polished her nails against her towel, speaking as if she were discussing the weather. “Honestly, if Ryan hadn’t insisted on buying his favorite bro a house to show his appreciation, I wouldn’t even want that dusty old heirloom. It belongs to a dead woman. It’s bad luck.” She paused, letting out a sharp chuckle as she looked at my stunned face. “Oh, wait. Did you not tell her, Ryan? The down payment for the house I bought? It’s the one she just sold. The one we told her wasn’t getting redeveloped.” My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. I looked at Ryan. His guilty, averted gaze was all the confirmation I needed. But even if he had sold the bracelet, it was only worth a few thousand dollars. Where did he get the rest of the money? A horrible realization washed over me. With shaking fingers, I opened my banking app and logged into our joint savings account. Current Balance: $3.15. Recipient: Roxy Duncan. Transaction Note: Voluntary Gift. My knees buckled. I had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing. “Ryan… that was our wedding fund! We saved for five years to buy a home!” For five long years, I had skipped meals, worn thrifted clothes, and put away nearly every spare dollar I had. When my mother passed away a year ago, I put her entire six-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance payout into that account. One point two million dollars. All of it, gone. Ryan reached out, his voice taking on a hushed, pleading quality. “Gwen, Roxy is family. She’s not some stranger. You have me. We can always earn the money back. But Roxy doesn’t have anyone. If she doesn’t have a house of her own, what kind of security does she have?” “What does her security have to do with you?!” I screamed, the tears finally spilling over. “That was our money!” His face darkened. “Don’t be so selfish, Gwen. Frankly, you should be thanking her. If she hadn’t sent you that text, you would have been stuck with a worthless house. At least this way, we walked away with five million from the sale!” The absurdity of it was suffocating. I started to laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “So, I should thank you? For stealing my inheritance, my mother’s jewelry, and tricking me out of a ten-million-dollar property?” “It wasn’t a trick!” Ryan snapped. “You were the one stupid enough to believe the text and sell it. The property is only worth one point five million on the open market. We did you a favor by getting Tyler to buy it for five!” I looked at him, feeling a sudden, chilling sense of clarity. They had no idea. In my previous life, I hadn’t believed the text. I had held onto the house, so I never met the buyer. But in this life, the buyer was a man named Tyler Duncan—Roxy’s younger brother. The moment I saw him at the closing, my blood had run cold. He had the exact same cold, predatory eyes as the man who had kidnapped, assaulted, and ultimately murdered me on the night of my wedding in my past life. After my death, my soul had lingered. I had watched as Roxy wore my wedding dress, telling the guests I had run away in a fit of jealousy, and successfully married Ryan in my place. Within days, my body was found. As my legal spouse, Ryan inherited my mother’s redeveloped property, making him and Roxy wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. But their victory had been short-lived. A week later, the city actually did release the geological survey, canceling the buyout. Their dreams of easy wealth shattered instantly. My murder hadn’t been a random act of violence. It had been a calculated execution, orchestrated by Roxy from the very beginning. I stared at Ryan, a dark, venomous seed of suspicion blooming in my chest. Was he in on it, too? Was he the one who helped her kill me? “Get the bracelet back,” I whispered, my voice cold and dead. “Get my one point two million dollars back. If it’s not in my account by tomorrow, I’m calling the police.” I grabbed my suitcase and walked toward the front door. Behind me, Roxy let out a loud, mocking laugh. “See, Ryan? I told you she only cared about your money. She’s a parasite. Honestly, it’s a blessing her mother died when she did. Otherwise, that old woman would still be draining your bank account.” I froze. I turned around slowly, locking eyes with Ryan, who had quickly reached over to cover Roxy’s mouth. His face had gone entirely pale. “What did she just say?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Ryan stammered, unable to meet my eyes. Roxy yanked his hand away, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. It’s been a year, Gwen. Who cares? I’m the one who ran her over.” The room seemed to tilt. “I didn’t mean to,” Roxy continued, crossing her arms. “But when I hit her, her lower half was completely crushed. She was going to be a vegetable anyway. She saw my face, and I knew she’d sue me for everything I had. Ryan told me to wait in the car. We waited thirty minutes before calling the ambulance. Just to make sure she was gone.” She scoffed. “It cost me over a thousand dollars in car repairs, by the way. I didn’t even ask you to pay me back.” I staggered backward, hitting the wall. The pain in my chest was so sharp, so physical, it felt like my heart was tearing in two. A year ago, I had been working late when Ryan called to tell me my mother had been in a hit-and-run. By the time I reached the hospital, she was already gone, covered in a white sheet. The shock had triggered a miscarriage; I lost our three-month-old baby that night. When I finally woke up days later, Ryan told me the driver was a destitute, single father dying of cancer. He begged me to sign a liability release to “spare the poor man’s family,” promising me it was what my mother would have wanted. I had trusted him blindly. I never knew the driver was Roxy. They had sat in a car, watching my mother bleed to death on the asphalt, waiting for the light to leave her eyes. “Gwen, listen to me,” Ryan said, stepping forward and grabbing my shoulders. His grip was tight, desperate. “It was an accident. Your mother was old, she probably stepped into the street on purpose to get insurance money. If we had tried to save her, the medical bills would have ruined us. She would have been a paralyzed burden for the rest of our lives. I did what was best for us. I freed her from the pain, and I freed us from the debt.” Three years ago, Ryan’s liver had failed. He needed a transplant, and my mother hadn’t hesitated to give him a portion of hers. She had spent months in bed, her health permanently weakened, just so he could live. He had knelt at her bedside, weeping, swearing he would treat her like his own mother. And then he had watched her die. “We’re getting married in three days,” Ryan pleaded, his hands shaking as he held my face. “Don’t ruin this. I let Roxy wear your dress just to get it out of her system. You can wear a bridesmaid dress for the ceremony, okay? I love you. I’m marrying you. She’s just a tomboy, nobody wants her. But you have me.” The wedding. I thought of the horror of my past life, of the cold ground, of the breath leaving my body. I clenched my teeth, forcing the hatred down into the darkest corner of my soul. “Okay,” I whispered. We would settle everything. Every single debt. On the morning of the wedding, I sat in the bridal suite, dressed in a plain bridesmaid gown. The door clicked open. A man wearing a medical mask slipped into the room. Before I could scream, a sweet, chemical-smelling rag was pressed over my nose. My vision faded to black as I was dragged out the back door. An hour later, the venue was in absolute chaos. The bride was missing, and the guests were growing restless. Roxy, already zipped into my intricate lace wedding gown, stood in the center of the dressing room, her face twisted in a look of smug satisfaction. “I knew she was petty,” Roxy sighed, shaking her head. “She couldn’t handle me wearing the dress, so she threw a tantrum and ran away, leaving you to look like a fool in front of your entire family.” Ryan had dialed my number dozens of times, getting nothing but voicemail. His face was a mask of cold, humiliated rage. He walked out to the altar and announced to the crowd that I had run off, but that his “best friend” had graciously stepped in to save the day. The crowd applauded. Just as Ryan took the ring and prepared to slide it onto Roxy’s finger, the heavy double doors of the banquet hall were slammed open. A dozen uniformed police officers marched down the aisle, their badges gleaming under the chandeliers. “Roxy Duncan,” the lead officer called out, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. “You are under arrest for the kidnapping of Gwen Ives. Please step away from the altar.”

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Beryl was the bridge between Zachary and me. I had known her for three years before I even knew he existed. When Zachary and I finally ended things, Beryl was caught in the crossfire. Neither of us wanted to let go of her, or the life we had spent years building as a trio. We still reached out to her on holidays, passed messages through her on birthdays—neither of us brave enough to admit that we were now just two parallel lines destined never to touch again. Zachary was the one who finally broke the stalemate on a mundane Tuesday evening. He sent a single text: “Beryl can’t be there for both of us anymore. Let her go.” I didn’t reply. I thought he was like me—just clinging to the long, beautiful years the three of us had shared. But when he called last night, his voice was heavier than I had ever heard it. “I know how much Beryl means to you, Charlotte. But there are things I can’t explain. I just… I need her with me.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, a soft rustle of blankets came through the line. Then came Beryl’s voice, murmuring his name. It was quiet, drowsy, spoken with the easy familiarity of a habit. Zachary immediately dropped his voice to a whisper. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll be right there.” I stood there holding my phone for a long time. I had spent months believing Beryl was our shared anchor. But she wasn’t. She belonged to him. “Fine,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m out, Zachary.” … Zachary and I had been together for five years. We had been broken up for eighteen months. The reason for our split was painfully cliché. He said he was tired; I said I was, too. There was no dramatic betrayal, no screaming matches. We had simply let our relationship turn into a stagnant pond, neither of us willing to throw another stone to make a ripple. But even after the breakup, there was Beryl. I’d known her since high school. She was my person. When I introduced her to Zachary in college, we became an inseparable package deal. Every holiday, every late-night phone call, every milestone—it was always divided by three. After the split, Zachary and I had a silent agreement: we wouldn’t make Beryl choose. On Fridays, I’d take Beryl out for coffee and casually ask, “Is Zachary still pulling those eighty-hour weeks? His stomach can’t handle that much stress.” Beryl would pat my hand and smile. “Don’t worry, I chewed him out last week. Made him promise to eat on a schedule.” And I’d breathe a sigh of relief. On Zachary’s end, Beryl would bring back fragments of him to me: “He asked if you finished that big marketing pitch. Said not to run yourself ragged.” We were watching each other through her. Last Wednesday was my birthday. Zachary didn’t text, but Beryl showed up at my office at noon carrying a bouquet of white roses. “Guess who told me to bring these?” she asked, a knowing smile on her face. My heart skipped a beat as I took them. “He still remembers I only like white ones.” “Of course he does. You guys were together for five years,” Beryl said, helping me trim the stems. “He told me to tell you happy birthday, and to stop staying up so late.” That night, I took a photo of the roses and saved it to my private album. I didn’t post it. I thought we had an unspoken understanding. We both still cared. We were just both too proud to take the first step back. Until yesterday. The text from Zachary: “Beryl can’t be there for both of us anymore. Let her go.” I stared at the screen, paralyzed. I thought he was testing me. At eleven p.m., my phone rang. He sounded exhausted. “I know how much Beryl means to you, Charlotte. But there are things I can’t explain. I just need her with me.” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then, the rustle of sheets on his end of the line. Beryl’s voice, thick with sleep. “Zachary… you’re still awake?” It was soft, gentle, with that sleepy nasality of someone waking up in a warm bed. Zachary’s voice softened instantly, taking on a tenderness I had never once heard during our five years. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll be right there.” I stood on my balcony, the cold Chicago wind biting my face, holding a dead phone. So that was what “needing her with him” meant. I didn’t break down. Not right away. The next day, I went to work, sat through meetings, and filed my reports. At lunchtime, Beryl texted: “Friday at our usual spot? That new wood-fired pizza place downtown has a crazy line, but everyone says it’s worth it.” My thumb hovered over the keyboard. She didn’t know I had heard. She probably had no idea Zachary had even called me. I typed: “Sounds good.” On Friday, I arrived ten minutes early. Beryl rushed in right on time, unwinding her scarf before she even sat down. “Oh my god, you wouldn’t believe what my supervisor did today—” She launched into a rant about her office drama. I listened, offering the occasional smile. When the hot, fresh pizzas arrived, she immediately slid the slice with the most toppings onto my plate. “Your favorite.” “Thanks.” “By the way,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Zachary was talking about that slow-cooked beef stew you used to make. I told him he should learn the recipe, but he refused. Said he could never get the seasoning right.” My hand froze on my fork. A week ago, my chest would have warmed at the thought of him missing my cooking. Now, the words tasted bitter. Why was he talking to Beryl about my food? Was he reminiscing about an ex, or was he playing coy with the girl currently sharing his bed? “What’s wrong?” Beryl asked, noticing my silence. “Nothing. Just tired lately.” “You work too hard,” she said, gently tapping my forehead. “I keep telling you to stop taking on so much overtime. Even Zachary said—” She stopped mid-sentence. I looked at her. She averted her eyes, reaching for her water glass. “Nothing. Just… we both worry about you.” The tips of her ears were flushed pink. In that quiet, fleeting second, the truth settled in. It wasn’t that Beryl didn’t care about me. She did. But alongside that care, something else had bloomed—something that required her to start keeping secrets from me. After lunch, we waited at the crosswalk. She suddenly slipped her arm through mine. “Charlotte, no matter what, you know you’re my absolute best friend, right?” Looking into her earnest eyes, I wanted to ask: If I’m your best friend, why didn’t you tell me? Instead, I smiled. “I know.” The light turned green. She let go of my arm, jogging across the street, turning back to wave. “See you next week!” I watched her retreating figure. Ten years. My best friend and the man I had loved most had chosen each other. And they didn’t even know how to tell me. On Sunday afternoon, I went to the grocery store. I was pushing my cart around the corner in the produce aisle when I ran straight into Zachary. He was in a black hoodie, holding a mesh bag of Cara Cara oranges. He froze when he saw me. “…Charlotte?” “Hey. Small world,” I managed a polite smile. He offered a tight smile, his eyes darting away. “You alone?” “Yeah, just restocking for the week. You?” “Just grabbing a few things.” We walked side-by-side for a moment, the silence thick and suffocating. “Beryl mentioned you’ve been working a lot of overtime,” he said, trying to break the tension. “Take care of yourself.” “Yeah, the project is almost wrapped up.” Another agonizing pause. Then he said, “Listen… about that text I sent the other night. Don’t think too much of it. I was just… in a mood.” I looked at him. “Beryl can’t be there for both of us anymore. Let her go.” “In a mood?” “It’s fine, I didn’t take it personally,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Beryl’s our friend. Nobody has to let anyone go.” His shoulders visibly relaxed, as if a massive weight had been lifted. “Good,” he said. “You guys have been through so much together. I shouldn’t have said that.” I nodded, my gaze slipping to the bag of Cara Cara oranges in his hand. Beryl’s favorite. I used to buy them too, but only because Beryl had introduced them to me. He was shopping for her. “I should get going,” I said, pushing my cart forward. “See you around.” “Yeah.” He stood there, then suddenly called out, “Charlotte.” I turned back. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and finally said, “Take care of yourself.” “You too.” I turned and walked away, my spine rigid. As I rounded the corner, I caught his reflection in the glass of the freezer aisle. He was pulling out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen. I didn’t need to guess who he was texting. “Just bumped into Charlotte at the store.” Or maybe, “She seems okay.” Either way, the recipient was Beryl. And I was no longer part of the loop. Sure enough, at eight p.m., a text from Beryl arrived: “Zachary said he ran into you at the store today? He said you looked like you lost weight. Are you eating enough?” The sheer absurdity of it hit me. They were trading updates about me like worried parents discussing a troubled child. Except they were a couple. I texted back: “Yeah, eating plenty,” and put my phone face down. Later that night, I scrolled through my old messages and found our three-way group chat. The last message was from six months ago. Beryl: “Escape room this weekend? Who’s in?” Zachary: “In.” Me: “+1.” That was the last time the three of us did anything together. I remembered screaming in the dark room, Zachary shielding me from the jump scares, Beryl holding onto my waist from behind. Afterward, we got late-night street tacos, crowding around a metal table on the sidewalk. Beryl kept stealing fries from my plate, and Zachary silently slid his over to me. On the walk back, Beryl had walked in the middle, her left arm looped through mine, her right hand draped over Zachary’s shoulder. “We’re going to be like this forever,” she’d said. Forever. I closed the chat and locked my phone. In the dark, I made a decision. There was an open relocation spot at my firm—a six-month transfer to our Seattle office. Nobody wanted it because of the quick turnaround. The next morning, I walked into my manager’s office. “Are you sure, Charlotte? You were just promoted to team lead here.” “I’m sure. I need a change of scenery.” He looked at me for a quiet moment, didn’t pry, and signed the paperwork. I spent the next week handing over my accounts, breaking my lease, and packing my life into boxes. Before I left, I did one last thing: I invited Beryl and Zachary out to dinner. It was the first time the three of us sat at a table together since the breakup. The air was thick with unspoken tension. Beryl sat in the middle, flanked by me on her left and Zachary on her right. She tried desperately to fill the silence, chattering away, laughing a little too loudly at her own jokes. Zachary chimed in occasionally, but his eyes kept drifting to her. And as Beryl reached over to pass me a plate, her elbow brushed against Zachary’s forearm. It was a tiny, instinctive movement. Natural. Constant. They probably didn’t even realize they were doing it. But I saw. “You’ve really gotten so thin, Char,” Beryl said, putting a piece of garlic bread on my plate. “Eat up. Stop dieting.” “Seriously,” Zachary agreed. “You used to hate the whole starvation-diet look. What happened to ‘strong is the new skinny’?” I offered a faint smile. “You have a good memory.” He choked slightly on his water, looking down. As the dinner wound down, I raised my glass. “I want to propose a toast to you both.” They both froze. “Thank you for looking out for me this past year,” I said. “Honestly.” Beryl’s eyes welled with tears. “Come on, Char. Don’t say it like that. We’re family.” Zachary didn’t say anything, but he raised his glass and tapped it against mine. We stood outside the restaurant afterward. The winter wind was brutal. Beryl shivered, stamping her feet, and without a word, Zachary unwrapped his wool scarf and draped it around her neck. It was so practiced. A gesture repeated a hundred times. Beryl went still, casting a panicked, apologetic glance at me. But she didn’t take the scarf off. I looked at them, and for the first time in months, my chest felt completely light. “I’m heading out. You guys should get warm.” “Let me call you an Uber,” Zachary offered. “No need, I already got one.” Beryl stepped forward and threw her arms around me, holding on tight. “We’re still on for next week, right?” I patted her back gently. “Sure.” My ride pulled up. I opened the door, slid into the backseat, and waved. As the car merged into traffic, I looked through the rear window. Zachary had turned to Beryl, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. She looked up at him, laughed, and then, shoulder to shoulder, they walked away in the same direction. The same direction. To the same home. I turned back, closed my eyes, and rested my head against the cold glass. Three days later, I checked my bags at O’Hare and boarded a flight to Seattle. No long goodbyes. No group chat announcements. No warnings. I just quietly vanished from their lives. I didn’t turn on my phone until the next evening in Seattle. Messages flooded in, the phone buzzing relentlessly against the nightstand. I leaned against the headboard of my hotel bed, scrolling through them one by one. The earliest was from Friday afternoon at five-thirty, sent by Beryl: “What are we doing for dinner? I found this amazing bistro downtown with crazy reviews!” Five-forty-five: “? Where are you? Did you leave the office yet?” Six-ten: “Charlotte???” Six-thirty: Three missed calls. Seven: A voice message from Beryl. I didn’t play it, but I knew what it would sound like—panic, a trembling voice, tears. Eight: Two more missed calls. Eight-twenty-three: “I went to your apartment. You’re not here? Why is there a “For Rent” sign on your door???” Eight-twenty-four: “Charlotte, did you move?? When?? Why didn’t you tell me???” Eight-thirty: A voice message, forty-seven seconds long. I left it unplayed. At nine, Zachary’s name appeared: “Charlotte, Beryl can’t reach you. Where are you? Text her back.” Nine-thirty, Beryl: “I asked your landlord. He said you moved out last week??? Where did you go? Why aren’t you picking up?” Ten, Zachary: “I called your office line. Reception said you transferred to the Seattle branch. Where? When did this happen?” Ten-fifteen: Beryl’s messages stopped. Silence for forty minutes. Then, at ten-fifty-six, she sent her last text: “Char… you know, don’t you.” No question mark. Just a quiet statement. I stared at those seven words for a long time. Zachary’s next message arrived at eleven-three: “Was it the phone call the other night.” Again, no question mark. The final text came at eleven-forty-seven, from Beryl: “Where are you? Please tell me. I’ll fly out there. I’ll explain. Whatever you heard, just let me explain in person… please, Char. Don’t just disappear like this…” The messages ended there. They had finally realized I wasn’t coming back. I locked my phone and set it down. The curtains weren’t fully closed; the Seattle streetlights cast a long, narrow strip of amber light across the carpet. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, watching that sliver of light for a very, very long time.

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I spent two years flying under the radar at my husband’s company. I was, without a doubt, the most invisible person in my department. So invisible that when the layoffs began, my name sat at the very top of the list. The HR director slid the severance agreement across the desk to me, bypassing even the most basic pleasantries. I didn’t argue. I signed my name, packed up my single potted cactus, and walked out. A week later, three of the company’s core multi-million-dollar projects ground to a complete halt. At the end of the month, my husband flew back from London to audit the books. When he flipped open the layoff log, he froze for three long seconds. Then, he quietly closed the folder. The click of that plastic binder sounded louder than a crack of thunder. 1 My name is Gwen. For two years, I worked at a subsidiary of Winslow Enterprises. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. My presence there was roughly equivalent to the potted pothos plant tucked into the corner of the lobby. Actually, that’s unfair to the plant. The cleaning staff watered the pothos. I had to pour my own coffee. On a Tuesday at three in the afternoon, Benji from the front desk poked his head over my cubicle partition. “Gwen, Derek wants to see you in HR.” I looked up. Benji’s expression was a study in poorly hidden drama—his mouth was turned down in mock sympathy, but his eyes danced with that specific, eager thrill people get when they’re about to witness a car crash. I laid down my spreadsheets and stood up. In the next cubicle over, Toby pulled out one of his earbuds and offered me a sympathetic grimace. “Watch your back, Gwen.” I didn’t answer him. I just walked down the hallway to the HR office. When I pushed the door open, Derek was sitting behind his heavy mahogany desk. He was in his early forties, hair slicked back without a strand out of place, his leather oxfords buffed to a shine that put his quarterly reports to shame. He was peeling a mandarin orange. He didn’t stand when I entered. He just jerked his chin toward the empty chair opposite him. “Sit.” I sat. He took his time tossing the orange peels into the wastebasket, wiped his hands with a moist towelette, and pulled two sheets of paper from a sleek blue folder. “Gwen, the company is undergoing some restructuring. Your position has been identified for elimination. This is your separation agreement. We’re offering a standard severance package.” He slid the papers toward me, tapping his index finger on the signature line. “Take a look. If it looks good, sign it.” Through it all, he barely made eye contact. His gaze kept drifting back to his phone. I glanced down at the agreement. Under Reason for Termination, it read: Underperformance; role redundancy. Underperformance. I had built the entire financial modeling system for our three core accounts from scratch, saving the firm over two million dollars in contractual penalties just last quarter. Underperformance. Fine. I picked up the pen, flipped to the signature page, and signed. Clean, decisive. It took less than two seconds. Derek blinked, momentarily thrown. He had clearly prepared a whole corporate speech—about how difficult this was for the company, how much they appreciated my transition, the usual platitudes. But because I signed so quickly, the words seemed to die in his throat. He pulled the papers back, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Right. Well… we’ll need you to clear out your desk by the end of the day. Your final payout will hit your account by the end of the month.” “Understood.” I stood up and turned toward the door. Just as my hand touched the brass handle, Derek threw one last remark at my back. “This company doesn’t carry dead weight, Gwen. I hope you’ll take your work a bit more seriously at your next gig.” I paused. But I didn’t turn around. I opened the door and walked out. Back at my desk, I started packing. I didn’t have much. A small potted cactus I’d kept alive for two years, an insulated mug, and an unopened pack of dental floss. Toby wandered over, offering a light pat on my shoulder. “Sorry to hear, Gwen. Let’s grab lunch sometime, okay?” His voice held about thirty percent pity and seventy percent relief. With me gone, he’d probably inherit a lighter load—or so he thought. I knew exactly how his mind worked. I carefully placed the cactus into a cardboard box and lifted it. On my way past the breakroom, the muffled voices of two junior analysts drifted through the cracked door. “Did you hear? Gwen got let go.” “Makes sense. I never really saw her doing anything anyway.” “Yeah, apparently Derek handpicked her for the chopping block.” “Classic new HR director move. Needs to mark his territory.” My pace didn’t falter. I kept walking. In the lobby, Fred, the security guard, held the heavy glass door open for me. “Leaving us, Gwen?” Fred asked, his brow furrowing. “Yeah, Fred. Heading out.” He hesitated, looking at my box. “Your badge… I’ll need to collect it.” I looked down, slipped the lanyard off my neck, and handed over the plastic card. The photo on it was two years old. Below my face, the text read: Gwen, Finance Department, Staff Associate. Staff Associate. Two years of hard work, and the title had never changed once. I handed Fred the badge, shifted the cardboard box in my arms, and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. The sun was surprisingly warm. Standing on the concrete steps, I squinted up at the polished metal lettering on the building facade. Winslow Enterprises – East Coast Division. Winslow. I pulled out my phone and tapped open my messages. The contact pinned to the very top was Christian. My husband. Who also happened to be the CEO and Chairman of the entire global enterprise. My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I typed out a quick text. What do you want for dinner tonight? Three seconds later, his reply popped up. Surprise me. Your cooking. I slid the phone back into my pocket, adjusted my grip on the box containing my cactus, and walked toward the subway. 2 On my first day of funemployment, I slept until eleven in the morning. I hadn’t drawn the heavy velvet drapes, and the late-morning sun spilled directly across my face. Rolling over, I found myself looking at the little potted cactus on my nightstand. Over the last two years, it had sprouted a tiny offset—a miniature pup budding off the side of the main stem. Now, mother and child were back home, just like me. I stretched, feeling my joints pop one by one. I hadn’t slept this deeply in two years. Throwing on a pair of oversized sweatpants and my oldest slides, I headed downstairs to the local bakery on the corner for a coffee and a warm cinnamon roll. Near the building’s courtyard, I bumped into Mrs. Higgins, my next-door neighbor, who was out walking her plump Pembroke Corgi, Barnaby. “Gwen! No work today?” she asked, adjusting her knit scarf. “Just taking some personal time.” “Ah, you young people and your flexible hours. Must be nice.” I smiled politely, letting the comment slide. Once back inside, I ate my breakfast and booted up my PlayStation. As the television screen glowed to life, a sudden, quiet thought washed over me: Maybe getting laid off wasn’t the worst thing in the world. The second day followed the same pattern. Another eleven-o’clock wake-up. Since the fridge was bare, I walked down to the local organic market. I spent ten minutes chatting with the fishmonger, eventually convincing her to knock a couple of dollars off a beautiful fillet of wild salmon. She eyed me curiously as she wrapped it in butcher paper. “Aren’t you usually at an office at this hour, sweetie?” “My hours are highly flexible,” I said, offering a serene smile. “Well, that’s some serious flexibility.” I carried my groceries home and stocked the fridge. As I stood in the quiet kitchen, the memory of why I had gone to work for Christian’s company in the first place drifted back to me. Two years ago, Christian had just stepped into the role of CEO at Winslow. With dozens of subsidiaries globally, he was working eighty-hour weeks and drowning. I had told him, Let me go in and help you clean up the operations. He had looked at me with an expression that clearly said: What could you possibly do? I reminded him I had a master’s in corporate finance. Let me start from the bottom, I’d argued. Let me prove my worth on my own terms. He couldn’t win the argument, so he agreed. But he insisted on one condition: no one could know we were married. “If they find out you’re the CEO’s wife,” he’d warned, “the dynamic changes instantly. You’ll never get an honest day’s work out of anyone, and they’ll never treat you like a real colleague.” “Don’t worry,” I’d promised. “No one will know.” And so, I took a low-level staff associate job in the finance department of the East Coast division. I spent two years there. And indeed, nobody knew. And indeed, absolutely nobody took me seriously. At eight that evening, Christian called via FaceTime. I scrambled to pause my game, stuffing the controller deep between the sofa cushions. When the call connected, Christian appeared on screen in a tailored charcoal suit, the background revealing the dim, upscale lighting of an executive lounge in London. “Why are you at home?” he asked, adjusting his cuffs. I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Remote day.” He scanned my attire through the lens. “You work remotely in an oversized college sweatshirt?” “The corporate culture is highly progressive these days.” Christian didn’t argue, though he went quiet for a few seconds. “The East Coast division’s recent reporting looks slightly off. Keep an eye on the numbers for me, will you?” “Absolutely. On it,” I lied smoothly. He nodded, murmured a few affectionate parting words, and hung up. Once the screen went dark, I pulled the controller back out from the couch cushions. I stared at the paused screen. Then at the call log. Should I tell him? Have him fly back across the Atlantic to tear the office apart? No, it was better to let him finish his business trip first. I unpaused the game, my character respawned, and I dove right back into the raid. Meanwhile— And by meanwhile, I mean at that exact hour. Back at the East Coast headquarters, VP Caldwell’s niece, Tiffany, was staring blankly at my old desktop monitor. It was her first day on the job, brought in to replace me. She double-clicked the master finance folder. Every single file was password-protected. 3 Thursday was my third day of freedom. It was also the quarterly reconciliation day for the major Alpha account. I knew this because the automated calendar alert buzzed on my phone. I glanced at it, casually swiped the notification away, and rolled back over to sleep. Things at the office, however, were not quite so peaceful. When Richard, our finance director, called me days later, he described the scene in vivid detail. Tiffany had spent two solid hours staring at the financial model I had built. She couldn’t make sense of a single row. Eventually, she trotted into Richard’s office. “Richard? This reconciliation model… I can’t seem to figure it out.” Richard walked over to her desk, took one look at the screen, and felt his stomach drop. This was the bespoke model I had constructed from scratch. It contained nested cross-validations, vendor payment schedules, and automated breach-of-contract triggers all woven together. It wasn’t something you could grasp simply by holding a degree in finance. Then, Tiffany uttered the words that sent Richard’s blood pressure through the roof. “And I can’t open the archive files. The handoff sheet says the password is… the cactus’s birthday.” Richard stared at her for five long seconds. “A cactus has a birthday?” Derek was promptly summoned to the finance floor. He flipped through the transition documentation I had left behind. To my credit, my offboarding logs were meticulously detailed—listing workflows, file directories, and standard operating procedures to the letter. But the underlying logic of the core modeling software existed solely in my head. It wasn’t a standard corporate process; it was a custom system I had coded myself. A vein throbbed in Richard’s temple. “Derek, before you issued those pink slips, did you actually check with the department heads about critical roles?” Derek looked defensive, though his tone remained stubborn. “Richard, she was a junior staff associate. Her performance reviews were subpar…” “And who exactly graded her as subpar?” Derek stayed silent. At four that afternoon, Toby called. I was at the market, gently testing the firmness of some heirloom tomatoes. “Gwen!” His voice carried a distinct air of impending doom. “The Alpha account’s reconciliation model is completely locked. What’s the password?” “Oh, that.” I put down a pale tomato, searching for a riper one. “Have HR send over a formal contract for consulting services. I’ll bill them at my standard independent contractor rate.” A three-second silence stretched over the line. “Gwen… are you serious?” “I was laid off, Toby. This isn’t my job anymore.” “Come on, don’t be like that… Let me talk to Derek. Maybe we can get you—” “Hey, honey!” the fishmonger called out from across the aisle. “Just got some fresh halibut in!” “I have to go, Toby. I’m buying fish.” I tapped the screen, cutting him off before he could let out his next desperate breath. That very evening, the primary vendor for our Beta project sent over a formal legal notice. Payment was overdue. If the outstanding balance wasn’t cleared within seventy-two hours, they would initiate litigation. Richard sat in his office, the veins in his forehead pulsing visibly. He called Derek in for an urgent closed-door meeting. I didn’t hear the details of their conversation first-hand. But according to Benji, when Derek finally emerged from Richard’s office, his face was the exact color of the blank paper sitting in the copier tray. Paper white. I, of course, was oblivious to all of this. I was at home, perfecting the sear on a batch of slow-braised short ribs. My cactus sat peacefully on the windowsill, soaking up the afternoon sun. All was quiet, and all was well. 4 By the fifth day, I had finally mastered the braised short ribs. Glistening, rich, perfectly marbled, they fell apart at the mere touch of a fork. Success. I poured myself a glass of iced tea and sat down, ready to dig in. My phone buzzed. An unrecognized number. I picked it up, and a woman’s voice immediately erupted through the receiver, thick with frustration. “Is this Gwen? I’m Valerie from Apex Logistics. Who is handling the payment terms for the Gamma project? Did anyone in your office even look at the penalty clauses before signing off?” I set my fork down. “Hello, Valerie. I actually no longer work for Winslow. You’ll need to contact their finance department directly.” “What? You left? Then who is managing the contract?” “You should try their main reception line.” She muttered a sharp curse and slammed the phone down. I looked down at my plate of short ribs. I sighed. Then I took a bite. God, it was delicious. The chaos unfolding back at the office reached me later via Benji. He sent me a series of breathless voice memos, his tone bordering on hysterical. “Gwen, I am losing my mind. The Gamma account just blew up.” The contract contained a hidden, tiered penalty clause that triggered automatically if payment was delayed by more than seven business days. I had caught that clause when the deal was signed and had built a custom alert system that pinged the desk five days before any payment milestone. But that alert system lived on my hard drive. Tiffany had no idea it existed. The seven days lapsed, and the penalty clause was instantly triggered. Just like that, our three primary projects ground to a screeching halt. Alpha’s reconciliations were frozen. Beta’s vendors were demanding immediate payment. Gamma’s penalties were mounting. The phones at reception were ringing so incessantly that Benji said his ears were ringing. Two vendors actually sent representatives to the office, staging a sit-in at the lobby entrance. Poor Fred couldn’t even convince them to leave. VP Caldwell called an emergency leadership meeting. Richard later gave me the play-by-play. Caldwell slammed his fist onto the conference table. “How did this happen? Three core accounts, completely compromised! We’ve wiped out a month’s worth of operating profit in a week!” Richard replied, “Well, Thomas, the core financials for these accounts were managed entirely by Gwen. Ever since she was let go…” Caldwell cut him off. “She was an entry-level analyst. How much damage could her absence possibly cause?” Richard’s jaw tightened. “Thomas, she built the financial modeling systems. As of right now, there isn’t a single person in this building who knows how to operate them.” The room fell deathly quiet. Derek sat in the corner, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his pen. Caldwell turned his glare toward Derek. “Derek, call her. Get her back in here.” “I… I tried reaching out,” Derek stammered. “She’s not picking up.” “I don’t care what you have to do,” Caldwell snapped. “You showed her the door. Now go bring her back.” Left with no choice, Derek swallowed his pride and called me. I happened to be out walking Barnaby, Mrs. Higgins’s Corgi. When my phone rang, the dog was happily sniffing around the base of an elm tree. I picked up. Derek’s voice came through, still trying to project that familiar veneer of corporate authority. “Gwen. The company has reevaluated the situation and, in light of your previous contributions, we’ve decided to offer you an opportunity to return to your role—” “I’m sorry, Derek. I’m actually in the middle of walking a dog.” Click. I hung up. Barnaby looked up at me, tilting his head. I patted his soft head. “Not you, buddy. Keep going.” Twenty minutes later, Derek called again. I ignored it. He called once more. Declined. Benji told me later that when Derek finally put his phone down, Caldwell demanded, “Well? What did she say?” Derek’s voice was barely a whisper. “She said… she was walking a dog.” According to Richard, the atmosphere in that conference room shattered instantly. Every executive’s face read like a car crash. 5 By the seventh day, my phone was a graveyard of missed calls and unread messages. Seventeen missed calls. Dozens of text messages. I scrolled through them while sipping my morning tea. Toby: Gwen, please. You’re a lifesaver. Just call me back, okay? Benji: Gwen, the vendors are literally shouting at me. My hands are shaking. Help. Richard: Gwen, let’s talk. Name your terms. Everything is negotiable. But Derek’s messages were by far the most entertaining. I sorted them chronologically: 9:00 AM: Gwen, please cooperate with the transition protocols as agreed. 1:15 PM: Gwen, management is willing to adjust your severance package upwards. Let’s discuss. 4:30 PM: Gwen, I apologize if my tone was unprofessional during our last meeting. Let’s work this out. 7:00 PM: Gwen, please. Just tell me what you want. 9:45 PM: I am literally begging you. I read through every single one. Then, I picked up my controller and unpaused my game. At eight o’clock, Christian’s face appeared on my screen again. I had to pick up—ignoring him two days in a row would result in him tracking my phone’s location. I swiped accept. He wasn’t in his hotel room tonight. The background looked like a high-rise office suite in New York. His expression was grim. “What is going on with the East Coast division?” I was currently slurping down a bowl of quick-ramen, and replied around a mouthful of noodles. “Huh? What do you mean?” “I just reviewed the preliminary monthly report. Operating profit is down sixty percent. Our three major accounts are frozen. The switchboard has logged dozens of complaints from primary partners.” “Really? Wow, that sounds bad.” Christian stared at me. “Why aren’t you at the office?” “I’m… at home. Making dinner.” “During business hours?” “My hours are—” “Gwen, if you tell me your hours are ‘flexible’ one more time, I’m booking the next flight home.” I swallowed my noodles, coughing slightly as they caught in my throat. The shift in Christian’s gaze was familiar—a transition from curiosity to suspicion, and then to sharp focus. It was his corporate state of mind. Once his instincts flagged something as wrong, he wouldn’t stop until he uncovered every detail. “Gwen.” “Yes?” “Are you hiding something from me?” I carefully shifted my bowl out of the camera’s view and pointed the lens toward the kitchen stove. “Look at the sear on these short ribs. I’ve been perfecting the recipe for three days—” “I’m booking a flight. See you tomorrow.” Click. He hung up. I stared at the black screen, a piece of noodle still stuck in my throat. Well. This was going to be complicated. I looked toward the windowsill. “Well, buddy,” I whispered to the cactus. “Your dad is coming home.” The cactus sat in silence, but I could swear it was gloating. 6 The next afternoon, just before his plane touched down, a message lit up my phone. Pick me up.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “522966”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel