The “Women in Tech” appreciation mixer was in full swing on the rooftop terrace of our Seattle branch. The afternoon sun caught the glass skyline, and our branch manager, Richard, was practically glowing with self-importance as he handed out flowers to the female staff. “Madison, you’re the absolute life of this team. These red roses match your energy perfectly!” Madison squealed, clutching the extravagant bouquet to her chest, drawing a smattering of applause from the sycophants circling the open bar. Richard then turned to the head of building security, a beefy guy who’d helped set up the catered buffet, and slipped a thick, folded wad of hundred-dollar bills into his palm. “Appreciate the hustle, man. Take the guys out for a round on me.” I stood near the edge of the crowd. As the lead engineer who had just secured the core algorithmic patent our entire quarter depended on, I figured I was at least due for a bonus, or perhaps a mention in the toast. Instead, Richard stopped in front of me and shoved a plastic-wrapped bundle of wilting, bruised carnations into my hands. He leaned in, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. His smile didn’t reach his eyes; it was predatory, cold. “I know you’re pregnant, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “So these dying flowers are pretty fitting, don’t you think? Take a piece of friendly advice: take care of that little problem before it becomes an issue. Don’t wait for me to terminate you myself.” I stared at the browning, curling petals in my hands. The blood roared in my ears. I pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, dialed a private number, and waited for the gravelly voice on the other end. “Grandpa,” I whispered into the receiver. “If you don’t get here soon, the manager you hired is going to ‘terminate’ your great-grandchild.” … 1 Madison drifted over to me, burying her face in the vibrant red roses. The cloying, overpowering scent of the blooms hit me like a physical blow, making my stomach churn violently. I was barely eight weeks along, and my first-trimester nausea had turned my sense of smell into a curse. She lowered the roses, her eyes flicking down to the pathetic, dying carnations in my grip. A flash of unmistakable triumph danced in her gaze. “Caroline, don’t take Richard’s bluntness to heart. He’s really just looking out for you,” she said, lowering her voice into a perfect, practiced imitation of a concerned friend. “Our project is just hitting the critical integration phase. You’re our lead engineer. Getting pregnant right now… it kind of feels like you’re intentionally sabotaging the company, doesn’t it?” I stared at her face, marveling at the sheer, unadulterated hypocrisy painted across her features. A cold, bitter laugh lodged in my throat. When Madison first joined the firm, I was the one who mentored her. I held her hand through the onboarding. When a demanding client chewed her out during her probationary period and left her sobbing in a bathroom stall, I was the one who took the heat for her mistakes. I stayed late, rewriting her sloppy code. Hell, the only reason there was a budget for this lavish rooftop party—and the expensive roses in her arms—was because I had secured that core patent. And now, she had eagerly sharpened herself into the fastest knife in Richard’s drawer. “Sabotaging?” My voice was deadpan, stripped of all warmth. “I pulled all-nighters for three months to land that patent. I’ve streamlined the entire deployment protocol. My pregnancy isn’t going to affect the maintenance phase in the slightest.” Madison clicked her tongue, reaching out to loop her arm through mine. I twisted my shoulder, stepping out of her reach. She didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. Instead, her smile widened, hardening at the edges. “You’re too rigid, Caroline. You’re going to snap,” she purred. “Richard might have sounded harsh, but he’s right. You’re at the peak of your career. If you go home to play mommy now, this seat won’t be waiting for you when you get back.” She leaned closer, her breath hot against my ear. “Listen to me. It’s early. Go to a clinic and get it handled. If you can’t bring yourself to go alone, I’ll drive you. I’ll even split the cost of the procedure with you.” My head snapped up. I locked eyes with her. “Madison. You were the only person in this entire building who knew I was pregnant. You told him.” She blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her spine stiffened. She looked back at me with the righteous indignation of someone who had fully rationalized her betrayal. “I was thinking about the big picture, Caroline. The company’s future. Richard was going to find out eventually. Better I manage the optics and get ahead of the narrative, right? It gives you the advantage.” “The advantage?” My voice shook with a rage so pure it felt like ice in my veins. “You mean the advantage of him handing me dead flowers and publicly threatening to fire me if I don’t get an abortion?” Madison shrugged, the mask of the caring friend finally slipping away to reveal the raw, ugly ambition beneath. “You brought this on yourself. Who told you to get knocked up at the most critical juncture of our fiscal year? You’re messing with everyone’s money.” She sneered, shifting her grip on the roses. “Richard made it clear: if this rollout happens smoothly this month, everyone gets a massive end-of-year bonus. If you drag your feet because you’re tired and throwing up, and we miss the deadline… who’s going to pay for that?” She spun on her heel, her designer heels clicking sharply against the decking. “Think about it, Caroline. Are you going to protect a microscopic clump of cells, or are you going to protect the career you bled for?” I watched her walk away, a chaotic storm of grief and fury raging inside me. I had genuinely believed we were friends. I had shared my lunches, my insights, my quiet fears with her. But the moment a pile of money and a promotion were dangled in front of her, she sold me out without a single blink. I looked down at the wilted carnations in my hands. This was Richard’s ultimatum. To them, a pregnant woman was no longer a brilliant engineer or a top earner. She was a liability. A ticking time bomb. I rested my palm flat against my lower stomach, beneath the tailored fabric of my slacks. There, safely tucked away, was a tiny, fragile heartbeat. This was the baby my husband and I had prayed for, cried for, and dreamed about for years. I took a long, trembling breath, forcing the violent shaking in my hands to stop. If they wanted to play ruthless, they were about to learn what ruthless actually looked like. 2 Richard sauntered over, his hands clasped behind his back, looking like a king surveying his conquered territory. Madison trailed just behind him. “Madison, go print out the IP transfer and transition forms for the patent. Have Caroline sign them,” he ordered casually. “From here on out, you’ll be taking over as the lead on this project.” I froze. Madison taking over? That algorithm was my blood, sweat, and tears. It was my genius. And Richard was stripping me of my life’s work to force me out the door. He glanced at the dead carnations I had tossed onto a nearby patio table, his lips curling into a smug, patronizing smirk. “Still haven’t come to your senses, Caroline?” I met his gaze, my expression glacial. “Richard, the core architecture of that patent is mine. All the backend encrypted data is on my personal drive. Madison doesn’t even understand the basic syntax of what I built. She can’t take it over.” Richard chuckled, clapping my shoulder again. This time, his grip was hard, his fingers digging into my collarbone painfully. “You’re too arrogant, Caroline. The one thing a tech firm never lacks is replaceable talent. Sure, Madison might be a little green, but she’s obedient. She’s a team player. And most importantly, she knows how to prioritize.” He leaned his weight into that last word, letting the threat hang heavy in the air. “Unlike some people, who hoard company resources and then decide to pull a stunt that tanks our productivity.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Starting a family is a fundamental human right. It’s a protected class under federal law. What you are doing right now, Richard, is illegal.” His face darkened instantly. He leaned in, his voice a venomous hiss. “The law? In this office, I am the law. You want to threaten me with HR or lawyers? Go ahead. Try it. Let’s see what happens faster: your little lawsuit making it to court, or me blacklisting you so thoroughly you’ll never work in Silicon Valley or Seattle again.” He backed up, straightening his tie. “You’re going to sign that transition agreement. Whether you want to or not.” Madison returned, carrying a stack of pristine legal documents. Tucked under her arm was my dark green Moleskine notebook—my private journal of algorithmic equations. She wore a sickeningly sweet, triumphant smile. “Just sign it, Caroline. Richard is doing this for your own good, so you can rest. With the state you’re in, if you pass out in the server room, it’s a liability for the company.” She shoved a sleek silver pen into my hand. Her eyes were daring me to fight back. I stared at the paperwork. The clauses were explicitly clear: I was voluntarily waiving all future attribution rights, royalties, and bonus distributions tied to the patent, transferring them entirely to Madison. This wasn’t a reassignment. This was a mugging in broad daylight. “I’m not signing this.” I dropped the pen onto the decking. It clattered loudly. Richard’s face flushed a deep, ugly magenta. “Caroline! I gave you an out, you ungrateful bitch. Do you really think this company stops running without you?” He pointed a finger inches from my nose. “Let me make this crystal clear. If you don’t sign that paper today, I will have your desk dumped into the alley by tomorrow morning. And don’t even dream of seeing a dime of maternity leave or severance. I have a hundred different ways to make you quit, and you’ll leave here with nothing.” Around us, the party had gone dead silent. Coworkers were stealing nervous glances, but not a single person stepped forward. Even the engineers I grabbed drinks with on Fridays suddenly found their shoes incredibly fascinating. Human loyalty, I realized in that moment, was terrifyingly cheap. Madison fanned the flames, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Oh, Caroline, why are you doing this to yourself? What’s the point in fighting Richard? You’re pregnant. If you get too worked up and something happens to the baby, it really wouldn’t be worth it, would it?” As she spoke, she began casually flipping through my Moleskine notebook. “Wow, these notes are incredibly detailed. Thanks for doing the heavy lifting, babe.” That was my personal property. It contained entirely separate concepts, ideas I hadn’t even drafted proposals for yet. I lunged forward to grab it from her. Before I could reach her, Richard shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the decking. I lost my balance, flailing wildly before my hip slammed against the sharp edge of a high-top table. My hands instantly flew to my stomach, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Richard! Are you out of your mind?!” I screamed. He scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. “Am I? I’m thinking perfectly clearly. Since you refuse to play ball, I’m done playing nice.” He snapped his fingers at the security guard who had just pocketed his bribe. “Revoke her keycard access immediately. Aside from the transition handover, she is banned from all secure labs and server rooms.” The guard, flush with cash, puffed out his chest. “Yes, sir. This way, Caroline. Let’s go.” 3 I pulled out my phone again. My thumb hovered over my grandfather’s contact name. Arthur Kensington. The founder and majority shareholder of the massive conglomerate that owned this subsidiary, and dozens of others. My finger trembled, but I didn’t press call. Grandpa’s heart condition had worsened over the last few years. He had retreated to his estate in the Hamptons, leaving the day-to-day operations to an executive board. A bottom-feeder like Richard only dared to act like a tyrant because he thought the corporate gods were too far away to notice the dirt on his shoes. I had already called Grandpa once today. He was likely already furious, scrambling his people. If I called him back now, in tears, the stress could trigger an episode. I couldn’t risk his life for this. But I also couldn’t let them slaughter me like a lamb. I took a deep, shaky breath. I bent down, picked up the pen, and scrawled my signature across the transition agreement. Madison let out a high-pitched, delighted gasp. “See? Wasn’t that so much easier, Caroline?” Richard smirked, deeply satisfied with his own perceived power. “Smart girl. Since you’ve signed, and until the transition is complete, if Madison doesn’t need you, you can go help out in the basement storage facility. They’re doing a hardware inventory. They could use a tech to supervise.” The basement storage? It was a windowless, damp concrete bunker with no ventilation. It required hauling massive, heavy crates of outdated servers. He was trying to break me physically. I opened my mouth to refuse, but Richard had already gestured to the security guard, who grabbed my upper arm and began forcefully frog-marching me toward the freight elevator. I wanted to fight back, to kick and scream, but the lingering terror of the shove kept me docile. I couldn’t risk a physical altercation. Not with the baby. I had to endure this, just for a little while longer. The harsh fluorescent lights of the basement flickered overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the mountains of defunct hardware and tangled cables. The air was thick with dust, coating the back of my throat and making me cough violently. “Caroline, we need these crates of coaxial cables sorted and cataloged. And those old server racks over there need to be dragged to the east wall.” The security guard, Derek, picked his teeth with a thumbnail, eyeing me with naked disdain. I looked at the server crates. They had to weigh fifty pounds each. My stomach plummeted. “I’m a software engineer, Derek, not a mover. And I’m pregnant. My doctor explicitly forbade heavy lifting.” Derek snorted, dropping a crumpled candy wrapper on the floor. “That sounds like a personal problem. Boss said if you’re on the clock, you work. Don’t want to do it? Fine. The boys and I can come over there and help you do it. Whatever it takes.” He laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. I ground my teeth, staring him dead in the eye. “Richard is doing this specifically to torture me. Are you absolutely sure you want to be his accomplice when the fallout hits?” Derek rolled his eyes and shoved my shoulder. “Shut up and lift! You don’t leave until it’s done.” The push sent me stumbling backward. My spine collided hard against the freezing metal rungs of a shelving unit. A sharp, pulling ache bloomed deep in my lower abdomen. The color drained from my face. I grabbed the edge of a wooden crate, slowly lowering myself into a crouch, terrified to breathe. I’m so sorry, baby. Mommy is so useless. The sharp, rhythmic click-clack of stilettos echoed against the concrete floor. Madison strolled into the dusty basement. She had changed into a sharp, tailored blazer and held a steaming oat milk latte from the artisanal cafe across the street. She looked like she was on a runway; I looked like I was in a war zone. She took one look at my pale, trembling form and smiled. “God, the smell down here is foul. Why haven’t you started moving those boxes? Richard is waiting for your inventory sheet.” She strutted over, deliberately invading my space, and set her latte down on the metal shelf right next to my head. “Oh, by the way, Caroline. I reviewed the core algorithm for the patent. It’s cute, but it’s missing a certain… flair. But don’t worry! I hopped on a call with some guys at global headquarters. They said with a few minor tweaks, I can completely rebrand the architecture under my name.” My head snapped up, the fire returning to my eyes. “Madison, that is my life’s work! You’re going to blatantly plagiarize my code to global?” She took a slow, deliberate sip of her latte, utterly unbothered. “Plagiarize? Watch your mouth. You signed the intellectual property over. That patent belongs to the company, and the company gave it to me. You are officially irrelevant.” Suddenly, she crouched down until we were eye-level. The bubbly, fake-sweet facade vanished, replaced by something deeply malignant. “You’re so incredibly naive, Caroline. Did you really think being the smartest girl in the room would protect you? Richard is my cousin. Do you get it now?” The words hit me like a physical blow. The ringing in my ears intensified. It all made sickening sense. That was why Madison was fast-tracked past her probation. That was why Richard shielded her from every mistake. They were family. I was just the workhorse they intended to ride until I broke, before sending me to the slaughterhouse. “You… you both are actually going to do this to me.” I laughed, the sound hollow and manic. I grabbed the metal rack, hauling myself to my feet. “Madison, do you really think stealing my algorithm means you’ve won? You didn’t find the backdoor in the root directory, did you?” Madison’s face fell. “What backdoor? You tampered with the company’s patent?” I stared her down, channeling every ounce of ice I possessed. “It’s standard defensive architecture. The code won’t compile into a live environment without my encrypted authorization key. You have the raw data, sure. But the second you try to take it commercial, the entire system will brick itself.” It was a complete lie. There was no kill-switch. But I was gambling on her incompetence. Madison was a hack; she couldn’t read deep backend logic to save her life. The gamble paid off. Panic flared in her eyes. She lunged at me, her manicured hands gripping my forearms with shocking, desperate strength. “Caroline! Give me the admin key! Give it to me right now, or I swear to God I’ll have Richard ruin your life!” 4 I ripped my arms out of her grasp, looking at her with absolute disgust. “You want the key? I want Richard down here, apologizing to me in front of the entire department. I want my title back, and I want my name restored to the patent.” Madison was shaking with rage. She pointed a trembling finger at my face. “In your dreams! You manipulative bitch! You think getting knocked up with some parasite gives you leverage? Watch me!” With a sudden, violent shriek, she shoved me with both hands. The concrete floor was slick with years of accumulated dust and grease. My heel slid out from under me. For a terrifying, suspended second, I was airborne, falling backward into the dark. CRACK. My lower back slammed into the sharp steel corner of a bottom-tier shelf. An agonizing, blinding explosion of pain ripped through my entire body. It stole the air from my lungs. My vision went white. And then, I felt it. A gush of warm liquid pooling between my thighs, soaking through my slacks. The bottom fell out of my world. “Help…” I gasped, my voice barely a cracked whisper. My hands clawed desperately at my stomach, curling inward as I writhed on the filthy floor. “Help me…” Madison froze. The color drained from her face, leaving her chalk-white as she stared at the dark, spreading stain of blood on the gray concrete. “I… I didn’t mean to…” she stammered, backing away. “You tripped! You fell on your own!” She turned and sprinted toward the freight elevator, the frantic clicking of her heels fading away, leaving me completely alone in the freezing, suffocating dark. I was in so much pain I couldn’t breathe. The edges of my vision were turning black. Dimly, as if underwater, I heard the chaotic sounds of the elevator doors opening and voices echoing in the corridor. It was Richard and Madison. “What the hell happened? Why is there blood?” Richard’s voice was laced with panic, but mostly, it was irritation. It was the sound of a man annoyed by a mess he had to clean up. Madison was hysterical. “She threw herself backward! I swear to God, I just asked her a question, and she threw herself into the shelf to frame me!” I lay on the ice-cold floor, a vast, consuming black hole of despair opening up inside me, ready to swallow me whole. I was losing my baby. I was dying in a basement. And then, a sound like a thunderclap shattered the air. The heavy, reinforced double doors of the warehouse were violently kicked open. A flood of blinding, golden afternoon light poured into the gloom, casting long shadows. In the center of the light stood a silhouette. It looked like salvation. A voice, thick with age but vibrating with absolute, unquestionable authority, boomed through the space. “NOBODY MOVE.” It was Grandpa. He looked frail, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane, but the terrifying aura of a man who had spent forty years building a global empire from scratch radiated off him in waves. Richard froze. He turned around, squinting at the elderly man in the tailored wool suit standing in the doorway. “Who the hell are you? This is a restricted area! Derek! Where the hell is security?!” Richard, blinded by his own pathetic fiefdom, hadn’t put the pieces together. He took an aggressive step toward my grandfather. He didn’t make it to a second step. Two men in immaculate dark suits materialized from behind Grandpa. One of them closed the distance in a blur, sweeping Richard’s legs out from under him and pinning him face-down against the concrete with a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades. “Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?! I run this company!” Richard shrieked, his face mashed into the dirt, spitting curses. Grandpa didn’t even look at him. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him, falling to his knees beside me. When he saw the blood, his gnarled hands began to shake uncontrollably. “Caroline… Oh, Caroline, sweet girl. Don’t be afraid. Grandpa is here.” He gathered my head and shoulders into his arms. I saw tears welling in his fierce, pale eyes. “Medics! Get the paramedics in here now!” he roared over his shoulder. I clutched at the lapel of his suit. My voice was fading, slipping away into the dark. “Grandpa… please… save the baby… They… they stole my work… They tried to force me…” Grandpa’s face turned rigid. The sorrow in his eyes instantly crystallized into an icy, bottomless fury. He slowly lifted his head, his gaze locking onto Richard, who was still squirming beneath the bodyguard. “You are Richard?” Richard, still defiant, wrenched his neck to glare back. “Yeah, that’s me! And you’re a dead man walking, old man! Breaking into my building—” Grandpa let out a low, terrifying chuckle. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a heavy, custom-minted platinum coin—the Founder’s Medallion of Kensington Global—and tossed it so it clattered against the concrete, coming to a stop an inch from Richard’s nose. “Look closely at that.” Richard stared at the medallion. The heavy, interlocking ‘K’ insignia staring back at him was the same one printed on his paychecks, on the building’s facade, on the software he sold. Every executive in the conglomerate was taught to recognize that medallion. It was the absolute symbol of corporate life or death. The arrogant sneer melted off Richard’s face, replaced by a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped onto the floor. “M-Mr. Kensington? Chairman? Wh-what are you doing here?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “404085”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day of my vasectomy, Valerie vanished. The nurse stood by my bed, tapping a manicured fingernail against her clipboard. She needed my wife’s signature. Clinic policy—they wouldn’t push the twilight anesthesia without the emergency contact present to sign the final release. I called Valerie once. It rang out. I called a second time. Sent straight to voicemail. On the third try, she finally picked up. The background was a chaotic blur of sirens and street noise. She told me her grad student, Neil, had been in a traffic accident. I looked at the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking away my remaining dignity. My voice trembled. “You took the whole day off to be here. Why are you the one handling this? Come back. They won’t make the incision until you sign. The prep is done, Val. We’re just waiting on you…” “He’s fragile, Harvey,” she cut in, her tone sharp, clipped. “He’s not like you. I can’t just leave my student’s safety in the hands of strangers.” A bitter, acidic lump rose in my throat. I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “Is he actually hurt, or is he just playing you again so I have to lie here on an operating table waiting for you to care?” Her breath hitched. I could feel her finger hovering over the ‘end call’ button. I practically roared into the receiver. “Valerie, if you hang up this phone, we are incredibly, permanently done.” She sighed, a long, patronizing sound. “Just calm down. Don’t be melodramatic about a minor outpatient procedure.” The line went dead. The dial tone hummed in my ear. Ten minutes later, the doctor made an exception, and I was wheeled into the surgical suite alone. When I woke up, groggy and aching, the first thing I saw was my phone screen lighting up with an Instagram notification. A post from Neil. So grateful to Professor Val for rushing over to save the day! Totally my fault, got too spacey and scraped my bike against a curb… The attached photo was taken in Valerie’s private office at the university. He was holding up his arm, sporting a cartoon band-aid. The exact same brand of band-aids I bought for our infant son. … 1 I set the phone face down on the scratchy hospital blanket. Outside my curtain, I could hear two nurses whispering. “That couple out in the waiting room is exhausting,” one muttered. “Last month the kid twisted his ankle and insisted on coming to the ER. Today he bumps his bike and they’re back. The woman treats him like he’s made of spun glass. I heard she’s his professor. Talk about crossing boundaries.” The other nurse sighed, her voice drifting closer to my bed. “Yeah, well, compare that to this guy. Went through surgery and his wife hasn’t shown her face once. Night and day.” I couldn’t see Valerie from where I lay, but through the thin drywall, I could hear her. I could hear the devastating softness in her voice. Neil had a scratch on his arm. A literal scratch. And she kept asking him if he needed ibuprofen, her tone dripping with an agonizing, unfiltered tenderness. She didn’t spare a single thought for her husband, who had just undergone surgery to ensure she wouldn’t have to go through another difficult pregnancy. She didn’t think about me, stitched up and swollen, or our newborn son waiting at home. My mother sat in the plastic chair beside my bed. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she forced a tight, reassuring smile for my sake. My father, however, was trembling with rage. He stood up, ready to storm out into the waiting room and drag my wife in by her collar. I reached out, my fingers weak, and caught the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “Dad. Don’t.” He froze. When he looked back at me, his eyes were wet, his voice thick with unshed tears. “Her parents died when she was young, Harvey. Your mother and I treated her like our own flesh and blood. And this is how she repays us? She abandons you and her baby for some college kid?” I managed a weak, fractured smile, my grip on his sleeve loosening. “It’s fine, Dad. Really. Let it go.” Because I had been through this too many times. Like last Christmas, when we were supposed to drive to my parents’ house. We had just pulled into their driveway when Valerie got a call and immediately threw the car into reverse. She told me it was an emergency. I believed her. I told her to go, to be careful. Two hours later, I walked to the pharmacy down the street and saw her kneeling in the parking lot, tying Neil’s shoelaces. When I confronted her, she swore he had tumbled down a flight of concrete stairs and was badly hurt. I found out later he had tripped on a single step. The explanations. The screaming matches. The broken plates. It always ended the same way. She believed him, implicitly, entirely. Once you get used to the cold, you stop complaining about the draft. My phone buzzed. A text from Valerie. Neil is still feeling a bit shaken up. I’ll swing by later to check on you and the baby. Don’t wait up. No explanation. No apology. I stared at her contact photo. It was a candid from our wedding day. In the picture, her smile was soft, radiant, her eyes locked entirely on me. We had been college sweethearts. Eight years together before we finally tied the knot. She stayed in academia, clawing her way up to a tenured professorship. I stepped back, launching a freelance consulting firm from home so I could manage the house. We were the golden couple of our alumni circle. I genuinely thought we would grow old together, sitting on a porch somewhere, quietly in love. Until year seven. Until Neil. Suddenly, his name was the only thing in her mouth. He sought her out during office hours. He “accidentally” bumped into her at off-campus coffee shops. He kept his hand raised until the lecture hall emptied out. At first, I thought he was just an eager, overachieving kid. I even added him on social media. I invited him to the house for the end-of-semester dinners, trying to play the supportive faculty husband. Looking back, I realize that was when he decided he was going to take her from me. And me? When you accumulate enough disappointment, the heavy weight of it eventually crushes your desire to hold on. I didn’t want her anymore. Valerie. I was just… done. My thumb moved automatically, scrolling down my contacts to a number I hadn’t dialed in years. It rang once. A woman’s voice answered, smooth and steady. “Harvey?” I gripped the phone, the plastic digging into my palm. I let the silence stretch for three seconds. “Years ago, you told me that if my marriage ever fell apart, you’d be waiting. Does that still stand?” “It always stands.” “Okay,” I breathed out. “I’ll see you in three days.” 2 The familiar, urgent click of Valerie’s heels echoed down the corridor. I hung up the phone and slipped it under my pillow. I looked up just as she pushed the curtain aside. She was looking down at her screen, a soft, intimate smile playing on her lips. I knew that smile. I had mapped the corners of it for a decade. It used to be mine. Now, it belonged to Neil. A sharp, phantom pain flared in my chest, bitter and suffocating. Right on cue, my phone rang again. It was an unrecognized campus number. “Mr. Harvey? Congratulations. The literary analysis paper you submitted has won the Alumni Fellowship’s grand prize. The ceremony is in three days. We’d be honored if you attended.” I blinked, momentarily stunned. “Thank you. Yes, I’ll be there.” Valerie walked further into the room, and I quickly ended the call. She glanced first at the plastic bassinet where our son was sleeping, then at me. Her brow furrowed in that familiar, maternal way. “Why are you still awake? You just had surgery. You need to rest, Harvey. You’re going to make yourself sick.” The concern in her eyes looked incredibly real. But after witnessing the display with Neil earlier, her concern just made my stomach turn. I didn’t say a word. She stepped closer, reaching into her designer bag. She pulled out a braided leather bracelet, adorned with a small silver charm, and tied it around my wrist. It was an intention bracelet. The kind you get at high-end spiritual retreats. I looked at her, genuinely shocked. Valerie was not a gift-giver. She forgot anniversaries. She barely remembered birthdays. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you went under,” she murmured, her voice dropping into a register of practiced sweetness. “Thank you, honey. For doing this for us.” A second later, her phone—which she had carelessly tossed onto my tray table—lit up. A text notification. Neil’s face. Did you make it to the hospital, Professor? Is the old man’s ego bruised? I told you to go back to him earlier, but you’re always hovering over me like a worried little mom. Btw, please don’t tell him you drove all the way to Sedona to get that protection charm for me. He’d probably throw a fit. The words burned themselves into my retinas, one by one. I slowly lifted my chin and locked eyes with Valerie. The blood drained from her face. She lunged for the phone, panic wiring her movements. I was faster. I snatched it, swiped up, and opened the thread. The chat history was meticulously deleted. Nothing but those three incoming texts. But I saw the contact name. Neil 🤍 3 For all her academic brilliance, Valerie was remarkably careless in her personal life. She had over a hundred contacts in her phone, and she never bothered with emojis or special nicknames. Except for me. And now, Neil. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the pillow, pretending the exhaustion had simply overtaken me. I heard Valerie let out a shaky, silent exhale of relief. But the moment she turned her back to speak to the nurse, I ripped the braided leather bracelet off my wrist and dropped it straight into the biohazard bin. Three days later, I checked myself out of the hospital and took an Uber to the university campus, entirely behind Valerie’s back. The awards ceremony was held in the grand alumni hall. I was wearing an old, slightly frayed tweed suit—the only pair of trousers loose enough to accommodate my surgical swelling. Standing amidst the polished academics, I felt like a ghost haunting my own past. “Harvey! Man, it really is you!” An old classmate clapped me on the shoulder. “Heard you took the fellowship prize! Incredible.” “You were always the prodigy of the Lit department,” another chimed in. “We all thought you’d get the tenure track, but you stepped aside for Val.” “Look at you guys now. She’s the big-shot professor, you run a company from the living room. Modern gender roles at their finest, huh?” I forced a polite smile, though my facial muscles felt like concrete. Suddenly, a ripple of whispers swept through the crowd near the entrance. I followed their gaze. Valerie entered through the heavy oak doors. Trailing right behind her was Neil. She leaned in and whispered something to him. He ducked his head, laughing softly, a blush creeping up his neck. The perfect picture of a bashful, adoring boy. A few of his frat buddies were standing nearby. One of them shoved Neil playfully. He stumbled, crashing directly into Valerie’s chest. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back. Instead, her arm naturally wrapped around his waist to steady him. She looked down, smiled, and gently patted his back. The physical intimacy was so fluid, so deeply ingrained, it looked like a choreographed dance they had practiced a thousand times. The alumni around me went dead silent. A few shot me glances heavy with excruciating pity. I lowered my eyes, adjusting my cuffs. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” The water from the brass faucet was freezing. I splashed it on my face, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink. When I looked up, there was someone else in the mirror. Neil leaned against the tiled wall behind me, a smug, venomous little smirk on his face. “Well, if it isn’t the supportive husband. Don’t take what those guys did out there too seriously. We’re just young. We like to mess around.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “Though I gotta admit, showing up to campus days after getting snipped? Screams insecurity, Harvey. Had to come keep an eye on your wife?” I grabbed a paper towel, dried my hands methodically, and turned to face him. “Neil, I’m here to accept an award.” I tossed the towel into the trash. “But let me give you some free advice. Focus on your thesis. Stop playing house with married women. Take it from someone who knows—when a woman decides to walk, you won’t be able to run fast enough to catch her.” His face twisted in ugly, bratty fury. He scoffed, spun on his heel, and stormed out. I took a deep breath, smoothed my tie, and walked out to the auditorium. I was just approaching the steps to the stage when a hand clamped down on my wrist like a vice. Valerie stood there, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving beneath her silk blouse. “Harvey, how could you stoop this low?” I stared at her, genuinely bewildered. She dropped my arm in disgust, grabbed Neil by the hand, and marched up the stairs to the podium. She snatched the microphone from the dean’s hands. “Excuse me. Everyone, please listen,” her voice rang out, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “My husband, Harvey, is a stay-at-home father. He does not belong on this stage. The paper that won this fellowship is plagiarized.” The hall erupted into a shocked, deafening murmur. “He accessed my private laptop at home,” Valerie continued, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. “He stole the core thesis from one of my graduate students. This award belongs to Neil.” Neil stood beside her, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as if he were weeping. But through the gaps in his fingers, his eyes found mine. They were gleaming with triumph. The whispers turned into daggers, flying from every corner of the room. Plagiarism? Are you kidding me? The sheer audacity to show up here. He should just stay home and wash bottles. What a joke. I heard his wife spends all her time with that student anyway. Karma’s a bitch. Get him out of here! Fraud! Every word was a physical blow, slicing through the air. I walked up the wooden steps. Slowly. I stopped inches from Valerie. I forced myself to keep my eyes wide so the tears wouldn’t fall. “Valerie. In your eyes, I’m just a pathetic, washed-up househusband, aren’t I?” My voice cracked. “So you’ll believe whatever garbage he feeds you? You’ll stand up here and destroy me?” Her brow furrowed in deep, unmasked revulsion. “Did the surgery sever your moral compass too, Harvey? You stole from my student, and you have the nerve to play the victim?” She shook her head. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Neil immediately played his part. He stepped forward, timidly tugging at the sleeve of her blazer. “Professor, please. I’m sure he didn’t mean to. Maybe he’s just acting out because he’s mad at me…” He didn’t get to finish the sentence. I closed the distance between us. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. Hard. The sharp crack echoed through the microphone. Neil shrieked, stumbling backward, clutching his cheek. Valerie moved purely on instinct. She lunged forward to protect him, shoving both of her hands violently against my chest. I was already off-balance. The force sent me tumbling backward toward the edge of the stage. As I fell, survival instinct kicked in. I reached out and grabbed the closest thing I could find—the belt loops of Valerie’s slacks. The momentum dragged her down with me. We hit the polished hardwood. But as she fell over me, her knee came down with the full force of her body weight, crashing directly into my groin. A blinding, agonizing explosion of pain ripped through my nervous system. I curled into a fetal position on the stage, the world going white. It felt like I had been torn apart from the inside out. I could feel something warm and wet seeping through the fabric of my trousers, sliding down my thigh. Through the haze of agony, I saw Valerie look at me in sheer terror. She reached out, her hands hovering, wanting to help. But Neil grabbed her sleeve. He was sobbing now, real tears streaming down his face. In the final second before the darkness swallowed me, I watched my wife hesitate. Then, she turned her back to me, wrapped her arm around Neil, and walked him toward the campus clinic. I woke up back in a hospital room. My mother was sitting by the bed, rocking my infant son. Her eyes were swollen shut from crying. When she saw me blink, a fresh wave of tears spilled over. “Harvey. Oh, thank God. You’re awake.” Her voice shook violently. “That monster. That absolute monster. How could she push you? Your father was out of town, but he’s driving back right now.” 4 The baby in her arms started wailing. It was a thin, desperate sound. He was so small he couldn’t even open his eyes properly, and he was crying himself hoarse. I shifted, instinctively wanting to hold him. A tearing, white-hot agony flared below my waist. “Mom. Give him to me. Let me hold him.” She slammed a hand down on my shoulder, physically holding me back. Her whole body was vibrating. “You can’t! You had a secondary rupture, Harvey. You were in surgery for three hours. The doctors…” She choked on a sob. “They said the damage is permanent.” Her tears splashed hot against the back of my hand. “You’re hooked up to a dozen IVs right now. Your infection markers are off the charts. Harvey, if I lose you, I won’t survive it.” Trace was still crying. And I didn’t even have the physical strength to lift my arms to take him. The heavy wooden door pushed open. Valerie walked in. Neil was right behind her like a shadow. She stopped at the foot of the bed. When she saw the tubes, the monitors, the sheer paleness of my skin, the color drained from her face. A flicker of genuine horror crossed her eyes. But Neil gently bumped his shoulder against hers. She blinked, her spine straightening, and her face hardened into ice. “Harvey. You know how seriously I take academic integrity. I despise plagiarism more than anything. Apologize to Neil right now, and we can put this whole ugly mess behind us.” I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look at her. My mother stood up. She stepped between Valerie and my bed, holding my crying son against her chest. “You have the audacity to show your face in here?” my mother hissed, her voice vibrating with pure hatred. “My son went under the knife for you. He was bleeding out on a stage, and you pushed him because of him?” “Look, I shouldn’t have shoved him, I know,” Valerie snapped, defensive. “But that’s separate. He stole a manuscript. He committed fraud.” “Fraud?!” My mother pointed a trembling finger at Neil. “You brought your little homewrecker in here to humiliate my son? He is permanently disfigured because of you, and you come in here to demand an apology? What kind of sociopath are you?!” She took a step forward. “We trusted you with our boy!” Neil shrank back against the doorframe, his eyes wide and watery, playing the terrified victim flawlessly. Valerie’s jaw clenched. “Don’t you dare speak to him like that.” My mother, blinded by grief and rage, shoved her shoulder. “Get out! Both of you, get the hell out of this room!” Valerie threw her hands up and forcefully shoved my mother back. My mother caught her heel on the linoleum. She pitched backward. Her arms flew open to break her fall. Trace slipped from her grasp. I watched, paralyzed, as that tiny, fragile bundle wrapped in a hospital blanket sailed through the air. He hit the hard tile floor. There was no sound. No cry. Nothing. My jaw unhinged, but there was no air in my lungs. “MOM! THE BABY!” The scream finally ripped from my throat, tearing my vocal cords, shattering the sterile quiet of the ward. Nurses and doctors flooded the room in a tidal wave of blue scrubs. Valerie stood frozen, her hands suspended in the air, her face ashen. In the chaos, Neil grabbed her elbow and dragged her out into the hallway. They tried to resuscitate him for a long time. But he was gone. … My parents pushed my wheelchair over the uneven grass. I held the small, heavy wooden box in my lap. My eyes were bloodshot, burning, but I couldn’t cry. The well was completely dry. When we reached the plot, I forced myself out of the chair. Still in my hospital gown, shivering in the wind, I dragged my feet toward the tiny granite headstone. It bore his name. Trace. Trace. I picked the name. Because that was all he’d ever be. A trace of a life. He didn’t even get to open his eyes to see the sun. He died because his father was a fool who fell in love with a monster. I sank to the damp earth, pressing my cheek against the cold wood of the urn, whispering a final, silent apology to my son. Footsteps crunched violently against the gravel behind me. Valerie sprinted toward me. She grabbed the shoulders of my gown and hauled me upward with terrifying strength. “Where is he?! Where did you hide my baby?!” She shook me, her eyes wild, bloodshot, scanning the cemetery like a lunatic. “Is this some kind of sick joke, Harvey?! Are you trying to torture me into coming home?! Neil called his friends at the hospital! They said the baby was perfectly fine!” I said nothing. I just stared past her, at the small headstone. She kept screaming. Cursing. Threatening me with lawyers. My mother, overcome by the sheer cruelty of it, collapsed onto the grass in a dead faint. My father scrambled to find her heart medication in her purse. But I didn’t hear a word Valerie was saying. All I could hear was the echo of my son’s desperate, hungry cries from the hospital room. He was so small. He had been so hungry. He had been in pain, and he was terrified. And his mother hadn’t even looked at him. She was too busy protecting another man. I finally brought my eyes to hers. My voice was a hollow rasp. “He’s dead.” She froze. “Because of you. He is dead.” Neil stepped up behind her, gently looping his arm through hers. He let out a theatrical sigh. “Professor, I think he’s having a psychotic break. Wishing death on his own child just to punish you? He probably bought an empty box online just to put on this whole show. God knows what’s actually in there. It’s truly sick.” Valerie stared at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Harvey,” she ground out through her teeth. “I am going to ask you one last time. Where is my son?” I looked through her. I turned, crouched down, and reached for the box. She lunged past me and snatched it from my hands. “Let’s see what kind of prop you put in this fake urn to guilt-trip me!” She ripped the lid off. A sharp gust of wind swept across the hill. I knelt in the dirt, entirely paralyzed, as I watched the pale gray ash lift from the box. It swirled into the air, scattering over the grass, over the marble, over the dead leaves. Valerie stopped breathing. She looked down at her hands, coated in a fine, pale dust. Her lips parted. Her face turned the color of bone. “Is… is this…”

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Right before graduation, I ended up getting a new roommate: a senior from the local university. Her name was Hannah. She was gentle, polite, and whenever she saw me in the kitchen, she’d flash this incredibly sweet smile and say, “Hey, Moore.” But lately, the dynamic in the apartment had shifted. Deep into the night, the unmistakable sound of the shower running would bleed through the thin drywall. Worse, it was always accompanied by a soft, breathy, and undeniably intimate moaning. It was the kind of sound that made my face burn in the dark. After tossing and turning for nights on end, I finally broke down and shot her a text. “Hey, the walls in this place are paper-thin. Do you think you could shower a little earlier in the evening?” A minute later, my phone buzzed. She replied with a confused emoji. “I’ve been buried in my senior thesis. I’ve been crashing at the dorms for the past week. I haven’t even been home.” 1 “Is the bathroom leaking? If it is, maybe call a plumber to look at it, and I’ll Venmo you my half of the bill.” Hannah’s follow-up text glowed on my screen. A water leak and someone taking a shower were two entirely different sounds. I wasn’t an idiot. And more importantly, a leaky pipe didn’t moan. This hadn’t just been a one-time thing, either. It had been going on for days, severely cutting into my sleep and leaving me feeling like a zombie during my morning shifts. I was a grown man; I wouldn’t have brought up something so painfully awkward with a female roommate unless it was genuinely disrupting my life. But her reply threw me. Had she really been gone that long? I worked a soul-crushing nine-to-five corporate gig and was usually dead to the world by nine in the evening. If I was being honest, I hadn’t paid any attention to her comings and goings. Rubbing my temples, I sighed, brushing the whole thing off as a weird misunderstanding. “Hey, Moore. Don’t ghost us after work. Whole department is going out for drinks,” a coworker said later that afternoon, clapping a hand heavily on my shoulder. Every bone in my body wanted to say no. I was running on fumes. But I was gunning for a promotion to supervisor, which meant playing the corporate game and making nice with the team. I forced a smile and agreed. The “quick drinks” dragged on past midnight. By the time I left, the world was spinning. When I finally reached the front steps of my apartment building, I practically collided with the heavy glass door, my legs feeling like lead as I began the climb up to the second floor. Thank God I lived low down in the building. A few heavy steps, and the motion-sensor light flickered to life, casting a sickly yellow glow over the landing. I spent an embarrassing amount of time fumbling with my keys. Right as I managed to slide the key into the deadbolt, I glanced down. Sitting perfectly centered on the welcome mat was a piece of paper. I picked it up, squinting. It was a piece of blackened, charred ritual parchment—the kind of morbid, occult junk you’d find at an alternative witchcraft shop, usually burned to ward off spirits or mourn the dead. What a sick joke. I tossed it aside, muttering under my breath about bored teenagers in the neighborhood. But the moment I stumbled into the pitch-black apartment, the oppressive silence of the living room hit me. Instantly, my alcohol-fogged brain latched onto the bathroom. For an entire week, right around this time, the shower had turned on. I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the empty room, and forced myself to look away from the hallway. Don’t think about it. Still, the adrenaline had sobered me up a fraction. I hurried into my bedroom and threw the deadbolt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my mind raced, echoing the text Hannah had sent me hours ago. I haven’t even been home… The more I thought about it, the more the silence seemed to press against my eardrums. I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, tossing and turning, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of my blanket. And then, exactly what I feared most happened. Through the wall, the hiss of the bathroom shower roared to life. A split second later, that cloying, breathy moan followed. My heart slammed against my ribs. A cold sweat broke across my skin, a sudden, icy draft sweeping through the room. Listening to the crystal-clear sound of the running water, I knew I wasn’t imagining things. Hands shaking, I grabbed my phone and fired off a desperate text to Hannah. “Did you come back tonight?” The message sat on Delivered. No reply. But the noise in the bathroom didn’t stop. In the past, it usually faded out just past midnight. Tonight, it showed zero signs of slowing down. In fact, it was getting louder. I could hear my own rapid, shallow breathing. The pale moonlight sliced through my blinds, illuminating the floor, but my eyes were locked in a dead stare on my bedroom door. I was paralyzed, waiting for the handle to slowly turn. Then, the sliver of space beneath my bedroom door lit up. Flicker. Flicker. It was the living room light. This was a cheap, rundown apartment complex. The light switches were ancient, heavy plastic toggles that required a firm, loud clack to turn on. But the light in the living room was flickering on and off, completely silently, with no warning at all. 2 I’ve never been a brave guy. Put me in an empty house, and I won’t even watch a horror movie. But living it? It felt like every terrifying image I’d ever seen on a screen was suddenly downloading directly into my brain. The scream I wanted to let out was lodged like a stone in my throat. I shifted onto my back, squeezing my eyes shut. Breathe, Moore. Breathe. I tried to rationalize it. I told myself that ghosts didn’t exist, that this was either a bizarre plumbing issue, an elaborate prank, or the result of sleep deprivation and too much cheap whiskey. It took ten agonizing minutes of mental gymnastics to convince myself I wasn’t going to die. Whether it was a sudden surge of courage or just hitting the absolute ceiling of my fear, something inside me snapped. I swung my legs out of bed and grabbed the heavy aluminum baseball bat I kept by the nightstand. My grip was tight enough to bruise. Step by agonizing step, I moved toward my bedroom door. The light under the crack was still pulsing. The water was still running. I wrapped my sweaty fingers around the deadbolt, threw it back, yanked the door open, and stepped out, letting out a guttural roar. “Who the hell is out here?!” 3 Instantly, a violent chill racked my body. The living room was pitch black. The bathroom was dead silent. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on the entire apartment. The noises, the lights, the sheer wrongness of the atmosphere—it all vanished so abruptly it made my ears ring. It felt exactly like waking up from a falling nightmare. One second, terror. The next, nothing. I couldn’t process it. My chest was still heaving, the terror still pooling in my gut. Swallowing past the sandpaper in my throat, I kept the bat raised and reached out to flip the living room switch. It required a solid, forceful push, letting out a loud CLACK before the room flooded with cheap fluorescent light. Looking at the switch, I realized something. If someone had been flicking that light on and off as fast as I’d seen it under the door, they couldn’t have done it without making a racket. Still, the light made the space feel a fraction safer. I let out a shaky breath. I turned my attention to the hallway. I had to know what was in that bathroom. I slid open the frosted glass door of the shower. Nothing. The tub was bone dry. There wasn’t a single drop of water, let alone a leak. But I knew what I’d heard. This building was an ancient relic; the units directly above and below mine had been vacant for months. There was no chance I was hearing a neighbor. What the hell is going on? I turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto my face. I was completely, terrifyingly sober now. To prove to myself that someone was just screwing with me, I walked over to Hannah’s bedroom and knocked on the door. Dead silence. I tried the handle. Locked. Since we were practically strangers sharing a lease, we both had a strict habit of locking our doors when we left. But I was already down the rabbit hole tonight. I needed an answer. I walked over to the water cooler in the kitchen, filled a glass to the absolute brim, and set it carefully on the floor, right flush against her bedroom door. Her door opened outward. If she was in there, the moment she opened it, the glass would tip, the water would spill, and I would hear the heavy thud of the glass hitting the faux-wood floor. I wanted hard proof of whether she was in there or not. 4 Satisfied with my trap, I went back to my room, locking my own door behind me. Even back in bed, sleep felt impossible. I don’t know what time it was when I finally started drifting into that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, but I was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp noise from the living room. Thud. Clatter. It was the unmistakable sound of a heavy glass tipping over and rolling across the floor. A massive wave of relief washed over me. The tension left my muscles in a rush. A prank. It had to be Hannah, or someone she brought over, messing with me. With the adrenaline gone, a bone-deep exhaustion took over. I figured I would give her a piece of my mind in the morning, tell her that scaring the hell out of her roommate wasn’t funny. I closed my eyes and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. My alarm went off the next morning like a siren. Between the hangover and the emotional rollercoaster, my head felt like it was splitting open. But I was a single guy trying to build a savings account, desperately working toward a future where I could actually afford a ring and a family one day. Calling in sick wasn’t an option. I forced myself upright. Before I even brushed my teeth, I marched out to the hallway, ready to confront her. I froze. The glass of water was sitting perfectly undisturbed, right where I had left it. It hadn’t been moved a single inch. A spike of genuine anger pierced through the confusion. A joke was a joke, but this was psychological torture. I banged on her door, hard. “Hannah, open up. We need to talk. You’ve been scaring the absolute hell out of me for days. Can we drop the act now?” Nothing. “Hannah, I know you’re in there! Stop playing games and come out.” I stood there for ten minutes, knocking and calling her name. The room behind the door remained utterly, completely dead. I threw my hands up in exasperation. How could a brilliant, seemingly normal college kid be this twisted? I had to leave for work, so I decided to drop it until tonight. I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I leaned over the sink, I noticed a ring of dried water droplets on the porcelain edge. It was from when I had splashed my face with cold water the night before. At first, it didn’t register. Then, a cold realization slammed into me. I took a slow step backward out of the bathroom, my eyes locking onto the glass of water in front of Hannah’s door. I heard that water spill last night. I heard the glass roll. So why was the floor bone dry? Furthermore, I hadn’t heard the sound of someone mopping it up or refilling the glass from the cooler. Most importantly: her door opened outward. If she had opened the door, knocked the glass over, and then refilled it… there was physically no way she could have placed the full glass back in that exact spot, flush against the wood, and closed the door behind her without knocking it over again. It was impossible. A fresh layer of cold sweat erupted across my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I jumped, nearly biting my own tongue. Hand trembling, I pulled it out. It was an iMessage from Hannah, finally replying to what I’d sent her the night before. “I didn’t come back. I told you, I’m too busy to come home right now.” 5 I practically ran out of the apartment, struggling to pull my jacket on as I took the stairs two at a time. The crisp morning air hit my face, but my mind was stuck in the dark of that apartment. The sounds had been so vivid. So clear. I couldn’t have imagined them! But if Hannah wasn’t there… where the hell were those noises coming from? “Hey! Moore.” I stopped in my tracks. It was Mr. Henderson, the building’s elderly superintendent, dragging a mop bucket out of the utility closet. He leaned on the handle, looking at me with a worried frown. “You get into some trouble recently, son? I’ve found charred ritual papers—witchcraft looking stuff—outside your door more than once this week.” Right. The burned paper I’d seen last night. I rushed over to him. “Mr. Henderson… has anyone ever died in that apartment?” He blinked, surprised, then gave a dry chuckle. “Kid, look at this building. People have died in every unit.” “No, I mean—was there a murder? A suicide? Something unnatural?” Mr. Henderson narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment, before shaking his head firmly. “No. Nothing like that.” I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse. I thanked him and hurried toward the subway. As for offending someone? I could say with absolute certainty that I hadn’t. I kept my head down, paid my taxes, and minded my own business. I spent the entire workday staring blankly at my monitor. I couldn’t shake the creeping dread. During my lunch break, I called the landlord. I asked him point-blank if there was a dark history to the unit. He swore up and down there wasn’t. But his denial only made the knot in my stomach tighter. I made up my mind right then: I was breaking the lease. I didn’t care about the penalty. I couldn’t spend another week in that place. 6 I don’t know how I survived the workday. The walk back to the apartment felt like a march to the gallows. My heart pounded against my ribs with every step. If this kept up, I was going to have a genuine psychotic break. When I reached my door, I scanned the welcome mat. No charred paper. Clean. I let out a breath and pulled out my keys. But just as I unlocked the deadbolt and pushed the door open, a heavy shoulder shoved past me, forcing its way inside. It was a guy I’d never seen before. “Hey! What the hell are you doing? You’ve got the wrong place!” I yelled, dropping my bag and chasing him into the living room. He ignored me completely, his eyes wild as he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “Hannah! I know you’re in here! Get out here and look me in the eye!” He was looking for Hannah. Judging by the desperation in his voice, he was one of her romantic orbiters. I remembered her mentioning a guy named Trevor who wouldn’t leave her alone. “She’s at the dorms,” I said, keeping my distance. “She’s not here.” Trevor whipped around, glaring at me. He closed the distance between us in three aggressive strides. “You really think you can compete with me for her? Look at you. You’re pathetic.” I blinked, totally lost. “I think you’re confused, man. We just share rent.” Trevor let out a dark, mocking laugh, his upper lip curling in disgust. “So you’re broke and you’re a coward. You won’t even admit it to my face.” He shook his head. “Hannah told me to back off. She said she had a boyfriend now. And I know it’s you.” The guy looked genuinely unhinged. His eyes were wide, and he couldn’t stand still, his head twitching as he spoke. I had zero desire to deal with this drama. I told him plainly that I wasn’t her boyfriend and demanded he leave my apartment. Instead of leaving, Trevor pulled out his phone, opened his messages with Hannah, and hit the voice memo button, holding it up like a microphone. “Hannah, your taste in men is garbage. He won’t even claim you. This is the loser you picked over me?” He sent the audio, then looked me up and down. “I’m calling fair game. If I win her back, you pack your shit and leave. Or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.” With that final threat, he turned and stormed toward the door. As he turned, his jacket rode up, and I caught a glint of silver clipped to his belt. A switchblade. He had flashed it on purpose. I rubbed my face, exhausted beyond belief, and immediately texted Hannah. “Who the hell was that guy? What did you tell him? You know I have a girlfriend, please don’t drag me into your mess.” A long while later, she sent back a single character: “K.” I didn’t push it. I had said my piece. But looking out the window, the sun was already starting to set. The shadows in the apartment were lengthening. I didn’t know if the terror from the past week would return tonight. I glanced at the hallway. The glass of water was still sitting exactly where I’d left it. I knew for an absolute fact now that Hannah wasn’t home. Nobody could stay locked in a room for twenty-four hours straight without at least coming out to use the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I decided to try a different approach tonight. I was going to use a camera. 7 I dug out my old backup phone, set it on the bathroom vanity, and made sure it had a full charge. Right before getting into bed, I hit record. If there were noises, the mic would pick them up. If something was in there, the lens would capture it. With the trap set, I crawled under the covers. Between the corporate grind and the relentless anxiety, my body had reached its breaking point. Exhaustion pulled me under almost instantly, dragging me into a deep, dreamless void. But sometime in the dead of night, a sharp, piercing ringtone ripped me out of my sleep. It was the FaceTime ringtone. I groaned, blindly slapping the nightstand until my fingers brushed my current phone. I pulled it to my face, squinting against the harsh glare of the screen. When I read the caller ID, all the air left my lungs. It was my backup phone. My old phone was video calling my current phone. But my old phone was sitting on the counter. Inside the empty bathroom.

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The day I was supposed to be promoted to a full residency at the hospital, a private video of me and Darren Wilder—seven rounds of intimacy in a single night—was leaked to every medical group chat in the city. In the video, he was whispering sweet things, coaxing me into positions I’d never tried, while I clung to him with a desperation I now realize was pathetic. By noon, I was escorted out of the building. By sunset, I was blacklisted from the entire medical industry. Eight years of grueling study, sleepless shifts, and a mountain of debt vanished into thin air. Darren didn’t just watch me fall; he pushed me. He forcibly pried the engagement ring off my finger—the same one he’d slid on while kneeling in a field of wildflowers a year prior. He used the toe of his designer loafer to tilt my chin up, his eyes cold enough to freeze my blood. “You really thought you could get away with it, Norma? You were so jealous of my sister’s talent that you started those rumors. You reported her for sleeping with her mentor just to take her spot. Because of you, Melanie spiraled into depression. Because of you, she jumped into the harbor.” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “How does it feel to have your own reputation dragged through the dirt? Does it sting?” I had stared at him, my breath hitching, trying to explain that I had nothing to do with it. But Darren wasn’t listening. He threw me out of his car and left me on the shoulder of the interstate, speeding away without looking back. Four years later, I wasn’t wearing a white coat. I was wearing a sequined dress that barely covered my hips in a high-end lounge. I sold my dignity for tips, clawing for every dollar to pay for my daughter’s heart surgery. And that’s when I saw the toe of that same designer shoe again, pressing into my space. … 1 The cool leather of a man’s shoe hooked under my chin, forcing me to look up. The pressure was exactly the same as it had been four years ago. Darren Wilder stood over me, arms crossed, looking down as if he were inspecting a piece of expired meat found in the trash. “Tch.” A short, sharp sound escaped his nose. “Has business at this place dropped so low that they’re putting vintage scrap on the floor?” He ground the toe of his shoe against my cheek, a malicious smirk playing on his lips. “This one… she has to be what, thirty? Thirty-five?” His gaze raked over my chest, where the cheap fabric strained against my skin. He had kissed that skin a thousand times once. Now, his eyes held nothing but mockery. “A bit old to be playing the coy schoolgirl, don’t you think?” he asked the room. “Careful, you might make the customers lose their appetite.” A roar of laughter erupted from the surrounding booths. The group of men and women he was with—the city’s young and heartless elite—stared at me with predatory amusement. I felt like I’d been slapped in public. The practiced, customer-service smile I wore for tips froze on my face. I am thirty. In this industry, where eighteen-year-olds are a dime a dozen, I was a relic. I had spent hours crying in the manager’s office just to keep this job, begging him to remember my years of reliable service. I survived on dim lighting and layers of heavy foundation. “Hey! I like the mature ones!” a balding man at the next table shouted, his greasy eyes sliding over me. I gripped my drink menu, took a steadying breath, and forced the smile back into place. “Coming right up!” I turned away from Darren, walking toward the balding man. I bowed lower, made my smile wider. “You have excellent taste, sir. What can I get started for you tonight?” The man immediately slid a hand onto my thigh, his palm sweaty and lingering. “That depends on how well you perform, sweetheart.” Nausea rolled through my stomach at his touch. But then I pictured Maisie—my daughter—pale and breathless in her hospital bed. I pushed the disgust down and made my voice sweet, almost a purr. “If you order the premium bottle service, I’ll make sure you have a very… memorable night.” The man squinted, his pudgy finger poking at my cleavage as he pushed a shot glass toward me. “One shot, one bottle. One bottle, one case. You game?” I laughed, a bright, brittle sound. I picked up a glass of straight bourbon and downed it in one go. The liquid scorched my throat, and my stomach threatened to rebel. Don’t throw up. If you throw up, you lose the sale. Maisie’s medical bill was short six thousand dollars. “Good!” the man cheered. “Another!” One shot. Then another. By the third, the room started to tilt. My hands shook so badly that I spilled a drop on my dress. “Whoops, spillages don’t count,” the man chuckled, reaching for me again. I gritted my teeth and grabbed a full bottle, ready to chug it if that’s what it took. But before the glass hit my lips, someone ripped it out of my hand. The bourbon splashed over my chest, soaking into the fabric. Darren stood there, his face an unreadable mask of fury. “What are you doing?” I snapped, instinctively reaching for the bottle. His eyes were like poisoned daggers. “Look at yourself. You’re pathetic. Do you have no shame left at all?” “That’s none of your business!” I lunged for the bottle again. “Give it back! If I drink this, he pays!” He stared at me like I was a madwoman. Then, he reached into his blazer, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and threw them at my face. “You want money that bad? Here. Is this enough?” The crisp bills stung as they pelted my skin. They fluttered through the air like pink-hued snow, landing all over the sticky floor. I froze for a heartbeat, then dropped to my knees. My joints hit the marble with a sickening thud, but I didn’t care. I scrambled, gathering the bills into my arms with zero dignity. He was being generous. This wasn’t just Maisie’s bill—there might be enough left over to buy her a strawberry cream cake. I could still see the way she looked at the other kids in the ward eating cake, her eyes filled with a longing that broke me every single day. 2 I was hunched over, reaching for the last bill stuck under the edge of the sofa, when Darren’s polished shoe landed on the money—and my fingertips. He ground his heel down, crushing my knuckles against the floor. I shook with pain, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. I refused to let the tears fall; I couldn’t ruin my makeup. I had more tables to work after this. Darren looked down at me, his silhouette framed by the neon lights. His voice was a cold rasp. “Norma Whittaker. You really are just a dog, aren’t you?” I opened my mouth to snap back, but years of survival had rewritten my instincts. “Thank you for the tip, sir,” I whispered. Darren went silent for a moment, his anger seemingly intensifying. Without a word, he picked up a glass of ice water from the table and poured it directly over my head. The freezing water shocked my scalp, mixing with my cheap foundation and running in muddy streaks down my face. “Whoa, what’s going on here?” The manager rushed over, bowing to Darren while throwing me a look of pure loathing. “Norma! What did you do? Apologize to Mr. Wilder this instant!” I looked up, water dripping from my eyelashes. My throat felt like it was clogged with broken glass. The manager gave me a sharp kick in the ribs. “Now!” I clutched the wet bills to my chest, my knuckles white, my nails digging into my palms until I drew blood. I bent my stiff back into a ninety-degree bow. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me.” Darren let out a dark laugh. “Does this place double as a junkyard now? Why are you putting trash like this on display? It’s embarrassing.” The manager smiled obsequiously. “My apologies, Mr. Wilder. It’s a charity case, really. She’s a single mom, struggling to get by. I felt sorry for her, so…” He didn’t finish. A young girl on Darren’s arm giggled, covering her mouth. “Single mom? Or just doesn’t know who the father is?” Darren’s brow furrowed deeper. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have children. Having a mother this pathetic… that kid will never be able to hold their head up. You’re incredibly selfish.” I flinched as if he’d struck me. The girl on his arm chirped, “She probably thought a baby would be her meal ticket, but the guy realized what she was and bailed. Typical.” Darren’s lips curled into a sneer. “She’s delusional if she thought anyone would want a permanent tie to her. Women like this… you don’t marry them. You don’t even keep them for fun. They’re just… dirty.” The laughter returned, louder and sharper than before. A strobe light caught Darren’s face, and for a split second, I saw the ghost of the man who had knelt in the grass and promised to love me forever. Then he turned, pulling the young girl closer to his side. “Darren,” the girl whispered as they walked away. “Did you actually know her?” His voice floated back to me, casual and cold, like he was flicking ash off his sleeve. “I don’t know people like that.” 3 I saw him again three days later at a high-end reflexology spa where I pulled double shifts. I had just finished cleaning the basin from the previous client when the receptionist told me a VIP had specifically requested me. I walked into the private suite, carrying the cedar soak bucket. I knelt by the chair and began prepping the hot towels. “Lighter,” he commanded. I adjusted my pressure. “Are you starving? Put some muscle into it.” I gripped his ankle and pressed harder. He spent the next ten minutes picking apart every movement I made. “You can’t even massage a foot properly. To think you actually wanted to hold a scalpel once.” My hand slipped. He let out a cruel, mocking laugh. “You’re willing to do this kind of work now? Does that mean you’ll do anything for a price?” I stayed silent, focusing on the tension in his arch. “I asked you a question.” He used his foot to tilt my head back, his heel pressing against my windpipe. “Norma, why don’t you just sell your body? It’s faster money. Or wait…” He paused, his eyes scanning my face like a blade. “Have you already tried? Did nobody want you?” The blood rushed to my head. I stood up abruptly, letting the hot water splash all over his expensive trousers. “Enough! Darren, that’s enough! What gives you the right to treat me like this?” He smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “Oh, so the dog still has a bark? I thought you’d lost it.” I was shaking with a mixture of rage and humiliation. I was about to scream at him to get out when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was the hospital. I rushed out of the room to answer. “Ms. Whittaker? We have a match for Maisie. A heart has become available.” My heart stopped. “Oh my god.” “The surgery and procurement fees total one million dollars. We can only hold the heart for eight hours, Ms. Whittaker. If the funds aren’t cleared by then, the organ will go to the next person on the list.” The line went dead. The world turned black. I leaned against the wall, my mind racing. A million dollars. Eight hours. I looked at the door to the VIP suite. I thought of the Patek Philippe watch on Darren’s wrist—a piece of jewelry that cost more than a house. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and walked back in. I didn’t say a word. I simply dropped to my knees in front of him. I pressed my forehead against the cold, hard tile. “Darren.” My voice was a broken rasp. “I’ll sell myself to you. Do whatever you want. Anything. Just… please. I need a million dollars.” He looked down at me, genuinely stunned. “A million? You’ve got a high opinion of yourself, don’t you? You think you’re worth that much?” He stood up, looking at me with pure disgust. “Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He turned to leave. “My daughter has a congenital heart defect!” I screamed, crawling after him, grabbing the hem of his pants. “She needs a transplant! She’s dying, Darren! Please!” The words hadn’t even fully left my mouth when his hand blurred. Crack. The slap sent me sprawling. My ear rang, and my cheek bloomed with heat. Darren’s eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a terrifying, ancient rage. “How dare you?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “How dare you use that lie on me? You know Melanie died of a heart condition! You drove her to suicide, and now you’re using her illness as a script to scam me? Do you even have a soul?” “It’s not… it’s not a lie…” I sobbed, shaking my head. “Shut up!” he roared. He looked at me for a long time, his face twisting into something dark and experimental. “Fine. You want a million dollars? I’ll give it to you.” I didn’t care why he changed his mind. I scrambled to unbutton my uniform top, my fingers fumbling. “Stop.” He caught my hand, his touch icy. I looked up. The rage had been replaced by a cruel, clinical interest. He walked to the sofa and made a quick phone call. Five minutes later, the door opened. A man walked in—thick-necked, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. Mr. Miller, a local slumlord known for his “appreciation” of the nightlife scene. Darren gestured toward me with his chin. “Miller, you said you liked the girls from the viral videos, right?” Darren lit a cigarette, watching me through a cloud of blue smoke. “This is the star of the Whittaker leak. She’s got… extensive experience.” The man’s eyes lit up, roaming over my body with sickening intent. “Really? I’ve been wanting to see if she lives up to the hype.” I felt the blood drain from my face. I looked at Darren, praying this was a joke. He just leaned back and flicked his ash on the floor. “Well? Start working. You want the money or not?” I dug my nails into my palms. I looked at the stranger approaching me and instinctively backed away. Darren suddenly stood, grabbed my shoulder, and leaned into my ear. “Stop acting like a virgin, Norma. I know exactly how you move. You said you’d do anything for your daughter? Let’s see what kind of mother you really are.” Maisie’s face flashed in my mind. Her tiny, blue-tinged fingernails. Her struggling breaths. My soul went numb. I closed my eyes. In the dim light of the suite, under Darren’s watchful, hateful eyes and the stranger’s heavy breathing, I reached up and pulled my shirt over my head. 4 Then the skirt. The stockings. With every layer I shed, the room felt colder. Miller grinned, showing yellowed teeth as his hand landed on my waist, sliding upward. He shoved me back onto the sofa. He began unbuckling his belt, his eyes fixed on my bra clasp. “Enough!” Darren’s voice cracked like a whip. He was on his feet, his face pale with a sudden, violent nausea. He marched over, snatched his blazer from the chair, and threw it over me. Then he slapped a black titanium credit card onto the coffee table. “The PIN is your birthday.” I stared at the card for one second before grabbing it and sprinting out of the room, dressing as I ran. I reached the hospital billing window, gasping for air. “Maisie Whittaker. Heart transplant. One million dollars. Charge it now!” The nurse swiped the card. She frowned. She swiped it again. “Ma’am, this card is declined.” “That’s impossible!” I screamed. “Try again! Please!” She tried three more times before sliding the card back through the slot. “There’s a balance of five dollars and twenty cents on this account. It won’t even cover the co-pay for a check-up.” I froze. The air in my lungs turned to lead. I dialed Darren’s number, my voice a shriek of pure agony. “You lied to me! You promised!” The line stayed silent, but I heard a footstep behind me. Darren was standing at the end of the hallway, his phone in his hand, watching me. “I thought you were just telling stories for cash. I didn’t think you’d actually show up at a hospital.” “I wasn’t lying!” I ran to him, grabbing his arms. “She’s in there! Go look for yourself!” He shoved me off, his eyes like ice. “If your kid is sick, Norma, it’s karma. It’s a tragedy, sure, but it’s a fair trade for what you did to Melanie.” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. “A life for a life,” he whispered. “Seems poetic, doesn’t it?” The darkness swallowed me whole. “You… you really don’t believe me. You never will.” His eyes burned with hate. “I’ll tell you what. Go to Melanie’s grave. Get on your knees and apologize. For every minute you stay there in the rain, maybe I’ll think about a wire transfer.” I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go.” Darren’s eyes flickered with something—uncertainty, perhaps. He turned and spoke to a nearby nurse. A few minutes later, a team of doctors moved toward Maisie’s room with a gurney. “I’ll pay the prep fee,” Darren said, looking back at me. “The rest… depends on how sorry you are.” The sky was a bruised purple, leaking a cold, miserable drizzle. I knelt on the grass in front of Melanie’s headstone. The granite was cold against my shins. I began to speak. I apologized to the stone. I begged for forgiveness I didn’t owe. One hour passed. Two. Five. My vision began to blur. My body was shutting down. But the thought of Maisie kept my spine straight. My knees had lost all feeling. The only thing I could feel was the sharp sting of the rain against my skin. Ten hours. Finally, a shadow fell over me. Darren was standing there, holding an umbrella. He looked at my blue lips, at the way my body was vibrating with hypothermia. For a second, his hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out. But he stopped. He tossed a different card into the mud at my feet. “Get out of here. Don’t get your filth on her grave.” I picked up the card, my voice barely a whisper. “Darren… if this one is empty too, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you regret it.” His back stiffened. I stumbled back to the hospital, half-dead. I handed the card to the nurse. She swiped it and handed it back immediately. “There’s ten dollars on this one, honey.” The last string of my sanity snapped. “DARREN!” I found him in the lobby. I lunged at him, grabbing his collar, screaming like a wounded animal. “You monster! You’re killing her! Do you even know who her father is? Do you—” “Are you Darren Wilder?” A middle-aged woman in a white coat stopped in front of us, her expression filled with profound disdain. “I’m Dr. Sarah Miller. I was the Chief of Medicine at St. Jude’s four years ago. You’re Melanie Wilder’s brother, aren’t you? The one who made that disgusting scene at the funeral?” Darren’s grip on my wrists slackened. “What did you say?” At that moment, a nurse ran toward us, her face pale. “Ms. Whittaker! Your daughter is crashing! We need to move now!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “404082”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My younger brother, Cooper, had finally reached his breaking point with his dissertation advisor. He came to my apartment, practically vibrating with tectonic levels of stress. “Natalie, you don’t understand,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “The man doesn’t just give feedback. He uses his words like biological weapons.” I didn’t understand. Honestly, I couldn’t. My life had always been a series of paved roads and open doors. I was the girl who cruised through life on a wave of gold stars and “well dones.” Even my romantic life was effortless; I was currently deep in a digital romance with a man I’d met online who was the personification of a warm blanket. He had a voice like velvet, a soul that seemed perpetually anchored, and a way of saying exactly what I needed to hear to make my heart do that embarrassing little skip-beat. But for the sake of Cooper’s failing mental health, I decided to intervene. I would meet this “monster” of a professor and have a civilized, stern talk about the boundaries of constructive criticism. Then I saw him. The cold, sharp-tongued Dr. Adrian Thorne looked exactly like the man I’d been falling for behind a screen for the last year. To test my theory, I hovered outside his office door, heart hammering against my ribs, and sent a text to my mystery man: I’m having a moment. I need you to comfort me. Right now. Inside the room, the young, formidable professor glanced at his phone. He stood up abruptly and walked toward the balcony. Cooper looked like he was facing a firing squad. “Great. He’s probably going to yell at someone else now. We’re just collateral damage.” But I didn’t hear Cooper. I was too busy staring at my phone, frozen, as a voice memo popped up. 1 The day after Cooper submitted his first draft, he looked like a ghost of himself. When I asked what was wrong, a single, tragic tear escaped the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He just turned his laptop screen toward me so I could read the “notes” his advisor had left on his manuscript. I read them, and for the first time in my life, I was speechless. “I’ve read historical fiction before, but this is the first time I’ve read a historical pile of garbage.” “Come to my office tomorrow. I need to see if you’ve been possessed by a malevolent spirit or if this is genuinely your best work.” “Are you so in love with this university that you’ve decided never to graduate?” “Thankfully, only the two of us have read this. Let’s keep it that way.” “Keep writing. Once you’re finished, we can finally start the rewrite.” “Your narrative structure is more chaotic than the Fall of Rome.” The final blow came in the acknowledgments section. The professor had left one blistering remark: “I appreciate the sentiment, but if you truly want to thank me, leave my name out of this.” I glanced at the top of the syllabus. Dr. Adrian Thorne. A sophisticated name for a man with a mouth like a serrated blade. Cooper was at the point where the mere sound of a laptop opening gave him palpitations. “He’s a demon, Nat,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear like this?” I didn’t. Compared to my poor brother, I was the universe’s favorite child. As the only girl in my generation of the family, I’d been pampered since the cradle. School, career, social life—it had all been a green light. And then there was my guy. My digital sanctuary. His voice was steady, his temperament was a calm sea, and he spent his evenings making me feel like the most important woman in the world. So, no, I couldn’t relate to Cooper’s trauma. Cooper yanked at his hair. “I’m never going to graduate. Every time my phone pings with an email notification, I think my heart is going to stop. He’s terrifying. Maybe I should just drop out.” “Drop out?” I panicked. “Absolutely not. You worked your tail off for this. You stayed up through the heat of summer and the dead of winter in that library. Cooper, you aren’t quitting.” If he dropped out, he wouldn’t get his Master’s. If he didn’t get his Master’s, his job search would double in length. Which meant he’d be living on my couch, eating my groceries, and draining my sanity for the foreseeable future. Cooper looked moved by my sudden “support.” I doubled down. “Look, your paper probably isn’t even that bad. Your advisor is just being a pedantic jerk. He’s nitpicking.” Cooper blinked. “You really think so?” I nodded firmly. “I’m sure of it.” 2 Cooper mentioned that his advisor was only three years older than me—just hitting twenty-nine. It caught me off guard. Dr. Thorne was the same age as my online boyfriend. Yet they were polar opposites. One was a poet of affirmation; the other was a walking hazard. Determined to save Cooper’s degree, I decided to take the professor out for a “diplomatic” lunch. It wasn’t about getting Cooper a free pass. It was about humanizing the target. I figured if the professor had someone else to vent his frustrations on—namely me—maybe he’d dial back the cruelty on my brother. Before heading to the campus, I sent a text to my guy. Going to handle a major life crisis for my brother. Wish me luck. The reply was almost instant. No matter what happens, you’re incredible for doing this. You’ve got this, baby. He was always like that. Constant validation, even when he didn’t have the full story. I smiled and gave him a few more details. He typed back: I’ve always believed in positive reinforcement. Pushing students too hard usually backfires. You’re doing the right thing. See? My man and I were on the same wavelength. Soulmates. I was grinning at my phone when Cooper, sitting in the passenger seat, turned a sickly shade of gray. “Nat, maybe we should just call it off?” I put my phone away. “We can’t call it off. I’m getting you across that finish line if it kills me.” 3 Standing outside the faculty office in the Science Building, I looked through the glass partition and then slowly pulled back. My face went blank. “Cooper? Change of plan. Let’s go.” “Wait, why?” “Just… stick it out for a few more months. You can do it.” “Nat, what are you talking about?” I wanted to know too. I wanted to know why Dr. Adrian Thorne, the academic butcher of dreams, looked identical to the man I’d been e-dating for a year. I thought maybe I was hallucinating. I peeked again. Nope. The jawline, the way his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose—it was him. We had never met in person. We’d met in a rescue dog forum a couple of years ago. I was on a business trip in a different city when I saw a shivering puppy on the side of a highway. I was already on the ramp and couldn’t stop safely, so I posted an SOS in the local rescue group. A user named “Lavender” replied an hour later. He asked for the exact coordinates. The next message I got was a photo of the pup. Don’t worry. I’ve got him. He’s safe, a bit shaken, but the vet says he’s okay. I felt a massive wave of relief. I tried to Venmo him a few hundred dollars for the vet bills, but he wouldn’t accept it. Later, I saw him posting updates about the dog. He had been in that city for work too, but he ended up adopting the pup and taking him back to his home city. My heart melted. I added him on social media just to see more of the dog. Eventually, the pet updates turned into daily “good mornings.” We shared our lives, our hobbies, our secrets. We were in sync. In the digital world, we were everything to each other. Then, he became my boyfriend. Once, he sent a video of the dog playing, and for a split second, he passed a mirror. I saw him—half-rimmed glasses, sharp features, handsome in a way that felt both intellectual and rugged, wearing a charcoal sweater. He looked like a dream. I hadn’t slept for half the night after seeing that. Now, standing outside that office, my mind was racing. The world couldn’t be this small. Besides, Adrian Thorne was a cold-blooded critic. My guy was a sweetheart. They couldn’t be the same person. But I had to be sure. I pulled out my phone. Hey baby, what are you up to? He replied in seconds. Just at work. Why, you okay? I looked into the office. Adrian Thorne was typing furiously at his desk, his expression stern. It was impossible to tell. I decided to be a little high-maintenance. I’m in a bad mood. I need you to comfort me. Right now. Cooper caught a glimpse of my screen and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Natalie! Are you serious? You’re flirting with some guy while my future is at stake?” I pushed him aside, my eyes glued to the man in the office. Adrian’s hands stopped. He picked up his phone. Two seconds later, he stood up and walked out to the balcony. Bzzzt. A voice memo. I stepped into a quiet corner, my fingers trembling as I tapped play. “Can you talk? Tell me what’s wrong. I’m here. I’m always here for you.” His voice was low, melodic, and devastatingly tender. My heart didn’t just skip; it did a full gymnastic routine. But not because of the romance. It was because in the background of that voice memo, I heard a faint, rhythmic cheering. I looked out the hallway window at the small courtyard next to the building. A group of college guys were playing basketball. Every time someone scored, a cheer erupted. The cheers in the courtyard matched the background of the voice memo perfectly. 4 Adrian Thorne was my boyfriend. Before I could process the cosmic irony, the phone started ringing. An audio call. I panicked and hit decline. I typed back: It’s okay now. I just can’t talk at the moment. I shoved the phone into my bag and turned to Cooper. “I have to go. You’re on your own with the professor.” There was no way in hell I was “meeting” my boyfriend like this. I turned to bolt. Cooper sighed. “You’re right. It was a bad idea.” He kicked a loose tile on the floor. “It wouldn’t look good for you to have lunch with him alone anyway. If his wife found out, she’d probably lose it.” I froze. My neck felt like it was made of rusted iron as I slowly turned back. “His… wife?” The words felt like they were being squeezed out of my lungs. Cooper didn’t notice my meltdown. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never seen her, but the upperclassmen say he’s married. Apparently, she’s got a hell of a temper.” Right. Perfect. Suddenly, it all made sense. The stable personality, the smooth-talking, the “perfect” emotional support—he’d had plenty of practice with a wife at home. And why was he a monster at school? Because he was venting all the frustration he couldn’t show his “fierce” wife. And I… I was the “other woman.” The digital mistress. I almost laughed. It was either that or screaming. I had to restrain myself from storming into that office and tearing him apart. “Cooper?” A deep, baritone voice echoed from the doorway. I stiffened. Adrian Thorne was standing there, watching us. There were barely six feet between us. His eyes locked onto mine. After two seconds of intense scrutiny, I was the one who looked away. This was a university. I wouldn’t make a scene. Not with Cooper’s future on the line. I forced a brittle, fake smile. “Hello, Professor. I’m Cooper’s sister, Natalie.” Adrian continued to stare at me. He looked… dazed. Even Cooper noticed the weird vibe. “Professor?” Adrian snapped out of it, but his voice sounded uncharacteristically strained. “Hello.” I nodded, wanting to be anywhere else. “I just wanted to ask you to look out for my brother. I’d love to take you to lunch to discuss his progress, but if you’re too busy, we can just rain-check…” I expected a rejection. I was counting on it. I wanted to run. But the man had nerves of steel. “I have time,” he said. Cooper looked at his advisor like he’d just grown a second head. I was equally stunned. A second later, I looked down at my carefully curated outfit—a silk blouse and tailored trousers—and it hit me. The bastard isn’t just a cheater. He’s a predator. I’d spent my whole life winning, and here I was, failing spectacularly at a digital relationship. 5 An hour later. At the restaurant, the three of us sat in a silence so thick you could cut it with a dull steak knife. Cooper nudged me under the table. “Nat, why did you pick this place? The food here is notoriously terrible.” That was the point. I wasn’t going to give a man like Adrian a five-star meal. The service was fast, unfortunately. I gestured toward the plates with fake enthusiasm. “Please, Dr. Thorne, try the steak. It’s supposed to be… memorable.” Adrian smiled—a small, enigmatic thing—and cut into his steak. He took a bite, chewed, and then paused. Cooper looked pained. “Professor, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to force it. We can go somewhere—” “It’s actually quite good,” Adrian said, his expression remaining perfectly polite and warm. “I like it.” I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles turned white. Looking at his hypocritical face, I felt my composure slipping. The lunch was agonizing. I exchanged a few stiff pleasantries about Cooper’s academics, and then we lapsed back into silence. Halfway through, I excused myself to pay the bill. The hostess stopped me. “The gentleman already took care of it.” It wasn’t my cheapskate brother. “When?” I asked, stunned. “A few minutes ago.” Adrian had used the bathroom as an excuse to settle the check. I felt a surge of complicated annoyance. I felt like I owed him something now, which I hated. Especially because the food sucked. I walked back to the table and watched him finish the last of his steak. He seemed to be enjoying it. Is he for real? I took a bite of my own steak. I chewed. And chewed. And chewed. It was like trying to eat a Goodyear tire. I swallowed hard, nearly choking, and reached frantically for my water. Before I could grab it, a glass was placed in my hand. Long, elegant fingers. Well-manicured. Nothing like my brother’s stubby hands. I looked up. Adrian was watching me, a hint of a smile playing in his eyes. I looked down, my heart sinking. He was flirting. He was actually trying to charm me. And the worst part? Thump-thump. Thump-thump. My heart was actually racing. 6 It was a workday, and everyone had things to do. We parted ways quickly after lunch. I drove Cooper to a local diner to get some actual food. As we sat down, I got a message from “Lavender.” Did you get home safe? Baby, are you free? Can I call you? God, he’s a master of time management, I thought bitterly. I stared at the messages. Thinking about him as a married man made my skin crawl. Without another thought, I typed back: We’ve been doing this a long time, but I don’t think we’re right for each other. It’s over. Don’t contact me again. Send. Block. Delete. I leaned back in the booth and closed my eyes. Adrian Thorne was exactly my type physically, but I couldn’t do the “other woman” thing. It made me furious. If he wasn’t Cooper’s advisor, I would have burned his life down today. But for my brother’s sake, I had to swallow the bitter pill. Two months, I told myself. Just wait until he graduates. I glared at Cooper. “You better work on that paper!” Cooper jumped. “Okay, okay! I got it!” He finished eating quickly and started scrolling through his phone. Suddenly, he let out a loud laugh. “Oh man, this poor guy.” He showed me his screen. “I just found a post on a forum. This guy says he went on a first date with his long-term online girlfriend today, and she blocked him right after lunch. He thinks it’s because he ate too much. Ha!” I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. I was a casualty of the same war. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a funk, thinking I was finally done with Adrian Thorne. I was wrong. We met again that very night.

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My twin brother became a household name overnight by playing the tragic, ethereal lead in a viral gay romance series. To protect his “pure, untouchable” image, I didn’t hesitate to take the fall for every single one of his PR disasters. Smoking? Yeah, that was me. Partying at a club until 4 AM? Me again. Caught kissing the newest “it-girl” in a parking lot? Guilty as charged. The internet had a field day with us: [Mother of the year: She has two kids, one’s gay, and the other… well, she’s trying her best.] [LMAO, did these twins swap their sexual orientations in the womb or what?] That night, Davis Blackwood—the crown prince of the East Coast elite—posted a tweet that broke the internet. “Funny. When we broke up, she told me I wasn’t her type. I didn’t realize she meant she wasn’t into my entire gender.” Wait. What? The tea is boiling, everyone. Grab a cup. 1. My brother, Cody Miller, and I are twins. Except for the ten-inch height difference, we are carbon copies. He’s six-one; I’m five-three. He launched his career by playing the “fragile beauty” in a high-fantasy M/M drama. I launched mine by getting an extra scoop of mashed potatoes in the college cafeteria because the lunch lady thought I was a “handsome young man.” “You have such a delicate face, sweetheart,” she’d say. Thanks, ma’am. But I’m a girl. While Cody was becoming a superstar, I was in a cramped dorm room living off instant ramen and dreams. The night his first series, The Master’s Shadow, premiered, the streaming servers crashed three times. The comments were unhinged: [HE IS MY WIFE! MY DESTINED WIFE!] [That waist! Those eyes! The vulnerability! I’m literally dying!] [He is a literal treasure!] In the show, Cody’s character—a cold, distant mentor—was pinned against a wall and kissed by his demonic disciple. His eyes were rimmed with red, a perfect mix of resistance and desire. I watched it and felt my skin crawl so hard I could have retreated into my own skeleton. He called me the moment he got his first real paycheck. “Sis, I’m taking care of you now.” I looked at the notification for the fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer and felt tears prick my eyes. I threw the ramen in the trash and ordered a five-course meal from the best bistro in town. “From this day forward,” I declared, “your scandals are mine.” Cody was touched. He actually sniffled. “Casey, you’re the only one who truly has my back.” “Don’t mention it,” I said, puffing out my chest. “You’re a queer icon now, Cody. Your brand is ‘Ice King.’ You can’t have a single crack in that porcelain skin.” “Actually,” he stammered, “I play the lead in a romance, Casey. I’m not a monk.” “Irrelevant!” I snapped. “Your fans want you pure, untouchable, and ideally, not even human. I’m the designated sinner now.” “I think you have a very skewed perception of my job…” I didn’t care. I saw the business opportunity. The Professional Scapegoat. Salary: Six figures. I was in. 2. Cody didn’t just become famous; he became an obsession. People dug up photos of him in a princess dress from when he was seven. #CodyMillerPrincessDress #BornToBeTheOne #CodyMillerIsMyWife I sat in my apartment scrolling through Twitter, fuming. Why was it “destiny” when he wore a dress, but when I wore one, people asked if I was “trying a bit too hard to be feminine”? The world is remarkably unkind to actual women. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was Cody’s manager. Six exclamation marks. “WE HAVE A PROBLEM!!!!!!” My heart skipped. Three seconds later, the hashtag #CodyMillerSmokingAtTheClub hit number one. The grainy video showed a slim figure in a black hoodie leaning back in a VIP booth, a cigarette between long fingers, his profile blurred by neon lights. Even with the mask, those eyes—those deep, soulful eyes that looked at a dog like it was the love of his life—were unmistakably “Cody.” The comment section was a battlefield. [I’m out. I can’t believe ‘my wife’ is a smoker.] [Smoking indoors? Isn’t that a violation?] [The club? Please. I heard he was making out with girls in the back.] That last comment was mine. Don’t ask. My finger slipped. I deleted it immediately, but the internet is forever. The “Cody Miller Is Into Women” rumors began to spiral. Cody called, his voice shaking. “Casey… that video is you.” “Excuse me?” I bristled. “I was in the library writing a thesis last night!” “It’s you,” he insisted. “You were wearing my hoodie. We’re twins. We look the same in low light. And you’re wearing those three-inch platform sneakers again, aren’t you?” “…” “…” Ten minutes later, a notification popped up: Venmo: Cody Miller sent you $20,000. I immediately logged into my burner account, CaseyM_Real. I posted: [That’s me in the video. I’m his sister. We’re twins. I’m the smoker, I’m the club rat. My brother was just there to pick me up. Move along.] I attached a photo of us together—same hoodie, same eyes, same… wait, why am I still shorter than him? Whatever. Post. The narrative shifted instantly. #CodyMillersHotSister #ProtectiveBrotherCody #TwinGoals I stared at the word “hot.” It felt like a consolation prize. Cody was “ethereal,” and I was “hot”? Cody sent another thirty thousand. Note: Emotional damages and a fund for taller sneakers. I took the money and ordered ten pairs of insoles. Next time, I was going to be six feet tall. 3. The first hit was a success. I got a taste for it. There’s a strange thrill in being a superstar’s shadow. The money comes fast, the insults come faster, but I didn’t care. I could count cash faster than the trolls could type. Then, the second crisis hit. Cody messaged me: “Casey, SOS. Life or death.” My eyes lit up. “What’s the budget?” “…Can you ask what the problem is first?” “The problem is secondary to the price point.” “One hundred thousand.” “Deal. What happened?” “You didn’t even haggle!” “Do you want me to come over or not?” I went to his penthouse and found him staring at his phone in a trance. On the screen was a video. A dimly lit hotel corridor. A slim figure in a white silk shirt was being pinned against the wall by a woman. She was on her tiptoes, seemingly mid-kiss. Even blurred, that silhouette, that jawline… it was Cody. I blew up. “Cody! You’re dating?! And a woman?! Do you have any idea what this does to your brand? To your ‘wives’?” If you’re going to eat from the plate of queer romance, you have to respect the fans who cooked the meal. They can handle him kissing a man; they cannot handle him kissing a girl. It’s the principle of the thing. “Can you just… watch the whole thing?” Cody muttered, burying his face in his hands. I watched. I didn’t recognize the woman personally, but I knew her face. Sophie St. James. A rising starlet who just hit it big with a teen rom-com. Cody looked miserable. “We were at the wrap party. She said she was a fan. She wanted a photo. Then she just… slammed me into the wall. I didn’t even realize what was happening until…” He touched his cheek. “Why is she so strong?” “…” “So you got harrassed?” “Yes.” “And you didn’t push her off?” “I tried! She wouldn’t budge!” My brother. Six-one. The nation’s heartthrob. Pinned by a five-foot-four actress. No one would believe it. But the video was already leaked. The headlines were screaming: #CodyMillerSophieStJamesKiss #CodyMillerScandal #TheLieIsOut Cody’s fandom was in a state of nuclear meltdown. [I don’t believe it! He’s being forced!] [The video is real. I’m burning my merch.] [Wait, does he look like he’s struggling?] [Struggling? He’s a foot taller than her!] I looked at Cody. “Are you sure you pushed?” “I am positive!” “With all your strength?” “…I didn’t want to hurt her.” I sighed. Cody wasn’t weak; he was just too damn polite. He spent so much time playing a “submissive” role that he’d forgotten how to be a person who says ‘no’ in the real world. He was a professional victim. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the fall.” “How?” I smirked. “You forget. We have the same face.” 4. I tweeted: [That’s me in the video. Sophie and I are exploring things. Everyone has a type. Mind your business.] The internet exploded. [Wait… what?! Is this a coming out post?] [So… Cody’s sister is gay?] [LMAO, the Miller twins literally swapped their souls.] [Actually, she’s kind of a badass. I’m into it.] [Is it just me, or is the sister even more ‘Cody’ than Cody is?] Sophie St. James didn’t say a word. Why would she? She was loving the clout. Ten minutes later, she posted: [Just a dinner between friends! Don’t overthink it! <3] She attached a photo of her and "Cody"—a cozy, intimate shot where she’s tucked into his side. Cody turned pale. "That’s Photoshopped. I never took that picture with her." "I know," I said. "But she’s a leech." "What do we do?" "Cody, you forget who I am." I posted again: [Sophie, honey, your editor is great, but next time, remember: my brother has a tiny mole under his left eye. I don't. Check the zoom.] I attached a high-res selfie of Cody’s face and a zoomed-in shot of Sophie’s "cozy" photo. The "Cody" in her photo had no mole. The backlash was instant and brutal. [HOLY CRAP. SHE PHOTOSHOPPED HIM IN?] [Sophie is a psycho. Clout chasing is a disease.] [Casey is a queen. I’m stanning.] [Wait, so Casey actually kissed her or not?] Sophie deleted her post and went ghost. Cody sent me another hundred thousand. Note: Scapegoat fee + P-eye detective fee. I was feeling pretty good about myself. Until three minutes later, when my "Important Person" notification rang. I thought it was Sophie trying to fight. I rolled up my sleeves, ready for war. But the name on the screen made my blood turn to ice. @DavisBlackwood: [She told me I wasn't her type. I didn't realize she meant she wasn't into my entire gender.] Wait. 5. My history with Davis Blackwood is... complicated. It started three years ago.

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After I moved into my fiancé’s penthouse, I found his rigid, buttoned-up demeanor utterly exasperating. Every day, it was either a barrage of check-in texts or him insisting we make out like teenagers. At first, he seemed annoyed by my sheer existence, but considering the corporate merger between our families, he had no choice but to indulge my every whim. Until one afternoon. I discovered that the woman Nate Prescott was actually supposed to marry wasn’t me. It was my older sister. The moment the realization hit, I was straddling my future brother-in-law’s lap. The edges of my vision went entirely black. I scrambled to get off him, but Nate’s hands caught my waist, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion as he pulled me back against his chest. “I thought kissing was on the daily mandatory agenda,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Are we skipping it today?” I waved my hands frantically, feeling the blood drain from my face. “We’re skipping it. We are definitely skipping it.” I mean, I had my flaws, but I drew the line at making out with my sister’s fiancé. 1 The hands gripping my waist tightened infinitesimally. Nate tipped my chin up with his index finger, his dark eyes searching my face with a mix of concern and bewilderment. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?” “No.” “Then why the sudden strike?” he asked, his tone perfectly serious. “Usually, if I show even a fraction of hesitation, you throw a fit.” The fact that he was analyzing my erratic behavior with the gravity of a board meeting made my chest tight. Just minutes ago, everything had been perfectly fine. I had been whining for attention. Nate, ever the disciplined CEO, had actually sighed, closed his laptop, and pulled me onto his lap. Faced with a man who looked like he’d been carved out of marble specifically to wear Tom Ford suits, I was fully prepared to kiss him senseless. Then, my iPhone buzzed. It was a text from my brother, Brooks. [Heather, Caroline is flying back from London next week.] [Mom and Dad are getting everything lined up with that guy they set her up with… what was his name again?] [Oh right. Nate Prescott.] [Since you’re pretty tight with him, Mom wants to know if you can invite him over for a family dinner?] I had been lazily draped over Nate’s shoulder. Reading those texts, my spine snapped straight. Wait. Since when was Nate Prescott my older sister’s arranged match? It took my brain several agonizing seconds to process the information. Suddenly, the glaringly obvious signs I had ignored came rushing back to me. Muttering some incoherent excuse to Nate, I practically bolted from his home office and sprinted to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I dialed Brooks. He picked up on the second ring. “What’s up, Harp?” “Brooks, I need you to clarify something right now,” I hissed, pacing the length of the balcony, keeping my voice to a frantic whisper. “Nate was originally set up with Caroline?” “What do you mean ‘originally’? He still is.” Brooks sounded completely bewildered. “Caroline isn’t getting any younger, and she insisted on doing that year-long fellowship in Europe. Mom and Dad have been stressed out of their minds.” “They’re planning to lock down the engagement between her and the Prescott family the second she lands.” … Brooks kept talking, his voice a steady drone on the other end of the line, but a high-pitched ringing had taken over my ears. I was doomed. I pressed my palm against my forehead, sliding down the glass door until I hit the floor. How on earth had I managed to create a disaster of this magnitude? 2 I had first heard about the impending marriage between the Kensington and Prescott families a few months ago. My parents had casually dropped it over Sunday brunch. At the time, Caroline was already across the Atlantic. In my typical, self-absorbed fashion, I naturally assumed I was the sacrificial lamb being offered up to the corporate gods. Initially, I was repulsed by the archaic idea of an arranged marriage. But then, on a whim, I typed Nate Prescott’s name into Google. That changed everything. The man staring back at me from the screen had the kind of devastating, razor-sharp jawline that ruined women. I was instantly hooked. I remember laughing to myself. Well played, Mom and Dad. How did you know exactly what my type is? My logic at the time was simple: if I was going to be shackled to this man for life, I needed to know if we had any chemistry behind closed doors. Because if he was all flash and no fire, I didn’t care how many commas were in his bank account—I was out. Once the idea took root, I didn’t even bother going back to my dorm at NYU. I packed a couple of Rimowa suitcases and showed up directly at Nate’s corporate headquarters. At first, he treated me like a rogue variable he couldn’t calculate. “Does your family know you’re planning to move in with me?” he had asked. I shook my head, then nodded vaguely. Nate stared at me, his cool, slate-gray eyes betraying absolutely nothing. “While your reasoning for a ‘trial run’ is logically sound, and theoretically, I shouldn’t object…” He paused, adjusting his cuffs. “I am absolutely refusing.” I flared up instantly. How could a man be so infuriatingly rigid? I was the youngest daughter of the Kensington family; no one had ever flat-out denied me anything. So, I did what any rational twenty-one-year-old would do: I threw an absolute tantrum. I cried, making sure to wipe my mascara-stained tears all over the lapels of his bespoke suit. The sheer volume of my dramatics made Nate rub his temples in defeat. He hit the intercom. His executive assistant rushed in. Seeing me essentially clinging to his boss like a weeping barnacle, the assistant immediately glued his eyes to the floor. “Mr. Prescott, you needed me?” “Take her… take her to the Tribeca penthouse,” Nate sighed, the fight completely drained out of him. “Have Martha prep the guest suite.” “Right away, sir.” With the orders given, Nate looked down at me, still sniffling against his chest. His brow furrowed. “Are you going to get up?” “Right.” I scrambled up, following the assistant toward the door. But before I left, I poked my head back into his office. “By the way, what time do you get off work?” Nate’s pen stalled over a contract. He looked at me, resigning himself to his fate. “Five.” “Perfect. I’ll be waiting for you.” I blew the man a kiss and practically skipped out the door, completely oblivious to the quiet sigh he let out as he looked down at his ruined suit jacket. 3 Once we started living together, I quickly realized that Nate was unbearably stoic. He was a man of routines, silence, and control. He was zero fun. So, I made it my personal mission to push his buttons. Yet, no matter how outrageous I was, his icy exterior would inevitably melt, dissolving like sugar in hot tea. It was infuriating, honestly. Like punching a cloud. The very first night, he didn’t get home until almost midnight. I was livid. In the middle of the night, I marched into his master bedroom, climbed right onto the mattress, and straddled his waist to demand answers. “You said five o’clock. You come back this late without a single text, and this is how you treat your fiancée?” The sudden weight of me, combined with the interrogation, completely derailed his breathing. His large hands gripped the silk sheets, his knuckles turning white. He looked less like a ruthless corporate titan and more like a Victorian maiden being scandalized by a pirate. “It was an oversight on my part, I apologize,” he managed to choke out, his voice rough with sleep. “But… could you please get off me?” I refused, stubbornly planting myself and poking at his chest to emphasize my points. As my hand trailed down the hard ridges of his abs, I brushed against something distinctly… substantial. Oh. Well then. It was genuinely impressive. I patted it approvingly, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over me as a dark, dangerous flush spread across Nate’s normally composed face. Knock, knock, knock— The sound of the bedroom door rattling snapped me back to the present. Nate tried the handle, finding it locked. After a beat of silence, his voice filtered through the wood, laced with an uncharacteristic edge of urgency. “Heather? Are you locking me out?” “Did I do something to upset you?” I buried my face in my hands, a massive headache blooming behind my eyes. Caroline was coming home. My time was running out. Before this entire situation detonated and took out both our families, I had to fix the colossal mess I’d made. 4 I unlocked the door. Nate was standing right there in the hallway. Seeing that I wasn’t crying, his rigid posture relaxed a fraction. “Are you in a bad mood?” he asked softly. “I made that cinnamon apple oatmeal you like. Do you want to try and eat a little?” I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” “Then what are you craving? Tell me, I’ll make it right now.” Nate reached out, his long fingers gently smoothing down my messy hair, his tone entirely too patient. The truth was, Martha, the housekeeper, was an exquisite chef. But I had been a terror in the beginning. I had insisted that Nate cook for me himself, claiming that’s what couples in love did. His early attempts had been culinary tragedies. He had slowly, painstakingly gotten better. “I don’t want anything. Don’t worry about it.” Hearing this, Nate’s hand stilled. He looked down at me, his gray eyes performing a rapid, analytical sweep of my face. “You are mad.” I blinked, opening my mouth to deny it, but Nate was already running through his mental checklist. “Is this because you asked me to hand you your sunscreen this morning, and I accidentally gave you your foundation?” “…No.” I twitched. He kept going. “Is it because I was three minutes late replying to your text? Heather, I swear to you, I was in the middle of a board meeting.” “Nate, I said I’m not mad—” “I figured it out,” he interrupted, his jaw tight, looking as if he’d just solved a complex algorithm. “It’s because yesterday you asked me why there are twelve months in a year, and I said I didn’t know.” … I stared at him, utterly speechless. A wave of profound guilt washed over me. Looking back, I realized exactly how unhinged and demanding I had been over the past few months. God, I was a monster. By the time I snapped out of my spiral, Nate had already swept me off my feet. “What are you doing?” I gasped, clutching his shoulders, frantically trying to wiggle out of his grasp. Nate simply tightened his hold, carrying me down the hall and into the living room. He sat down on the expansive Restoration Hardware sofa, keeping me firmly perched on his lap. Beneath me, the solid, muscular planes of his thighs felt like a trap. I went pale, avoiding his gaze because the guilt was practically eating me alive. Then, two fingers caught my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Heather,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “Didn’t you tell me last week that whenever you’re mad, the only cure is for me to carry you?” I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper-dry. “I… I made that up. I was just messing with you.” “You don’t ever have to carry me again.” Nate’s gaze dropped to my lips. I watched his Adam’s apple bob slowly against his throat. Finally, his eyes flicked back to mine, his voice dropping ten degrees. “Noted.” 5 That night, I didn’t sneak into Nate’s bedroom like I usually did. When I came out of the master bathroom, my face freshly scrubbed, I stopped dead in my tracks. Nate was walking into my bedroom, holding his pillow. I froze. Without breaking eye contact, he climbed onto my mattress, pulled back the duvet, and patted the empty space beside him. My feet were nailed to the floor. Half my spine broke out in a cold sweat. “What are you doing?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at me like I was the one being unreasonable. “Sleeping. Together.” “I’m actually feeling really exhausted tonight,” I stammered, wrapping my silk robe tighter around myself. “I think I want to sleep alone. Is that okay?” Nate’s breathing hitched. A microscopic crease formed between his brows. “If I recall correctly, the last time I suggested sleeping in separate beds, you gave me the silent treatment for three days.” “Well… you know. Hormones. Sometimes a girl just wants her space,” I offered weakly. That excuse only deepened the crease between his eyes. He sat there, studying me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. The silence stretched until the air in the room felt thick and suffocating. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but incredibly sharp. “Heather, there is something very wrong with you today.” “No there isn’t.” My heart hammered against my ribs, and I desperately lunged for a change of subject. “Nate, seriously… do you ever think I’m just way too annoying?” My question seemed to throw him off balance. He rubbed his jaw, looking uncharacteristically flustered. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just… still adjusting…” “Exactly! You’re adjusting, meaning it’s not natural!” I interrupted, slapping my thigh for emphasis. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been totally out of line, moving in here just because of the families. But looking at it objectively? We really aren’t a good fit.” I talked fast, the words spilling out before I could lose my nerve. “I think I’m going to pack up and move back to my apartment near campus in a few days. What do you think?” I slurred the “not a good fit” part, praying he would just let it slide and we could quietly go our separate ways. The room went dead silent. The kind of silence that precedes a hurricane. Nate stared at me, his eyes dark and entirely unreadable. When he spoke, he enunciated every single syllable. “Did you just say we aren’t a good fit?” “I just mean, with graduation coming up, things are chaotic, and if I move back…” “Heather. Do you think we aren’t a good fit?” His voice was heavier now, a low, dangerous frequency that vibrated in my chest. My heart skipped a beat. I decided to just rip the band-aid off. “Yes.” We weren’t a fit. We were never supposed to be a fit. What else was there to say? 6 But surprisingly, Nate didn’t explode. He looked at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, he reached out, caught my wrist, pulled me down, and pressed his mouth firmly against mine. What?! I froze completely, my brain short-circuiting as his lips moved over mine. When he pulled back, he looked utterly unfazed, though the tips of his ears were burning a dark, telltale red. “There. Today’s kiss is officially logged. Are you going to behave now?” I clenched my hands into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. I wanted to slap myself. This was the karma I deserved for conditioning this man like a Pavlovian dog. The boomerang had come back and hit me right between the eyes. “Nate, I wasn’t throwing a tantrum because I wanted a kiss,” I said, taking a shaky breath, trying to inject some rationality into the room. “Actually, to be clear, I’m not throwing a tantrum at all. I’m saying… can we stop the kissing? Permanently?” Nate’s brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. “But you told me that people in a relationship have to kiss every single day to maintain intimacy.” A beat passed. A dark realization dawned in his eyes. “Oh. I get it. Are you mad because I didn’t use tongue?” Before I could even process the absurdity of the sentence, he leaned in again. I thought I was going to die of sheer mortification. I threw my hand over his mouth, effectively blocking him. Seeing the sheer panic in my eyes and the light sheen of sweat on my forehead, Nate let out a low, breathless laugh against my palm. “Look how tense you are. It’s not like it’s our first time.” He pulled my hand away, his expression softening into something devastatingly tender. “Come on. Get in bed.” There was absolutely no way I was getting in that bed with him. It took me ten minutes of pleading and physical maneuvering to finally push him out of my room. By the time he stood in the hallway, his face was like thunder. “So, that’s it then? You’re just completely inconsolable today?” I didn’t dare answer, but I held the door firmly, my stance resolute. Before he turned away, Nate let out a short, bitter laugh. “Fine. We don’t ever have to sleep in the same bed again.” “Not that I care anyway.” 7 With graduation looming, I genuinely did have a lot on my plate. It provided the perfect cover. I avoided the penthouse for several days. Then, the phone call came. Nate’s voice was crisp, cold, and utterly terrifying. “Did you actually move back to your apartment?” “Why wasn’t I informed?” “When are you coming back?” The rapid-fire interrogation left me slightly breathless. “I probably won’t be coming back for a while,” I said, glancing down at my watch, desperate for a lifeline. “I’m drowning in my thesis. I barely have time to grab a coffee, let alone commute.” At that, the icy tension over the line seemed to thaw just a fraction. Nate’s voice dropped, slipping into a lazy, persuasive cadence. “That works out perfectly. I made a reservation at that omakase place you love. I also bought you those fuzzy bear slippers you pointed out. Didn’t you say your heels were killing you?” He paused, letting the bait dangle. “We’ll get dinner, and then maybe catch a movie?” The sheer temptation in his voice made me hesitate. God, I was weak. Sensing my internal struggle, Nate ruthlessly upped the ante. “If you don’t want to go out, we can stay in. I learned how to make those molten lava cakes you’re obsessed with. For dessert.” Lava cake?! I practically swallowed my own tongue. Stars danced in my eyes. But with Herculean effort, I forced myself to refuse. Nate clicked his tongue, drawing out his words. “I almost forgot. I had a few new dresses and some jewelry sent over. You’re really not going to come try them on?” “N-no. I’m not,” I croaked, the words tasting like ash. “Maybe another time.” I had read once that a truly powerful woman could conquer her own desires. If I couldn’t resist designer clothes and chocolate, how was I ever going to untangle this mess? Besides, if I caved now, all this agonizing distance would be for nothing. I just needed to find the right moment to sit him down and tell him the truth. I was desperate to hang up before I cracked. But just as I pulled the phone away, Nate called my name. My heart stalled. “The penthouse is completely empty without you here,” he said, his voice stripped of all its armor, raw and quiet. “Come home.” A warm spring breeze whipped across the campus quad, catching my hair. I pressed my free hand tightly against my chest, desperately trying to keep my heart from beating right out of my ribcage. 8 In the end, I stayed away. So, when Nate Prescott’s sleek black Range Rover materialized on campus a few days later, I wasn’t entirely surprised. The timing, however, was violently unfortunate. I was currently standing under an oak tree, being cornered by Cameron, a junior from my department, who was stammering through a very earnest, very public confession of love. He was telling me how he’d had a crush on me since his freshman year, and with me graduating, he didn’t want to live with the regret of never saying anything. I was literally opening my mouth to let him down gently when my phone started vibrating. Nate. His voice came through the speaker, cold, sharp, and laced with absolute venom. He didn’t even bother with a greeting. “Who is the guy standing next to you?” I froze. My head snapped around, scanning the perimeter. Sure enough, parked illegally by the gates, was the Range Rover. Nate was in the driver’s seat. The glare of the windshield obscured his expression, but I didn’t need to see his face to know he was furious. Panic and a desperate need to sever our ties collided in my brain, producing a spectacular lie. “He’s my boyfriend. Why?” The breathing on the other end of the line fractured. A heavy, suffocating silence stretched out for what felt like hours. Then, Nate let out a hollow, mocking laugh. He said a single word— “Oh”— and the line went dead. I stared at the black screen of my phone. Knowing Nate’s pride, I thought, he’ll put the car in drive and never look back. Unlike my sudden internal devastation, Cameron was buzzing with renewed energy. He rubbed the back of his neck, a massive grin spreading across his face. “Heather, did you just tell that guy I was your—” “Forget what I just said. There was a reason I did that,” I said, cutting him off, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over me. “Don’t read into it. I just needed him to hear that.” Cameron blinked, his smile faltering. But he was young and resilient. A second later, his shoulders squared. “That’s okay. I know a lot of guys are into you. I can wait. I’ll just keep liking you until you finally notice me.” I stared at him, wanting to tell him not to waste his time. But before I could get the words out, he plowed ahead. “It’s almost noon. Let me buy you lunch?” He enthusiastically pointed out a new café that had opened down the street. Looking at his eager, hopeful eyes, I couldn’t find the heart to shoot him down completely. I was just about to ask if he had friends we could drag along as buffers, when my phone went off again. It wasn’t a call. It was a rapid-fire barrage of texts. [Making out with me every day while you have a boyfriend. You are truly something else.] [So what you told me the other night was true.] [You got bored. You suddenly decided we ‘aren’t a good fit.’] [Fine. Great. Keep being a spoiled brat.] [I’m sitting here dealing with the fallout of this alone, but it’s fine. I’m not hurt. I’m not tired at all.] [What do you want me to do, send you guys an Edible Arrangement to celebrate?] [I clearly can’t control you. Do whatever you want.] [By the way, his Jordans are fake.] [Your taste in men is absolute garbage.] 9 I stared at the screen, my jaw physically dropping. Was this the same Nate Prescott? The ruthless, untouchable CEO? Before, I was the only one who sent unhinged walls of text.

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I came home early from my business trip, only to find the living room door deadbolted from the inside. That wasn’t like her. Lydia was many things—brilliant, icy, meticulous—but she wasn’t someone who locked herself away in her own home. Something was wrong. I pressed the doorbell. It took thirty seconds—an eternity in a silent house—before she finally pulled it open. I spent the next few minutes pretending to unpack, my eyes darting across every corner of the house. I checked the guest room, the laundry room, even the master closet. Nothing. No one. I started to think I was being paranoid, a symptom of a marriage that had felt like treading water for years. Then, Lydia appeared in the hallway, gripping the handle of a suitcase. She told me she had to leave for an emergency conference. I was about to nod, to let her go with the usual polite indifference that defined us. Then, a flicker of light caught my eye. Transparent lines of text began scrolling through the air right in front of my face. … 1 [The male lead is a genius for hiding in the suitcase! The female lead just has to wheel him out and he’s home free!] [Our boy has such a perfect, lithe frame. If it were that hulking brute Callum, he’d never fit. Poor baby must be so cramped in there, though… ugh, my heart breaks for him!] Oh? Hiding in the suitcase? I reached for my car keys, my expression smoothing into a mask of perfect, terrifying calm. “Honey, let me drive you to the station.” As the glowing text faded, I looked down at the red suitcase in Lydia’s hand. It was a 32-inch hardshell, a gift from my father on our wedding day. It was massive—plenty of room for a person, provided they were willing to fold themselves into a ball. I narrowed my eyes and flashed the most flawless, supportive smile I could muster. “Where’s the conference? How long will you be gone?” She adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, a nervous tic she thought she’d hidden years ago. “Um, Jersey. A seminar at Princeton. I should be back in three days.” Lydia was a law professor. Tall, statuesque, she commanded a room with the kind of sharp-suited elegance that felt both intellectual and intimidating. I had never once imagined she was capable of something as cliché as an affair. I looked at the suitcase, an idea sparking in my mind. “You always forget the essentials when you’re in a rush, Lydia. It’s freezing out there. Are you sure you packed enough layers? You can’t just wear power suits for three days; you’ll catch a cold. You need a heavy coat.” Lydia’s grip on the handle tightened. “I have everything I need, Callum. Really.” Above my head, more comments began to scroll: [God, Callum is such a controlling freak. Why does he care about a coat right now? He’s going to make her late.] [This isn’t the first time. Remember when she had that faculty gala and he spent twenty minutes obsessing over which blue tie she should wear? He’s a micro-managing nightmare. He just wants her under his thumb!] [Our boy is the total opposite. He’s sweet, submissive, like a little rabbit. It’s no wonder she fell for him.] According to these “comments,” I was some kind of villainous, controlling husband in a story I didn’t know I was starring in. And Lydia and the man in that bag? They were the star-crossed lovers. Unreal. Did these people even understand the plot? Did they know why I insisted on the blue tie that night? It was because it matched the donor’s corporate colors—a move that secured her tenure. They wanted a controlling husband? Fine. I’ll give them a performance. “Did you pack that wool overcoat I bought you last month?” I asked, stepping forward and reaching for the suitcase zipper. Panic flared in Lydia’s eyes. She lunged, grabbing the handle with both hands. I didn’t back down. I grabbed the base of the luggage. We stayed like that for a second—a tug-of-war over a red box of secrets. Then, I let go. Lydia wasn’t expecting the sudden lack of resistance. She stumbled back, and the heavy suitcase skidded across the hardwood floor, slamming into the baseboard with a dull, sickening thud. I heard it then. A very faint, muffled groan from inside the shell. Lydia scrambled toward it, checking the corners like it was a crate of Ming vases. The comments surged: [Holy crap! Is this psycho trying to kill our baby?!] [He’s so fragile, he’s basically skin and bones! He can’t take a hit like that!] [I remember his skin is so sensitive… if she even grips his wrist too hard, he bruises like a peach. He’s going to be covered in marks after that crash. Poor thing!] Skin and bones? Sensitive skin? That’s not a romantic trait; that’s a nutrient deficiency or a skin condition. And I knew everyone in Lydia’s circle. Who the hell would be this pathetic? I ran through the keywords—tender, sweet, skin and bones, sensitive. A face began to form in my mind. Could it really be him? I waved a hand dismissively, feigning hurt. “Fine. Pack what you want. I was just trying to help, but I guess I’m just ‘smothering’ you again.” Lydia let out a shaky breath. As she stood up to wheel the bag away, I cut her off. “I’m driving you. No arguments.” I didn’t wait for her to agree. I was already at the door, stepping into my shoes. “It’s fine, Callum. I’ll just call an Uber.” “You’re in a rush, right? Why wait ten minutes for a Prius when I’m standing here with the keys? Unless…” I trailed off, turning to look her dead in the eye. I kept the smile on my lips, but I let my eyes go cold. “You’ve been acting strange since I got home, Lydia. Is there something you’re keeping from me?” Lydia’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the floor, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered. She looked at the suitcase. Through the glare of her glasses, I saw a flash of raw, agonized protection. She looked back at me, her gaze hardening into something resembling resolve. “Fine. Let’s go. But drive fast, okay? I can’t miss my train.” The station was a twenty-minute drive. Twenty minutes for her to find an excuse to let him out, twenty minutes for them to plan their secret getaway. How romantic. “Trust me, babe,” I said, clicking my car keys. “I’m a great driver. I’ll get you there in record time.” I glanced at the suitcase as she wheeled it past. Get ready for the ride of your life, kiddo. We walked out to the parking lot. To get there, we had to cross a long stretch of decorative cobblestone. Lydia winced with every thump-thump-thump of the suitcase wheels hitting the uneven stones. The sound was loud, rhythmic, and undoubtedly jarring for anyone inside. Her brow was furrowed in sympathy, as if she were the one feeling every jolt. “Oof—” A low, muffled cry drifted out from the suitcase seams. I pretended not to hear it, even as the comments on my “screen” went into a frenzy. [Oh my god, that has to hurt so much.] [My poor baby… stop shaking him!] Lydia stopped. Without a word, she bent down and hoisted the massive, heavy suitcase into her arms, carrying it the rest of the way. I gave her a sweet, puzzled smile. “Honey, that thing is huge. Why are you carrying it? That’s what wheels are for.” Lydia’s jaw was set. “The noise. I don’t want to disturb the neighbors.” The comments swooned: [God, look at that strength. She’s such a queen. Total protector energy!] [We all know she’s fierce in the bedroom, but this? This is love.] By the time we reached the car, Lydia’s arms were shaking from the effort. As she buckled her seatbelt, I saw her right hand trembling with exhaustion. I smiled to myself. I remembered three years ago, when we were hiking and I’d twisted my ankle. I’d asked her to help me down the trail, and she’d snapped at me for being “dramatic” and “needy.” She wouldn’t bend her “noble” knees for me then. But for the man in the box? She’d carry him across broken glass. Once in the car, I didn’t start the engine. I adjusted my hair in the rearview mirror. Then, I slowly opened the GPS and started typing in the address, one letter at a time. Lydia was vibrating with anxiety. After five minutes of me “fiddling” with the settings, she broke. “Callum, please. Can we just go? I’m really running late.” “Sorry, baby,” I said. The word baby felt heavy on my tongue. In five years of marriage, she had only called me that twice. She had been my senior in college, the “Ice Queen” of the law department. Every guy on campus had been obsessed with her. I had spent a year playing the devoted puppy, chasing her until I’d finally worn her down. I thought I’d won the prize. I thought the coldness was just a mask. But even after we married, the ice never melted. Every touch, every “I love you,” felt like something I had to earn. And yet, here she was, throwing terms of endearment at me just to protect the guy in the trunk. I slammed my foot on the gas. The Porsche roared to life and surged out of the driveway. “Slow down!” Lydia gasped. I ignored her. I hit a red light and slammed on the brakes. THUD. The suitcase flew forward in the trunk, hitting the back of the seats with a violent crack. Lydia’s face contorted in pain, but she didn’t dare scream. I drove toward the station, humming to myself. “You know, honey,” I said conversationally, “I was thinking about that boy I’ve been sponsoring.” Lydia’s head snapped toward me. “Why are you bringing that up now?” Her reaction was the final piece of the puzzle. I knew it. It was Toby. Toby Vance. The boy from the rural scholarship program my father’s foundation had funded for a decade. I’d personally seen to it that he got out of his small town, got through undergrad, and got into grad school. This was his gratitude. I sighed, putting on a show of regret. “I just feel bad. If I hadn’t introduced you to Toby, you wouldn’t have had to waste all that time helping him with his thesis because you felt sorry for him.” “Why are you talking about this?” Lydia’s voice was sharp with suspicion. A year ago, we’d taken Toby out to dinner to celebrate his upcoming graduation. He’d cried at the table—real, fat tears. “Callum, Lydia, you guys are my saviors. My advisor is failing me. If I don’t pass this thesis, I lose everything.” He’d claimed he was falling behind because he was working three part-time jobs. I’d found that odd; I sent him $2,000 a month for “living expenses.” It wasn’t a fortune, but it was plenty for a student. Before I could ask him about the money, Lydia had stepped in. “I’ll write it for you,” she’d said. I’d pulled her aside later. Writing a student’s thesis was academic suicide if she got caught. But she’d brushed me off. “He’s a poor kid from the sticks, Callum. He shouldn’t lose his future over one paper. You wouldn’t understand. You’ve always looked down on him because of where he’s from. That $2,000 a month? It’s an insult. It’s patronizing.” She had blamed me. Looking back, that dinner must have been the start of it. I forced a smile. “I’m just worried about your tenure review. If the committee finds out you ghost-wrote a student’s work, they’ll destroy you. It’s academic fraud, Lydia.” The comments started flying again: [Please! She was just being a decent person. Callum has such a dirty mind.] [Is Toby not suffered enough? He had to work at a dive bar for a year just to pay back a roommate for a bag he accidentally ripped. If Callum hadn’t been so stingy with the allowance, Toby wouldn’t have been so stressed!] [Callum basically pushed them together. He deserves to be cheated on.] [Just drive the car! My baby is suffocating in the trunk!] [Wait…] [Why is Callum staring at the trunk so much? Does he know?] [Can he see us?] I kept my eyes on the road. We were approaching a busy intersection. The light turned yellow. I floored it. CRUNCH. I “accidentally” clipped the bumper of the SUV in front of me. SLAM. The car behind us rear-ended me. A three-car pileup. I turned to Lydia, looking sheepish. “I’m so sorry, babe. I thought I could make the light, but the guy in front slammed on his brakes…” Lydia didn’t even wait for me to finish. She was out of the car in a second. When she saw the crumpled rear of the Porsche, she looked like she was about to have a stroke. I pulled out my phone. “I’ll call the cops and a tow truck.” Lydia grabbed my wrist. “No. Don’t call the police. It’s your fault anyway.” “I have to call insurance, Lydia.” “I’m in a hurry! Just give them your card and settle it privately!” When I insisted on calling 911, her composure finally shattered. She snatched my phone away, her voice rising to a scream. “Callum! What is wrong with you today? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I didn’t tell you about a business trip? You are acting like a spoiled brat!” The drivers from the other cars were standing nearby, and Lydia’s outburst went silent across the road. Everyone was staring. A woman from the car behind us—a sturdy, no-nonsense lady in a flannel shirt—marched over. She had a thick Philly accent. “Hey, lady! What’s your problem? Is that any way to talk to your husband?” Lydia looked at her like she was an insect. “Excuse me? Who are you?” The woman stood her ground, hands on her hips. “I’m the person you just backed into, honey. And I might drive a beat-up Ford, but I’ve never yelled at my man in the middle of the street like a banshee.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Don’t let her walk over you, sweetie. I’ll stay here and give the statement.” Then, she looked at the trunk. “You’re going on a trip, right?” She reached for the latch. “Let me help you with this bag. I’ll put it on the curb so she can grab her Uber and leave you in peace.” She grabbed the red suitcase before either of us could react. She hoisted it over her head with surprising strength. “Jesus!” she grunted. “What’s in here? A dead body?”

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I was docked down to $3,500 from my usual $20,000 salary because I spent a few minutes in the bathroom during work hours. When I went to my boss to argue for fairness, she acted impartial on the surface but spoke with veiled sarcasm: “Last month’s surveillance shows you spent a total of 40 minutes in the bathroom. You weren’t working in there, were you?” “One minute in the bathroom, $500 fine.” “It’s a new company policy. As a senior employee, you should set an example. I actually went easy on you.” I’ve been a key player at this company for ten years. The deals I’ve closed brought in at least a hundred million in revenue. But now, even my most basic rights are being stripped away. Seeing I had no response, she smiled coldly: “If you don’t like it, leave. Think you’re irreplaceable? Don’t forget, your five-year contract hasn’t expired yet. Who would dare hire you?” I didn’t argue further. But when my contract expired just five days later, she panicked. She kept going on and on: “Sarah, you’ve been at this company for several years. You should know the rules, right?” “Do you know how hard it is to find work these days? I’m only docking your pay because we go way back. If it were anyone else, I’d have kicked them out ages ago!” Hearing this, I couldn’t help but laugh. In my five years at the company, I’d worked diligently, focused entirely on closing deals. Thanks to my exceptional work ability, plenty of companies were willing to pay breach penalties to poach me, but out of loyalty to past relationships, I never considered such things. Even with just five days left on my contract, I’d been thinking about renewal. But now it seemed renewal wasn’t necessary. That glaring pay stub was thrown in my face without a shred of consideration. “Think it over. Stay or go!” I picked up the paper and said calmly, “I understand. I won’t use the bathroom during work hours anymore.” She froze for a moment, seemingly surprised by my submission. But seeing my defeated appearance, she smiled smugly. “That’s right. Don’t waste even a minute.” As I was about to leave, she mocked me: “Who do you think you are, acting tough? After all that fuss, you’re still going back to work like a good little dog. I hate people like you the most!” I opened my mouth but said nothing and left. Outside the office, everyone was celebrating payday. Seeing my low spirits, some colleagues offered me snacks. But Ruthie, a new intern at the company, was different. She silently walked past me and took my pay stub without asking. After looking at it, she feigned surprise. “Sarah only got $3,500? That’s less than one of my pairs of shoes!” “Isn’t Sarah supposed to be our company’s star performer? Look how far she’s fallen.” She passed the pay stub around, constantly repeating, “Sarah, did you make some huge mistake? This is so little.” My colleague Lisa asked with concern, “Sarah, why did they only pay you this much? Did they make a mistake?” I forced a smile at her. “One minute in the bathroom, $500 fine.” She looked confused. “What nonsense is that? The company never had such a rule.” My expression froze instantly. “Alright everyone, I have an announcement.” Manager Ruth slowly walked out of her office. She spoke self-righteously, pretending it was nothing: “Our company has a new policy—one minute in the bathroom, $500 fine.” “This month we tested it on our team leader Sarah, and it worked well. We’ll implement it starting next month.” “Also, certain people shouldn’t think being senior employees gives them the right to boss others around. Everyone should do their own work and follow company rules.” After speaking, she patted my shoulder. “Sarah, bear with it!” I stood there stunned, unable to react for a long time. So that’s what this was about—she was deliberately targeting me. Only docking my pay, then insinuating I was bossing people around. But in her forgetfulness, she overlooked one thing: my five-year contract had only five days left. And the one who’d actually been ordered around all this time was me. In that case, don’t blame me for being ruthless. With that thought, I opened last night’s message from a rival company and replied: “I’ll resign in five days. I’ll report on time.”

They were thrilled, not expecting I’d agree. Out of caution, I asked about compensation and benefits. She immediately replied: “Don’t worry. As long as you perform well, name your salary.” Reading this message, I let out a long breath of relief. All afternoon, I continued working conscientiously, but without bathroom breaks, my work efficiency dropped significantly. It couldn’t be helped—the company had new rules after all! At five o’clock, someone came to ask me to help negotiate a deal. They said this client was difficult, and it had to be me. Before, I would have agreed without hesitation. I used to think the company was a collective—if it did well, I’d do well. So whenever anyone asked for help, as long as it benefited the company, I’d assist, even if it exhausted me. But after being singled out by the new rule, I gradually realized I was just an employee. Who would care if I worked myself to death? Now I wouldn’t be that foolish. I pretended to be worried: “Sorry, I can’t help.” “Why not?” “Didn’t you hear this morning? Bathroom breaks get fined. What if I go out with you and she thinks I’m slacking off at the company?” “My monthly salary is already so little. Any more deductions and it’ll be negative.” “I may not have a family to support, but I need to feed myself first.” Hearing my explanation, she fell silent and left without saying anything more. At 7 PM, I shut down my computer right on time. Without cleaning up others’ messes, my workload dropped dramatically. It was so easy. Turns out not having to worry feels this good! With long strides, I walked out of the company. The breeze on my face felt comfortable. I didn’t need to take a cab anymore, leisurely walking toward the market. I couldn’t help but reflect—in five years of work, this was one of the rare times I could go home at a leisurely pace. I really didn’t know what kind of suffering I’d been enduring before. After getting home, I cooked dinner and took a nice hot bath. After finding a show to watch, I started eating. Food I made myself suited my own taste. In previous years, trying to close deals, I often drank at business dinners. My eating schedule was extremely irregular, and I’d developed stomach problems. But now, I was going to take care of myself. After dinner, I was about to order ingredients for tomorrow when I noticed my phone had exploded with messages. Video calls, work groups, colleague messages, even text messages—all showing 99+. I randomly opened a group where everyone was urging me to call back. “Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!” “Manager Ruth is furious, call back quick!” Just then, Manager Ruth’s call came through. After thinking it over, I decided to answer. The moment I connected, a barrage of cursing came through: “Sarah!!!” “Where did you go?! You dared to leave work without finishing your tasks—$1,000 deducted!” I spoke slowly: “Manager Ruth, let’s be clear. I completed my work. All the lists were sent to everyone—they can all attest to it.” “Besides, out of respect for you as my supervisor, I even stayed a few extra minutes.” “But that little contribution doesn’t need to be paid. No need for extra compensation.” “I’ve always been very reasonable, you know.” After saying this, I instantly felt much better.

The other end of the line was silent for a long time, like waiting for a storm. Taking advantage of the time, I started checking the work group messages. Turns out, without my help, they failed to close that deal. The company lost a huge sum, and the big boss personally called to chew out Manager Ruth. Moreover, since I didn’t handle all that miscellaneous work, their workload increased dramatically. Unable to adapt quickly, their work efficiency plummeted. In the end, the entire office descended into chaos. With no other option, they started calling me. But I’d already turned on Do Not Disturb after work hours, so I didn’t receive a single call. As for Manager Ruth, she hadn’t made a move. After a long while, she finally squeezed out through gritted teeth: “Fine, I understand, Sarah. Remember to clock in on time tomorrow.” I knew she was up to something, but I didn’t care anymore. After all, I was leaving soon. She couldn’t stir up much trouble. The next morning, I arrived at my desk exactly on time, not a minute off. But Manager Ruth still came looking for me. She smiled and said, “Sarah, do you really need to avoid our company like the plague?” “Tell me the truth—do you have a problem with me? I can help resolve it.” I sneered inwardly. As expected, she had no good intentions. I could understand why she was acting this way. She could have fired me directly but only docked my pay, which meant I was important. If she threatened me with the contract, she was reluctant to let me go. I understood this little scheme. It only failed because her memory wasn’t great—she forgot the exact timing of my contract. I stayed as calm as possible: “Manager, what are you saying? Of course I have no problem with you.” “We’ve worked together for so many years. How could I have a problem with you?” Seeing my reaction, she stopped mentioning yesterday’s incident and instead scribbled something and deducted another $200 from my salary. “Sorry, Sarah. I said you needed to arrive on time today, but you were late.” I looked confused and was about to argue when she spoke again. Feigning surprise: “Oh, I forgot—yesterday when the company worked overtime, I announced we’d start half an hour early today. But you didn’t work overtime, so you didn’t hear.” “Next time, check messages carefully before leaving. Don’t miss anything important.” “Understand?” She emphasized those last words heavily—a show of dominance. After speaking, she tossed me a file. “I’m going on a business trip soon. Take over as quickly as possible.” “This is a new contract. The client is one of those difficult ones you’ve successfully negotiated with before. This time, take Ruthie with you and close the deal.” “Next week we’ll be competing against SKY Corporation for a bid. I’ll be there. After we win the bid, don’t always try to show off in front of the boss. Give the younger generation a chance, understand?” Without waiting for my response, she was called away for her business trip. I had to admit, she played her hand well. Everyone knew Ruthie was her niece. This time she just wanted me to pave the way for her niece, then kick me out. I knew she’d always resented that I was more capable and that the boss valued me. So she’d always tried to undermine me subtly, wanting to sideline me, but I wouldn’t fall for it. Today was Tuesday. I had three days left until my resignation. For these three days, I wouldn’t touch this project. After all, in three days I’d be reporting to SKY Corporation. I wouldn’t do anything illegal like leaking confidential information. But I would definitely get my revenge. “Manager Ruth, I’ll be there, but not as your employee.”

Intern Ruthie walked in and took the file. I followed her out, but she thought I was trying to steal credit and immediately said: “Sarah, the manager said I’m taking the lead on this project. You’re just assisting me.” “So don’t overstep.” Hearing her words, the weight in my heart instantly lifted. I’d just been wondering how to distance myself from this project. Now, problem solved, without me having to do anything. After a while, I deliberately stirred things up in the office: “Lisa, I heard this project is really important—even the boss is paying special attention!” “If we do well, interns could get permanent positions, senior employees could get promotions—it’s all possible!” Lisa enthusiastically agreed with me. Ruthie, sitting across from me, said nothing, but her eyes darted around several times. Near the end of the workday, she came directly to me and said, “Sarah, I’m the main person in charge of this project. You know that, right?” I nodded. She continued, “Then you don’t need to participate. I’ll tell the manager.” I laughed inwardly, knowing she’d taken the bait, but outwardly I acted angry: “Ruthie, what do you mean? Are you playing me?” “What if there are losses in the end and they blame me?” Seeing me make a fuss, she said in exasperation, “Then what do you want?” I smiled. “Provide a statement proving that during my employment at the company, I had absolutely no involvement in or access to any aspect of this project’s bidding, quotations, proposals, or other work.” “Only then can I avoid being scapegoated.” After a long standoff, she finally agreed. Before leaving work, I had the statement in hand. With this, I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone causing trouble later. For several days, intern Ruthie worked on the project with team members she’d assembled. And I continued preparing for my resignation. At the same time, I took screenshots in the work group every day, proving I hadn’t been involved in this project. Finally, my contract period ended, and I successfully resigned. When leaving, many colleagues were reluctant to see me go and offered to take me out to dinner. But Ruthie looked smug, thinking I’d been fired. Before leaving, she came to my desk. I didn’t even need to look to know what expression she had. “Sarah, is this a resignation? Or were you fired?” “If you need anything in the future, you can come to me! I might be able to help you out!” I ignored her and walked out of the building. Though it didn’t end prettily, this place truly carried my growth. Next, I was moving on to a new life. With only three days until the bid, I didn’t rest. I seized every moment to prepare. This wasn’t just about getting revenge on anyone—it was about proving my abilities and securing good terms for myself. Soon, the time came. I walked into the building with SKY Corporation. Ruthie and her team followed closely behind. Before the bidding started, I suddenly needed the bathroom urgently and rushed to use it. So I didn’t run into them face-to-face, and Manager Ruth didn’t see me at all. When I returned, it was just starting. Though I wasn’t looking openly, I could sense Ruthie beside me was panicking. There were three companies competing in total. The first finished quickly, and Ruthie’s turn was second. At this moment, Manager Ruth and the boss also arrived late. As soon as she entered, Manager Ruth said, “Sarah, get up on stage right now! What does it look like standing with the rival company?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “377515”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I stood by Tristan Fuller for five years when he was disabled. But the moment he recovered, he married the woman he had always loved. The one who abandoned him when he needed her most. All for company shares. He deceived me with a fake marriage license, promising we would have our wedding next month. I smiled and accepted it, then flew ten thousand miles away to New Zealand. Five years later, I returned as a ruthless investment banker to acquire his company. In the rain, he begged me to come back. But I held my husband’s hand and walked past, leaving his wheelchair behind. “Mr. Fuller, this is my wife. Please get out of the way.” Jane’s POV In the most upscale custom jewelry center downtown, soft music flowed through the VIP room. Tristan Fuller and I sat side by side on the velvet sofa. We were sharing a pair of Bluetooth earbuds, listening to a gentle love song together. Tristan lowered his head, his long fingers holding a brilliant diamond ring as he gently slipped it onto my ring finger. “Perfect fit.” He looked at my hand, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Do you like it?” He was usually aloof, but now his eyes were brimming with adoration. I looked up at him, about to nod, when an abrupt phone ring shattered the warm atmosphere. Tristan frowned slightly and pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. One name appeared on the screen: Gabriel. Tristan’s closest friend. Tristan removed the left earbud and pressed the answer button. To keep the store employees from hearing the conversation, he habitually switched the audio to Bluetooth mode. But he forgot that the other earbud was still firmly in my right ear. “Tristan, have you lost your mind?!” Gabriel’s voice, barely containing his fury, came through the earbud loud and clear. Tristan’s expression didn’t change. He spoke calmly into the phone. “I’m helping Jane pick out her wedding ring. What’s wrong?” A sharp intake of breath came from the other end. After a few seconds, Gabriel finally exploded. “You’re still helping her pick out a wedding ring? Didn’t you just marry Sarah this morning?!” “What the hell are you thinking! When you had that car accident and became disabled, Sarah despised you for being a cripple and immediately went abroad with someone else. Now, to get that 15% of shares from the Morrison family, you actually went through with a marriage alliance with her?!” Every word from Gabriel hit me like a punch to the gut. The blood drained from my face. I felt like I’d been plunged into ice water. In my right ear, Gabriel’s interrogation continued, but Tristan sitting beside me remained perfectly composed. He even reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then spoke lightly into the phone. “Tomorrow is Fuller Group’s shareholder meeting. I must secure the Morrison family shares to solidify my position as CEO. The title of Mrs. Fuller is just a bargaining chip I’m using to trade for those shares.” “What about Jane!” Gabriel roared through the phone. “During those five years you were disabled, who massaged your legs day and night? Who stayed with you through that hellish rehabilitation? She loved you enough to give her life for you, and for some shares, you give the legal wife position to someone else?!” Tristan’s expression remained unchanged despite Gabriel’s fury. “Jane wants my love, not a piece of paper. I’ll keep it from her. She’ll never know about this.” “How long can you hide it? You can’t keep something like this a secret forever! Jane is supposed to have a wedding with you next month!” A flash of irritation crossed Tristan’s eyes, and his tone grew heavier. “Keep this quiet. No one is allowed to say anything about my marriage to Sarah. I’ll still give Jane that grand wedding next month. I’ll have someone make a fake marriage certificate for her. As long as she stays by my side, I can give her everything except the title.” After saying this, he hung up directly. A busy signal came through the earbud. My whole body trembled, nausea churning in my stomach. I bit my lower lip hard, forcibly suppressing the urge to retch. Tristan put away his phone and was about to turn to speak to me when the screen lit up again. It was the special notification tone for priority messages. Tristan paused, clicked it open, and glanced at it. Just one glance, and the irritation in his eyes instantly vanished, replaced by barely concealed anxiety. He stood up and methodically adjusted the cuffs of his suit. “Jane, there’s an emergency meeting at the company. I need to go right away. Pick out the ring you like, charge it directly to my card, then take a cab home, okay?” His tone was soft and gentle, like the perfect fiancé. I looked at this well-dressed man before me and said nothing, only nodding woodenly. Tristan didn’t even wait for me to remove the ring. He turned and pulled open the VIP room door, striding away. The moment the door closed, I collapsed against the sofa back. Tears fell without warning. Tristan didn’t know that his supposedly perfect act had been completely betrayed by that Bluetooth earbud forgotten in my ear. Every word, every sentence-like poison-tipped knives, shredding my heart into bloody pieces. All those memories I’d deliberately buried deep in my heart were now dredged up. Tristan was a lofty heir to a wealthy family, while I was merely the daughter of the Fuller family driver. That year, I followed my father into the Fuller mansion and immediately saw Tristan sitting in a wheelchair, gloomy and irritable. He’d been in a car accident and lost all feeling in his legs. Doctors had determined he would spend his life in a wheelchair. And his childhood fiancée Sarah, the day after learning this news, unilaterally announced the engagement was off and flew abroad. The Fuller family had no shortage of healthy heirs. The disabled Tristan was quickly marginalized, thrown into a villa on the city outskirts to fend for himself. I took the initiative to ask my father and became the caregiver who looked after him at the villa. For those five years, his temper was explosive. He smashed things, went on hunger strikes, even self-harmed. I just silently followed behind him, cleaning up the wreckage. When he knocked over hot soup onto the back of my hand, causing large blisters, I only endured the pain and continued massaging his atrophying muscles. Later, I heard about a retired neurological authority abroad. I ran to the person’s door and begged in the snow for a full day and night, securing the chance for Tristan to have surgery. The surgery was successful. Tristan stood up again. He seized control of Fuller Group with ruthless tactics, becoming the most influential power player in their circle. I was the one who accompanied him through those five darkest years. I was the one who stayed with him through rehabilitation sessions where he broke out in cold sweats from pain. I was the one who kissed him, embraced him, and shared his bed. But I never imagined that the first thing he would do after reaching the top was to give the title of wife to Sarah the woman who had abandoned him. All to secure his power. He even planned to trap me with a grand wedding and a fake marriage certificate, keeping me as his dirty little secret.

Jane’s POV I don’t know how I walked out of the jewelry store. Outside, it had started raining. The autumn rain was freezing, cold enough to chill me to the bone. I didn’t bring an umbrella or call a car. I just walked aimlessly through the streets. Rain washed over my face. I couldn’t tell if what was on my face was tears or rainwater. By the time I returned to our shared penthouse, the sky had gone completely dark. The house was empty, with no lights on. I didn’t even change my clothes. I just curled up in the corner of the sofa. I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the sound of the password lock at the entrance. The door opened, and the living room lights suddenly blazed on, making me close my eyes. Tristan walked in carrying a chill. Seeing me soaked through and huddled on the sofa, he froze for a moment, then quickly walked over, his brows knitted together. “How did you end up like this? Why didn’t you call me after getting caught in the rain?” His tone carried reproach, but his movements were gentle as he grabbed a nearby towel and carefully dried my wet hair. As he drew closer, a faint cold cedar scent hit me. But I still keenly caught a trace of sweet bluebell fragrance mixed in. That was Sarah’s favorite perfume. My stomach churned. Suppressing the nausea, I imperceptibly shrank back. “My phone died.” My voice was hoarse. Tristan sighed and touched my forehead to make sure I didn’t have a fever, then relaxed slightly. “The situation at the company was too complicated. I couldn’t get away. Next time something like this happens, even if your phone is dead, find someone to borrow a phone and call me, okay?” He looked at me with eyes full of tenderness, as if I were the most precious thing in his world. I looked at this face so close to mine and suddenly felt it was very unfamiliar. How could this man manage to put on such a devoted act toward me right after registering his marriage with another woman? “Okay.” I lowered my eyes. Tristan carried me into the bathroom, personally drew a hot bath for me, and brought clean pajamas. “Take a hot bath so you don’t catch a cold. Our wedding is next month. If you get sick, it’ll break my heart.” Hearing the word “wedding,” my heart felt like it was being stabbed with a needle. I nodded and closed the bathroom door. The warm water flowed over my body but couldn’t warm my cold heart. When I came out after bathing, Tristan had changed into loungewear and was sitting on the sofa reviewing documents. Seeing me emerge, he beckoned. “Come here. Take your cold medicine.” I walked over and took the medicine. Tristan set down his documents and pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Jane, I’ve already had the wedding invitations printed. Check if there are any friends you want to invite and give me the list.” My fingers gripping the cup couldn’t help but tighten. “No need. I don’t have many friends.” Tristan kissed my temple. “Then I’ll just invite people from my side. I want everyone to know that you, Jane, are Tristan Fuller’s one and only wife.” One and only wife. I silently repeated those words in my mind, finding them utterly ironic. I set down the cup and, using tiredness as an excuse, returned to the bedroom. Lying in bed, I had just picked up my fully charged phone when the apartment doorbell suddenly rang. This late at night, who could it be? I put on a jacket and walked to the entrance, looking through the video doorbell to see a same-city courier standing outside. “Ms. Jane? There’s an express delivery for you.” I opened the door and signed for it. It was an exquisitely packaged black velvet gift box with no sender information. I took the box back to the bedroom and opened it. Inside was no gift, only several freshly developed Polaroid photos and a handwritten card that smelled of bluebell perfume. I picked up the top photo. It was a wedding photo of Tristan and Sarah. The second showed their interlocked fingers in close-up. On the man’s wrist was the watch I’d saved half a year’s salary to buy, and on Sarah’s ring finger was the brilliant diamond ring that Tristan had personally tried on my finger this morning at the jewelry store. My gaze fell on the final handwritten card. The handwriting was elegant, exuding haughty superiority. “Miss Jane, thank you for taking care of Tristan for me these past five years. But it’s time for Cinderella to wake from her dream. The only one who can help him in his career and deserves the title of Mrs. Fuller is me.” I stared at that card for a long time. I knew that if Tristan wanted to hide this from me, he absolutely wouldn’t allow Sarah to go public. So Sarah used this method to thrust the knife directly in front of me. I found it somewhat amusing. Sarah was asserting her dominance, flaunting her victory to me. But Sarah didn’t know-I no longer wanted this man. I threw the photos and card into the trash. If Tristan wanted to put on a show, then I’d play along. But I didn’t plan to act with him until the finale. I pulled up a number I hadn’t contacted in five years and sent a text. “Mrs. Fuller, does your previous offer still stand? I’m willing to take that thirty million and leave Tristan forever.”

Jane’s POV Less than a minute after I sent the text, the call came through. I glanced at the tightly closed bedroom door, pressed answer, and brought the phone to my ear. On the other end, Tristan’s mother Margaret’s voice carried barely concealed elation and condescending arrogance. “You’ve finally come to your senses?” “Of course the offer still stands! You’re a driver’s daughter. Even if Tristan protects you now, you’ll never be accepted into the Fuller family.” “Tristan has already formed a marriage alliance with Sarah. The Morrison family shares are crucial to the Fullers. I absolutely will not allow you to stay by his side and get in the way.” “Tomorrow morning at ten, come to the café in the south district. We’ll sign the agreement.” “Alright.” I nodded. After hanging up, I deleted the call record completely. The next morning, Tristan went to the company. I put on light makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes and arrived at the appointment on time. In the tea room, Margaret’s well-maintained face was full of disdain. She pulled out an already prepared agreement from her bag and pushed it in front of me. “Sign this, and there’s no going back. You’ll get fifteen million upfront. The rest will be wired once you’re gone for good.” Margaret picked up her teacup and took a sip, her sharp gaze fixed on me. “Jane, once you take the money, you can never appear before Tristan again for the rest of your life. If I find out you’re playing any tricks, I have plenty of ways to make your life a living hell.” I lowered my eyes and looked at the string of zeros on the agreement. Thirty million. My five years of youth, five years of wholehearted devotion-turns out they’d been priced all along in the Fuller family’s eyes. Of course I wouldn’t appear again. This lifetime, next lifetime-I never wanted any connection with Tristan Fuller again. Without the slightest hesitation, I picked up the pen on the table and decisively signed my name on the last page. Seeing me put pen to paper, Margaret finally relaxed and put the agreement in her bag. “I’ll give you one month. Whether you go to another city or abroad, after one month, I don’t want to see you here anymore.” “Don’t worry.” I stood up. “I’ll disappear completely.” After leaving the tea room, I didn’t return to the company. Instead, I found an internet café and booked a private booth. Making it so Tristan could never find me was actually quite simple. The Fuller family had deep military and political roots going back generations, but they also had a fatal weakness. For three generations, direct members of the Fuller family had been strictly forbidden from leaving the country, let alone immigrating. As long as I left this country, even if Tristan had eyes everywhere, he couldn’t cross that red line. I sat at the computer for a full four hours, reviewing massive amounts of immigration information. Finally, I locked my sights on New Zealand. The climate there was mild, the land vast with few people, and most importantly, it was over ten thousand kilometers away. After deciding on the destination, I contacted a top-tier immigration agency. “Jane, your qualifications meet New Zealand’s skilled migration requirements. But going through normal procedures will take most of a year.” The agent said, flipping through my materials. “I’m in a hurry.” “If we go through the expedited channel, money is no object. How soon can it be done?” The agent’s eyes lit up. “If funding is in place, we can go through special channels. At most twenty days, and the visa will be approved.” “Good. Process that one.” After paying the deposit, I walked out of the agency office. The sunlight was so bright I could barely open my eyes. Twenty days. That was my final countdown by Tristan’s side. In the afternoon, I returned to Fuller Group. I was Tristan’s executive assistant, the only one in the entire office who could make decisions on his behalf. When I handed my resignation letter to the HR director, the other party was so shocked their jaw nearly dropped. “Jane, you… aren’t you getting married to Mr. Fuller next month? Why are you resigning now?” I smiled. “Wedding preparations are exhausting. Tristan feels bad for me, so he’s letting me go home and be a full-time wife.” The HR director had an epiphany, offered repeated congratulations, and readily approved my resignation. Walking out of the Fuller building carrying a cardboard box, I looked back at the towering structure. Five years. I accompanied Tristan from a wheelchair to standing, accompanied him as he built this empire. Now, I was going to throw all of this, along with that man, straight into the garbage. That evening, when Tristan came home and saw the cardboard box in the entrance, he paused. Learning that I’d resigned, not only did he not get angry, he actually hugged me from behind, his face full of affection. “You should have resigned long ago. From now on, just stay home obediently and be my Mrs. Fuller. I’ll take care of you for life.” I leaned against him, listening to his strong heartbeat, finding it utterly ironic. Mrs. Fuller? Was that the joke holding a fake marriage certificate, deceived by everyone?

Jane’s POV Over the next several days, Tristan seemed to be trying to compensate for that bit of guilt in his heart, becoming increasingly attentive to me. He pushed aside several unimportant social engagements and came home on time every day to have dinner with me. On the weekend, he even proactively suggested taking me to try on wedding dresses. In the most upscale custom wedding dress boutique downtown, the attendant carefully zipped up the back. This wedding dress was the swan song of a top European designer. There was only one in the entire world. I looked at myself in the mirror wearing the pure white wedding dress and only wanted to laugh. I lifted the hem and walked out of the fitting room. Tristan, waiting on the sofa, looked up, a flash of amazement in his eyes. He stood up, strode over to me, and lowered his head to kiss my lips. “Jane, you’re beautiful.” Just then, the phone in Tristan’s pocket vibrated. He paused, took out his phone, glanced at it, and his expression changed slightly. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, holding his phone, and answered the call. Though he deliberately lowered his voice, I still vaguely heard a few words. “Sarah… your father’s side… okay, I’ll come sign right away…” After hanging up, Tristan turned around. The tenderness had faded from his face, replaced by barely concealed urgency. “Jane, there’s an emergency situation at the European branch. I need to hold a cross-border video conference. I have to get back to the company immediately.” He walked over and apologetically kissed my forehead. “Take your time trying things on. Have them alter whatever doesn’t fit. I’ll have the driver take you home later.” I watched his retreating figure without exposing his lie. Cross-border video conference? What could make Tristan Fuller abandon his fiancée during her wedding dress fitting, other than Sarah? I turned and walked back to the fitting room, taking off that expensive wedding dress. “No need for alterations.” I handed the dress to the attendant. “I don’t want this one.” Under the attendant’s astonished gaze, I changed back into my own clothes and walked out of the bridal shop. Returning to the penthouse, I began clearing out my belongings. This large flat was filled with traces of our three years living together. I grabbed several extra-large black trash bags and started tidying from the living room. Matching couple mugs-thrown away. Souvenirs bought together on our ski trip to the snow mountains-thrown away. All the expensive bags and jewelry he’d brought back from business trips-packed up and collected by a luxury goods resale shop I’d contacted. When I reached the walk-in closet, my movements paused. In the bottom drawer lay a thick photo album. These were photos I’d secretly taken during the five years Tristan was in a wheelchair. There was his back as he furiously smashed things, a close-up of him biting his lip bloody during rehabilitation, and also a photo of us embracing and crying when he first stood independently. I reached out and touched the young but gloomy face of the man in the photos. Back then, Tristan only had eyes for me. But people always change. Once the illness is cured, the crutch is no longer needed. I didn’t cry. I calmly closed the album and, along with those old clothes, mercilessly threw everything into the trash bag. By evening, the once-full penthouse was already half empty. Only some superficial necessities remained, maintaining the illusion that I was still living there. At ten p.m., Tristan came back. He carried a faint smell of disinfectant, clearly just returning from the hospital. Seeing that some decorations were missing from the living room, he frowned slightly. “Why is the house so empty?” “The season changed. I cleared out some old things we don’t use and threw them away.” I sat on the sofa without even lifting my head. Tristan walked over and sat beside me, reaching out to hold me. “I’m sorry about today, leaving you alone at the bridal shop. I’ll go with you tomorrow to try on dresses again, okay?” I avoided his touch and stood up. “No need. I’ve already chosen the wedding dress.” Tristan looked at my attitude and fell silent for a moment. “Jane, are you angry?” “No.” My tone was calm. “I’m a bit tired. I’m going to bed.” Just as I was about to leave, he suddenly told me. “Tomorrow night is Gabriel’s birthday party. Come with me.” As he said this, he looked at me expectantly, seemingly wanting to see me happy. But I just nodded. “Got it.” I just nodded, then turned and left.

Jane’s POV Gabriel’s birthday party was set at the city’s most elite private club. Inside the private room, the lighting was dim and the music deafening. When Tristan pushed open the door holding my hand, the originally noisy room instantly fell silent for a second. Everyone’s eyes turned to me in unison. In those gazes were sympathy, pity, and also schadenfreude at watching the drama unfold. I knew very well that in this circle, the news of Tristan and Sarah’s marriage probably hadn’t been a secret for a long time. Only I, like a fool, was being deceived. “You’re here! Quick, sit, sit!” Gabriel was the first to react, breaking the awkward silence with a dry laugh. Tristan pulled me to sit in the center of the sofa and casually poured me a glass of warm water. “She has a sensitive stomach and can’t drink alcohol.” He said to everyone, playing the part of an attentive good husband. A chorus of hollow agreement immediately rose around us. “You’re so good to her.” “Yeah, the wedding is next month. Congratulations in advance on your marriage.” Listening to these insincere blessings, I only felt my stomach churning. I picked up the water glass, hiding the cold smile at the corners of my mouth. Tristan was pulled aside by a few friends to drink, while I sat alone in the corner, clearly out of place. Gabriel came over with a drink. “Tristan… he’s been pretty busy lately, hasn’t he?” I turned to look at him. “Quite busy. Busy with company matters, and busy taking care of other people.” Gabriel’s face stiffened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately swallowed it back. “Actually, you’re the one Tristan loves most in his heart. We’ve all witnessed your relationship over these five years. Being in his position, sometimes he’s forced by family interests to do things beyond his control… Some things, don’t take too much to heart.” I laughed. “Gabriel, what exactly shouldn’t I take to heart?” Gabriel gave an awkward laugh and quickly found an excuse to escape. I withdrew my gaze, looking at Tristan in the distance, laughing and chatting with others. He was wearing the shirt I’d personally ironed, the tie clip I’d bought him, but his heart had long since flown to someone else. Just then, the door to the private room was suddenly pushed open from outside. A woman in a white dress stood at the entrance, her face pale, swaying unsteadily. It was Sarah. The air in the private room instantly froze. Everyone instinctively looked at Tristan, then at me. The smile on Tristan’s face abruptly stiffened. He stood up almost instinctively and strode toward the door. “How did you get here? Didn’t I tell you to rest properly at the hospital?” His tone was full of reproach. Sarah looked at him with reddened eyes, aggrieved. “I was scared alone at the hospital, and you wouldn’t answer when I called…” As she spoke, her body went limp, falling straight toward Tristan. Tristan caught her in one swift motion and lifted her horizontally into his arms. He turned his head and looked at me sitting in the corner, his eyes somewhat evasive. “Jane, Sarah isn’t feeling well. I’m taking her back to the hospital first. Have the driver take you home later.” No explanation. No hesitation. The moment Sarah appeared, he abandoned me without mercy. The private room was silent as death. Everyone was watching me. I slowly stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt. I didn’t look at Tristan or Sarah. I just picked up my bag. “No need. I’ll take a cab home myself.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it reached everyone’s ears clearly. Tristan looked at my face, seeming to want to say something, but Sarah in his arms let out a pained moan. “Tristan, it hurts so much…” Tristan’s attention was instantly pulled back. He tightened his arms and quickly left the private room carrying Sarah. I watched their backs disappear outside the door, the corners of my mouth curling into a mocking arc. I turned around and nodded slightly to everyone in the room with their various expressions. “Enjoy yourselves. I’m leaving first.” Walking out of the private club, the night wind outside carried a hint of coolness. I took out my phone and glanced at the calendar. Fifteen days until the visa came through. Tristan, between us, there were only fifteen days left.

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