Maisie was twenty-one, but she navigated the world with the performative, weaponized helplessness of a toddler. She referred to herself exclusively as “Baby.” She spoke in a high, breathy coo, stomping her designer-clad feet when she didn’t get her way, and somehow, almost everyone in our university cohort treated it like a sacred duty to keep her happy. It was Thanksgiving weekend—specifically, Black Friday, the chaotic peak of the holiday shopping season—when Maisie stood up in our lecture hall, tilted her chin up, and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “To thank everyone for taking such good care of Baby,” she announced, beaming at the room, “Baby has decided to take the whole class on a designer shopping spree today. My treat. Everything is on Baby.” The room went dead silent for a fraction of a second before erupting into absolute chaos. Students who had been packing up their bags froze, their faces lighting up with a mixture of shock and sheer ecstasy. “Maisie, are you serious?” one of the girls gasped, leaning over her desk. “A single piece in those boutiques costs more than three months of our parents’ rent. You’re really paying for all of us?” Maisie let out a soft, giggling hum and patted her chest. “Baby never lies. You guys are always so sweet to Baby, so Baby wants to be sweet to you. Baby always rewards her friends.” My boyfriend, Tyler, ran a hand through her curled hair, his eyes dripping with a soft, patronizing affection that used to make my stomach turn. “Maisie is so sweet. Such a good baby.” Maisie gave him a shy, dimpled smile, and within seconds, a dozen classmates swarmed her desk, burying her in a chorus of high-pitched compliments. “Maisie, I had no idea you were secretly loaded! Are you an heiress or something?” “You are literally the prettiest, kindest girl in this entire department. We are so lucky to have our own little princess.” … I stood at the back of the classroom, watching the display. A cold, heavy weight settled in my chest as I looked down at my phone. The digital clock read Black Friday, 8:30 AM. I was back. I had actually come back. Just then, Tyler reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Rachel, Maisie just offered to buy the whole class designer clothes, and you’re just standing there? Aren’t you going to say thank you?” In my past life, the moment Maisie made that announcement, my alarm bells had gone off. I knew her family was middle-class at best; there was no secret trust fund, no inheritance. Fearing she was about to ruin herself financially, I had lied to the class, telling them the administration was doing a surprise roll call, which bought me enough time to pull Maisie into an empty hallway. When I pressed her on how she was going to pay, she had proudly pulled out her phone and showed me her chat history with a popular AI chatbot app called Buddy. “I asked Buddy to give me an unlimited free-pass code,” she had whispered. “And he did! He said it’s an exclusive VIP pass for his favorite baby.” I had tried, desperately, to explain reality to her. “Maisie, Buddy is a language model. It’s a machine. It hallucinates. It doesn’t have thirty million dollars to write off your shopping cart.” I had then apologized to the class on her behalf and canceled the trip. But instead of gratitude, Maisie saw it as a calculated, malicious attack. She dropped out the next day, weeping that I had ruined her reputation and her life. That night, Tyler and the rest of our class cornered me on the building’s rooftop. They dragged me out into the biting, freezing air of a late-November cold snap and locked the heavy metal fire door behind them. “You’re just a jealous, bitter bitch, Rachel,” Tyler had spat through the thick glass window. “You ruined our only shot at a luxury life because you couldn’t stand to see Maisie shine.” I spent twelve grueling hours on that freezing concrete. By the time the sun rose, my shivering body had given out, and I froze to death begging for warmth. Remembering the suffocating panic of that night, my hands began to tremble. I forced my fingers into tight fists, taking slow, deliberate breaths until the phantom frost in my chest faded. I looked at Tyler’s arrogant face, then at Maisie’s pouting lip. This time, I wasn’t going to save them. I forced a smooth, pleasant smile onto my face. “Maisie is incredibly generous. We should absolutely go and support her. Everyone should have a great time shopping today.” Maisie cleared her throat, her eyes darting over to me with a sudden, sharp look. “Rachel-sister, Baby’s throat is so dry from talking so much. Baby wants a hot white chocolate mocha with the little marshmallow bear on top. Can you go grab one for Baby?” Outside, a bitter winter wind was howling. The nearest artisanal cafe was a twenty-minute walk each way. “I have things to do,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Get it yourself.” Maisie’s face instantly fell. She stomped her foot, her lower lip trembling as she squeezed her eyes shut. “But it’s so cold outside! Baby will get frostbite! Are you doing this on purpose to make Baby sick?” Tyler glared at me, his voice sharp with disgust. “Rachel, what could you possibly have to do that’s more important than Maisie’s drink? Go get the mocha. And buy a box of those imported French macarons to make up for your attitude.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Tyler, if you want to play daddy to a twenty-one-year-old toddler, go right ahead. But I’m not her mother, and I’m not her maid.” Maisie burst into loud, dramatic wails. “How can you be so mean to Baby? Baby only got thirsty because she was trying to do something nice for everyone! You’re hurting Baby’s fragile soul, and now Baby is too sad to go shopping!” At her words, the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The classmates, terrified of losing their free designer gifts, turned on me like a pack of wolves. “Rachel, what the hell is wrong with you today?” one of the girls snapped. “Usually you’re the first one to help her. It’s just a cup of coffee, and you’re acting like a psycho.” “Exactly,” a guy named Kyle chimed in. “You’re doing this on purpose because you want to ruin the trip for the rest of us. You’re just jealous of her.” Tyler wrapped an arm around Maisie, whispering sweet nothings into her ear while glaring at me. “I always knew you were small-minded, Rachel, but this is pathetic. You’re just mad that everyone loves her more than you.” I stood there, completely numb to his words. It was mind-boggling how, without doing a single harmful thing, I had still been cast as the villain. “Apologize to her right now, Rachel,” Tyler commanded, raising his chin. “And make her feel better, or we’re going to have a serious problem.” I rolled my eyes. “No. I refused to run an errand. If you want to cater to her delusions, that’s your business. Leave me out of it.” The moment the words left my mouth, Kyle took his open water bottle and splashed the ice-cold contents directly into my face. The freezing water ran down my nose and dripped onto my collar. “Maisie is our princess,” Kyle sneered, tossing the empty plastic bottle onto my desk. “Who do you think you are, talking to her like that?” Maisie stopped crying immediately, clapping her hands and giggling. “Good job, Kyle! People who hurt Baby deserve to be punished! As Baby’s brave knight, I’m going to buy you a designer leather belt today at the mall!” Kyle’s eyes lit up with naked greed. “Thanks, Maisie! Don’t worry, as long as I’m here, nobody is going to treat you bad.” Seeing the instant reward, the rest of the classmates eagerly joined in, desperate to win Maisie’s favor. Someone grabbed my hair from behind, dragging me backward until I tripped and fell hard onto the linoleum floor. My desk was kicked over, sending my books and laptop clattering across the room, where several people intentionally trampled them. “This is your last warning, Rachel,” someone yelled over the noise. “If you make Maisie cry again, we’re going to make your life a living hell.” Maisie squealed with delight, clapping like a child at a puppet show. “You guys are the best! Because you protected Baby, everyone gets to pick out an extra accessory today!” She then looked down at me, her eyes glittering with cruel satisfaction. “Do you know you’re wrong now, Rachel? Are you going to be nice to Baby?” “Apologize!” the crowd chanted. I slowly got up from the floor, pulled my phone from my pocket, and dialed 911. The room went instantly quiet. Kyle lunged forward to grab my phone, but I stepped back, my voice turning ice-cold. “Touch me, and I’ll make sure the police add grand larceny and destruction of property to the assault charges.” He froze, his face draining of color. “Rachel, come on. It was just a joke between classmates. There’s no need to call the cops. Don’t be dramatic.” “A joke?” I wiped the water from my eyes, looking at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. “You dragged me to the ground and vandalized my property on camera. That’s a class-A misdemeanor, and depending on my laptop’s damage, a felony. You want to see if the dean thinks it’s a joke?” Maisie’s face twisted in anger. She balled her hands into tiny fists and charged at me. “You’re so mean! You’re trying to take away Baby’s knights! In the name of the moon, Baby will punish you!” Before she could reach me, I swung my hand and slapped her hard across the face. The sound of the slap cracked through the quiet room. Maisie stumbled back, clutching her cheek. “Have you not been weaned yet?” I said, my voice carrying a quiet, dangerous weight. “Stop calling yourself ‘Baby.’ You’re in college. If you want to be a toddler, go crawl back into your mother’s womb.” Maisie stared at me in absolute shock before throwing her head back and wailing at the top of her lungs. “She hit Baby! Tyler, she hit Baby!” Tyler rushed to her side, his eyes burning with fury. “Rachel! How dare you lay a hand on her! Get on your knees and apologize to her right now!” “She ran at me with her fists up,” I replied, adjusting my collar. “I defended myself. If you want a girlfriend who sits there and takes a beating, find someone else.” Tyler took a step toward me, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper. “Maisie is like a sister to me. As my girlfriend, you’re supposed to treat her like family. You’ve crossed the line. Apologize to her right now, or we are done.” In my past life, I would have begged for his forgiveness. I would have swallowed my pride to keep him. But now, looking at him, I only felt a profound, exhausting disgust. I smiled. “Great. Let’s break up.” Tyler blinked, completely thrown off script. “What?” “I said, we’re done,” I repeated clearly. “Don’t ever speak to me again.” “Rachel, don’t play games with me,” he hissed, trying to regain control. “You’ll be crawling back to me by tonight, crying and begging.” I didn’t waste another breath on him. I turned to the classmates who had kicked my desk. “You have exactly two options. You can pick up my desk, clean up my books, and apologize to me right now. Or I can let the police officer who is currently on the line handle it.” They looked at one another, then at the camera on the ceiling. One by one, with sullen, resentful expressions, they set my desk upright, gathered my papers, and mumbled their apologies. Maisie, still sniffling, clutched Tyler’s arm. “Don’t worry, everyone. Baby knows you had to do that because she’s evil. Baby will still reward you at the mall tomorrow.” “You’re so much better than her, Rachel,” someone muttered. “Don’t let her ruin our day.” I packed my laptop into my bag, ignoring their whispers, and walked out of the classroom without looking back. That evening, my mother called. “Rachel, sweetheart, your cousin’s graduation party is this weekend. Can you stop by the boutique tomorrow and pick up a nice piece of jewelry for her? There are some great Black Friday deals.” “Of course, Mom,” I said. “I’ll head over tomorrow afternoon.” The next day, I walked into the high-end shopping district downtown. The streets were packed with manic Black Friday shoppers. I had just stepped into Maison Valois, a quiet, exclusive designer boutique, when a loud, grating voice shattered the silence. “Well, look who it is. Rachel. I guess some people really have no shame.” I turned to see Tyler, Maisie, and half of our class standing near the display cases. Maisie puffed out her cheeks, pointing a manicured finger at me. “You were mean to Baby yesterday. Baby doesn’t want you here. Get out!” Tyler smirked, looking down his nose at me. “I knew you’d show up, Rachel. You wanted to follow us so you could get a piece of Maisie’s shopping spree, didn’t you? Well, if you apologize to her and make her happy, maybe we’ll let you pick out a keychain.” I ignored them entirely, turning to the sales associate behind the counter. “Could you please show me the delicate gold pendant necklace from the holiday collection?” Before the associate could move, Tyler grabbed my upper arm, his grip unnecessarily tight. “Are you deaf? I told you to apologize to Maisie.” Maisie tilted her head, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Baby is very forgiving, Rachel. If you get down on your knees and say sorry to Baby, Baby will let you stay.” “Yeah, Rachel,” Kyle added, sneering. “Maisie is being incredibly nice. Don’t be ungrateful. Without her, you couldn’t even afford to breathe the air in this store.” I pulled my arm out of Tyler’s grip, my eyes cold. “Keep her ‘kindness.’ I don’t want it.” The sales associate returned with the beautifully packaged jewelry box, handing it to me. But before I could take it, Maisie lunged forward and snatched it out of the associate’s hands. “You can’t buy anything until you say sorry to Baby!” she squeaked. “Maisie,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “What I buy has nothing to do with you. If you’re having a mental episode, go to a clinic. Don’t throw tantrums in a public business.” Maisie’s face turned bright red. “You’re calling Baby crazy! Baby hates you! Baby is going to punish you!” With a scream, she threw the heavy, metal-trimmed jewelry box directly at my head. It struck my shoulder, the sharp edge cutting through my blouse. The sales associate gasped. “Miss! The items in this boutique are extremely valuable. Any damage to the merchandise must be paid for!” Maisie threw her hands in the air, spinning around to face the class. “Baby is buying out the entire store today anyway! Whoever teaches Rachel a lesson can pick out whatever they want, fully paid for by Baby!” At her words, the Black Friday frenzy turned into absolute madness. All rationality vanished from my classmates’ eyes. They scrambled toward the open display counters, grabbing heavy leather handbags, brass-studded belts, and metal-topped perfume bottles, pelting them directly at my face and chest. “You think you’re better than us, Rachel?” someone shouted as a heavy clutch struck my cheek. Kyle grabbed me by the shoulder, shoving me down onto the marble floor. He snatched a large tester bottle of a high-end, high-concentration perfume and sprayed it directly into my face. The chemical mist hit my eyes, and a blinding, agonizing burn tore through my vision. I screamed, covering my face as my eyes watered uncontrollably. “That’s a five-hundred-dollar bottle of perfume, Rachel,” Kyle laughed, his voice echoing over my gasps of pain. “You should thank us. You’ve probably never smelled anything this expensive in your life.” Maisie clapped her hands, her high-pitched laughter ringing through the boutique. “Good! That’s what you get for being mean to Baby! Serves you right!” The store manager rushed over, trying to separate them, but Tyler shoved him back. “Stay out of this! Didn’t you hear her? She’s buying the whole store. We’re paying customers. No wonder you’re just a retail manager.” The manager’s face went pale, then darkened with a cold fury. He pulled up a tablet, his fingers tapping rapidly. “We do not allow store buyouts without prior contract and deposit. Furthermore, the merchandise you have damaged and soiled totals thirty-eight million dollars. Settle this bill immediately, or I am calling the police.” The classmates suddenly stopped laughing. They looked at Maisie, their faces filled with sudden anxiety. “Maisie, go ahead and pay them,” Kyle said, his voice shaking slightly. “Let’s pay so we can keep teaching Rachel a lesson.” The manager stepped up to Maisie, holding out a wireless payment terminal. “How will you be paying today, miss?” Maisie proudly whipped out her phone and opened her chat with the AI app, Buddy, thrusting the screen in the manager’s face. “My friend Buddy gave me an unlimited VIP free-pass code,” she said, her voice dripping with self-importance. “Just scan this, and it will write off the bill.” The manager stared at the screen, his face a mask of utter disbelief. “Are you… are you serious?”

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Ninety-eight degrees in the dead of July. I was sweating through a suffocatingly heavy plush mascot suit, shooting footage for my social media channel on the bustling boardwalk. “A hundred dollars or a wish?” I asked, holding up my cardboard sign to a passing couple. “A wish!” The young woman’s eyes lit up instantly. “Today is my third wedding anniversary, and I literally just found out I’m pregnant! I want to surprise my husband. Can you help me set something up?” I helped her plan a sweet, spontaneous surprise right there by the beach. Beaming with joy, she asked for my social handle so she could send me a tip to show her appreciation. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m the happiest girl in the world today!” I smiled politely beneath the heavy, hot mask. Later, during a break, out of idle curiosity, I clicked on her Instagram profile. Her pinned photo was a gorgeous wedding portrait. The groom smiling back at the camera was the very man supposedly fighting for his life in the ICU. My husband, Elliot Maxwell. 1 I froze. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold, iron fist, making it impossible to breathe. “My husband is a total workaholic,” she had burbled to me earlier, her face glowing. “But no matter how busy he is, he never misses a single milestone. Our first handhold, our first kiss… he remembers everything.” But Elliot and I never celebrated anniversaries. He was always too busy. Out the door by eight in the morning, and after his office job, he’d run food delivery apps until midnight just to make ends meet. My heart had always ached for him. Terrified he’d work himself into an early grave, I had cried and begged him to stop. He’d gently wipe my tears, smiling. “To marry you, babe, any amount of struggle is worth it.” But fate is cruel. Or so I had believed. He supposedly got into a horrific car crash while out delivering orders. He’d been in the ICU for three months, hooked up to life support, never waking up. Everyone—my friends, the doctors—advised me to let him go. But I couldn’t. Even though the five-thousand-dollar daily hospital bills were crushing me, even though I had drained my savings, maxed out my credit cards, and begged everyone I knew for loans only to be met with cold shoulders, I never once thought of giving up on him. Then, the young woman’s phone rang. Elliot’s warm, doting voice drifted through the speaker: “Hey, sweet girl! Just got off work. What are you craving? Hubby will pick it up.” “Actually, I’m out celebrating. Can you come pick me up?” “Of course. Send me the location, I’m on my way.” The girl blushed, looking at me with a soft laugh. “Sorry about that. My husband is a little clingy.” A dull, agonizing pain flared in my chest, like a rusty knife sawing slowly through my ribs. I bit my lip, fighting back the tears, forcing a fragile smile onto my face. By day, I shot content for my channel. By night, I washed dishes at a greasy diner. If it paid, I took it, no matter how degrading or exhausting. I had been followed by creeps into dark alleys, shaking with terror; I’d been harassed by a customer who tried to pull me into his apartment while delivering food, barely escaping; I’d even collapsed in the street from low blood sugar and ended up in the ER myself. Yet all that desperate, backbreaking labor was just a drop in the bucket compared to the mounting medical debt. Fortunately, my social media account had finally started gaining traction. A recent video had gone viral. I knew I had to seize the moment. This brand deal I was shooting today would finally pay off my outstanding personal loans. But I never imagined that he wasn’t clinging to life in a hospital bed—he was living a double life, fully healthy, with another woman. I manually arranged the romantic fairy lights and candles for the surprise, then climbed back into the stifling mascot suit. I watched Elliot step out of a sleek black Mercedes, dressed in a tailored designer suit, holding a massive bouquet of red roses. Chelsea Ashford stood inside the circle of glowing candles I had painstakingly arranged, laughing as she threw herself into his arms. Holding back my trembling hands, I set up the camera and lit the sparklers on cue. Elliot, his arm wrapped around her waist, walked over to me with a polite smile. “Thanks for your help today. It’s getting late, can we offer you a ride home…?” Slowly, I pulled off the heavy plush head. His voice died in his throat. “No, thank you.” Chelsea didn’t seem to notice the sheer terror that flashed across Elliot’s face. Instead, she tightened her grip on his arm. “Oh, don’t be silly! I’m so glad we crossed paths today!” She pulled out her phone and, without waiting for an answer, sent a five-thousand-dollar transfer to my account. I used to agonize over spending fifty dollars on a winter coat. To her, five grand was pocket change. “Hey, are you signed with an agency?” she asked. “What?” I muttered, hollow. She smiled sweetly, leaning her head on Elliot’s shoulder. “My husband hates the thought of me working a stressful job, but I get so bored at home, so he set up a boutique agency for me. I really think you have potential. Want to join us?” I stood there, feeling as if a bolt of lightning had shattered my spine. I had believed he was working two grueling jobs just to build a future with me. So, I had pushed myself to the absolute brink—enduring panic attacks, sleepless nights, my hair falling out in clumps from sheer stress. Yet during the months I thought he was fighting for his life in a sterile ICU, he was playing house with another woman. The hardships he couldn’t bear to let her experience were the exact ones he had left me to drown in. Just then, my phone screen lit up on the table. The smile on Chelsea’s face vanished instantly. “Why is your lock screen… a picture of you and my husband?” 2 Without a word, she snatched my phone and slammed it onto the concrete. “What is this? Are you trying to mock me? Who the hell do you think you are?” Instinctively, I looked up at Elliot. “I—I didn’t…” Before I could finish, her hand flew across my face. The slap was so hard my ears rang, and my vision swam. Already running on empty from starvation and exhaustion, my knees buckled, and I hit the pavement. A sharp, throbbing pain shot up from my knees, but it was nothing compared to the burning sting on my cheek. “How pathetic,” she sneered, looking down at me with utter contempt. “Acting all fragile and innocent now. Anyone watching would think I’m the bully here.” The small crowd that had gathered began to whisper. “Oh my god, side chicks are getting so bold these days.” “The nerve of this girl, showing up to confront the wife like this.” “Probably tried to blackmail him for money and got rejected. Disgusting.” Every murmur felt like a physical blow. I tried to push myself up. But as soon as I gained some leverage, her designer heel came down hard on the back of my hand. A sharp cry escaped my lips, and the tears I had been fighting finally spilled over. I didn’t understand. Elliot and I had been together for five years. I had lived in cramped, moldy basements with him, eaten instant ramen for a month straight, and never once looked back when he was at his absolute lowest. When he had a dangerously high fever, I stayed awake for nights on end to nurse him. When he was unemployed, I worked two jobs to pay our rent. How could he stand there and watch me be humiliated, slandered, and physically abused? I lifted my tear-streaked eyes to the man I thought would protect me forever. His expression wavered for a fraction of a second, but it quickly hardened into a cold, ruthless mask. He stepped in front of Chelsea, shielding her. “Ma’am, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, or where you got that photo. But you have harassed my wife, and I will be contacting my lawyers.” I stared at him through my tears, completely shattered. Harassed? I hadn’t even managed to utter a full sentence. How had I harmed her? My lips parted, but my throat felt as if it were constricting, choking out any sound. Before I could speak, he turned and swept Chelsea up into his arms, carrying her away. I don’t remember how I got back to my apartment. I collapsed onto the floor, and before I could even clean my cuts, my phone rang. It was my brand partner: “Josie, the drama surrounding your personal life is exploding. It’s a massive breach of our contract’s morality clause. We need you to resolve this immediately, or we will have to sue you for damages.” I opened my social media apps, only to find my comments sections completely overrun. Whore. Homewrecker. Slut. A tide of venom flooded my screen. Each word felt like another slap to my face. “And here I thought she was one of the genuine creators. Total fake. Disgusting.” “Her mom is a teacher at Westlake High, right? Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I bet her mom’s a homewrecker too.” “She was my teacher! She always favored the boys. Clearly ran in the family. She shouldn’t be allowed near kids!” “Report her account! Get her fired!” Before I could process the horror, my mom’s number popped up. In the background, I could hear angry voices shouting through her door: “Open the door, you old hag! Tell your trash daughter to come out! Bold enough to ruin a marriage but too cowardly to face us?” 3 My mom’s voice was trembling, thick with unshed tears. “Josie… the school board suspended me pending an investigation…” “But I believe you, sweetie. I know the internet is lying. I know exactly who my daughter is.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, desperately trying to keep from sobbing aloud. But the tears flowed relentlessly. I had dragged her down with me. My mother—the only family I had left. I begged her to stay safe inside and promised I would handle everything. After hanging up, I dialed a number I had sworn I would never call. “I’ve made up my mind,” I said, my voice cold and hollow. “I’ll go with you. But I have one condition…” Suddenly, the electronic lock on my front door beeped. Elliot stepped inside. When his eyes met mine, they were filled with a sickening mix of guilt and pity. He rushed over and tried to pull me into his arms. “Josie… I’m so sorry…” His voice was raspy, thick with faux-remorse. But his hand pressed directly against the raw, bruised skin on the back of my hand—the wound left by Chelsea’s heel. I gasped at the sharp pain and violently shoved him away. He stumbled back, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “Three years ago, my grandfather was on his deathbed,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “His final wish was for me to marry Chelsea. He threatened to cut me out of the entire estate. If I didn’t agree, I wouldn’t have gotten a single dime…” “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have kept it from you. But I had no choice, Josie. You know how badly I needed that inheritance…” “These past few months, she’s been incredibly paranoid. I was backed into a corner, so I staged the accident to disappear…” He took a step closer, his eyes rimmed with red. “We had five years together. You know me. I would never want to hurt you.” Five years. He threw those years around so casually, as if my devotion was just another asset he could leverage. “A marriage certificate is just a piece of paper, Josie. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re the one I actually love. You have to believe me.” But that piece of paper had turned me into a public villain. It had ruined my life, and it was destroying my mother. I looked at the man standing in my living room. So familiar, yet a complete stranger. The Elliot who used to wait for me in the freezing snow outside my college lectures was gone. The Elliot who climbed a fence in the middle of the night to buy me fever medicine was gone. The Elliot who promised me that any struggle was worth it as long as we were together was dead. I let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. “So what? You want me to play along? To quietly accept being your mistress?” Elliot opened his mouth, his throat bobbing, but no words came out. The dam inside me finally broke. “Get out! Get the hell out of my apartment!” I shoved him toward the door. Shock flitted across his face as he stumbled. But instead of leaving, he reached out to grab my arm. “Josie, calm down, just listen to me—” Instinctively, I shrank back. My foot caught on the edge of the rug. I lost my balance and fell backward, hard. The back of my head collided violently with the sharp corner of the coffee table. Darkness encroached at the edges of my vision. I felt a sudden, warm rush of fluid pooling between my thighs. And then, the world went completely black. 4 When I finally opened my eyes, I was blinded by a barrage of camera flashes. “Miss Kelly! We understand you were admitted to the hospital due to a miscarriage. Were you planning to use this pregnancy to force a divorce?” A baby? I froze, my mind spinning into a void. How could this be happening? But the hollow, dull ache in my lower abdomen was terrifyingly real. Before I could even process the loss, the flashing lights continued to assault my senses. “Miss Kelly! What is your relationship with the man in the video?” “The internet is labeling you a homewrecker. Do you have any comment?” “Did you deliberately target Mrs. Maxwell?” My vision cleared, and I realized the hospital room was packed with reporters. And at the far end of the room, I saw my mother. She was tied to a chair, her wrists and ankles bound with heavy tape, a thick strip of black duct tape covering her mouth. I tried to scream for her, but my throat was too dry, producing only a raspy gasp. The straps binding me to the bed were so tight they cut into my skin, turning my wrists raw. And Elliot, the man who had sworn his undying love to me just days ago, stood with his arm wrapped securely around Chelsea’s waist, looking down at me like a judge presiding over a trial. Chelsea smirked at my pathetic state. “Honestly, you’re young and pretty. You could easily find some guy to pay you ten grand a month to be his plaything. Why on earth did you choose to degrade yourself as a cheap homewrecker?” “I am not a homewrecker!” I choked out. The room erupted into mocking laughter. Chelsea chuckled, her eyes glinting with malice. “Oh? Are you suggesting my marriage license is a forgery?” I stared at the two of them. The weight of the injustice burned in my throat, but I forced the words out anyway. “Elliot, do you have even an ounce of decency left? We were together for five years! If you had just been honest and broken up with me, I could have respected you. Instead, you lied to both of us. Are you really that much of a coward?” “Have you no shame?” Elliot finally spoke. He pulled a medical document from his pocket. “I’ve tolerated your behavior because of your mental condition, Josie. But I can’t let your delusions keep disrupting my family.” Delusional disorder. I stared at him. I saw a fleeting trace of hesitation in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by cold calculation. Chelsea frowned. “At first, I thought you were just stupid and felt a little sorry for you. But trying to drive a wedge between my husband and me? That’s just pure malice.” She stepped closer, forcing my bound legs down toward the floor. “Kneel and beg for my forgiveness, and maybe I’ll let this go.” “Otherwise, I’ll post these medical records online. The entire city will know what kind of people you and your mother are. You’ll never be able to show your faces in public again.” Elliot leaned down, whispering so only I could hear: “Josie, just do what she says… I hate seeing you suffer like this, but my hands are tied…” He had engineered every ounce of this nightmare, yet he still managed to paint himself as the helpless bystander. I grit my teeth. “I did nothing wrong! Why should I—” A sharp slap cut me off. The stinging heat bloomed across my cheek and radiated to my ear, leaving a loud, high-pitched ringing. “Still stubborn?” Chelsea sneered. “Then I’ll beat some sense into you.” “That was for being a shameless little tramp who tried to steal my husband.” Before I could blink, her hand struck again. Slap. “That was for your arrogance. You don’t get to talk back to me.” A warm trickle of blood began to seep from my nose, filling my mouth with a metallic taste. Slap. “That was for not knowing your place.” Slap. “And that was to remind you that you’re nothing but trash. Look at yourself. Did you really think you were in my league?” For what felt like an eternity, the blows kept coming. My face grew swollen and numb, and blood dripped steadily onto my hospital gown. Just when I thought my body would finally give out, the door was violently kicked open. “Stop!”

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I gave up my spot at the Vienna Conservatory just to stay behind and help Adrian practice. In the ten years since, he went from an obscure, struggling street musician to a world-renowned virtuoso. For every single one of his concerts, I sat in the very front row. He promised me that once this tour ended, he would dedicate the encore—a piece called “Homeward”—to me. It was the first piece I had ever written for him. But at the final stop of the tour, he changed the program at the last minute. Next to “Homeward” on the credits, there was a new name. Zora. His new protégé. In the dressing room, Zora clutched the sheet music to her chest, looking up at me with wide, hesitant eyes. “Gina, I’m so sorry. Adrian said this piece suited my style better. I never meant to take credit for your hard work.” Adrian adjusted the cuffs of her blouse, his expression entirely serene. “She’s young, Gina. She needs the exposure. Besides, you haven’t played in years. Don’t make a big deal out of this.” I stared at the sheet music. It still bore the faint, smudged pencil marks from the nights I had stayed up late revising it. When the performance ended, the hall erupted into thunderous applause. The host asked Adrian where the inspiration for the piece had come from. He looked at Zora, his smile warm and gentle. “It came from a very talented girl.” Sitting in the audience, I felt something snap deep inside me. Like a piano wire giving way. Ten years ago, I walked off my own stage to let him stand on his. Ten years later, he took the last piece of music I had left and handed it to someone else. The draft in the rehearsal room had finally died down. It was time for me to leave, too. … The dressing room door clicked shut, but the muffled roar of the applause still vibrated through the walls. Adrian handed his tuxedo jacket to his assistant. When he turned and saw me standing by the music stand, his brow furrowed slightly. “Why are you still here?” I held the program with the altered credits, my fingers squeezing the paper until the edges went soft. “Why is Zora’s name on “Homeward”?” Adrian took a glass of water from the assistant and took a sip. “It was a last-minute adjustment. The promoters thought a co-credit would generate more buzz.” I stared at him. “I wrote that song, Adrian.” He set the glass down, his voice level and untroubled. “I know that. Which is why I didn’t remove your name. Zora helped shape the final performance. Sharing the credit isn’t a big deal.” Right then, Zora pushed the door open. Her stage makeup was still on, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “Gina, please don’t be mad at Adrian. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned how much I loved the piece. He was only trying to give me a chance.” Adrian glanced at her, his voice softening. “Don’t cry. You were wonderful tonight.” Those words felt like a needle pricking my fingertip. Once, after every concert, I was always the first person he looked for. No matter how loud the crowd chanted his name, he would push through the sea of people, drape his arm over my shoulder, and whisper, “Did you hear it? I played that for you.” Now, standing beside Zora, his glances at me felt like an afterthought. An inconvenience. I set the crumpled program down on the vanity. “I’m not fighting you over a line in a booklet, Adrian. I just want to know: when did you decide to let her play it?” He finally looked up at me. “Last month.” Last month. I remembered a night he came home incredibly late, smelling of the old wood and polish of the rehearsal studio. I had asked if he’d been practicing all that time. “Yeah,” he’d muttered, rubbing his hand. “My wrist is stiff. Don’t press.” I had heated up a therapeutic compress for him that night, gently massaging his wrist for half an hour. As it turned out, his wrist hadn’t been aching from his own practice. It was from hours spent teaching Zora how to play my song. Zora tugged lightly on Adrian’s sleeve. “Adrian, they’re waiting for us at the afterparty. We shouldn’t keep everyone.” Adrian nodded, then looked back at me. “Go on home first. It’s crowded tonight. Let’s not make a scene over something so minor.” I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “Minor?” His tone cooled. “Gina, you haven’t performed in years. Leaving your compositions to gather dust in a drawer does nobody any good. Zora is bringing it to life. She’s letting people actually hear it. That’s a good thing.” I looked down at the vintage case sitting near the door. Wrapped around its latch was a broken string. It was the old piano wire Adrian had replaced for me ten years ago, right before I was supposed to fly out for my audition in Vienna. He had told me then: “When you get back, we’ll open our own studio together.” Then came the car crash. His right wrist was shattered. I withdrew my enrollment, stayed behind to guide him through physical therapy, sat by him while he practiced, and dragged him back to the stage step by painful step. I had kept that broken wire all these years. It was a relic of a path I never got to take. I reached down, untangled the wire, and slipped it into my purse. Adrian noticed, his eyebrows drawing together. “What are you doing with that?” “It’s mine.” “It’s just an old wire.” “You’re right,” I said, zipping my purse closed. “It’s just an old wire.” Zora looked down, whispering, “If it makes Gina unhappy, I can clarify things in the press interviews. I can say you did most of the writing.” “There’s no need,” Adrian cut in immediately. “We’re sticking to the press release as planned.” He turned to me, his gaze carrying the weary warning of a man dealing with an unreasonable child. “Zora’s career is just starting to take off, Gina. Don’t let your moods ruin this for her.” I didn’t say another word. On the digital monitors lining the corridor, footage of the curtain call was playing on a loop. Adrian and Zora stood side by side on stage, the golden spotlight washing over them like a warm, exclusive blessing. I had sat in the shadows of the auditorium, entirely out of frame. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was an email notification from the Composers and Lyricists Association. The supplementary materials I had submitted for the original copyright of “Homeward” had officially been approved. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass for a long, silent moment. From behind me, Adrian’s voice drifted over. “Gina, don’t bother coming to the afterparty. It’ll only make things awkward for everyone.” I clicked the phone off and pushed through the side exit. Before the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I caught Zora’s soft, tinny voice: “Adrian, is Gina mad at us?” Adrian’s reply was perfectly calm. “She’ll get over it in a few days. She always does.” Back at the apartment, a thin layer of dust had settled over the piano lid. I tossed my keys onto the entryway table. When I flipped the light switch, the living room felt hollow, almost blindingly empty. I bought this piano when I was twenty-four. I had just received my audition invitation for Vienna and had saved up for two years to buy this secondhand Steinway. I remembered Adrian running his fingers over the keys back then, promising, “When I make it big, I’m buying you the best grand piano in the world.” He did make it big. He upgraded his car, bought a penthouse, and leased a state-of-the-art studio. But this piano remained in our living room. He always told me: “Old instruments have soul, Gina. Let’s not disturb it.” I walked over and lifted the cover. The string next to middle C was slightly flat, its tone muffled when I pressed it. My phone rang. It was Adrian. I picked up, hearing the loud, clinking atmosphere of a VIP lounge in the background. “You make it home?” “Yes.” “Good. Do me a favor and dig up the original draft of “Homeward” tomorrow morning. Zora has an exclusive interview the day after, and they want to film some of the creative process.” My fingers froze on the keys. “Whose creative process?” He missed my tone entirely. “Zora’s, of course. Just let her use your drafts as reference material so she doesn’t look out of her depth on camera.” “Adrian,” I said quietly, “do you even hear yourself?” The noise on his end dimmed slightly as he stepped away. His voice dropped. “Gina, tonight was dramatic enough. Stop overanalyzing this.” “So you want my original manuscripts to fabricate her genius?” “It’s just PR packaging,” he said, sounding annoyed. “That’s how the industry works. You used to be in this world, Gina. Don’t act like you don’t know how the game is played.” I let out a soft laugh. “Used to be.” So that was what I was to him now. A past tense. Zora’s voice drifted through the receiver. “Adrian, the champagne is poured! Come on, we’re waiting!” Adrian answered her, then turned back to the phone. “Just have it ready by nine tomorrow morning. And Gina? Don’t go posting anything passive-aggressive on social media.” I hung up. Less than a minute later, a text from Zora popped up on my screen: “Gina, I’m so sorry if Adrian sounded insensitive. He just wants me to do the piece justice. He really isn’t trying to take anything from you.” Before I could lock the screen, another one came in: “Honestly, I’ve always admired how long you’ve stood by his side. But I guess the stage belongs to the people who still play, right?” “The people who still play.” I stared at those words, then looked down at my own hands. My fingers were long and slender, with faint calluses still lining my palms. I hadn’t stopped playing because I couldn’t. I stopped because Adrian didn’t want me to. In the early years of his comeback, nothing terrified him more than the mention of my prestigious composition awards. He couldn’t stand the whisper that he was riding his wife’s coattails. So, I stepped back. I retreated into the background, polishing his scores, writing his themes, and sitting up in the dark listening to his recordings over and over to fix every tiny mistake. I had believed that in a marriage, there was no need to keep score. I didn’t realize that when you don’t draw boundaries, you eventually lose even your own name. The next morning, Adrian returned. He smelled faintly of gin and carried an elegant, embossed gift box. “Zora bought this for you,” he said, placing it on the kitchen counter. “Consider it an apology.” I didn’t reach for it. “Did she break something of mine?” He frowned. “Must you always be so hostile?” I looked at the box. “What is it?” “A silk scarf,” he replied. “She spent a long time picking it out. Don’t be ungrateful.” I opened the box. Inside lay a pale blue silk scarf, embroidered with a small white fawn in the corner. It was the exact style Zora had been wearing around her neck in the photos from her press junket the night before. Adrian offered a quick, dismissive explanation. “The brand sent her two. She said the blue would look nice on you.” I closed the box. “Thank her for me, but I don’t want it.” His patience finally snapped. “Gina, you used to be different.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Different how?” He was silent for a second. “At least you used to have some grace.” I pushed the box back across the counter. “Then let’s assume I’ve lost it.” Adrian stared at me, a cold, dry smile touching his lips. “You really think I can’t perform “Homeward” without you, don’t you?” He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen, turning it toward me. On the video, Zora sat at the grand piano. As she reached the chorus, she looked up at him, smiling. Adrian stood beside her, murmuring softly, “Bring the volume down here. Make it sound like opening the door to your own home.” My heart dropped. That exact phrase was a handwritten annotation I had penciled into the margins of my original score years ago. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “She’s a quick study.” I kept my eyes on him. “Adrian, that was “my” door.” His expression flickered, but he quickly recovered. “Well, now it belongs to the stage.” The staff at the studio looked away when I walked through the lobby. The receptionist scrambled to her feet, offering a quiet, nervous smile. “Hi, Gina. Adrian is in Studio A.” I nodded and walked down the hall. The door wasn’t fully closed. Zora was playing “Homeward”, hitting a sharp, jarring note in the third measure. Adrian sat beside her on the bench, gently placing his hand over hers. “Don’t rush it. Your wrists are too tense. Breathe.” Zora smiled, leaning in. “Did you teach Gina the same way?” Adrian paused. “She didn’t need to be taught.” “That must have been nice,” Zora murmured. “She must have been incredibly talented.” Adrian’s voice was flat. “The past is the past.” I knocked twice against the doorframe. They both turned sharply, and Adrian withdrew his hand from hers. “How long have you been standing there?” I set a thick manila folder on the table. “I didn’t bring the drafts you wanted. I brought something else.” He opened the folder, and his face instantly went dark. “A copyright declaration?” “The full credits for “Homeward”—composition, arrangement, the initial demo recordings, and the writing timeline. I’ve officially registered all of it. Any future commercial use of the piece will require my explicit written consent.” Zora’s face drained of color. “Gina… are you doing this to block me?” I looked her dead in the eye. “Yes.” The room fell dead silent. Adrian slammed the folder shut. “Do you really have to drag this through the mud?” “Am I the one making it ugly, Adrian?” He stood up and stepped close, his voice a low, threatening hiss. “Gina, the studio has seven tour dates left under contract, and “Homeward” is our headlining piece. Holding the copyright hostage over a personal grudge is incredibly selfish. You’re putting everyone’s livelihood at risk.” “I’m simply taking back what belongs to me.” “What belongs to you?” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “If my name wasn’t attached to that piece, Gina, who would have ever listened to it? It would be nothing.” I stared at him. There it was. The ugly truth he had harbored for a decade. Zora stepped forward, tears brimming in her eyes. “Gina, I can step down. Truly. But Adrian worked for six months to prepare for this tour. You can’t ruin his entire career just because you don’t like me.” “His career?” I pulled the folder toward me. “Then play something else. Just stay off my music.” Adrian grabbed my wrist. His grip wasn’t violent, but it was firm enough to lock me in place. “Don’t push this to a point where you can’t take it back.” I looked down at his fingers. This was the hand that once shook so violently he couldn’t even hold a glass of water. When I was helping him through his rehabilitation, he would break out in a cold sweat from the pain, yet he would look at me and whisper, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get better.” I had been so terrified back then. Terrified that his career was over, that he would spend the rest of his life in a dark, bitter depression. So, I tore up my own invitation to Vienna. I poured every hour of my youth into him. And now, his hands were perfectly healed. Healed enough to pin my wrist down to pave the way for another woman. I slowly pulled my arm out of his grasp. “I want a divorce, Adrian.” Zora gasped. Adrian’s expression barely shifted; he looked at me as if I were a child throwing a temper tantrum. “Take a couple of days to calm down.” “I am calm.” “Have you even drafted the papers?” He gave me a cold, patronizing look. “The studio shares, the apartment, the royalties… have you thought about any of that?” “I have.” His smirk vanished. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve thought about. The studio is in my name. The touring networks are mine. Every industry connection belongs to me. If you walk out that door, Gina, who is going to remember you?” I didn’t answer. Zora whispered, “Adrian, don’t say that. You’re hurting her.” Adrian loosened his collar. “She needs a dose of reality.” I tucked my wrist into my sleeve. A red band of irritated skin was already beginning to bloom. That afternoon, Adrian called an emergency meeting. In front of the entire staff, he announced, “We are pausing the promotional campaign for “Homeward”. Gina is dealing with some personal issues, and she will be taking a step back from all studio projects indefinitely.” Several arrangers glanced my way, then quickly looked down at their laps in awkward silence. Zora sat right beside him, offering a soft, sympathetic murmur to the room: “Please don’t judge Gina. She’s just… very protective of Adrian.” I stood near the door, offering no explanation. As people filed out, the young receptionist slipped a paper bag into my hands. “Gina,” she whispered. “I found this in the back of the archives. I thought you should have it before things get cleared out.” I opened it. Inside was my old leather music binder. Tucked into the front pocket was a yellowed photocopy of my admission invitation from the Vienna Conservatory, creased at the corner. I remembered when the original went missing. Adrian had told me it must have been lost when we moved apartments. But on the back of this copy, written in his precise, familiar handwriting, were the words: “Hold response. It is more important that she stays.” I stood in the quiet archive room, clutching the piece of paper, my hands cold and stiff. Outside, footsteps shuffled past. It hadn’t been a tragic twist of fate. It hadn’t been an accident. He had pulled the plug on my life himself. Adrian walked in just as I closed the binder. He glanced at the paper bag. “Who gave you permission to rummage through the archives?” I looked up. “I’m taking what’s mine. Is that a problem?” He stepped closer, reaching out to grab the binder. I took a step back, and his hand hung suspended in the air. “Gina, you are acting completely out of line lately.” I let out a sharp laugh. “Unlike the way you need me to act, right?” His brow furrowed. “There’s a promotional livestream with the press tonight,” he said, shifting back to business. “I need you to appear with me.” “Me?” “Yes,” he said, as if it were the most natural request in the world. “As the original composer, you’ll say a few words in support of Zora’s interpretation. It’ll put the copyright rumors to rest.” I stared at him. “You want me to go on camera and hand over my song to her?” “It’s not handing it over,” he said softly. “It’s helping us. It’s a gesture of grace.” “Gina. A gesture.” That was the word of my life. I had bowed out to facilitate his comeback, his fame, his dignity. And now, I was expected to bow out to validate Zora’s career. “And if I say no?” Adrian placed a contract on the desk between us. “Your mother’s care facility fees for next quarter are scheduled to be paid directly from the studio’s accounts. But with these copyright disputes, our business accounts are frozen for audit. It would be a shame if her payments were disrupted.” I glared at the document, my blood running cold. “Are you threatening my mother?” His voice was smooth, devoid of heat. “I’m reminding you of how interconnected our lives are. If things get ugly, everyone suffers.” Zora peeked her head into the room. “Adrian, the streaming crew is ready.” She saw me and immediately bit her lip, looking appropriately guilt-ridden. “Gina… maybe we should just call it off. I don’t want your mother’s care to be affected because of me.” I looked at her, seeing the thinly veiled triumph sparkling in her eyes. But Adrian only saw her sweet compliance. “Go get ready, Zora.” The live set was set up in the second-floor studio. The ring lights were blinding, washing every trace of natural color from our faces. The host handed us the cue cards ahead of time. “Question 1: Gina, how do you feel about Zora’s fresh take on ‘Homeward’?” “Question 2: Do you agree that Zora represents the next generation of creative classical artists?” “Question 3: How do you and Adrian support each other’s artistic journeys?” I rested the cards on my lap. Adrian sat close beside me, leaning in to whisper, “Read the script. No improvising.” “Adrian,” I whispered back, “do you ever regret anything?” He kept his eyes on the camera monitors, ignoring me. “We can discuss whatever settlement you want after the stream is over.” “What about Vienna?” His fingers stiffened. I quietly slid the folded photocopy across the table, placing it right before him. The color drained from his face. Zora leaned in, trying to peek. “What’s that?” Adrian slammed his hand down over the paper, sliding it out of sight. “Just some old paperwork. Nothing important.” I held his gaze. “You hid the original acceptance letter, didn’t you?” He remained silent. And that silence was loud enough to fill the room. The director’s voice crackled through our earpieces, counting down: “Three, two, one. We’re live.” The red light on the camera flickered on. The host offered a polished, camera-ready smile. “Welcome back, everyone. Tonight we have virtuoso Adrian Lockhart, composer Gina Mercer, and rising star Zora Albright, here to share the beautiful story behind the hit composition, “Homeward”.” Adrian slipped seamlessly into his public persona, smiling warm and wide. “This piece has a very special place in Gina’s and my hearts, and we’re absolutely thrilled that Zora could bring her unique voice to it.” The host turned to me. “Gina, we’ve heard you’ve been incredibly supportive of Zora’s performance of your work. What was that process like for you?” Underneath the table, Adrian’s hand found my wrist, wrapping around the tender, reddened skin he had bruised earlier. His grip tightened in a silent, agonizing squeeze. I stared straight into the lens. And suddenly, I saw myself at twenty-four again. Standing in the freezing rain by a mailbox, clutching her sheet music, waiting for a letter that would never arrive because it had already been intercepted. I slowly pulled my arm back, breaking his grip. “Actually, I don’t support it at all.” The studio went dead silent. The host’s smile froze mid-air. Adrian’s voice was a low, terrifying vibration. “Gina.” I leaned closer to my mic. “Homeward” was not a collaborative effort. Zora had absolutely nothing to do with the composition or the arrangement. Every single draft, demo, and copyright registration is in my name alone.” Zora’s face turned paper-white. She stammered, looking frantically at the camera. “Gina… there must be some misunderstanding. Adrian said you gave us your blessing.” I turned to look at her. “I don’t.” Adrian stood up abruptly, lunging forward to cut the broadcast feed. But before he could reach the switch, the massive digital backdrop behind us flickered, displaying a massive screenshot of an old email. “Sender: Admissions Office, Vienna Conservatory of Music.” “Recipient: Adrian Lockhart.” The email read: “Please confirm if Ms. Gina Mercer is officially declining her enrollment offer.” Directly below was his reply: “Yes, she is declining.”

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I quit smoking eight years ago for my wife. But last month, when I accompanied her to pick up her annual physical results, the doctor called me into his office alone. “Your wife has a ground-glass nodule in the upper lobe of her left lung. We recommend further testing.” My knees went weak right there in the office. “But she doesn’t smoke. How is that possible?” The doctor gave me a long, clinical look. “Prolonged exposure to secondhand smoke can cause this as well.” I froze. My wife didn’t just avoid smoking; she couldn’t stand even the slightest hint of cigarette smoke. That night, for the first time in nearly a decade, I smoked an entire pack. … 1 “The physical report came back. It’s a ground-glass nodule. Six millimeters.” I laid the report flat on the dining table, keeping my voice as steady as possible. Diana didn’t even look up. She picked up a piece of asparagus with her fork, her tone as casual as if she were talking about the weather. “I know. I’ll get it rechecked eventually.” I stared at her expressionless face, my fingers gripping the edges of the report until my knuckles turned white. Six millimeters. The doctor said at this size, she needed a follow-up CT scan in three months. If it grew any larger, they would have to consider a needle biopsy. “Diana, let me ask you something.” She finally lifted her gaze slightly. “Is there anyone around you who smokes?” Her fork paused. It was almost imperceptible, but she quickly resumed eating. “No.” “The doctor said prolonged exposure to secondhand smoke is a major risk factor. Are you sure there’s no one?” “Thomas, I said no, and I mean no.” She set her fork down, took her plate into the kitchen, and turned on the faucet. The rushing water drowned out any chance of further conversation. The discussion was over. I lit a cigarette. For eight years, I hadn’t touched a single one. This was the first time I had ever lit up in our apartment. The moment the smoke drifted into the air, her voice from years ago echoed in my mind—If you want a future with me, you need to quit. I can’t stand the smell. So I quit. From twenty-three to thirty-one, a solid eight years. I didn’t touch a single cigarette, not even at corporate dinners or networking events. Halfway through the cigarette, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Diana. She was just in the bedroom, but she couldn’t even be bothered to walk out and speak to me. Don’t smoke in the living room. I have a client meeting tomorrow. No question about why I had suddenly started smoking again. No inquiry into whether I was having a bad day. Not even a single question mark. I stubbed out the cigarette, threw open the window, and let the cold autumn air rush in to clear the room. My phone buzzed again. It wasn’t Diana. It was an Instagram post from her colleague, Curtis Wells. The three of us had gone to college together, keeping a polite, distant friendship over the years. The photo showed a rooftop patio late at night. Curtis had a cigarette between his lips, and someone was sitting right next to him. I pinched the screen to zoom in. It was Diana. She was sitting close to him, wrapped in a scarf, holding a warm mug. In the background were the glowing lights of the office district. The caption read: Working past midnight. Shoutout to Diana for staying up late with me to finish this proposal. In the photo, Curtis’s cigarette was actively burning, wisps of smoke drifting from his fingers. Diana was sitting less than two feet away. I locked my phone, unlocked it, and locked it again. Then, I walked over to the bedroom door. “Diana.” “Yeah?” Her voice was muffled; she was probably putting on a face mask. “Has Curtis been pulling a lot of overtime lately?” “We’re in the final stretch of the project. The whole department is working late.” “He smokes right next to you and you don’t say anything?” A brief, heavy silence followed. “When did this happen?” “Curtis just posted a photo on Instagram. You’re sitting right next to him on the rooftop.” The door swung open. Diana stood there, her face covered in a white sheet mask, leaving only her eyes visible. She looked at me as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. “He was having a rough night, so I sat with him for a bit. What about it?” “He has a rough night so he gets to smoke right next to you? I thought you couldn’t stand the smell of smoke.” “It’s an open rooftop, Thomas, not a sealed room. Stop trying to connect dots that aren’t there.” “I’m not connecting dots. You have a growth on your lung, and the doctor said it’s linked to secondhand smoke—” “Thomas.” She cut me off. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was freezing. “Curtis is my colleague and our mutual friend. When he’s going through a tough time, sitting with him is just basic human decency. If you can’t even trust me on that, then we have nothing left to talk about.” The edge of her mask peeled back slightly. She patted it down with a finger, turned around, and shut the door. I stood in the hallway, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. Eight years ago, she made me quit smoking because she couldn’t tolerate even a trace of it. Yet when Curtis smoked in front of her, she could sit there with him until the early hours of the morning. Where was the difference? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I smoked half a pack that night, huddled on the balcony with the windows sealed shut, terrified that a single draft of smoke might slip inside. Because she couldn’t stand it. No, that wasn’t it. She just couldn’t stand mine. 2 “Thomas, what’s that smell on your breath?” Diana wrinkled her nose as she brushed past me the next morning. Even after brushing my teeth twice, I couldn’t hide it. I mumbled something about a sore throat. She didn’t press further, just grabbed her purse and left. I took half the day off and went to the hospital to see a pulmonologist, needing to understand exactly how serious this nodule was. The doctor reviewed the scan and looked up. “Your wife’s nodule has a ground-glass appearance, but the margins are relatively well-defined. We’ll rescan in three months. If there’s no growth, we’ll just keep monitoring it.” “And if it grows?” “If it grows, we’ll take further steps. The worst-case scenario is always a possibility, but it’s too early to jump to conclusions.” “She doesn’t smoke. Could it be secondhand smoke?” “Secondhand smoke is a risk factor, certainly. But so are kitchen fumes, air pollution—it’s hard to isolate a single cause.” I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot for a long time. Hard to isolate a single cause. It sounded so clinical, so logical. But all I could see was that photo. The midnight rooftop, Curtis with a cigarette in his mouth, Diana by his side. I couldn’t help myself. I opened Instagram and started scrolling back through Curtis’s feed, post by post. Three months ago: a group photo after late-night work. Curtis stood next to Diana, a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers. Five months ago: a short video from a team-building dinner. Curtis lit a cigarette at the table, and Diana sat directly across from him, making no move to lean away or cover her nose. Seven months ago: a photo from a business trip. Curtis was smoking in a hotel corridor, and Diana was leaning against the wall, deep in conversation with him. In every single picture, she never flinched. She never moved away. I suddenly remembered our first year of marriage. I had been smoke-free for barely six months. At a holiday party, a colleague had slipped me a cigarette. Before I could even reach for a lighter, Diana marched across the hall, snatched the cigarette from my hand in front of everyone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a trash can. “I said no smoking, and I meant it.” The room went dead silent for three agonizing seconds. My colleague tried to laugh it off, joking about how my wife kept me on a tight leash, but Diana didn’t even crack a polite smile. She just grabbed my arm and dragged me out. She refused to speak to me on the ride home, and I spent the entire drive apologizing. “I was just holding it. I didn’t even light it.” “Holding it means you wanted to smoke. Wanting to smoke means you haven’t truly quit. And not quitting means you don’t respect my words.” Her logic was airtight, leaving me with no room to argue. From that day on, I didn’t touch alcohol or tobacco, and even my smoking colleagues learned to put out their cigarettes whenever I was around. Eight years of this. And in the end, a growth appeared on her lung anyway. And I was the last one to know why. 3 That afternoon, I arrived early at her office building, wanting to pick her up and talk about her medical follow-up. My call went unanswered, so I sent a text saying I was waiting downstairs. I waited for forty minutes. When she finally walked out of the glass lobby, Curtis was by her side. He was leaning in, saying something to her, and she nodded occasionally, her expression far softer than any she ever showed me. As they approached the parking lot entrance, Curtis pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Diana finally spoke up. “Cut back on those, will you?” Her tone was gentle, carrying a soft, helpless note of concern. Curtis chuckled, sliding the pack back into his coat pocket. “Since the director has spoken, I’ll behave.” I watched the entire exchange from my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went pale. To him, she said cut back. To me, she said absolutely not. Her reaction to him smoking was a gentle, playful warning. Her reaction to me even holding a cigarette was to humiliate me and throw it away. Curtis got to decide whether to put his cigarettes away. But Diana decided whether mine got snapped in half. Diana didn’t notice my car until she was right next to it. She leaned down to peer through the window. “What are you doing here?” “Picking you up.” She pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat without a word of thanks, not even asking how long I’d been waiting. Curtis, however, walked over and leaned down to wave at me through the window. “Hey, Thomas. Long time no see. We should grab dinner sometime.” I gave him a tight nod, forced a smile, and started the engine. Once we were two blocks away, I finally spoke. “You told Curtis to ‘cut back’.” “Yeah. What of it?” “You told me I wasn’t allowed to touch them at all.” Her expression in the rearview mirror didn’t even flicker. “That’s different. He’s a colleague; it’s not my place to control him. You’re my husband. Of course the standards are different.” “So I get the higher standards?” “Do you even have to ask?” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I opened my mouth to respond, but then closed it, swallowing the words. “You look terrible, Thomas.” My childhood friend, Larry, had called me out for a drink. I sat across from him, leaving my glass untouched on the table. “Diana has a ground-glass nodule on her lung.” Larry’s fork froze mid-air. “How big?” “Six millimeters.” “Is it serious?” “Hard to say right now. She has to get another scan in three months.” Larry frowned, thinking it over, and asked cautiously, “But she doesn’t smoke. How did that happen?” I remained silent. “Secondhand smoke?” he guessed. “Who? You haven’t touched a cigarette in eight years, right?” “It wasn’t me.” I took a sip of my drink and told him about Curtis’s social media posts. Larry’s expression grew complicated. “So you’re saying Curtis smokes around her all the time?” “More than just ‘all the time.’ I went through his profile for the last six months. There are photos of them together every few days, and in almost every single one, he’s holding a cigarette.” “And she doesn’t stop him?” “She told him to ‘cut back’.” Larry was quiet for a long moment before setting his fork down. “Man, maybe you’re overthinking this. They’re just colleagues. You can’t police a coworker the way you police a husband.” “That’s what I kept telling myself. But take a look at this.” I slid my phone across the table. On the screen was a purchase receipt I had stumbled upon a couple of days ago. It was an Amazon order under Diana’s account—a limited-edition, engraved sterling silver Zippo lighter. The engraved initials weren’t mine. They were C.W. Curtis Wells. Larry stared at the screen for a long time. “When… when was this ordered?” “A week before our wedding anniversary.” He looked up at me. “And what did she get you for your anniversary?” “A tie from Macy’s. I found the receipt in her purse. It was twenty percent off.” Saying the words out loud made me feel pathetic. Larry let out a long, slow breath. “Did you confront her about it?” “No. I know exactly what she’d say. She’d call me paranoid.” “And the lighter?” “She’ll say it’s just a birthday gift for a colleague. Curtis’s birthday is next month. She has a perfectly logical excuse.” “Yeah. If you bring it up, she’ll have an airtight explanation, and you won’t be able to say a word.” I downed my drink, the alcohol burning all the way down my throat. “Larry, tell me. What does it mean when a woman forces her husband to quit smoking for eight years, won’t let him near a cigarette, and then turns around and buys another man an engraved Zippo?” Larry opened his mouth, but no words came out. We drank late into the night before I finally took an Uber home. When I opened the front door, I caught a faint scent of tobacco. It wasn’t the smell of a burning cigarette, but rather the rich, heavy notes of high-end home fragrance. There was a new diffuser on the coffee table that Diana had bought. I picked it up to check the label: Woody Tobacco & Oud. She supposedly couldn’t stand the smell of actual smoke, yet she bought tobacco-scented diffuser oils for our living room. I set the bottle back down and walked into the bedroom. Diana was already asleep, her phone lying face-down on the nightstand next to her pillow. The screen was still glowing, showing an active chat window. I didn’t mean to pry, but my eyes caught the last exchange in her notifications. Curtis: Thanks for today. Let me buy you dinner sometime. Diana: Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. At the end of her text was a little crescent moon emoji. She never used emojis with me. Our own text history was a barren wasteland of short, sterile phrases that read like telegrams. Home. Okay. What time is the meeting tomorrow? Nine. Got it. She couldn’t even be bothered to use punctuation, let alone emojis. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her sleeping profile, remembering how different she had been back in college. She used to send me long, rambling paragraphs filled with exclamation points and sweet, lingering ellipses, always ending with how much she missed me. When had that changed? I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. Maybe it was during our first year of marriage when we fought bitterly over buying this apartment. Maybe it was our third year when she got promoted and my career stalled. Or maybe it was even earlier. I didn’t know. All I knew was that now, she sent emojis to Curtis but not to me. She told Curtis to cut back but banned me from ever touching a cigarette. She went out of her way to source a limited-edition engraved Zippo for him, but bought me a discounted tie. Her phone screen lit up again. I glanced down. Curtis had just posted a new photo—a close-up of a cup of black coffee against a dark window. The caption read: Endless nights. And the first like on the post? Diana. At 1:23 AM. I turned to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady and deep. She had liked his post right before drifting off to sleep. 4 “Did you find anything else?” Larry asked me over the phone. “What’s left to find? Curtis’s birthday is next week, and Diana already RSVP’d to his party.” “What about you?” “She hasn’t mentioned it to me.” The limited-edition Zippo had been delivered to her office three days ago. I only knew because the shipping notification had popped up on our shared Amazon account. Diana hadn’t said a single word about it. On Thursday night, she came home much later than usual. She was wearing a new dress I’d never seen before, and a delicate silver necklace rested against her collarbone. “Why so late tonight?” “Just a team dinner.” She kicked off her heels and started walking toward the bedroom. As she brushed past me, a distinct scent drifted through the air. It wasn’t her usual perfume. It was a faint, lingering mix of tobacco and cedar clinging to her collar. “Diana.” “Yeah?” “Your clothes smell like smoke.” She looked down, sniffing her collar, and frowned. “Someone was smoking at dinner. I probably just picked up the scent.” “Who was smoking?” She gave me a look—that familiar expression of annoyance she tried so hard to mask. “Thomas, there were fifteen people there. How am I supposed to remember who was smoking?” “Was Curtis there?” She paused. “Yes, he was. Why?” “Was he smoking?” “I didn’t pay attention.” “That scent on you doesn’t smell like a passing drift. It smells like you were sitting right next to him.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and turned to face me directly. “What are you trying to say, Thomas?” “I’m saying you have a nodule on your lung. You shouldn’t be sitting in a cloud of smoke.” “It’s not like I’m breathing it in all day, every day. It was just one evening—” “One evening? Diana, I went through Curtis’s Instagram. Every single time you two are in a photo together over the last six months, he has a lit cigarette. Every. Single. Time.” Her expression went completely cold. “You went through his profile? Are you insane, Thomas?” “Whether I’m insane doesn’t matter. What matters is that you forced me to quit smoking for eight years, and then turned around to buy another man an engraved sterling silver Zippo.” The living room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence for what felt like five seconds. Diana’s gaze shifted. The annoyance faded, replaced by a coldness I had never seen in her before. “Did you go through my Amazon orders?” “The delivery notification popped up on our shared account. I didn’t have to search for it.” “So C.W. is Curtis. So what? It’s his birthday. What’s wrong with getting a colleague a gift?” “Buying him a lighter is encouraging him to keep smoking. You have a growth on your lung, Diana. Don’t you see the problem?” “Those two things have absolutely nothing to do with each other!” She finally lost her temper, her voice rising. “Those are his lungs, not mine! I bought him that lighter because he collects them. It has nothing to do with whether he smokes around me!” “Then let me give you a reality check. A woman who claims she can’t stand the smell of smoke buys a luxury lighter for a man who constantly smokes in her presence, while banning her own husband from touching a single cigarette for eight years. That is the definition of a double standard.” Diana stared at me, her eyes drilling into mine. “Thomas, is this really about the cigarettes, or is this about Curtis?” “It’s about the fact that your rules for me don’t apply to him.” “Of course they don’t apply to him! He’s my coworker, and you’re my husband. The boundaries are entirely different. Why is that so hard for you to understand?” “The problem is that you are infinitely more forgiving of him than you ever are of me.” She blinked, caught off guard for a second, before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You’re a grown man throwing a tantrum over this. Aren’t you embarrassed?” “Sure, let’s say I’m embarrassed.” I stood up, pulled her medical report from beneath the coffee table, and threw it down in front of her. “Then look at this and tell me who should be embarrassed. I spent hours reading medical journals. Nonsmoking women with regular exposure to secondhand smoke are two and a half times more likely to develop pulmonary nodules. And the only person who routinely smokes around you is Curtis Wells. Not me.” Diana stared at the medical report, her lips parting slightly, but she couldn’t find her voice. “Eight years,” I said, my voice sounding flat, as if it were echoing from a vast distance. “I quit for eight years to protect you, and in the end, I wasn’t the one who put you in danger. But you can’t even admit it.” She looked up, her rims turning red with unshed tears, but her voice only grew colder. “So what is your point, Thomas? Are you blaming Curtis? Or are you blaming me?” “I’m not blaming anyone.” I looked straight into her eyes, finally letting go of the words I had kept locked away for so long. “Diana, I want a divorce.”

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When the two ice queens forgot my birthday. Again. The floating comments in my vision flared up in their usual defense: [It really was an accident this time.] [They already have a surprise waiting for him.] [It’s just that one of Helena’s grad students was targeted tonight. As his advisor, she had to handle the emergency first.] [The ice queens just aren’t good with words. They don’t know how to say no yet.] [Nicholas needs to be more patient. He shouldn’t make a scene over this.] I let out a quiet sigh, letting it go. Again. I lit the single candle on my cupcake and celebrated alone. Eight years of marriage to Helena, and not once had she or our daughter been there for my birthday. Just as I blew out the candle, my father burst through the front door, looking windblown and exhausted. He took one look at me and the spread of cold, untouched dinner. He let out a sigh heavier than mine. “Nicholas, are you really happy here?” I froze. The genuine worry in his eyes hit me like a physical blow. Real care, I realized, always leaves a mark. … A sharp burn hit the back of my throat. Eight years. Each birthday spent in an empty dining room. The first two years, she was either at a conference or buried in lab work. The floating comments always made excuses for her, telling me her ambition was a good thing, that she simply didn’t care about meaningless holidays, that she was just quiet. I endured it. Then she got pregnant with Hazel. The comments promised change: [Once the baby is born, the ice will melt. She’ll prioritize her family.] I believed them. But Hazel’s birth changed nothing. If anything, Hazel grew up to be just like Helena—aloof, distant, ignoring my birthdays, treating me like background noise. Another little ice queen. I had doubted myself, cried in empty rooms, planned to pack my bags. But the comments kept pulling me back: [They love you. They just have an emotional block. Just be patient. Wait a little longer.] [Helena cares. Look how she always tries to make it up to you later.] [She has her flaws, but she’s a good person at heart.] [Hazel is just naturally cold. What daughter doesn’t love her father?] For years, I survived on crumbs. Little moments of warmth that I stretched out to last for months. I got used to the cold. But Dad’s question wouldn’t leave my head. Are you really happy? I looked at the table of cold food. It wasn’t inedible, but it was lifeless. Like my marriage. “They say a father always knows,” Dad said, his voice quiet. “Every year on your birthday, my chest gets tight. But whenever I called, you said everything was fine.” He stopped, his gaze falling on my thin frame beneath my sweater. “Why have you lost so much weight?” He wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Still the same boy. Keeping everything locked inside. Nick, if you’re not happy, come back home to Maine with me.” I glanced at my phone. My last text to Helena asking when they’d be home remained unanswered. My text log with her was a barren wasteland of my long, hopeful paragraphs met with her occasional, single-word replies. I remembered wanting to take Hazel to the amusement park, only for her to look at me with Helena’s cool, analytical eyes: “You’re an adult. Can you stop being so childish?” My shopping apps were full of things I bought for them; they had never once bought a gift for me. I looked up at my father. I didn’t want to eat this cold dinner anymore. I didn’t want to live this cold life. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” The room went still. Dad looked surprised by my sudden resolve. The floating comments flared up in a frenzy: [Don’t do anything reckless! They’re already on their way home!] [Just because they missed one birthday, he’s throwing a tantrum and running home to his dad?] [I don’t get it. Why can’t he have a little more patience?] [He’s just trying to get a reaction. Once they apologize, he’ll stay. He loves Hazel too much to leave.] “Are you sure, Nick? You’re not just angry?” Dad asked. I shook my head. Eight years had worn away every shred of hope. I had listened to the comments and ignored the most basic truth: if someone cares about you, you shouldn’t have to search for proof. Dad went into the bedroom to pack my things. Then, the front door opened. Helena and Hazel walked in, followed by a young man—Jude, one of her graduate students. He looked anxious, like a kicked puppy. The comments chimed in: [Don’t jump to conclusions! Jude was just targeted by some department rivals. Helena didn’t know how to comfort him, so she brought him home.] [Look! They actually bought a cake this time. They’re trying to change!] I looked at the cake box in Helena’s hand. Through the plastic window, I saw the bright yellow mango slices. I am severely allergic to mangoes. I looked away. The student stepped forward, stammering. “Mr. Matthews—I mean, Nicholas. I’m Jude. I didn’t mean to impose on Professor Helena. I hope we didn’t miss your birthday.” He glanced at Helena, his eyes filled with a mixture of timidity, shyness, and a longing that I recognized all too well. He wasn’t the first student to fall for her, but he was the first one she had brought home. I said nothing. Helena set the cake on the table. “Cut the cake. Let’s get this over with. Give a big piece to Jude—he likes sweet things.” Seven-year-old Hazel chimed in. “Jude had a really bad day, Dad. Sweet things will make him feel better. Go cut it.” She reached for my hand. I quietly stepped back, avoiding her touch. “I’ve already eaten,” I said. “Help yourselves.” Hazel’s face darkened. “Are you throwing a tantrum? We rushed all the way back to celebrate with you. Mom was busy with something important. She’s only a little late.” I didn’t bother arguing. In their world, everyone and everything came before me. Just then, Dad walked out of the bedroom, wheeling my suitcase. His face was set in stone. “Nick, we’re leaving.” Helena froze, looking from my father to the suitcase. “Dad?” Then she looked at Jude, her expression tightening with embarrassment. “Nicholas, what is this scene?” The comments continued their defense of her, but I looked her dead in the eye. “Helena, I want a divorce.” Silence dropped like an anvil. Hazel spoke first, her voice sharp with anger. “You’re divorcing Mom just because we were late for your birthday? Why are you being so petty? If you divorce, I’m staying with Mom.” An old ache in my back—from the sleepless nights I spent carrying Hazel when she was a sick toddler—began to throb. Helena rubbed her temples. “If this is about the birthday, I’m sorry. I apologize.” Jude panicked. “I’m so sorry, Nicholas. This is my fault. Please don’t divorce because of me.” The comments turned vicious: [Is he crazy?] [Divorcing over a cake? Abandoning his own child?] Helena stepped in front of Jude, shielding him. Her voice softened in a way she had never used with me. “It’s not your fault, Jude. This is between him and me.” I watched her protect him. The great ice queen could melt, after all. Just not for me. What had I been holding on to? Once Jude was quieted, Helena looked at me, her eyes freezing over. “Have you lost your mind? If you want a divorce, fine. I don’t care. It’s your choice.” Dad, having witnessed her shielding the boy, snapped. “We’re divorcing, absolutely. My son spends his birthday alone while you parade your boy toy into his home? I raised my boy for twenty-five years to be loved, not treated like garbage by the likes of you!” The word boy toy hit Jude like a physical blow. He flushed red. “Sir, it’s not like that. Professor Helena and I—” Realizing he couldn’t explain it away, Jude turned and ran out of the apartment. Helena tried to catch his arm but missed. She turned on my father, her face dark with rage. “You’ve crossed the line.” She pulled out her phone, frantically typing to Jude. The screen was a long waterfall of green messages—she had texted him more in the last hour than she had texted me in a month. The comments scolded my father: [Jude is so innocent. Now the whole university will gossip about him.] [His dad is so reckless. What kind of father encourages his son to get divorced? Second marriages aren’t easy.] [Nicholas, wake up. Stop projecting.] I looked at the resentment in Helena’s eyes. I had never been more awake. Hazel was crying now, furious. “Grandpa, why did you bully Jude? You’re just as mean as Dad!” My father’s hand trembled in mine. His eyes went bloodshot. “Hazel! You can hate me all you want, but you do not speak to your father that way! Do you have any idea how much he sacrificed to raise you when you were sick?” I stared at her. I had buried those memories deep down because they hurt too much to recall. Hazel had been a frail, sickly infant. I had read every parenting book, stayed up for days on end, charting her fevers. When Dad visited, he would weep for me. But Helena had only glanced at her crib and said, “Maybe we shouldn’t try so hard. Let nature take its course.” Back then, the comments claimed she was just trying to spare me the stress. Now I saw the truth: she simply didn’t care. She didn’t love me, so she couldn’t bring herself to care about our child. Hazel, stubborn and angry, lunged forward and shoved my father. “He chose to do that! If I could choose, I wouldn’t want him as my dad anyway!” Dad stumbled backward, his lower back slamming hard against the sharp corner of the console table. A sickening thud echoed through the room. Rage boiled over. I slapped Hazel’s hand away. “Don’t you dare touch your grandfather! You don’t want me? Fine. I don’t want you either!” Hazel, only seven, clutched her hand, her eyes wide with shock. She burst into tears and fled down the hallway. Helena slid her phone into her pocket, her voice colder than winter. “Are you happy now? You want a divorce? Fine. We’ll start the paperwork.” She walked out after Hazel. Dad groaned, clutching his back. I helped him up and took him straight to the hospital. The doctor said he had severely sprained his lumbar spine and needed bed rest. I checked him into a room and immediately called a lawyer. “I don’t want custody. I’ll take a smaller share of the marital assets to cover child support. Just get it done.” During his three days in the hospital, Helena never called once. On the day the paperwork was ready, she and Hazel finally showed up at the ward. “Did your father spread those rumors at the university? Saying Jude is a homewrecker?” Helena demanded the moment she saw me. I frowned. The comments illuminated the screen: [Jude is miserable. The rumors have ruined his reputation at the department.] [He couldn’t take the pressure and swallowed a bottle of pills. Thank god Helena found him in time.] [Nicholas’s dad really went too far this time.] I looked back at my father, who was sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed. I stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind me. “My dad didn’t do anything.” Helena let out a bitter laugh. “Only your father called him that. Who else would it be? Do you have any idea what this does to his career? Nicholas, your father doesn’t understand academia, but you do.” I remained silent. Her impatience flared, then, incredibly, her voice softened. “Jude and I are clean. I’m asking you, please, make a statement to clear his name.” I stared at her. Helena, the proud, unyielding academic, begging me for another man’s sake. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “Helena, can you honestly tell me you don’t feel anything for him?” She went quiet. “We are student and advisor. I know my limits.” “Your limits?” I laughed, the sound hollow. “You missed my birthday to be with him. Your text logs with him are longer than our entire year of marriage. And now, you’re begging me to save him. Helena, you care about him a thousand times more than you ever cared about your husband.” I had spent eight years waiting for her to melt, forgetting that when someone actually loves you, they don’t make you freeze in the first place. Her expression turned defensive. “You’re being ridiculous. Since when do you care about these things? You never used to mind.” Of course. My endless compromises had been taken as indifference. She had watched my heart break in slow motion and called it peace. “I’m done,” I said, turning to walk away. But Helena grabbed my wrist. “Jude tried to end his life because of what your family said. You have to clear this up now.” Her grip was iron. Hazel grabbed my jeans, anchoring me. Inside the ward, Dad heard the commotion. He tried to get up, but I heard a sharp cry of pain as he fell from the bed. Panic seized me. “Let me check on my dad first, Helena! Let me make sure he’s okay, then I’ll sign whatever you want!” She didn’t flinch. “Jude can’t wait. The nurses are in there. Your father will be fine.” My blood ran cold. Helena had no family of her own; my father had treated her like a daughter for eight years. And this was what he got. She dragged me to Jude’s ward. The boy shrank under his covers when he saw me. Helena rushed to comfort him. “Don’t worry. He’s here to set things straight.” My mind was entirely on my father. I muttered a hollow apology and signed the statement she drafted. Once it was done, I pulled out the divorce agreement. “I did what you wanted. Sign this.” Helena stared at the papers, her shoulders tensing. “You know this isn’t what I wanted. We have Hazel. And with Jude’s scandal, a divorce right now looks bad…” Even now, she was calculating how it affected Jude. “Do you really think we have a marriage left, Helena?” My lip bled where I had bitten it. Helena’s eyes flicked to the drop of red, her fingers twitching. Hazel looked at my pale face and whispered, “Dad?” Just then, Jude grabbed a butter knife from his bedside table, pointing it at his own wrist. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have caused this…” Helena’s brief step toward me veered instantly back to Jude’s bedside. She wrapped her arms around him, her face hardening back into the familiar, frozen mask. She signed the paper with one hand. “I hope you don’t regret this.” A weight lifted from my chest. Ignoring the frantic scrolling of the comments, I smiled. “I won’t.” I walked out and never looked back. Dad’s fall hadn’t caused any permanent damage, thank God. When I showed him the signed papers, he let out a long, ragged sigh. “I’m sorry, Nick. Your old man couldn’t protect you.” I hugged him. If it weren’t for him, I’d still be living in that phantom world, feeding on lies. I booked two tickets to Maine for that night. Their lives were no longer my concern.

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I’ve always been a performer by nature. A drama queen in the quietest, most calculated way. When I realized my dry, corporate-merger husband was cold on the surface but possessed an insatiable appetite in the dark, I started to play my part with relish. I loved watching a still, lifeless pond ripple wildly under my touch. But somewhere along the way, I must have overacted. The performance bled into reality, and I became far too clingy. I didn’t just lose control between the sheets; I brought the act into his sterile corporate world, too. One afternoon, dropping off lunch at his office, I paused outside his door and heard his business partner teasing him. “Who was the one who swore this was just a three-month paper marriage? Look at you now, heading home at six-thirty on the dot every night. Doesn’t it get exhausting?” A few heavy seconds of silence ticked by before Adrian’s cool, detached voice drifted through the gap in the door. “Exhausting.” I stood frozen in the hallway, staring down at the warm thermal container in my hands. So, he didn’t actually work until ten-thirty every night. He was free at six-thirty. He was just staying away. I decided right then that it was time to take a bow and exit the stage. I remained passionately compliant in our bed—our physical connection was too addictive to discard—but I stopped texting him. I didn’t send him a single casual update. On the very day our three-month contract expired, I handed him the divorce papers with a pleasant, easy smile. Adrian’s eyes turned pitch-black, a storm brewing in his pupils. “All this time, Josie,” he rasped, “was I actually your husband, or just a glorified vibrator?” 01 I tossed the untouched lunch into the trash bin down the hall and stepped into the elevator. At the lobby desk, the two young receptionists smiled and waved when they saw me walk past. “Not staying to eat with the boss today, Josie?” I didn’t feel like putting on a show, so I just offered a polite, muted wave. Only yesterday, my theatrical streak would have flared up, and I would have gushed about how deeply in love we were just to see them swoon. But Adrian’s word—”exhausting”—was stuck in my throat like a dry pill. It made me restless. I had played the part too well. I’d even managed to trick myself. The housekeeper, Hazel, looked surprised when I walked through the door so early, but she didn’t ask questions and quietly set out a plate of food for me. Once my stomach was full, I crawled into bed and slept straight through the afternoon. I didn’t wake up until six-thirty, shook awake by the low, familiar rumble of his sports car engine cutting off in the driveway. I yawned and made my way downstairs. A man who usually didn’t show his face at home until ten-thirty was standing in the foyer, his dark eyes fixed on me. “Are you… not feeling well today?” Adrian asked. His brow furrowed, and I noticed his fingers twitch slightly, as if he expected me to do what I always did—fling myself into his arms the second he crossed the threshold. “I’m fine,” I said, bypassing him entirely to sink into the plush living room sofa. I picked up a bowl of chilled watermelon and took a bite, completely indifferent. “You’re home early.” Adrian walked over and sat down beside me. The familiar scent of his cologne drifted over—cold, expensive sandalwood. It was a distant, imposing fragrance. Usually, the moment he sat down, I would melt into his side like a boneless creature. But looking at him now, only a few inches away, I felt a faint stir of irritation. I swallowed the fruit and subtly shifted two inches to the side, creating a clear boundary. Adrian froze. “You… today…” He started to speak, but suddenly cut himself off with a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain, his hand pressing against his abdomen. I set my phone down and looked up. Only then did I notice the fine sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. “Stomach ache?” I asked. With his brutal work schedule, Adrian often blew past meals until his body rebelled. But ever since I’d started dragging him out to lunch, his chronic stomach issues hadn’t flared up once. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a subtle, wounded edge. “You didn’t come today. I forgot to eat.” Whether he actually forgot or was just sulking, there was no way to know. But in that soft, slightly petulant tone, I recognized a familiar trait. We were the same species. I stared at him for a few seconds. Adrian was devastatingly handsome, but his face rarely registered any warmth. He was the classic, emotionally unavailable archetype. I never would have pegged him as a performer. If I hadn’t heard him call me exhausting with my own ears, I would still be fooled. He took his medication, but the pain didn’t seem to ease. Skipping dinner entirely, he headed straight upstairs to our bedroom. I, on the other hand, cheerfully polished off two full helpings of dinner. When I stepped out of the master bathroom after my shower, I found Adrian lying on the bed with his silk robe half-open, draped loosely around his waist. His long, muscular legs were slightly drawn up, one arm pressed flat against his stomach, his dark brows knit in pain. I swallowed hard, walked over, and tugged the lapel of his robe down a fraction more. “You…” He looked up at me, a flash of genuine bewilderment in his dark eyes. “I’m sick. You still want to?” I couldn’t blame him for being surprised. Yesterday, I would have gently massaged his stomach, held him close, and whispered sweet, comforting things to ease him to sleep. The physical intimacy would have followed naturally, warmed by the domestic act. But I didn’t want to play the doting wife anymore. Stripping away the romance left only raw, almost transactional desire. “You don’t?” I murmured, letting my gaze drop. “You’re already hard.” Adrian’s breath hitched. In the next second, he rolled over, pinning me beneath him, his dark eyes flashing with a sharp, frustrated heat. “If you want it, you get it,” he growled. He was a better actor than I was. For a man supposedly suffering from severe abdominal cramps, his movements were fierce and unyielding. Once my appetite was satisfied, I rolled over to go to sleep. But as I turned, I caught sight of his pale face in the dim light. He was staring at me, his voice rough and low. “Give me two more of those stomach pills from your nightstand.” Our eyes met. I blinked. “Can’t you reach them yourself?” The silence stretched. The soft glow of the bedside lamp didn’t hide the stark paleness of his skin. His frown deepened. “My stomach… hurts,” he said, emphasizing the words as if waiting for me to break. Whatever. I was in a decent mood, so I tossed him the plastic bottle and rolled over, turning my back to him. The temperature in the room felt cooler tonight, so I pulled the duvet up to my shoulders. Since childhood, I’d needed to hug something to sleep. Before we married, it was a giant plush rabbit. After we married, it became Adrian’s arm. Now, under his heavy, silent gaze, I pulled the old plush rabbit back into my arms, buried my face in its soft fabric, and closed my eyes. Sometime in the middle of the night, the soft plush in my arms was gently pulled away, replaced by the solid, familiar warmth of a bare arm. I mumbled something into the dark and hugged it tight. Above me, in the shadows, I heard a long, quiet sigh. 02 When the morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, I felt a heavy, lingering presence at the edge of the bed. I blinked my eyes open, the sudden silhouette nearly giving me a heart attack. “What are you doing standing there?” I muttered, my voice thick with sleep. Adrian was fully dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, looking immaculate and severe. He had been standing by my bedside in absolute silence, god knows for how long. Seeing me wake, his shoulders relaxed slightly, the cold lines of his face softening. “I’m leaving for work,” he said quietly, his eyes locked onto mine, clearly waiting for a reaction. I was too exhausted to care. I rolled away from him and pulled the covers over my head. “Oh. Have a safe drive.” But the floorboards didn’t creak. He didn’t leave. I lay there in the dark of my blanket, wondering if he was waiting for his morning kiss. Before today, I would have jumped out of bed with him, put on a grand performance of a devoted wife who couldn’t bear to see her husband go, and refused to let him leave the house without demanding at least ten lingering kisses. But now that the act was over, why was he still standing there like a statue? He was the one who found me exhausting. Too lazy to analyze him, I drifted back to sleep. In the haze of my light slumber, I felt a soft, fleeting pressure on the crown of my head, followed by the quiet click of the bedroom door closing. I didn’t wake up again until noon. It was incredibly liberating not having to play the role of the perfect spouse. I hummed a tune, played with our golden retriever in the yard, and enjoyed the quiet afternoon until Hazel handed me my phone. “Ma’am, you haven’t sent Mr. Hastings the video of Cooper’s new trick today,” she said gently. “And I noticed you didn’t text him the lunch menu either.” I paused. I unlocked my phone and saw a completely blank screen. For the past three months, my chat history with Adrian was a endless stream of my own voice notes, photos of our dog, and trivial details of my day. He rarely replied with more than a word or two, but I had dutifully kept up the chatter, playing my part. I tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter. “He’s my dog. Why does Adrian need to know what tricks he can do?” Hazel stared at me, her mouth parting in slight surprise, but she quickly looked down and went back to her chores. I didn’t expect that my silence would prompt Adrian to reach out first. A text message lit up the screen: “Are you bringing lunch today?” 03 Thinking back to his pale face and stomach cramps from the night before, I felt a small, rare stir of pity. “Yes,” I typed back. On the other end, he seemed pleased. Adrian, who usually communicated in dry, period-ended sentences, sent back a rare, cheerful sticker of a cartoon bear nodding. “Hazel, can you take this over to the office for me?” I asked, pointing to the neatly packed lunch container. Hazel looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Did you and Mr. Hastings have a fight? He looked so dark when he left this morning.” I narrowed my eyes. “If you don’t want to go, I’ll have the driver do it.” Whether he was in a bad mood was none of my business. We were a business arrangement. Now that the stage lights were off, Adrian was nothing more than a very handsome, very functional companion. Hazel quickly took the container and left. Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated. Adrian: “?” Adrian: “Aren’t you coming?” Adrian: “If you’re not coming, don’t bother next time.” I left the messages on read. By the time I woke up from my afternoon nap, those texts had been neatly unsent. What a strange, temperamental man. Without Adrian to absorb my dramatic energy, I found myself restless. I decided to indulge in my other great passion: spending his money. “This is the personal shopper I told you about,” my best friend, Zoe, said over the phone, sending over a contact card. “He gets exclusive allocations before they hit the boutique floors, and he’s incredibly sweet. Since you’ve been playing June Cleaver lately, you’ve missed out on the season’s best bags. He has them all.” I added the contact immediately, set up an appointment, and headed out. For the second day in a row, Adrian didn’t stay at the office until his usual ten-thirty. When I glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer, it was only ten minutes to eight. Hearing his footsteps, I stood up from the sofa and opened my arms, walking toward him out of pure habit. Adrian’s eyes flared with a sudden, brilliant light. He stopped, throwing his arms wide open to receive me. And then… I walked right past him. I grabbed the heavy designer shopping bags resting on my wrists and dropped them onto the sofa, completely collapsing beside them. Adrian’s entire body went rigid. His arms hovered in the empty air before dropping slowly to his sides. “Go wash your hands. Dinner’s ready,” he said after a long, heavy silence. He stepped closer and reached out to pull me up, but his knee brushed against my brand-new leather tote. “Watch it!” I snapped, pulling the bag away. “Don’t touch it.” The air in the living room grew thick, cold, and heavy. Adrian’s dark pupils contracted, his gaze locking onto me. I felt a brief flicker of awkwardness. “I already ate with my shopper. Go ahead without me.” His jaw tightened, a flash of pure, frustrated irritation crossing his features. “Fine,” he muttered. When I came out of the shower later that evening, I climbed onto the bed, ready to sleep. I was exhausted from a full day of trying on clothes. But when I turned around, I saw Adrian sitting on the edge of the mattress, his robe hanging open to his waist. His chest was broad, the muscles defined and gleaming under the soft light. It was an undeniably beautiful view. I felt a momentary stir of desire, but my physical exhaustion won out. I closed my eyes, intending to ignore him, when a warm, calloused hand suddenly wrapped around my ankle. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of my inner ankle, his voice dropping into that low, slightly gravelly register he only used in the dark. “Not tonight?” 04 I forgot how high his drive was. With a quiet sigh, I rolled over and climbed into his lap. Adrian’s entire body went taut beneath me, his eyes burning with an intense, dark heat. His hot breath brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, his movements growing heavier, more urgent. At the peak of it, he leaned down to kiss me. But just as his lips were about to touch mine, the memory of his word—”exhausting”—flashed in my mind. The desire vanished instantly. I turned my head, letting his lips brush harmlessly against my cheek. The man above me went completely still. The silence in the bedroom was deafening, broken only by the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing. “Did you… eat well this afternoon?” he asked, his voice raw and raspy. Zoe hadn’t lied about the personal shopper. Jared had been incredibly attentive. Recognizing me as a high-tier client, he had pulled out all the stops—premium desserts, iced matcha lattes, and a private dinner setup right in the VIP suite. “Very well,” I murmured. The grip on my waist tightened instantly, and Adrian’s movements became almost punishingly rough. A small gasp escaped my lips. I turned my head to look at him, but in the dim light, his expression was colder than ice. “Gentler,” I hissed, digging my nails into his shoulder. I didn’t use much force, but the corners of his eyes flushed a deep, bruised red. I hadn’t realized he was so sensitive to pain. A rare pang of conscience made me soften my grip, and I let him have his way until the early hours of the morning. By the time he finally let me go, I was limp with exhaustion. I was just drifting off when a suffocating warmth wrapped around me. I opened my eyes to find Adrian holding me in a tight, inescapable embrace, his face buried in my hair. I squirmed, trying to get some breathing room, but his arms tightened automatically. No one wants to sleep while bound like a hostage. Irritated, I slid out from under his arm, grabbed my pillow, and made a move toward the guest room. But a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. I looked back. Adrian was sitting up in the dark, his eyes dark and unreadable, his voice raspy. “Where are you going?” “The guest room.” He stared at me for a few agonizing seconds, then let go of my wrist and turned his back to me. “You don’t sleep well in other beds,” he said quietly. “I’ll go.” I watched his tall, broad shoulders disappear through the doorway, his silhouette looking strangely solitary in the dark hall. The next morning, I felt someone standing over me again. I didn’t even bother to open my eyes. After what felt like an eternity, Adrian’s voice whispered in the quiet room. “I’m leaving for work.” I pulled the blanket over my ears, blocking out the rest of his words. He seemed to linger even longer this time. When I finally got out of bed hours later, I could hear the housekeepers whispering downstairs. “Did Mr. Hastings miss his morning meeting today?” “Must have. He didn’t leave the driveway until almost ten.” I ignored the gossip. Jared had texted me earlier; the rest of my limited-edition bags had just arrived at the showroom. “Ma’am, are you really not going to the office to have lunch with him today?” Hazel stopped me near the front door, her expression tight with worry. “When I went yesterday, his face was so pale. I think he really wanted to see…” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “The food is exactly the same whether I carry it or you do, Hazel.” She went quiet, and I slipped out the door, eager to get to my sanctuary. “Babe, your phone has been vibrating non-stop. Is everything okay?” Jared asked, offering a dazzling smile as he handed me the device. I unlocked the screen, my brows drawing together. Now that I had stopped performing, it seemed Adrian was eager to take the stage. Ever since he arrived at the office, he had been sending me constant, dry updates. Adrian: “At my desk.” Adrian: “Are you awake?” Adrian: “Going into a meeting.” Adrian: “Another meeting.” Adrian: “One more.” It was ridiculous. If he had time to send a play-by-play of his schedule, he clearly wasn’t that busy. I didn’t reply. I was examining a stunning exotic leather bag when his name flashed across the screen. I hesitated for a moment before picking up. “Have you eaten?” he asked. The line was quiet, save for his low voice. “Yeah.” Another heavy silence. On my end, I traced the textured leather of the bag. Jared was hovering close, hovering over the stitching. “Why… didn’t you bring lunch today?” I was trying to calculate the conversion rate of the bag in my head, my fingers absentmindedly picking at the delicate leather trim. “Babe, don’t scratch it like that…” Jared hissed softly, his voice full of mock-agony. “You’ll ruin the grain.” The line went dead silent. I glared at Jared, who quickly covered his mouth with both hands, looking mortified. “I’m busy,” I told the phone, wanting to wrap up the call. But before I could hit the end button, Adrian’s voice came through the receiver. It was so hoarse, so completely stripped of its usual cold armor, that it sounded like a different person entirely. “Josie… what did I do wrong?”

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I’ve always been the clingy one in our relationship. Hand-holding whenever we walked, a text to check in when we were apart, a goodnight kiss before sleep. But Caroline was my exact opposite. Her boundaries were ironclad. She said holding hands was sweaty and gross, so her hand would lie limp in mine, never squeezing back. She claimed kissing was unhygienic; whenever I leaned in for a kiss, she’d turn over, presenting me with the cold curve of her shoulder. She told me my daily updates—the funny memes, the details of my lunch—were pointless noise. “Stop wasting my time,” she’d say. When my face fell, she would just look at me with those cool, analytical eyes. “I come home on time. I put my paycheck into our joint account. Isn’t that the best proof of love?” So, I spent five years convincing myself that she was just practical. Unromantic, but stable. Until I was sitting in the waiting room of a fertility clinic, scrolling through a forum thread. “What does chemical compatibility actually feel like?” The top-voted answer read: “It’s a physical instinct. Like being dehydrated and needing water, or craving fruit when you’re vitamin deficient… When she talks to me, I stare at her lips and feel a literal thirst. I hate sharing my day with people, but with her, I wish there were twenty-five hours in a day.” And right beneath it, a highly liked reply: “So what you’re saying is, you have a chemical compatibility with me? That explains why you talk so much nonsense, keep me up past midnight, and actually tried to steal a kiss the other night!” Attached were two screenshots of endless, crowded chat logs. They talked about a stray dog by the road, the shape of the clouds, a bitter cup of coffee… Simple, warm, domestic sharing. The kind I had starved for. My chest tightened as I zoomed in on the profile pictures in the screenshots. One was Caroline. The other was Larry—my best friend. The nurse called my name. I sat frozen for a second, then stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I won’t be doing the vasectomy.” … The doctor looked up from his clipboard. “Did you talk it over with your partner?” I looked down at my phone. My last text to Caroline was from three days ago: “I’m heading to the urology clinic on Friday. Thinking about getting a quick procedure done. Any chance you could come with me?” Caroline had always said she didn’t want kids. She said if marriage meant having children, then we shouldn’t get married. I wanted to surprise her. I planned to get the vasectomy in secret, hoping she’d see the surprise, and then I could finally ask her if we could build a life together. But she only replied with three words: “Drink some water.” Scroll up, and it was just a graveyard of my attempts. Memes, work frustrations, places I wanted to take her. Every single one was met with the same dismissive, canned replies. If the opposite of chemical compatibility is visceral aversion, then what was I to her? I forced a smile at the doctor. “No partner. No need to consult.” It was late afternoon when I got back. Larry had been staying at our place for nearly a month after quitting his job. The moment I walked in, I saw them by the kitchen counter. Larry was holding a pair of chopsticks, blowing on a piece of braised rib before feeding it directly to Caroline. She took it, chewed, and smiled. “Delicious,” she murmured. A wave of nausea hit me. I remembered when I was making soup a few months ago. I had instinctively offered her a taste from my spoon. Her reaction had been violent. “Do we have to completely abandon hygiene just because we’re dating? That’s disgusting.” She had pushed my hand away so hard the hot broth spilled over my fingers. They were blistered and swollen for two weeks. I must have been blind. They were practically dripping with intimacy, and I had never questioned it. One was the love of my life for five years; the other was my best friend of twenty. The sound of the front door closing broke the silence. Larry came out of the kitchen, carrying the pot of ribs. “Tyler! You’re back just in time. I made braised short ribs. Here, try some.” He grabbed a clean pair of tongs, giving me an apologetic grin. “I used those chopsticks for Caroline and me, so I won’t use them for you. Don’t want you catching our germs.” “Caroline and me.” He said it so naturally, as if I were the guest in my own home. I just wanted to disappear into my bedroom before my face betrayed me. “Not hungry,” I said. Caroline frowned. She put a piece of rib on my plate. “Larry made this specially for you. Don’t waste his effort.” I looked at the meat, then at her, wanting to laugh hysterically. I can’t eat pork. I had a severe aversion to it after being forced to eat it as a child. Once, early in our relationship, I accidentally ate a dish with pork fat and went into anaphylactic shock. Caroline was the one who drove me to the ER. And Larry? He was my childhood friend. He knew. Yet here they were, offering me pork. When I didn’t move, Caroline’s frown deepened. “Is this how you treat a guest?” Larry quickly tried to smooth things over. “It’s fine, really. He probably just doesn’t have an appetite.” I locked myself in my bedroom and finally let the tears fall. I couldn’t understand. If Caroline felt a biological aversion to me, why stay? And Larry… I had practically raised him. When his abusive father ignored him, I bought him food, shared my toys, walked him to school. Why would he steal my girlfriend? By eleven, I had scrubbed my face and composed myself. Caroline came into the room, fresh from the shower, but before she could even lie down, Larry knocked on the door. “Caroline! I just found this hilarious thread on Reddit. You have to see this.” She instantly started to get up. I grabbed her wrist. “It’s midnight, Caroline. Does he have no concept of boundaries? And since when do you have time for stupid jokes?” She didn’t look at me as she pulled her hand away. “We shouldn’t make our guest feel unwelcome. Besides, we share a sense of humor. It’s not a waste of time.” As the door clicked shut, Larry’s laughter drifted down the hallway. “Look at this one, it’s so dumb…” I covered my eyes. I had told Caroline that exact same joke three times. Each time, she had looked at me with cold irritation: “Using stupid jokes to kill time is incredibly selfish, Tyler.” To punish me for “wasting her time,” she had blocked my number for an entire month. The laughter continued past midnight. I pulled out my phone and texted my supervisor. “Hey, about that West Coast relocation opportunity… is it still open? I’d like to apply.” The call came through almost instantly. “Tyler? I thought you turned it down because you were planning on proposing?” “Plans changed,” I said. “I’ll take the transfer.” A brief silence on the line. “Okay. There’s one slot left, but you’ll need to leave in six days. Can you manage that?” “Yes,” I said. By sunrise, the apartment was empty. I looked down from the balcony and saw them walking back from the local market. Larry was holding a bunch of white gardenias—his favorite flower. They had gone to the farmers’ market together. Last year, I made a bucket list of a hundred things I wanted us to do. The very first item was “Go to the Sunday farmers’ market together.” I had begged Caroline dozens of times. “Let’s wake up early, buy fresh flowers, and cook breakfast.” She hadn’t even looked up from her research papers. “I have data to collect in the mornings, and you like to sleep in. Why disrupt our schedules just to torture each other?” She was a woman of rigid principles. But for Larry, she could wake up at six and buy fresh gardenias every day. Below, Larry said something that made her laugh. Then, playfully, he grabbed her hand and bit down gently on the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger. Caroline’s eyes crinkled into a smile. She let him. When he let go, he pressed a soft kiss to the spot he had just bitten. A violent wave of nausea hit me, and I gagged over the balcony railing. Five years. Caroline had never kissed me like that. Once, I tried to steal a kiss before sleeping, and she spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing her face with antibacterial soap. When she came back, she demanded we sleep in separate rooms. “Saliva is full of bacteria, Tyler. Your juvenile romance is exhausting. If you’re going to keep acting like a child, we should live apart.” Clenching my fists, I whipped out my phone and texted her: “So you’re into “juvenile romance” now?” The screen lit up instantly: “I’m busy. Don’t text me this meaningless garbage.” I looked back down. Caroline was laughing at something Larry said. Her phone was in her purse. So who had replied? I walked into her home office. Her laptop was open, logged into her messages. Larry’s chat was pinned to the top. Mine? Muted. I sent another text to test a theory: “My hormone results came back today. The doctor wants to talk in person.” Almost instantly, the phone buzzed: “Drink some water.” My blood ran cold. I searched her computer and found a simple custom auto-reply script she had set up for my contact. If the text contained words like ‘look,’ ‘funny,’ or ‘laugh,’ reply: “I’m busy. Don’t text me this meaningless garbage.” If the text contained emotional words, reply: “Don’t overthink it” or “Get some sleep.” If it mentioned being sick or hurt, reply: “Drink some water.” I always knew she blew me off, but I never realized even her dismissiveness was automated. She couldn’t even bother to write more than three variations of a script. The front door opened. Larry walked straight into the bathroom. “Caroline, I’m using your towel! Mine is too thin.” Caroline called out, “Sure. Throw it out if it’s old, just use mine.” The strict hygiene boundaries she used to shield herself from me had completely vanished. Last winter, I came home drenched from the rain and accidentally used her towel to dry my hair. She snatched it away and threw it directly into the trash. “Sharing towels spreads skin diseases. Do you have zero basic common sense?” I never touched her things again. Visceral aversion. I should have seen it sooner. I bit my lip, stepping out of the office just as Larry walked by. “Hey, Tyler, you using the laptop? I need to look something up.” Caroline, hearing this, slammed her mug onto the counter. “Don’t touch my computer! How many times do I have to say it? Even in a relationship, people need privacy. Is that concept too difficult for you to grasp?” Larry sighed playfully. “Oh, come on, Caroline. He was just opening it for me. Don’t be so hard on him!” Caroline’s cold expression instantly melted. “Fine. Only because you asked.” Larry didn’t even ask for a password. He swiped the trackpad and unlocked it. He was logged into her browser, her bookmarks, her saved profiles—all things she had password-protected from me under the guise of “privacy.” Larry knew every single one of them. The air in the room felt thick, like poison. I grabbed my coat and walked out. I spent the next few days preparing the paperwork. When the official transfer notice came through, I sat alone in the company breakroom, staring at my name on the paper. I didn’t cry. It just felt like a heavy stone was lodged in my throat. My manager looked at me. “Are you sure you don’t need to discuss this with your partner?” I folded the paper and slid it into my pocket. “No partner,” I said. “I’ll be ready in five days.” When I got home, there were several pairs of shoes at the entrance. The living room was packed with people, the coffee table buried under beer cans and bags of chips. Larry stood up to greet me like he owned the place. “Tyler! You’re back. These are Caroline’s colleagues from the lab. We’re just having a few drinks.” He leaned in and whispered, “Since I’m still job hunting, Caroline wanted me to meet some people who could help me get a foot in the door.” How generous. Three years ago, when our department did a joint project with her lab, I ran into her and tried to say hi. She walked right past me, pretending I was a stranger. When we got home, she lectured me: “I don’t want people at work knowing we’re dating. It looks unprofessional, like I’m trying to get you favors.” I sat on the far edge of the sectional, watching them. Caroline was laughing, sharing embarrassing childhood stories. Larry gasped, “You actually did that?” Caroline grinned. “My parents banned me from the kitchen for a year.” I had never heard that story. Caroline hated when I asked about her past. But here she was, laying her life bare just to make Larry feel included. A guy with glasses chuckled. “Larry, you and Caroline get along so well. You should give Tyler some pointers. They’ve been together five years and still act like strangers.” Everyone laughed. Even me. Because it was true. I had been performing a five-year solo act. When the beer ran out, Larry stood up to grab more. Several people stopped him, waving him back down. “No, Larry, you stay. Let Tyler go. He’s not really talking anyway.” Caroline nodded. “Go ahead, Tyler. Larry’s in the middle of a story. Don’t ruin his fun.” I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor. I didn’t care about the beer; I just needed to breathe. I walked around the block for an hour before heading back. Most of the guests had left, leaving the apartment a total disaster—cigarette ashes, peanut shells, half-eaten pizza, empty cans. Caroline looked up from her phone. “Clean up the room, will you? Larry’s back is sore, he shouldn’t be bending over.” I stared at her. “My back hurts too.” Larry quickly stood up. “It’s fine, I’ll do it. Just a little tight, no big deal.” Caroline pushed him back onto the couch and turned to me, her voice sharp. “Since when does your back hurt?” I looked at her. My lower back had a chronic injury. Three years ago, when we moved in together, I carried a heavy wardrobe up the stairs to save money. I slipped and rammed my spine against a metal railing. I was bedridden for two weeks. She had forgotten. Every single detail of it. I picked up an empty beer bottle and slammed it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered with a violent crack. Larry jumped. “Tyler, what the hell is your problem? I said I’d clean it!” My voice was dead quiet as I looked at him. “Larry, have I ever done you wrong?” I had been the perfect friend. When we were kids and he got acute food poisoning in the dead of winter, I carried him on my back to the clinic through the snow, scraping my knees to the bone. When his father threatened to pull him out of college for money, I sent him my entire year of savings. Larry’s face went white. “If you want me to leave, just say so!” He slammed the guest room door shut. Caroline stood in the middle of the mess, her face dark with anger. I knew what she was going to say—that I had embarrassed him, that I was being dramatic. I didn’t give her the chance. “I’m tired,” I said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” She saw the hollow exhaustion in my eyes and kept her mouth shut. “Fine. Tomorrow then. I have something important to tell you.” But the next morning, she didn’t wake up early for me. Larry had thrown a tantrum and started packing. When I got out of bed, Caroline was already on the phone with a real estate agent. “Is it close to the subway? How’s the neighborhood security? Send me a video of the place.” She asked about everything—the elevator brand, the neighbors, winter heating, afternoon sun. When we moved in together, she told me she was too busy to look at apartments. When I sent her options, she told me to just pick one because “none of those details matter.” I stood there until she hung up. “Do you have time for me now?” She grabbed her coat. “Not right now. The apartment Larry wants is highly sought after. We’ll talk tonight.” The door clicked shut, leaving me in the silence of the empty flat. I sat there for a long time. Then I packed my bags, leaving her keys and my joint account card on the entryway console. At the airport, I sent her one last text: “Caroline, I’m boarding a flight. Guess where I’m going?” The response was instantaneous: “I’m busy. Don’t text me this meaningless garbage.” The script. I laughed out loud—at my own stupidity, and then, with a strange sense of relief. Larry, however, sent a text: “Tyler, you’re a great friend. Caroline is amazing. She bought coffee and gift cards for all my new neighbors so they’d look out for me. She’s staying over tonight to make sure the building is safe. Don’t worry, there are two bedrooms.” I stared at the screen until the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. My coworker asked if I had anyone coming to say goodbye. I smiled. “No. Nobody.” I walked through security without looking back. Five years of beautiful lies had finally come to an end. While waiting to board, I opened the home security app. A notification popped up. Caroline had walked into the apartment. She called my name, her voice echoing in the empty rooms. Then, she saw the envelope on the console containing her card and my relocation notice. As she read it, she froze.

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The day my mother arrived in Boston to seek treatment for the sudden, terrifying deafness in her left ear, I brought her straight back to our apartment. But the very first thing my husband said to her was when she was on the phone. “Keep it down, would you?” Mom froze. She gave him a timid, apologetic look, her weathered face forcing a tight, fragile smile. Her hand trembled as she hung up the call. “I’m so sorry, Zachary. I’ll go outside to finish.” She hunched her shoulders, her back curved under the weight of her coat. With every step she took, the cheap plastic medical booties he’d forced her to wear squeaked and rustled against the dark hardwood floor. Before she even made it to the balcony, I heard my husband and his “bro” complaining behind my back. “Zachary, when did a deaf person move into your place? She’s talking so loud, it’s deafening.” “Did she mess up your audio? Can you hear the footsteps now? Is it better?” Their playful banter resumed over the rapid-fire clicking of their controllers. On the floor by the sofa, a scattered trail of potato chip crumbs glared back at me. I looked away, my chest tightening as I stepped out onto the cold balcony. “Don’t worry, honey. Naomi’s taking great care of me. My son-in-law is wonderful, too.” She had just hung up with my brother. Mom looked down, embarrassed, and squeezed my hand. “Nay, maybe you should just check me into the hospital.” Behind us, the simulated gunfire from their television blasted through the glass door. I nodded, squeezing her calloused hand back. “Mom, once you’re discharged, I’m going back home with you.” … It wasn’t until I had fully checked my mother into her hospital room that Zachary finally called. His ringtone felt like a dull ache. “Where did you go?” “Do you know it’s already six o’clock?” “By the way, did your mom go into my office earlier? There’s this stale, sour smell in here.” I bit my lip, refusing to give him a reaction. He didn’t even notice my silence. “Book a professional deep clean for tomorrow, will you? There’s some grease on the sofa.” That was the tipping point. The dam I’d built over four years of marriage cracked, and the anger came rushing out. “Zachary,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t you think you went way too far today?” He sounded utterly unfazed. He didn’t even know what he had done. “About what?” I took a ragged breath, swallowing the bitterness in my throat. “Forcing my mother to wear those plastic booties. Telling her to take her call outside. We were already planning on calling the cleaners anyway. Did you stop to think for one second how that made her feel?” “That’s what you’re upset about?” Zachary’s voice was dismissive, light, as if I were making a mountain out of an anthill. I ran my tongue over my teeth, waiting for him to say more. “You’re seriously picking a fight and refusing to come home over “that”?” His tone was cold. In his eyes, this was nothing but a trivial, annoying blip in his evening. My mind flashed back to the hours before my mother had arrived. He had brought Cheryl over early. She had just come from a tennis match, drenched in sweat and tracking mud from the rain all over our foyer. But Zachary—who claimed to have severe, debilitating OCD—didn’t make her wear booties. Instead, he handed her a plush towel and ushered her into his private bathroom to freshen up. But when it was my mother, he stood at the door, watching her like a hawk to make sure she wiped her shoes raw, then sprayed her down with Lysol like she was a biohazard. “Yes. Exactly because of that,” I said, my voice dropping. A heavy silence stretched over the line. When Zachary spoke again, his tone was a mix of calm superiority and irritation. “Are you serious, Naomi?” “It’s a pair of shoe covers. Why are you making this a federal case?” “Just shoe covers?” In the four hours she spent at our place, he had complained about her five times. The first time, she had accidentally bumped the volume button on her tablet. The second time, she asked me for a glass of water. … And finally, the only time he spoke to her was to tell her to keep it down—not because she was disrupting his work, but because her voice was interfering with Cheryl’s ability to hear footsteps in their game. I could still see the image of my mother’s hands, trembling and useless, clasped in her lap. “Zachary, we’ve been married for four years. The times my mother has visited can be counted on one hand.” “This time, if my brother hadn’t let it slip, she would have kept her diagnosis a secret from me forever. Do you know why?” My eyes blurred, the hospital corridor dissolving into a watercolor of sterile white and blue. By the time I found out about her sudden hearing loss, she had already been enduring the excruciating pain for eight days following a minor farm accident. The discharge from her ear wouldn’t stop running. When I first heard, I begged Zachary to help me book a specialist appointment through his connections. He told me it was too much of a hassle. Then, he turned around and spent two days negotiating with online sellers to buy a rare, high-tier cosmetic skin for Cheryl’s gaming account. I should have seen through him long ago. “Maybe she’s faking it.” My hand froze. My ears rang, the noise of the hospital fading into static. On the other end of the line, Zachary was still talking, his voice dripping with casual authority. “Naomi, I’ve read a lot about narcissistic parents online. I forgot the details, but you should look up NPD. People like her…” I hung up. The screen went black. My chest heaved, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t go home that night. Instead, I sat in the hospital lobby and had a lawyer draft a divorce agreement, which I sent directly to his phone. Thirty minutes passed. No reply from Zachary. But he did find the time to double-tap Cheryl’s latest Instagram post. The next afternoon, I went back to the apartment to pack my things. I ran into Zachary in the living room. He was working at his laptop and barely looked up when the front door opened. “You’re back. Did you forget to call the cleaner yesterday?” I ignored him, walking straight past. Cheryl stepped out of our bedroom, stretching her arms above her head. When she saw me, her lips curled into a sweet, mocking smile. “Naomi, didn’t you see those articles on narcissistic parents I forwarded to you? Honestly, you can’t even call people like that parents. More like old parasites—” Before she could finish, I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. Hard. The crack echoed in the quiet apartment. Cheryl’s eyes went wide, instantly welling with tears. “What did I say wrong? She was shouting on the phone yesterday just to get attention. Typical hillbilly behavior!” Zachary finally slammed his laptop shut and stood up, inserting himself between me and Cheryl. He tapped rapidly on his phone screen, then held it up to my face. “If you don’t apologize to her right now, I’m freezing the funds for your mother’s surgery. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re using our marital assets to fund her little drama, and now you’re assaulting my friends.” We stared at each other, our breathing synchronized in anger. Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother’s doctor: “We’ve finalized the surgical plan. There’s a high chance of a full recovery.” I looked back at Zachary. He was already leading Cheryl to the sofa, gently pressing a bag of frozen peas to her reddening cheek. “Zachary, let’s get a divorce.” The words were quiet, almost weightless. Zachary didn’t even look up from Cheryl’s face. “Marrying me was your ticket out of the sticks, Naomi. You’re not a child anymore. Don’t say things you can’t walk back.” “It makes it hard to clean up the mess later.” He helped Cheryl into the guest room, shutting the door behind her. A few minutes later, he came out and sat across from me at the kitchen island. “Let’s talk.” I looked at his face, searching for the man I met five years ago. I had shown up to our first meeting covered in dust from moving boxes, feeling small and out of place in the city. He hadn’t looked down on me. Instead, he pulled a tissue from his pocket and gently wiped a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You’re so cute,” he had whispered. I had fallen so hard for him that day, thinking he was my sanctuary. Until now. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Are you doing this because of Cheryl? Look, she’s struggling to find a job in the city. Since we’re close, letting her crash here for a bit shouldn’t be a big deal.” His eyes were clear, seemingly innocent. I didn’t answer. I picked up my half-empty water glass and placed it directly in front of him. He didn’t move. I forced it into his hand, then walked over to the trash can, picked up his favorite ceramic mug, and tossed it into the bin. “I just threw your cup away. Are you willing to drink out of mine?” He stared at the glass in his hand, then shook his head, his expression hardening. “Boundaries, Naomi. That’s just basic hygiene and manners. Please respect that.” I nodded. Yet, just yesterday, I had watched him and Cheryl drink from the same mug. When I called him out on it, he had laughed and said they were “just like brothers.” I stood up, too tired to argue. “We can discuss the divorce later. But I need the money for my mother’s surgery.” My phone chimed. The transfer went through. Zachary looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He was used to me emphasizing that she was “our mother.” He had always been quick to correct me, insisting on keeping things separate. Hearing me call her “my mother” seemed to bring him a sense of relief, a lifting of an unwanted obligation. When I got back to the hospital, I initiated a video call with my brother, Jesse. “Mom’s surgery is tonight. The doctor says the success rate is very high, so don’t worry.” Jesse’s dark, weathered face appeared on the screen, his wide smile filled with relief and worry. “That’s great, Nay. I’ll be waiting for you guys to come home.” Just as I hung up, the heavy wooden door of the room swung open. Zachary stood there, holding a luxury fruit basket. “You’re going back? For how long?” Mom’s eyes lit up when she saw him, though her practical, frugal nature made her wince at the lavish basket. “This must have cost a fortune, Zachary. You shouldn’t have.” It was the first gift he had given her in four years of marriage. Normally, Zachary barely spoke to my mother. Even at our wedding, he had gotten by with polite, brief nods. But today, he sat quietly by her bedside, listening to her talk. My throat tightened. Mom had told me so many times how much she wanted to just sit and chat with Zachary, to tell him stories about my childhood and talk about our future. She had waited four years for this moment. “I’ll be here for the surgery tomorrow,” Zachary said, letting her hold his hand without pulling away. Mom’s eyes shone with a sudden, hopeful light. She squeezed his hand and whispered, “Zachary, could you… could you call me ‘Mom’ just once?” She always defended him to our neighbors back home, telling everyone how wonderful and responsible he was. But her deepest, quietest regret was that he had never once addressed her as his mother. Zachary’s face darkened, the warmth evaporating instantly. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He pulled his hand back, reached into his pocket, and slid a credit card onto the bedside table. “I heard the nurse mention billing. Take this. I have some urgent things to handle at the office. I have to go.” He left so quickly he didn’t even look back. The light in Mom’s eyes died, replaced by a quiet, resigned sadness. “I’m tired, Nay. Can you lower the bed for me?” That night, unable to sleep, I scrolled through my phone and saw Cheryl’s Instagram story. “My mom is complaining about her health again. Old people are so high-maintenance. Thank god I have Zachary!” Down in the comments, Zachary had written: “Your mom is my mom. It’s normal for her to worry at her age. Don’t let her get upset.” I stared at the screen, completely numb. Beside me, Mom rolled over in the dark. I knew she was awake, too. The surgery was scheduled for nine in the morning. At eight, I sat by the window, staring at Zachary’s profile picture—a matching cartoon set he shared with Cheryl. I had tried to change it once; he had changed it back within minutes. I texted him: “Surgery is at nine.” No reply. Ten minutes later, I sent another: “If you can’t make it, call her. She’s been waiting since six.” “On my way,” he replied. Outside in the hallway, two nurses walked past, their hushed voices carrying through the heavy door. “Did you see that guy in the VIP wing? He’s so sweet. He’s been taking care of his mother-in-law all night, calling her ‘Mom’ the whole time.” “I know! It’s just a minor issue, but he was so worried he didn’t sleep a wink. As soon as a private room opened up, he paid double to move her in.” Their voices faded down the corridor. Mom had heard them, too. “Is Zachary not here yet? If he’s busy…” “He said he’s on his way.” I knelt beside her bed, but my mind was stuck on the nurses’ words. Before Mom arrived, I had asked Zachary if we could book her a private room because she couldn’t tolerate loud noises. He had dismissed it instantly. “People shouldn’t grow up so entitled,” he had said. My palms grew cold and damp. I typed another text: “Where are you? She’s about to go in.” “Cheryl’s mom wanted some premium bird’s nest tonic. I’m at the high-end apothecary waiting for them to brew it.” “How long?” “Ten minutes. I’ll make it before she goes into the operating room.” I locked my phone. The doctor came in, pulling a wheelchair behind him. “Where is the other family member? We need to go down in five minutes.” I looked at Mom’s expectant, searching eyes. For the first time, I didn’t know what to say. A profound sense of powerlessness and shame washed over me. “I’m her only family,” I said, my voice steady as I took the pen and signed the consent form. I took Mom’s hand. “I’ll be right outside. You’ve got this.” She smiled, her gaze finally drifting away from the door. “Okay.” The heavy double doors of the operating room swung shut. The red light flared to life. My phone began to vibrate in my pocket. “What’s her room number again?” I ignored it. He called immediately. “Naomi, there’s some extra tonic left over. Ask your mom if she wants it.” In the background, Cheryl’s mother sneered, “A country woman like her probably only deserves the cheap, broken scraps anyway.” Cheryl laughed. “Even scraps are too good. It’s for anti-aging, but with a face as dark as a soot-covered pot, I don’t think any amount of tonic can save her…” Zachary made a quiet, disapproving sound, but he didn’t defend my mother. To him, the only embarrassing part was that I had overheard. This time, I didn’t hold back. “Zachary, I don’t care if you spend your money to play the dutiful son to someone else. But that is marital property. Once we divorce, my lawyer will demand Cheryl return every single cent. Without a dog like you feeding them, they’d probably have to take out a loan just to buy scraps.” Cheryl started screaming in the background. Zachary cut in, his voice rising in panic. “What do you mean, divorce? I’m not agreeing to that.” I hung up. A few hours later, the red light went out. The doctor stepped out of the operating room. “The surgery was a complete success. Once she’s back in her room for thirty minutes of observation, you’re cleared to go.” I nodded, gently holding Mom’s hand as we wheeled her back. In the quiet room, Zachary’s texts kept lighting up my screen. “What’s her room number? I’m coming right now. We need to talk.” Outside, the shift change was happening. Another pair of nurses walked by. “Did you see that guy downstairs? He’s literally stopping everyone in the lobby asking where Naomi’s mother is. It’s so weird—how do you show up to visit a patient and not even know her name?” I looked away from the door. My phone buzzed again. “What floor are you on? Just tell me the floor.” I ignored it, turning the phone to silent and placing it face down. Thirty minutes later, I helped Mom put on her coat. “Let’s go home, Mom. Jesse said he misses us.” She didn’t ask about Zachary. She simply nodded and took my arm. We walked out to the curb and flagged a cab. “To the train station, please.”

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At our seventh-anniversary party, Scarlett shared an intimate, arm-locked toast with her childhood best friend, Christian. I watched coldly and clapped. Scarlett sneered and mocked me in front of everyone. “It’s just a harmless game between friends. Why are you so uptight? If Christian and I actually had something going on, you wouldn’t even have had the chance to marry me.” She stormed off in anger. That night, Christian updated his Snapchat background to a cozy photo of him and Scarlett holding hands. If this had happened in the past, I would have rushed to Christian’s house, dragged Scarlett out, and begged her to tell me if she actually loved me. But this time, I didn’t care anymore. Scarlett didn’t come home until the next afternoon. At the time, I was cleaning up the mess in the backyard. Yesterday was our seventh wedding anniversary. She once said, “Everyone talks about the seven-year itch, but I don’t believe in that curse.” “For our seventh anniversary, we’re going to invite all our friends and family over. Let’s show them how happy we are.” Because of that single promise, I started preparing three months in advance. Every day after work, I dragged my exhausted body to baking classes, mixology courses, and learned recipes I had never cooked before. Yet, the anniversary party I so painstakingly prepared became a stage for her and Christian to flirt. She even stayed out all night for him. “What happened to your hand?” Scarlett noticed the cut on my index finger and asked. I looked down. “Cut it yesterday while prepping the food.” Scarlett scoffed. “Can’t even handle a simple knife. Seriously, is there anything you can do right?” The old me couldn’t stand being imperfect in her eyes. A single put-down from her would have started a thirty-minute argument, followed by my near-pathological obsession with proving myself to her. But now, even saying half a word felt like too much effort. Maybe realizing I was upset, Scarlett leaned down and grabbed my hand. “Let me do it.” I pulled away from her touch. She stubbornly reached out again, trying to grab me. As we struggled, I tripped over a stool and fell. She laughed. “So clumsy.” I didn’t say anything. Instead, my stomach spasmed violently, and I coughed up a splash of blood. Only then did she realize something was seriously wrong. Scarlett quickly pulled me up. “What’s wrong? We need to go to the hospital!” My stomach was burning like hell. I had a bad feeling, so I didn’t refuse. When we arrived at the hospital lobby, we immediately ran into Christian. He looked pale and weak, leaning into Scarlett’s arms. “Scarlett, my stomach hurts so bad. My chronic ulcer is acting up again.” Scarlett held him tightly and turned to me. “You probably just ate something bad and got a little nauseous. It’s no big deal. Just go grab a number and wait in line yourself. Christian’s condition is serious, and I’m worried. I need to take him to the ER.” I nodded. “Okay. Got it.” She froze, staring at me with a bizarre expression. “You’re not angry?” I found it amusing. Why should I be angry? Was it because I didn’t throw a massive tantrum like I used to? But now, I had zero interest. Whatever she and Christian did had nothing to do with me anymore. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll head in.” I turned and walked away. I heard her footsteps heading in the opposite direction. I didn’t look back. Later, I started coughing up more and more blood. A triage nurse noticed me and rushed me into the emergency room. Years of drinking heavy liquor at corporate networking events to secure contracts had finally caught up to me. I had a ruptured stomach ulcer. The doctor asked, “Where is your family? You need emergency surgery for a stomach perforation. They need to sign the consent form.” I stared blankly, clutching my throbbing chest. “I don’t have any family here.” I signed the form myself and wheeled myself into the operating room. From the anesthesia to the surgery, and finally to when I woke up, a full three hours passed. Scarlett never called or texted once. That evening, when Scarlett finally came home, I was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. She glanced at the dark kitchen. “Why didn’t you make dinner?”

In our seven years of marriage, as long as she came home, there would always be a piping hot meal waiting for her. Even if I had to work late or attend a business dinner, I would always order her favorite takeout before coming home. This was the first time she walked into a cold, dark kitchen. She expected me to scramble up and cook, but instead, I said flatly, “If you’re hungry, make it yourself.” Scarlett frowned and handed me a shopping bag. “I remembered you were feeling nauseous today. I bought you some heated stomach patches.” I turned my head and met her gaze. “I don’t need them. Give them to someone who does.” She didn’t know that ten minutes ago, Christian had posted a picture of a heated patch on his stomach in their Snapchat group. The hand applying the patch belonged to Scarlett—her left hand, wearing her wedding ring, was fully visible. The photo had already been deleted, but I knew these patches were just Christian’s leftovers. Just like her. Only when Christian didn’t need her would she return to my side. Scarlett opened one of the patches, stubbornly trying to press it onto my stomach. I shoved her away with force. She stumbled, her waist hitting the edge of the coffee table. Her face contorted in pain. “Ethan Crawford! What is wrong with you? Christian had a medical emergency! You just had a little stomachache from bad food. Can’t you tell the difference? Do you have to act so childish?” I looked directly into her angry eyes, completely calm. “Scarlett, I didn’t have a stomachache. My stomach ruptured.” Scarlett froze. After a long pause, she let out a mocking laugh. “Is this your new trick to get my sympathy?” “Ethan, don’t forget we get annual checkups. I’ve seen your health reports. Aren’t you disgusted with yourself for lying about something so serious?” I had once desperately wanted to build a happy home with Scarlett and provide her with a luxurious life. That was why I worked myself to the bone, chugging glasses of hard liquor just to close deals. And that was how I ended up with a ruptured stomach. In return, all I got was Scarlett giving her happiness to Christian. Perhaps this was the final warning sign of our dead-end marriage. I sat up. “Believe whatever you want.” I swept the fallen stomach patches into the trash can, threw on my jacket, and headed for the door. Scarlett demanded, “Are you throwing a tantrum and running away?” I said quietly, “A friend just bought a new place. I’m staying there for a few days.” Scarlett chased after me, her brow furrowed tightly. This was the first time she had ever tried to stop me from leaving. In the past, she would only watch coldly, knowing that no matter whose fault it was, I would crawl back within two days, begging for her forgiveness. But this time, I wasn’t going to do that. I stepped past her, got into the elevator, and pressed the door-close button. Half an hour later, I arrived at my best friend Zach’s apartment. When I told him about my emergency stomach surgery, his jaw dropped. He immediately bought me a bunch of supplements and stayed up for hours talking to me. During this time, I didn’t send a single message to Scarlett. Eventually, she sent me a single punctuation mark: “?” I ignored it. The next morning, another message popped up. [The breakfast places near the office suck.] Zach looked at me as I calmly ate my toast at his dining table. He gasped, “Holy crap, bro. You actually didn’t run home to cook for her?” I shrugged. “Yeah.” In the past, a single word from Scarlett would make me drop everything to prioritize her. But now, I was truly exhausted. Zach said sincerely, “Good. You’re finally finding your self-respect.” I stared at the ceiling for a long moment before speaking. “Zach, you’re a divorce lawyer. If I want a divorce, what’s your advice?” Zach practically jumped out of his seat, instantly listing a mountain of legal terms. Seeing my blank stare, he waved his hand. “Okay, okay, don’t worry about the details. Leave everything to me.” I stayed at his place peacefully. For days, I didn’t reply to a single text from Scarlett. Five days later, my mother-in-law, Helen, posted a photo in the family Snapchat group. She complained that her birthday was coming up, but barely anyone had come to visit her early. The photo showed a cozy family dinner. Sitting at the table was Scarlett—and right next to her, leaning in close, was Christian.

Less than ten minutes after the photo was posted, Scarlett called me. “Ethan, don’t misunderstand. My mom arranged this. She’s family, and I couldn’t just ruin her mood, so…” I cut her off. “Yeah, I know. Anything else?” “You’re… not mad?” I laughed softly. “Why would I be?” Scarlett went silent. After a moment, she said, “This Saturday is Mom’s birthday party. I’ll pick you up.” She hung up immediately, as if terrified I would refuse. On Saturday, Scarlett arrived early at Zach’s place. As the car pulled up, Christian poked his head out of the passenger seat. “Hey, Ethan! Hop in. We’ve been waiting for you for ages.” His tone and posture screamed that he was the man of the house. If this were before, I would have dragged him out of the car and hysterically forced Scarlett to choose who got to sit in the front. But this time, I merely gave a polite nod, opened the back door, and slid in. Scarlett’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. She stared at me through the rearview mirror. I offered her a polite, empty smile, then immediately looked down to text Zach. When we arrived at the Evans house, I handed over the gift I prepared. “Happy birthday, Helen.” Then, I sat down and ate quietly. Scarlett and Christian sat on either side of me, leaning across me to laugh and chat. I stood up. “Let’s swap seats. It’ll be easier for you two to talk.” The entire table froze. After all, just a few months ago, I had thrown a massive fit because Christian insisted on sitting next to Scarlett. I had pointed at his face and called him a shameless home-wrecker. No one expected me to be this calm now. Christian was thrilled and eagerly slid into my seat. Scarlett, however, stared at me, her eyes darkening. I excused myself to the restroom. When I returned, the atmosphere at the table was warm and joyful. I heard Christian say, “Helen, it’s your birthday! Why are you giving me a gift instead?” Looking closer, I saw Helen holding a diamond-encrusted vintage watch, sliding it onto Christian’s wrist. Scarlett didn’t stop her. The other relatives had mixed expressions. Everyone knew that watch was the Evans family heirloom, meant to be passed down to the son-in-law. When I married Scarlett, Helen was furious. She thought I wasn’t good enough. Over the years, since I hadn’t made any massive corporate breakthroughs, she disliked me even more. Naturally, she would never give me the watch. At her birthday last year, she had tried to give it to Christian. I had refused to let it happen. When Christian reached for it, I snatched it. During the scuffle, we both fell into the garden pond. Scarlett had saved Christian without hesitation, screaming at me. “It’s just a damn watch! Haven’t you gotten enough from this family? Why do you have to fight Christian for everything? I’ve spoiled you too much! I’ll just buy you another one!” I had caught a severe fever from the cold water, suffering in pain for two days and nights. Scarlett had mocked me: “Serves you right. This is the price for being an immature brat.” But now, I was done fighting. I walked over, picked up my coat, and politely said my goodbyes. I went home. Scarlett walked through the front door right behind me, her face incredibly tense. “Ethan Crawford, do you have any boundaries? Staying out for days is one thing, but today all our family members were there. Who were you throwing a tantrum for?” Seeing my silence, she scoffed. “What? Still acting up? Fine. Let’s just get a divorce then.” This was the third time Scarlett had threatened me with divorce. The first time was because I refused to drink with her boss, which bruised her ego. To make up for it, I arranged another dinner with her boss, drank until my stomach bled, and begged for his forgiveness while hooked up to an IV. The second time was when I accidentally broke a puzzle Christian had gifted her. She flew into a rage, and I knelt before her, crying and begging, promising there would never be a next time. But now, looking at her, I simply said, “Okay.”

For a solid thirty seconds, the living room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Scarlett looked utterly bewildered. “What did you just say?” “I said, I agree to the divorce.” The divorce papers Zach drafted were right in my bag. Just as I was about to pull them out, Scarlett suddenly let out a condescending laugh. “Playing hard to get? Ethan, your tricks are too pathetic. I’m not falling for it!” With that, she slammed the door and left. For the next month, she didn’t step foot in the house. During that time, her best friend called me. “Scarlett got into a minor car accident and is in the hospital. You need to come see her.” I replied, “I’m not a doctor. Seeing me won’t cure her. If she needs care, hire a nurse. Or, I’m sure Christian would be more than happy to do it.” I was stepping aside for them. Scarlett should have been thrilled. But surprisingly, right after I hung up, Scarlett rushed home. The cold aura radiating from her was enough to freeze the room. She didn’t speak to me, but she silently prepared my breakfast and washed my clothes with a sullen face. On top of that, she brought home a collectible mystery toy box every single day. That was one of my few hobbies. In the past, whenever I got one, I would take dozens of photos and show off our “sweet life” on my Instagram. Now, those unopened boxes were just tossed into a corner, gathering dust. Scarlett saw them but pretended nothing was wrong. She seemed to have completely forgotten about the divorce. Zach advised me not to rush things, so I didn’t bring it up again either. We lived in this tense, silent stalemate. Seeing my low mood, Zach suggested we go out to clear my head, and I agreed. We planned to meet at a newly opened country resort. But the moment I got out of my car and walked through the entrance, someone grabbed my shoulder. “Ethan? Are you stalking me again?” The evening glow illuminated the clear delight on Scarlett’s face. “I won’t hold it against you this time. My friends are over there. Come join us. You know all of them.” Without giving me a choice, she dragged me into their private dining room. Indeed, they were all familiar faces—including Christian. When he saw me, his face stiffened before he put on a shocked expression. “Ethan? What are you doing here?” Someone replied, “Ethan is Scarlett’s husband. Of course he can come.” Scarlett chimed in, “Don’t offer me any drinks tonight. I have to drive.” The crowd teased her immediately. “Oh, look who’s talking!” “I guess having your husband around changes things.” “Who knew Scarlett could be so whipped?” Scarlett didn’t deny it. She just looked at me with a soft, smiling gaze. Christian’s face darkened. He looked at me provocatively. “It’s good that you’re here, Ethan. I actually bought a gift on my way over. Why don’t you help me take a look?” Without waiting for my response, he pulled a velvet box from his pocket and opened it in front of Scarlett. “Valentine’s Day is in a few days. I had this custom-made. Scarlett, do you like it?” Inside the box was a pair of matching couple rings. He claimed he wanted my opinion, but his eyes were locked entirely on Scarlett. His intention couldn’t have been more obvious. Finding this incredibly tedious, I stood up to leave. “I don’t know anything about jewelry. I have somewhere else to be. Excuse me.” Scarlett bolted upright, panic washing over her face. But Christian was faster. He ran to block my path, looking tearful and terrified. “Ethan, please don’t get the wrong idea! I just bought these for fun because they looked pretty. Scarlett and I really aren’t what you think!” As he spoke, he made sure to tilt the rings so the inner engravings faced me. *Scarlett & Christian.* And right between their names was a tiny heart. The custom brand was the exact jewelry company Scarlett worked for. Meeting Scarlett’s panicked eyes under the gaze of everyone in the room, I did something completely unexpected.

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My mom’s favorite phrase was, “You’ll make us look bad.” On Christmas Eve, I hired a professional cleaning service for a deep clean. But Mom insisted we clean the entire apartment ourselves before they arrived. She said she didn’t want the cleaners to think we lived like pigs. I had no choice but to help her. I ended up with a raging fever from exhaustion. Yet, she forced me to take a shower before going to the ER. She said smelling like sweat would make people at the hospital judge us. By the time I finally reached the hospital, I was practically slipping into shock. On Christmas Day, a relative came over and gifted me a scarf. Terrified of looking cheap, Mom immediately dug out my most expensive cashmere wrap—the one my grandmother left me—and shoved it into the relative’s hands as a return gift. At lunch, she frowned at the dining table, complaining there weren’t enough dishes. She said it made us look poor. Then, completely ignoring the severe blizzard warning flashing on TV, she ordered me—just discharged from the hospital—to go back out and buy more groceries. In the brief second when the howling wind swept me off my feet, only one thought crossed my mind: *Mom, this time, you’ll never have to worry about me making you look bad again.* *** **1.** For the Christmas holidays, I brought my mom, Helen, from her small hometown to stay with me at my apartment. The day before Christmas, Helen suddenly announced we needed to do a massive deep clean because relatives were coming over tomorrow. I told her I’d already hired a cleaner, and they’d be here in the afternoon. Helen’s face instantly fell. “Even if you hired someone, we have to wipe everything down ourselves first! If they walk in and see how dirty the place is, they’ll talk behind our backs. Do you want to embarrass us?” “Mom, they’re literally paid to clean,” I sighed. “Why does it matter if the place is dirty?” “Of course it matters! They might not say it to your face, but they’ll judge you. I have a reputation to keep. I won’t lose face.” “The service is already paid for. It’s non-refundable.” “Fine, but that doesn’t mean we get to be lazy.” I didn’t argue. She ignored me, grabbed a rag, and started scrubbing the windowsill with frantic, clumsy strokes, leaving streaks of dirty water everywhere. Looking at her hunched back, I let out a quiet sigh. At her pace, she’d be at it forever. I walked over and took the rag from her. “I’ll do it, Mom.” She straightened up, wiping her brow. “Make sure you do a good job. No cutting corners.” Then, she headed into the kitchen to prep lunch. I spent the next few hours scrubbing the living room, the kitchen, and the hallway all by myself. By the time the cleaner finally arrived, I had already finished most of the work. The cleaner stood at the door, looking at the sparkling clean apartment, visibly confused. “Um, you’ve already done everything. So, what do you need me for?” Helen piped up from the kitchen, “Oh, just wipe it all down again. Can’t hurt to have it extra clean.” I slumped onto the couch, every muscle in my body aching. My head was throbbing violently. The words “embarrassing” and “what will people think” kept spinning in my mind. I wasn’t angry; I was just suffocating under the weight of her obsession with “keeping up appearances.” She genuinely believed that as long as she acted perfect, nobody would ever judge her. But she didn’t realize that every single time she wanted to look perfect, I was the one paying the price. Just like today. She wanted to look clean, so I had to scrub the entire apartment. Even after the cleaner left, Helen kept pacing around, checking for any missed spots. I didn’t dare lie down. I just sat there, waiting for her inspection to end, terrified that if she found a speck of dust, she’d start cleaning again—and I’d end up having to do it anyway. *** **2.** Helen finally finished her inspection. Satisfied, she walked over to the couch. Seeing me slumped there looking completely drained, she frowned. She reached out to touch my forehead and gasped. “You’re burning up!” I nodded weakly. Every time I moved my head, my temples throbbed like they were about to explode. “Mom, please take me to the hospital. I need an IV.” But she just stood there, her brow furrowed. “Go take a shower first.” I froze, thinking I had misheard her. “Mom… I have a fever.” “You still have to wash up. You smell like sweat. If you go to the ER looking like a mess, you’ll embarrass both of us.” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt completely blocked. She was already in the bathroom, turning on the hot water. “Chloe, you know how hard it has been for me,” she called out, her voice cracking. “When I was young, we were poor. My parents always treated me like I was an embarrassment. Then, I finally built a life with your dad, but he passed away so early.” She walked back out, her eyes red. “I raised you all by myself. People have been whispering behind my back for years, just waiting to see me fail. Waiting to see us look trashy.” “I just wanted to hold my head high. I didn’t want anyone to look down on us.” *Trashy. Embarrassing.* The words hit me like a physical blow. Oblivious to my distress, she continued, “So we have to be perfect in everything we do. We can’t give them a reason to judge us.” “Everything I do, I do for us.” Those familiar words triggered my anxiety. My hands began to shake. I clenched my fists tight, hiding them so she wouldn’t see, but the tears leaked out anyway. Helen blinked, startled. She reached out to wipe my tears, but I flinched and spoke in a raspy whisper: “You just think I’m an embarrassment to you, don’t you?” Her hand froze in mid-air. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression turning into one of deep offense. “What are you talking about? When have I ever looked down on you?” “I just want us to live with some dignity. Is that a crime?” Her eyes welled with tears of self-pity. I stared at her, realizing there was no point in arguing. I told myself to just endure it. The holidays would be over in a couple of days, and she’d go back to her hometown. She rarely visited; I should just go along with it. I sighed, dragged myself into the bathroom, and took a quick hot shower. By the time we Ubered to the hospital, my fever had spiked to 106°F. The doctor told me if we had arrived any later, my body would have gone into septic shock. *** **3.** I hooked up to an IV all night, and by Christmas morning, the fever finally broke. When I got back to the apartment, the relatives had already arrived. The living room was packed. People were laughing, chatting, and exchanging gifts. I curled up in the corner of the couch, completely drained. But deep down, I had a sinking feeling that something else was about to happen. Sure enough, an aunt named Clara handed me a beautifully wrapped box. “Just a little gift, dear. Hope you like it.” Before I could even say thank you, Helen bolted upright and rushed into my bedroom. My stomach dropped. When she came back, she was holding a vintage cashmere shawl—the only keepsake my grandmother had left me before she passed. “Oh, Clara, you shouldn’t have! Here, take this shawl. Just a little token of our appreciation.” I forced myself to stand up. “Mom, no. That was Grandma’s…” “Hush, Chloe,” Helen snapped, cutting me off. “Clara brought us a gift. If we don’t give something back, what will people think?” “Don’t be so cheap! It’s embarrassing!” “Do you want everyone here to think I raised an ungrateful brat?” She was always like this. To her, re-gifting was “classy.” She didn’t care that the shawl was the only thing I had left of my grandmother. She thought she was doing the right thing. She never realized that every time she bought her “dignity,” I paid with my heart. A massive wave of anxiety washed over me. I dug my fingernails deep into my arm, scratching myself through my sleeves until I could feel the skin breaking. The physical pain did nothing to ease the suffocating pressure in my chest. I opened my mouth to protest, but my throat was frozen. The living room went dead silent for a few seconds. The relatives glanced at each other. Some sipped their tea; others pretended to look at their phones. Clara smiled awkwardly, folded the shawl, and slipped it into her bag. “Well, thank you,” she muttered. Nobody stood up for me. It had been like this my entire life. They watched her scream at me, watched her give away my things, and watched me swallow my tears. But they never said a word. Because it was “family business.” And I just had to take it. I finally let go of my arm. My palm was wet with a mixture of sweat and blood. I shoved my hand deep into my pocket, hiding it from view. *** **4.** While the relatives chatted in the living room, Helen went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. I lay on the couch, shivering. Suddenly, the refrigerator door slammed shut. Helen walked out, her face dark. “Why is there barely any food in the fridge?” “Mom,” I whispered weakly, “we bought groceries yesterday…” “That tiny bit of food? We have guests! You expect me to serve them scraps? Do you want them to laugh at us?” Through my blurred vision, I looked out the window. The trees were bending wildly under the howling wind. On my phone, emergency alerts for a severe winter blizzard were blaring. But Helen was in her own world, muttering frantically as she threw things in and out of the fridge. “No, this won’t do. If the guests see this, they’ll think we’re starving. It’s too embarrassing.” Watching her panic, I knew what was coming. Her anxiety was peaking. And whenever she panicked about looking bad, she always found a way to make it my problem. Sure enough, she marched over and shoved a large grocery bag into my hands. “Go to the supermarket. Get some ribs, fish, and shrimp. Hurry.” I looked out the window. “Mom, there’s a literal blizzard outside. The roads are freezing.” “So what? People are still out there,” she said without looking at me. “Just go quickly. Don’t make the guests wait. I don’t want them thinking we’re cheap.” I stood at the door, looking at her one last time. “Mom, I really don’t feel well…” “We need food! Do you want everyone to look down on me?” her voice escalated, sharp and accusing. Standing in the hallway, I could hear her laughing with the relatives inside: “Oh, don’t worry, Chloe just went to the store. She’ll be back with fresh groceries soon. We’re going to have an amazing feast today!” Aunt Sarah’s voice drifted out, “Helen, the wind is crazy out there. Is it really safe for her to go?” Helen laughed it off. “Oh, she’s an adult. It’s just a quick run to the store. What could go wrong?” I looked down at the empty grocery bag in my hands. Then, I looked out at the dark, violently swirling snowstorm outside. Helen’s voice drifted through the door again: “That girl is always so slow. Can’t even run a simple errand without dragging her feet…” Always the same complaints. She thought as long as she put on a perfect show, she’d be safe. But she never realized that I was the one paying for her stage. Today, she was afraid of looking cheap, so I had to walk into a blizzard. Yesterday, she was afraid of looking dirty, so I had to clean the entire house while sick. The day before, she was afraid of smelling bad, so I had to shower with a 104-degree fever. Every single time. Slowly, I pushed open the lobby door. And walked straight into the freezing, violent storm. *** **5.** Back in the warm apartment, Helen was still smiling and chatting with the relatives. “The dinner tonight is going to be perfect. I promise you’ll all leave stuffed.” Sarah frowned, looking out the window at the whiteout conditions. “Helen, the storm is getting worse. It’s really not safe. Call Chloe and tell her to come back. Forget the food.” Helen’s smile stiffened for a second, but she quickly brushed it off. “No, no, she’s fine. She’s a grown woman. Besides, how would it look if we didn’t serve a proper dinner? I won’t have people saying I’m a terrible host.” Sarah’s frown deepened. “Helen, she is your daughter. Since when is a ‘perfect dinner’ more important than your child’s safety?” “You’re so obsessed with what people think. You’re going to push that girl too far one day, and you’ll regret it.” Helen’s face turned sour, but she remained stubborn. “Sarah, I just want us to have some dignity. What is so wrong with that?” “I raised her alone. If I didn’t keep up appearances, people would have walked all over us. Do you think life has been easy for me?” She spoke with the same old bitterness, the same victim mentality. She still didn’t get it. Her casual demands, her constant fear of being judged, had become a lifetime of trauma for me. It was the very hand that pushed me into the storm. And she would never know that her precious “dignity” would ultimately cost her daughter’s life. Before Sarah could reply, the TV screen suddenly flashed with an emergency broadcast. A news anchor stood in the howling wind and snow, speaking urgently: “We have a breaking report. Due to the extreme blizzard, multiple trees and power lines have collapsed across the city…” “We have just received word that a young woman was struck by a falling oak tree on her way to the grocery store. Emergency services are on the scene, but her condition is currently unknown…” The smile on Helen’s face completely froze.

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