The day I walked through the wrought-iron gates carrying the faded missing-person flier, my father was standing over an imported marble range, ladling homemade chicken soup into a porcelain bowl for Claudia—the woman who had quietly stolen my mother’s entire life. When he turned and saw me standing in the vaulted foyer, his hands went limp. The bowl hit the tile with a wet, echoing crack, broth and porcelain shards splattering across his polished leather loafers. “June?” His voice scraped against the high ceiling. “Is that… is that really you?” He took a stumbling step forward, his eyes searching my face for the ghost of a girl he hadn’t seen since I was three years old. Then, almost immediately, the wonder in his expression hardened into an old, familiar resentment. “Your mother was so cruel,” he said, shaking his head. “To vanish into thin air for fifteen years over a single misunderstanding. I plastered this state with fliers. I never stopped looking for her. Did she finally come to her senses?” Between my fingers, the paper was creased and soft from years of folding. On it, my mother’s face was still nineteen, her dark eyes wide and full of an unruined hope that had long since died. I didn’t smile. I didn’t rush forward to embrace him. “The mountain roads are washed out,” I said quietly. “Mom wants you to come bring her home.” Before my father could answer, a voice drifted down from the sweeping staircase—soft, theatrical, and laced with childish petulance. “Dad, you promised! You said this whole three-day weekend belonged to Mom and me.” A girl in an expensive cashmere sweater stepped onto the landing. Behind her came Claudia, her pearl earrings catching the chandelier light. Claudia’s eyebrows pulled together in an instant show of maternal reprimand. “Maisie, don’t be selfish. Your father has more important matters to attend to.” My father looked between them, then back at me. A faint, comfortable smile returned to his mouth, the kind of easy charm wealthy men use to smooth over inconveniences. “Your mother waited fifteen years, June,” he chuckled softly. “Three more days won’t make a difference.” I nodded slowly, pulling up the calendar on my cracked phone. Three days from now would be Friday. Exactly one week since my mother’s heart gave out. The day of her final memorial service and committal. “All right,” I said. “Three days.” … My father took my tattered canvas backpack from my shoulder with an exaggerated tenderness, guiding me up the grand oak-and-glass staircase. My palm brushed against the smooth, chilled finish of the plaster walls. Steel beams. Reinforced concrete. Central air that hummed with the effortless wealth of the suburban elite. It was a fortress. It was thousands of miles away from the drafty pine cabin in the hollow where the winter drafts cut through the floorboards like kitchen knives. As we passed Maisie’s room, my father gestured inside with an indulgent sigh. “She spends half her life on video games. Her test scores give me ulcers. But the moment she finishes high school, I’m sending her to a private college in Europe.” He glanced down at my hands. His smile twitched. My knuckles were thick, the skin across my palms lined with coarse, yellowed calluses. Out in the mountains, there were no private tutors or prep academies. My mother had taught me by the dim yellow halo of an oil lamp, rapping a wooden ruler across my open palms whenever I missed a math equation. “If you get into a real university,” she used to tell me, her voice trembling with a terrifying desperation, “you can change your bloodline. You can break the curse.” One night, my hands stinging and swollen, I had screamed back at her: “You got into a university! And what did it change? You’re still rotting in this damned hollow!” My mother hadn’t struck me that night. She had simply dropped the ruler and wept. Her tears had fallen onto the rough floorboards like heavy summer rain, and for fifteen years, that corner of my heart had stayed cold and damp. I met my father’s eyes. “You’re right. Even getting into college doesn’t change a person’s fate. Look at my mom. She spent her entire life bent double, scrubbing floors.” Behind him, Claudia’s face drained of color. “June, that’s… that’s not what happened,” Claudia stammered, smoothing her silk blouse with trembling fingers. “Your mother got terribly sick right before freshman orientation. She broke out in that severe rash. I only offered to go to the registrar’s office to deliver her deferral papers! It was the university administration that mixed up the student files. By the time they realized, the enrollment records were sealed. I… I had no choice but to take her place.” She took a step toward me, her eyes pleading with an innocence she had spent fifteen years perfecting. “I wired money to the rural post office whenever I could. Just to make her life easier.” I looked at the woman who had stolen my mother’s youth, her education, and the career she had bled for. “And my mother’s marriage?” I asked, my voice calm as still water. “Did the university registrar mix that up, too?” My father’s brow furrowed into deep, irritated lines. “Claudia was your mother’s closest friend!” he snapped, stepping between us. “She had just escaped an abusive relationship back then. If I hadn’t stepped in, her family would have forced her into a back-alley marriage with a deadbeat! It was supposed to be a legal marriage on paper for three years, nothing more! Your mother let her pride get the best of her and threw a tantrum. She was the one who packed you up and ran away! June, it’s been fifteen years. Why do you insist on digging up old graves?” Maisie stepped in front of her mother, glaring at me with open hostility. “Exactly! Ever since your mom took off, there hasn’t been a single shouting match in this house. My dad and your mom were never meant to be!” Something sharp and heavy twisted inside my ribs. My throat burned. So this was what my mother had been up against. A husband who rewrote his own betrayal into an act of charity, and a best friend who wore her stolen life like a tailored coat. No wonder she had fled into the mountains with empty pockets, choosing starvation over this suffocating rot. Over the last fifteen years, Raymond had built an empire, moving millions in commercial real estate. Claudia had used my mother’s bachelor’s degree in art history to secure a prestigious curatorship at the state museum, floating through gallery galas in diamond earrings. And my mother? She had suffered from a simple gastric ulcer—something a five-hundred-dollar course of antibiotics and a minor procedure could have cured. She endured it for five agonizing years because we couldn’t spare the money. The morning she died, we couldn’t even afford a proper dress for her viewing. My grandfather had wanted to lay her to rest under the wild blackberry brambles behind the pasture. But I refused. My mother belonged to the wide, open world she had been cheated out of. My father exhaled heavily, running a hand over his face. “What happened back then… I’ll explain it all to Marian when I see her.” Claudia lowered her gaze, playing the gracious martyr. “When Marian returns, Maisie and I will pack our things and leave. Come, June. This was your mother’s bedroom. We kept everything exactly as she left it.” The heavy mahogany door swung open with a low groan. Before I could cross the threshold, a loud, violent shatter echoed through the hall. We all froze. On the hardwood floor lay an explosion of glass. In the center of the debris was our old family portrait, the silver frame twisted, the glass pulverized beneath Maisie’s heel. Maisie spun around, her face crumpled into dramatic panic, and threw herself into my father’s arms. “Dad! I was just trying to see what she looked like! I didn’t mean to drop it! Please tell her not to be mad at me!” I stared at the picture beneath the cracked shards. I remembered it. A three-year-old girl in Sunday ribbons, sitting on her mother’s lap, smiling like the world was entirely safe. In the hollow, I had caught my mother staring at a tiny, water-damaged print of that very photo more times than I could count. She used to tell me how good Raymond had been to her back when they were young. How he would have spent his last dime to buy her winter medicine. How he worked double shifts at the railyard just to buy a secondhand bicycle so he could ride into town to see her. Yet every time she put the photo away, she would gently smooth my hair with her calloused thumb, her eyes rimmed with red. “Men are built on sand, June. Never build your home on a man.” Seeing that I hadn’t moved or spoken, Claudia reached down, gave Maisie a soft, performative squeeze, while my father pulled the girl deeper into his chest. “It was an accident, June,” my father said, his voice tightening with pre-emptive defense. “You’re not going to throw a fit over an old piece of glass, are you? June—” I looked up, smiled faintly, and bent down. I picked up the shattered frame, lifted the lid of the bronze wastebasket by the desk, and let it drop inside with a hollow thud. “What are you talking about?” I said evenly. “It’s just an old picture. Why would I be angry?” My father went rigid. The reprimand dying on his lips left him looking strangely off-balance, his jaw slack. “Right,” he mumbled, coughing to clear his throat. “Good. Your… your mother always loved those almond pastries from that French bakery on the south side. After fifteen years, I still remember. I’ll drive over and pick some up later. Look around. Whatever you need for the room, tell the housekeeper. She’ll get it.” The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me alone in the quiet. I looked at the relics of my mother’s youth. A lacquered jewelry box with peeling gold leaf—my father had bought it on a business trip to Chicago back when they were broke. A sterling silver band on the vanity, its engraved initials worn down to faint shadows, hammered by his own hands in an apprentice shop. A leather-bound photo album whose plastic sleeves had yellowed with age. Tears slipped silently down my cheeks, hot and heavy, hitting the polished floorboards. I didn’t keep a single thing. Following her dying wish, I carried them to the trash can, one by one. The night before she slipped away, she had touched my forehead with fingers as light and brittle as dried leaves. “June-bug,” she had whispered, “if you ever see your father again, clear away all those old things for me. When we die, we return to the dust. In the next life, I don’t want a single thread tying me to him.” A sudden, concussive boom made the windowpanes rattle. I turned toward the glass. Brilliant bouquets of crimson, gold, and violet fireworks were blooming across the night sky above the estate’s private gardens. Out in the corridor, two housekeepers were whispering as they folded linens. “Doesn’t matter if the first wife comes back. Mr. Cornell’s heart belongs to Mrs. Cornell.” “I know. He orders this private fireworks show every single year for her birthday. Hasn’t missed a single one in over a decade.” My chest seized, the air turning to frost in my lungs. My grandparents used to say that when my mother was a girl, she loved summer festivals and Fourth of July fireworks more than anyone. Whenever there was a display over the fairgrounds, she was always in the front row. Yet in all my years of living with her, my mother had never looked up at the sky. Whenever fireworks went off over the valley for the holidays, she would draw the curtains, sit by the stove, and stare into the dying embers. What had she been thinking in those dark, quiet hours? A sharp, shrill buzz cut through the silence. It was my father, calling through the intercom. “June, tonight is Claudia’s birthday dinner. The whole family is gathering downstairs. Put on one of Maisie’s dresses. Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to the department store.” In the background, Maisie’s shrill whine leaked through the receiver: “Dad! My clothes are designer! She’s a dirty stray from the backwoods—she’ll stretch them out and ruin them!” I glanced down at my faded, five-dollar cotton t-shirt. My expression didn’t waver. “No thanks,” I said into the speaker. “I’ll wear what I have.” I had no intention of staying here. I only came because Raymond Cornell owed my mother a debt. Downstairs in the private dining room, the moment I walked through the double doors, my grandparents froze, their silverware hovering over Maisie’s plate. “It’s Claudia’s birthday,” my grandmother muttered, her lips puckering in sour disdain. “Why did you bring that girl down here?” She turned to my father, her voice carrying across the mahogany table. “All these years, whenever our blood pressure spiked, whenever your father needed to see his cardiac specialists, who was the one driving us to the clinic at two in the morning? It was Claudia! Marian held the legal title of daughter-in-law for years, but she never lifted a finger for this family. Now Claudia has spent fifteen years holding this household together, and that woman thinks she can just saunter back in and claim the crown? Where is the justice in that?” Listening to this plump, well-dressed old woman slander my mother, my vision blurred. I remembered the terrible, jagged scar running across my mother’s right hand. The year the reservoir dam gave way and flooded the valley, the foundation of the old family farmhouse had collapsed. My father was away on business in another state. In the pitch black of the storm, with the cellar filling with brown, churning water, it was my mother who had clawed through the shattered timbers with her bare hands. A rusted piece of rebar had skewered through her palm, tearing the tendons, but she hadn’t stopped until she dragged both of his parents out into the rain. Back then, weeping on the wet lawn, the two old people had sworn to God that if Raymond ever failed my mother, they would curse him to hell. My grandparents in the mountains had always called my mother a fool for doing it. My mother had merely smiled, rinsing her ruined, crooked fingers under the cold well pump. “I wasn’t thinking about being a hero,” she had whispered. “I just didn’t want Raymond to come home and find out he was an orphan.” My nails bit deep into the meat of my palms. My father scowled. “Mom, Dad, stop it! June is your granddaughter!” Claudia touched my grandmother’s arm soothingly. “Please, Mom. When Marian arrives next week, you have to promise me you won’t treat her like an outsider. Otherwise, I’ll be truly upset with you.” My grandparents backed down, though the resentment still burned hot in their eyes. Gratitude, I realized, had an expiration date, and theirs had rotted away years ago. “Even so,” my grandfather said, tapping his gold-headed cane against the floorboards, “you make sure you tell your mother, June: she will never be the lady of this house. Claudia comes first. Maisie comes first. We will pay for your food and board, but as for Raymond’s estate? Neither you nor your mother will see a single red cent. I’ll have the family attorneys draft the waiver tonight. Who knows what you two are plotting?” A hollow, echoing wasteland opened up behind my ribs. I lowered my head, my jaw aching from how hard I clenched my teeth. My mother, that stubborn, beautiful fool. In fifteen years of poverty, she had never spoken an ill word about these people. “When the cellar caved in during the flood,” I said, my voice cutting through the clinking china like a razor, “it was my mother who shredded the nerves in her hands to pull you out of the mud. She did it so her husband wouldn’t lose his family. Did you both conveniently forget that?” The dining room plunged into dead silence. My grandfather’s chest heaved with ragged, furious breaths. My grandmother’s face turned the color of raw liver. “Bang!” My father slammed his glass down so hard the wine sloshed over the rim. “June! That was her duty as a daughter-in-law! How dare you speak to your grandparents like that!” Veins pulsed against his temples. “All these years, Claudia has been the one nursing them, running their errands, keeping them alive! Where is your gratitude? Apologize to them right now, or I swear to God I won’t drive an inch into those mountains to pick up your mother!” It felt like a fistful of dry cotton was wedged in my windpipe. I couldn’t pull in a breath. All I could see was my mother’s slight, shivering silhouette hovering over the woodstove, the way she had favored her mangled hand every time she scrubbed our laundry on the washboard. Ten thousand times over, it hadn’t been worth it. Suddenly, my grandmother’s eyes rolled back. She gave a sharp, wheezing gasp and slumped sideways out of her armchair. “Mom!” “Call 911!” The emergency room hallway smelled of bleach and industrial floor wax. A doctor walked out through the double doors, pulling his mask down. “It was an acute hypertensive crisis triggered by severe emotional distress. Given her cardiac history, you need to keep her environment completely calm. Any more stress like this could trigger a stroke.” The moment the doctor turned away, Maisie lunged forward and shoved me violently against the hospital wall. “If anything happens to Grandma, it’s your fault!” Claudia knelt down in front of me, her voice trembling with soft, poisoned empathy. “June, when your grandmother wakes up, please just apologize to her. Even if you don’t respect everything I’ve done for this family, she is still your elder.” A wave of nausea hit me so hard I tasted copper and bile. Before I could stand, my father stepped forward and dropped a thick legal packet onto my lap. “June, I wasn’t there to raise you, and your mother clearly failed at the job,” he said, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth he had faked earlier. “When you do wrong, you face the consequences. Sign it. Don’t make your grandmother suffer any more than she already has.” I looked down at the documents. It was an ironclad, total renunciation of all inheritance rights, present and future, for both me and my mother. It stripped us of any claim to the Cornell family estate, the real estate trusts, and his corporate shares. My eyes burned, but not from sorrow. My father was a brilliant businessman, but he had forgotten something very simple: probate courts have no jurisdiction over the dead. And as for me? The moment this was finished, I was taking my scholarship and leaving this life behind forever. “June, please,” Claudia urged, her hand hovering over mine like a concerned mother. “Don’t anger your father anymore. Just sign it. We won’t let you starve in the future.” I raised my chin and looked directly into her smooth, manicured face. “All these years, sleeping in my mother’s bed and wearing my mother’s life,” I whispered. “Have you ever had a single night of peaceful sleep, Claudia?” The words barely left my mouth before a hand cracked across my face. The slap echoed violently through the tiled corridor. My head snapped sideways, my cheek erupting into a hot, pulsing bloom of pain. I didn’t cry out. I didn’t touch my face. I looked at my father. His hand was still raised, trembling with rage. Years ago, my mother had told me that whenever my father’s guilt cornered him, he turned into a wild animal, striking out in panic. Back then, I hadn’t understood what she meant by “shame masquerading as fury”. Now I did. I picked up the pen from the clipboard, flipped to the final page, and scrawled my name in steady, jagged strokes. Raymond snatched the papers away, his chest heaving. Seeing my signature, the tension in his shoulders finally eased, replaced by a patronizing sigh. “I’ll overlook this behavior just this once,” he muttered, adjusting his cuff links. “From now on, you will speak to your aunt Claudia with respect. We leave at first light to get your mother.” At dawn, when the black SUV pulled up to the driveway, I loaded a single cardboard box into the trunk. Inside was a fresh box of almond pastries from the French bakery, and a simple, pristine ivory linen dress I had purchased with my own savings—a proper burial dress so she wouldn’t have to be laid to rest in hand-me-downs. My father leaned against the open trunk, his brows knitting together. “What is all this junk? Once your mother gets to the city, she’ll have the best of everything. Why clutter the car?” I stared out through the tinted glass as the estate disappeared behind us, watching the smooth asphalt gradually give way to gravel and rutted mountain roads. “She never had anything good in her whole life,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted her to taste something sweet before the end.” My father glanced in the rearview mirror, annoyed. “What are you rambling about?” “She had a bad heart, and her stomach was torn apart from the cheap pain pills,” I continued, looking straight ahead. “She couldn’t handle long car rides. But this spring, to pay the administrative fees for my college entrance exams, she rode an unheated Greyhound bus for six hours into the county seat just to sell her blood plasma.” I turned my head to meet his eyes in the mirror. “You said she raised me wrong. But from the day I could walk, she taught me that a person must never take what doesn’t belong to them.” My father’s face darkened instantly. “June, that’s enough! The choices were Marian’s to make! I spent fifteen years looking for her! Claudia ran my household and took care of my parents while Marian hid like a coward! When we get her back, I’ll buy her whatever she wants. I’ll make it up to her!” I looked at the side of his face. He truly believed it. He truly believed that fifteen years of slow, solitary dying could be erased with a department store shopping spree and an apology. As the SUV climbed higher into the ridge, the deep, mournful toll of an iron bell began to echo through the pine canopy. “Clang… Clang… Clang…” It was the death knell from the parish bell tower, ringing once every minute. Slow. Solemn. I knew who was pulling the heavy hemp rope. It was my grandfather’s weathered hands. My father gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched in superstitious disgust. “What kind of backwoods town rings a church bell like that in the middle of a Friday morning?” The car took a sharp turn and rolled onto the gravel clearing outside the century-old timber chapel. My father stepped out of the vehicle, his tailored wool coat completely out of place against the damp mountain moss. A flicker of genuine panic finally broke through his composed features. “What is your mother doing at the church?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why aren’t we at the house?” I opened the trunk, lifted the cardboard box into my arms, and walked past him toward the weathered double doors. “Come on,” I said quietly. “She’s waiting.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “569287”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

To get out of working late, my so-called best friend—a proud, lifelong bachelor—decided to reinvent himself as a whipped, henpecked partner. Suddenly, his Instagram stories were plastered with photos of my girlfriend, Alyssa. “The ball and chain won’t let me stay. Heading home early tonight!” “Can’t make drinks, guys. The missus has dinner on the table and a short temper.” His coworkers constantly envied his good fortune, joking about how he’d found a girl who cared enough to keep him on a tight leash. Every time I saw those posts, a sick, heavy knot tightened in my chest. At first, Patrick swore it was harmless. Just a borrowed face to deflect late-night emails and pushy managers. Then they started going to romantic restaurants behind my back, ordering tasting menus and snapping photos of their hands intertwined over candlelit tables. He even started having Alyssa pick him up from his office. Whenever I brought it up, he would just clap me on the shoulder with that breezy, punchy grin of his. “Come on, man, you’re a lifesaver. If your girl didn’t give me an excuse, our director would work me into an early grave. Don’t worry, I’m looking out for her for you when you’re stuck at your desk. When you two finally tie the knot next year, I expect a seat at the head table!” I tried to swallow it. But then came the night of the torrential downpour. I stood under a broken umbrella for two hours waiting for Alyssa to pick me up, soaked to the bone, until a raging fever put me in bed for three days. She never showed. This year, Alyssa and I had planned everything. We were finally going to spend Thanksgiving with my parents in Maine—her first time meeting them as my fiancée-to-be. On the morning we were supposed to hit the road, Patrick barged through our front door. He was clutching a pair of matching crimson Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweaters, tossing one straight into Alyssa’s lap with practiced ease. “Put it on, hurry,” Patrick urged, breathless. “My aunt and uncle drove in from Chicago, and they don’t believe I actually have someone. Code red, buddy. I need backup.” Alyssa rolled her eyes, offering a theatrical sigh of annoyance, but her hands were already pulling the heavy wool over her head. “You are exhausting, Patrick,” she murmured, smoothing the hem down her hips. “In and out. One hour tops. I still have to go charm my future mother-in-law.” Patrick’s cheeks flushed a soft, boyish pink as he reached out, catching her fingers in his. Standing there side by side in their matching festive knits, smiling at each other in the entryway mirror, they looked sickeningly like newlyweds. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from my dad: “What time are you landing in Portland? Your mom’s had her dress pressed since dawn. She can’t stop checking the oven!” I looked at Alyssa. Then at Patrick. A strange, hollow silence settled over my chest. I opened the messaging app, blocked both of their numbers, and typed a quiet reply to my father: “Dad, don’t wait up. I’m coming home alone this year.” … After sending the text, I set my phone face down on the dresser and pulled my duffel bag from the closet. I didn’t touch a single thing Alyssa had bought me over the years. I packed only what was undeniably mine: my passport, my laptop, a stack of work notebooks, and enough clothes to get me through a cold week in Maine. Out in the living room, Patrick was pacing near the front door, checking his watch. “Come on, Alyssa, chop-chop. My cousins are already at the restaurant.” She stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of the crimson sweater. It fit her impeccably. The taper of the waist, the drop of the shoulders, the exact reach of the cuffs over her wrists—it was tailored to her proportions. Yet Patrick had just sworn he picked it off a discount rack on his way over. When I rolled my suitcase into the hallway, Alyssa turned, her brow pinching into a sharp furrow. “You’re leaving now?” “Yeah.” “I told you to wait,” she said, her voice laced with that familiar, patronizing patience. “We’re just stopping by a brunch spot downtown to show our faces to his family, and then I’m coming right back. An hour, Brandon. An hour at most.” Patrick threw an arm casually around her shoulders, offering me a conspiratorial wink. “Bro, your folks adore you. They aren’t going to hold it against you if their future daughter-in-law shows up a little late. My family, though? They’re ruthless. If they catch me lying, I’ll be dodging setup blind dates until I’m forty. Besides, you’ve waited for her plenty of times. What’s one more hour?” I turned my gaze squarely on Alyssa. “So you think it’s fine? For me and my parents to just sit around and wait?” My voice was flat, devoid of the irritation she usually expected. “You know my dad has stomach ulcers,” I said quietly. “You know that if we aren’t at that dinner table, my mother won’t eat a single bite.” Alyssa let out an exasperated breath, shaking her head as though humoring an unreasonable child. “Brandon, your parents are family. They love us. We can see them whenever we want. Patrick’s relatives only fly in once a year. You need to learn how to prioritize.” “Family.” The word left an acrid, metallic taste on my tongue. I let out a dry, breathy chuckle and looked down at the floorboards. So that was the rule: because my parents loved me unconditionally, they were the ones who deserved to be pushed to the back of the line. Alyssa didn’t notice the shift in the room. She was already bending down to pick up two glossy gift bags resting by the entryway console. Inside was a vintage bottle of scotch my father had spent months trying to find, alongside a hand-knitted cashmere shawl my mother had eyed in a local boutique for half a year. “I’m going to borrow these for his family,” she said, smoothing the tissue paper. “It looks terrible to walk in empty-handed. His aunts will think I don’t take Patrick seriously.” I stepped forward and caught the woven handles of the bags, pinning them in place. “Those are for my parents.” Her expression immediately hardened into a scowl. “I’m just borrowing them for the optics, Brandon. I’ll replace them tomorrow. Are your parents really petty enough to make a scene over a couple of gift bags?” A sudden, sharp smile pulled at the corner of my lips. “If it’s such a small thing, Alyssa, why don’t you just show up empty-handed?” She froze. Beside her, Patrick’s eyes welled with an exaggerated, wounded shine. “You know what, Alyssa? Never mind. Forget I asked,” Patrick murmured, his voice cracking with just enough vulnerability to sound heroic. “If Brandon’s going to be like this, don’t fight on my account. I’ll just go alone.” He said he didn’t want them, but his hand gripped her forearm, anchoring her to his side. Alyssa turned on me, her eyes flashing with cold disgust. “Do you really have to be this spiteful? Patrick is just trying to put his family at ease. It’s not like he’s actually stealing me from you.” I stood there in the narrow hallway, looking at the two of them. Really looking at them. The anger that usually flared up inside me simply evaporated, leaving behind a vast, hollow expanse of gray indifference. I let go of the gift bags. “Take them.” If he wanted the wrapping paper, he could have the whole package. He could have her, too. Once the door clicked shut behind them, the apartment sank into a heavy, suffocating silence. I pulled my spare key from my keychain and laid it neatly on the granite island. As I turned to zip my bag, the iPad on the kitchen counter illuminated with a notification banner from an upscale jeweler in Soho: “Order Delivered: Custom Engraved Couple’s Band Set.” “Merchant Note: Good luck with the proposal, girl! You two are going to be so happy.” The order date was four weeks ago. The recipient name: Alyssa. I tapped into the order history. It wasn’t just the rings. Over the past month, she had purchased matching silk pajamas, his-and-hers hotel slippers, and two brushed platinum bands engraved with their initials: “A & P”. Every single item had been shipped directly to Patrick’s luxury loft across town. This wasn’t a spontaneous favor. It wasn’t a rushed emergency. They had been rehearsing this elaborate, domestic fantasy for thirty days. Today wasn’t an awkward family brunch. It was an engagement party. My phone lit up again. A text from Alyssa via an alternate messaging app: “Stop pouting, Brandon. Just tell your parents I got called in for an urgent client emergency at the firm. Tell them I’ll be there for late dessert.” I stared at the screen, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping my throat. “Alyssa, I’m done waiting for you. I’m never waiting for you again.” I didn’t text back. I took high-resolution screenshots of the jewelry receipts, the shipping addresses, and the order timelines, saving them to a private cloud drive. Then, I dialed our building’s leasing office and informed the manager that I would not be renewing our lease, instructing him to apply my initial security deposit to the final month’s prorated rent. I had paid the entire deposit on this two-bedroom flat. I had purchased the mid-century dining table, the linen sofa, the framed prints on the exposed brick. I had bought the matching sonic toothbrushes resting in the bathroom ceramic cup. Alyssa had always loved to tell her friends, “Brandon and I built this home together.” Standing in the quiet living room, I realized how pathetic that sounded. It hadn’t been a shared home; it had been an elaborate stage set I financed so she could have a comfortable backdrop. I looked down at my left hand. On my ring finger sat a cheap, tarnished silver band she had bought from a street vendor in Venice two years ago when she felt guilty for ignoring me on our anniversary. I twisted it off. The metal made a soft, hollow clatter as I dropped it onto the kitchen counter. Halfway through checking my coat pockets, my phone chimed. A video had been posted to our large alumni group chat. The thumbnail was unmistakable. In the video, Patrick had his arm draped casually over Alyssa’s shoulders as they walked into a private dining room at an upscale steakhouse. They were both in their matching red sweaters. Alyssa was carrying his leather briefcase in one hand, while her other hand rested intimately against the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd. Around the table, a dozen relatives burst into applause and cheers. “Look at her, Patrick! You finally brought home a keeper!” “When are we getting the wedding invitations, young man?” Patrick ducked his head, blushing furiously, hiding slightly behind Alyssa’s shoulder. “Stop it, Auntie, you’re embarrassing her!” Alyssa didn’t pull away. She didn’t offer a polite, awkward correction. She simply laughed, picking up Patrick’s champagne flute to clink against his uncle’s glass. “Go easy on him,” she said, her voice dripping with affectionate warmth. “He’s a lightweight. I’ll drink for both of us.” In the group chat, someone tagged my handle: “Wait, are Alyssa’s parents there too? This looks crazy real, dude. For a second I thought they were actually getting married lol.” A few seconds later, the message was abruptly unsent. Within five minutes, my screen flashed with an incoming FaceTime call from Patrick. I swiped to accept. He was sitting pressed close to Alyssa in the banquet booth, the ambient glow of the chandeliers reflecting off an eighteen-karat gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist. “Hey, Brandon!” Patrick said, his speech slightly slurred with theatrical charm. “Listen, Alyssa’s dad insisted on giving me this watch as a welcoming gift. I tried to turn it down, I swear, but the old man wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He leaned in closer to the camera, lowering his voice into a whisper. “Don’t read into it, okay? We just had to sell the bit. As soon as we get back to the city, I’ll hand it right over to you.” Beside him, Alyssa was meticulously peeling a jumbo cocktail shrimp, dipping it into remoulade. At his words, she glanced up at the camera, her mouth tightening in mild irritation. “Why are you even explaining yourself to him, Patrick?” she chided softly. “Brandon isn’t childish enough to get jealous over a family tradition. My dad gave it to you, so keep it. It’s not like you have any nice accessories for your client pitches anyway. Besides, Brandon doesn’t even care about luxury watches.” Patrick pouted playfully. “Just wanted to make sure your man wasn’t getting the wrong idea.” With that, he leaned his head back and parted his lips. Alyssa fed him the shrimp without missing a beat, her thumb gently brushing against his lower lip to catch a drop of sauce. The motion was so seamless, so instinctively rehearsed, that my breath hitched. And there it was. On her finger. A brand-new, mirror-polished platinum band, catching the ambient light. Engraved with the letter “P”. In the background of the restaurant, a booming voice bellowed: “Daughter-in-law! Bring our boy over here, it’s time to toast the grandparents!” My voice felt strange in my throat—hollow, stripped of all moisture. “Alyssa. Your parents are there?” She glanced at me on the screen, her brow furrowing again. “Brandon, if we’re doing a favor, we do it right. My parents had an open afternoon, so they came along to make it believable. Don’t be paranoid. Once we wrap up here, I’ll head straight to the train station. Just go sit in the lounge and wait for me. We’ll take the later Amtrak together.” I looked into her digital eyes. “Do you even know what time my train is scheduled for?” She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. I had sent her our itinerary a week ago. The boarding passes, the departure time, the platform number. She hadn’t remembered a single detail. Yet she knew Patrick couldn’t handle spicy horseradish. She knew to intercept his drinks because of his mild alcohol intolerance. She even knew his exact wrist size for an heirloom watch. I disconnected the call without saying another word. The anger didn’t return. Inside me, an eerie, cavernous calm took its place. As my Uber crawled through the holiday traffic toward Penn Station, my father sent an image. My mother was standing by their dining table in Kennebunkport, wearing a freshly pressed floral dress, her hands tucked neatly over an apron. On the table behind her sat an immaculate spread of roast turkey, braised greens, and warm rolls. Her smile looked slightly stiff, tinged with nervous anticipation. “How far out are you guys?” my father texted. “Should your mom hold off on carving the bird?” Before I could bring myself to answer, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Patrick had just posted a new photo. In the picture, he was resting his head softly against Alyssa’s shoulder. In her hands was a thick, crimson envelope tied with gold ribbon—a traditional gift of cash from his elders. The caption read: “Brought the girlfriend home to meet the family. Mission accomplished.” Alyssa hadn’t objected. In the comments, her handle was the top reply: “You’re a handful, Patrick. Happy now?” Underneath, Patrick had replied with a teasing wink: “Depends on how well you behave tonight.” Further down in the comments, an older account belonging to Patrick’s uncle had written: “Alyssa gets more gorgeous every year! Remember last Thanksgiving when you two first came up? You kids were so shy back then!” “Last Thanksgiving.” My thumb froze over the glass screen. A sudden chill crept down the back of my neck. Last year, on the night before Thanksgiving—which happened to be my twenty-seventh birthday—Alyssa had called me in tears, claiming her firm had mandated an emergency overnight audit in Philadelphia. I had spent my birthday alone in our dark apartment with a cold takeout pizza, waiting up until 2:00 a.m. for a text that finally read: “Cases are swamping us. Raincheck on your birthday present, I promise.” She hadn’t been in Philadelphia. She had been playing house with Patrick’s family. I clicked on his uncle’s profile and scrolled back twelve months. Sure enough, buried in an album from November of last year, there was a large group portrait around a blazing stone hearth. On the far right of the frame, Alyssa was carefully adjusting a woolen scarf around Patrick’s neck. She was wearing the tailored shearling coat I had spent three months saving up to buy her. And tucked under Patrick’s arm was the limited-edition leather messenger bag I had wrapped and placed under our tree just days before. They hadn’t just started this. They had been performing this domestic pantomime for years. This morning hadn’t been a desperate favor. It was an annual tradition. I didn’t call her. I didn’t send an angry wall of text. Sitting in the bustling concourse of the train station, I pulled up my banking app. Three years ago, Alyssa and I had opened a joint high-yield savings account intended for our future home down payment. The balance currently stood at two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Two hundred and fifty thousand of that was mine—the product of every corporate bonus, stock vesting, and freelance project I had completed since graduation. The remaining thirty thousand had been deposited by Alyssa, in sporadic, inconsistent increments whenever she felt inspired to contribute. I transferred my two hundred and fifty thousand back into my private checking account. Less than two minutes after the transaction cleared, an unknown number flashed across my screen. I answered. Alyssa’s voice came cutting through the receiver, tight with suppressed fury. “Did you just drain the savings account?” “Yes.” “Who gave you permission to touch that money?” “It’s my money, Alyssa. Since when do I need your permission to manage my own funds?” A beat of sharp silence fell between us. When she spoke again, she forcibly smoothed her tone, layering on that sickeningly familiar, therapeutic patience. “Brandon, are you really still throwing a tantrum over this morning? Don’t be ridiculous. I put down the deposit for this family dinner on my card, Patrick’s elders are sitting right here, and you’re humiliating everyone. Besides, you can see your parents anytime. Did you really have to pick today of all days to start a fight?” I looked out at the crowds rushing toward their platforms, pulling luggage, greeting loved ones with warm embraces. The dull ache in my chest had hardened into complete numbness. “Because today was the day you promised me,” I said evenly. “Just like you promised to pick me up the night of that hurricane warning. “Just like you swore that dinner at the French bistro was just helping him take photos for his portfolio. “Just like you told me those hand-holding pictures were just clever camera angles to fool his boss. “And now you’re wearing matching outfits, bringing your own parents to meet his, and telling me to lie to my mother while she waits for us in Maine. Alyssa, I am not going to spend the rest of my life standing in the rain waiting for you.” Her breath hitched sharply through the phone. “Do you really think dredging up old history makes you look mature, Brandon? Patrick and I are completely innocent. You’re just paranoid. You look at the world through such a filthy, insecure lens!” Patrick’s muffled, apologetic voice drifted from the background. “Brandon, please don’t be mad at her. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have asked.” I had heard that pathetic, practiced cadence so many times it was almost comical. Alyssa came back on the line, her voice brisk and demanding. “Transfer a hundred grand back right now. The check is coming, his family is watching, and I am not going to let Patrick look like a deadbeat in front of his relatives.” A dry laugh broke from my chest. “Whether he looks like a deadbeat or not has nothing to do with me.” “He is your best friend!” she hissed. “The day he introduced my girlfriend to his family as his own, he stopped being my friend.” Alyssa finally lost her composure, her voice rising into a sharp, ugly screech. “Fine! You want to make a scene? You want to act like a child? Just wait until I get back. Let’s see how you explain this to me face-to-face!” I glanced up at the departure board. My train was boarding at Gate 7. “You don’t need to come back, Alyssa,” I said quietly. “We’re done. I’m breaking up with you.” A two-second pause hung in the air. Then, she let out a cold, confident scoff. “Stop trying to scare me with a breakup, Brandon. You’d never leave me. You don’t have it in you.” I didn’t bother arguing. There was no point in explaining reality to someone who had convinced herself that my devotion was an unconditional life sentence. I hung up, blocked the temporary number, and pulled up my browser. With three clicks, I canceled the reservation I had made at a historic estate in Kennebunkport for next spring. I had paid the non-refundable deposit. I had spent countless late nights drafting the guest lists, choosing the floral arrangements, coordinating the caterers. Alyssa had glanced at the brochure once, shrugged, and told me to handle it because she didn’t care about the details. Yet for Patrick’s imaginary engagement, she had meticulously coordinated color-matched knits, engraved platinum rings, and bespoke family gifts. You never have to teach someone how to love what they actually value. “Now boarding, Amtrak Downeaster Service to Portland,” the overhead speaker chimed. I picked up my duffel bag. Just as I stepped toward the turnstile, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Patrick’s father. “Brandon, you’re the fellow who’s been hovering around Alyssa, aren’t you? Let me give you some hard advice: Patrick has always had more drive, more charm, and more prospects than you. A real man knows when he’s been outclassed. Alyssa and our boy have something real. Trying to force yourself between them is only going to embarrass your family. I’m speaking to you man-to-man: throwing a tantrum and stealing their savings is pathetic. You look like a thief.” My fingers went ice-cold. The bile rose in my throat, hot and bitter. To Patrick’s entire family, I was the interloper. The pathetic, clingy third wheel who couldn’t take a hint. I typed a reply: “You’ve got it twisted, sir. Alyssa has been my girlfriend for four years.” The reply was instantaneous, almost mocking, accompanied by a flood of fifteen high-resolution images. A Christmas Eve dinner two years ago, Patrick with his arm wrapped around Alyssa’s waist by a roaring fire. Last New Year’s, Alyssa laughing on a snowy porch, lighting sparklers with Patrick’s younger cousins. Patrick’s birthday dinner this past summer, Alyssa standing beside him, her hands guiding his as they cut the cake together. Underneath the photos, relatives had commented with heart emojis, asking when the bridal shower would be. And on every single one of those dates, Alyssa had texted me: “Trapped at the office, honey. Don’t wait up.” Then came an audio message from Patrick’s father, dripping with smug superiority: “Alyssa has spent every major holiday with our family for years. You really think you’re her boyfriend? Patrick’s a good kid, so he tolerated you hanging around. But if I were you, I’d wire that money back and crawl into a hole. You aren’t leaving this city until you settle what you took from them.” “Leaving the city?” I let out a bitter breath, deleted the text thread, and tapped my digital ticket against the turnstile scanner. The gate beeped green. Just as I took a step forward, two uniformed Amtrak police officers stepped into my path, their hands resting deliberately near their utility belts. “Excuse me, sir,” the taller officer said, checking a dispatch tablet. “We have a report of a suspected grand larceny and unauthorized interstate asset transfer. We need you to step aside and verify your identification.” He glanced at my driver’s license, his expression severe. “Step away from the gate, please, Mr. Vanderveer. An urgent report was filed stating you’re attempting to flee the state with a substantial amount of stolen marital funds.” The officer shifted his stance slightly. Through the parting crowd behind him, I saw them. Alyssa was marching toward the gate, her face pale with rage, her fingers locked tightly around Patrick’s hand. The officer looked between us. “Are you the reporting party, ma’am?” “Yes,” Alyssa said, breathless, her voice trembling with manufactured distress. She let go of Patrick and stepped forward, pointing a manicured finger at my chest. “He just illegally transferred two hundred and eighty thousand dollars out of our shared account and blocked my number. I was terrified he was having a mental episode or being blackmailed. That’s why I asked your dispatch to stop him before he boarded!” In two sentences, she had spun a vindictive attempt at intimidation into an act of maternal concern. Patrick stepped up beside her, his face a mask of wounded brotherhood. “Brandon, bro, Alyssa’s just worried about you. If you’re mad at me, take it out on me! Don’t ruin your life and steal your own wedding fund out of spite!” A low, humorless chuckle broke from my throat. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. “What a coincidence,” I said quietly, looking at the officers. “I was just about to dial 911 myself.” After the text from Patrick’s father, I had known she wouldn’t let this go easily. Two transit detectives pushed through the growing circle of onlookers. “Did you request an officer, sir?” “I did,” I said, turning the screen toward them. I pulled up my verified bank statements, my payroll direct-deposit history, and the threatening messages from Patrick’s father. “Out of that two hundred and eighty thousand, two hundred and fifty thousand consists entirely of my verified corporate salary and annual bonuses. I transferred only what belongs to me. This woman filed a fraudulent police report, and she’s using this man to harass and unlawfully detain me.” I turned the glowing screen directly toward Alyssa’s widening eyes. “Now, Alyssa. Why don’t you tell these officers under oath: whose money did I steal?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “569286”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always been shameless about money. A bottom-feeder, raw and unpolished, obsessed with the bottom line. When my biological parents finally tracked me down at fifteen, pulling me out of the gutter to bring me back into the fold of high-society wealth, the very first thing I asked them was blunt: “Is there a reunion bonus?” My mother’s rehearsed, tearful smile froze on her face. My older sister, Elaine, immediately pinched her brows together in disgust. “You just walked through the front door, and the first thing you do is beg for cash?” “Protocol matters,” I said flatly. “Under the highway overpass, even when the junkies took in a runaway kid, they’d hand over ten bucks to seal the deal.” Two weeks after I was brought home, my grandfather celebrated his seventieth birthday. The private ballroom of the luxury hotel was packed to the gills with old-money relatives, all lining up to press thick, gold-embossed envelopes of cash into the hands of my adoptive brother, Ian. Every time Ian took an envelope, I made a mark in my notebook. Name. Amount. Estimated total. By the time I jotted down the thirty-sixth entry, Ian suddenly burst into tears. “Jude says…” Ian choked out, trembling like a wounded sparrow in front of the entire family. “He said all this money is supposed to be his. He told me I have to spit out every single dime Mom and Dad spent on me over the years.” My father strode over, his face darkening like a storm cloud, and snatched the notebook right out of my hands. The pages were crammed with meticulous rows of dollar signs, names, and running totals. His hand shook with rage as he read it. “We brought you back to be our son, Jude,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Not to act like a loan shark collecting debts at your grandfather’s birthday.” Elaine plucked the little notebook from his trembling fingers and tossed it straight into the garbage can beside the buffet. “If you’re so desperate for petty cash,” she sneered, “go park cars out front and collect the valet tips.” I looked at her, nodded, and walked out. Thirty minutes later, they found me in the damp, freezing service alley behind the hotel kitchen. I was standing beside an elderly parking attendant in an ill-fitting fluorescent vest, cross-referencing ticket stubs against a cash box. Elaine marched up, her heels clicking angrily on the asphalt, her face black with fury. “Haven’t you humiliated this family enough?” I tucked the tin cash box closer to my chest. “Nothing humiliating about it,” I told her. “Every time a car pulls in, the sensor dings. It makes a sound. It’s a lot livelier out here than in that ballroom where nobody speaks to me.” 1 “Jude, are you out of your goddamned mind?” Elaine’s voice dropped to a harsh, venomous whisper. Her manicured nails dug into my sleeve. “Grandpa’s seventieth birthday is happening inside. Half the city’s business elite is in that room. And you’re out here stealing shifts from a valet attendant to scrounge for pocket change? Do you honestly need a few measly dollars that badly?” I lowered my eyes, gazing into the tin box. Crumpled bills. Scuffed quarters. Fives and tens smelling faintly of gasoline and cheap cologne. “I do,” I said. “I did the math. Eighty-six cars came through this gate tonight. Five bucks a ticket, and he agreed to split it down the middle. That’s two hundred and fifteen dollars. Two hundred and fifteen buys fifty pounds of generic white rice, or eighty cans of black beans. It matters.” Elaine shoved my arm away with an expression of pure revulsion, turning on her heel toward the sleek black sedan idling by the curb. “Get in the damn car,” she snapped, wrenching the door open. “Mom and Dad have been tearing the ballroom apart looking for you.” I didn’t budge. I turned toward the attendant, an old man named Joe who looked like he wished he were anywhere else on earth. “Joe. My cut.” Joe rubbed his weathered palms together nervously, reached into his windbreaker, and counted out two hundred and fifteen dollars in worn bills. I took the cash, counted it twice under the amber glow of the alley lamp, squared the edges, and folded it tight. I slid it deep into the hidden, interior pocket of my windbreaker, right against my ribs where I could feel it breathing with me. When I climbed into the back seat, Ian was already tucked in the corner. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, immaculate and delicate, looking like a porcelain doll someone might pay thousands to keep pristine on a shelf. As I sat down, he flinched slightly, pulling his knees away, his eyes rimmed with a soft, theatrical pink. “Jude… if you really want those gifts, I can just give them to you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with manufactured sweetness. “Please don’t take tips in the alley anymore. You’re breaking Mom and Dad’s hearts.” In the front passenger seat, my mother spun around, her glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at your brother,” she spat, her voice thick with disgust. “And then look at you. Crawling through the dirt for scrap paper. How did I give birth to someone so inherently cheap?” I didn’t answer. I just kept my forearm pressed firmly against the inside of my jacket, guarding the two hundred and fifteen dollars. My father’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of an aristocratic dynasty being dragged into the gutter. “Jude. We set your allowance at ten thousand a month. Is that not enough for you?” My thumb ceased rubbing against my ribs. “You never gave it to me,” I said, looking straight into his reflection. The interior of the luxury car suddenly fell dead silent. “You told me that giving an uneducated boy that much cash all at once would ruin him,” I continued, voice perfectly level. “You said you’d hold it in trust until I proved I had manners. In the two weeks since you picked me up, I haven’t seen a single cent.” Mother cleared her throat, a flicker of uneasy guilt crossing her features before she smoothed it over with indignation. “That was for your own good! You don’t know how the world works. You’d get scammed out of it in ten seconds!” Ian leaned forward eagerly, nodding. “She’s right, Jude. Mom manages my allowance account, too. It’s safer that way.” I shifted my gaze to Ian. “Then why did you burst into tears back at the banquet and claim I was trying to rob you?” Ian’s face went entirely slack. “I… I didn’t—” “You did.” I reached into my coat and pulled out the pocket notebook I had fished out of the trash before heading to the alley. The edges were smeared with cocktail sauce, but the pencil marks were legible. “Right after you started crying, Great-Uncle Thomas handed you an envelope with five hundred in cash, and Uncle Robert slipped you a wad of hundreds. You shoved the bills into your side pocket. You lied.” Ian’s tears spilled over on cue, rolling down pristine cheeks. “Jude, why are you doing this to me? Why are you slandering me? I don’t have any cash in my bag!” Elaine slammed her foot on the brake. The car jerked violently to a stop at the curb of a deserted boulevard. She twisted around, her eyes cold as flint. “Jude, have you had your fill of theater tonight? We know who Ian is. He would never lie over a handful of pocket money.” I flipped the little notebook to a blank, unsoiled page. “Want to bet?” I asked. “If he has that cash on him right now, this two-fifteen stays with me. If he doesn’t, I give the two-fifteen to him.” Mother let out a bitter, disbelieving bark of laughter. “Still calculating your pathetic two hundred dollars. Fine. Let’s put an end to this delusion right now.” She reached back, snatched Ian’s leather designer satchel, and unzipped the main compartment. Empty. Aside from a silk handkerchief and mints, there was nothing. I paused, slightly taken aback. Then my eyes tracked downward, landing on the tailored flare of Ian’s designer blazer. The lower right lining hung with a subtle, unnatural weight. “It’s in his inside right pocket,” I pointed out. “He shoved it down the silk lining while you were yelling at me. Look at how the hem sits.” Ian’s hand instinctively snapped down over his right hip, pressing the fabric flat. His face went instantly ghostly. “Jude…” he sobbed, shrinking back into the leather seat. “Are you going to strip me naked on the side of the road over a few hundred dollars?” Mother snapped. She surged across the console, her arm a blur as she slapped her palm hard against my chest, right where my hand was protecting my pocket. “Enough!” she shrieked. The force caught me off-guard. The thin paper wrapper tore, and the stack of folded bills flew from my fingers, scattering across the carpeted floorboards of the car. 2 “You ungrateful, greedy stray,” Mother hissed, her chest heaving. “If I had known fifteen years in the gutter would turn you into something this vile, I would have left you there.” I looked down at the bills scattered over the floor mats—fives, tens, dirty singles—and my heart skipped a sickening beat. I dropped to my knees in the cramped footwell, reaching blindly into the shadows beneath the driver’s seat. One bill. Two bills. Elaine watched me crawl on my hands and knees like an animal hunting crumbs, and her face twisted into something ugly. She leaned back, seized me by the scruff of my jacket, and yanked hard. “Stop the car,” she barked to the driver. She kicked her door open and dragged me bodily out into the freezing night air. “You love money that much?” she snarled, ripping the crumpled bills I had just gathered right out of my clenched fingers. “Then stay out here and pick it up.” Before I could grab them back, she tore the bills into shreds. Fives, tens, twenties—ripped in half, then into quarters, then tossed into the biting wind like filthy gray confetti. “From this moment on, you won’t get a single penny from this family,” Elaine said, stepping back into the warmth of the cabin. “When you learn to shed that sickening gutter-rat instinct, maybe then you can walk through our front door.” The heavy door slammed shut. The sedan peeled away from the curb, its red taillights bleeding into the misty gloom of the suburban avenue. I stood there in the dark. The night wind cut through my thin windbreaker like ice water, but my mind was entirely clear. I dropped to my knees on the damp asphalt, crawling along the curb, collecting every torn scrap of paper I could find under the streetlights. “If the serial numbers match,” I whispered to the empty air, my fingers numb, “the bank has to exchange them.” It took me the entire night. Sitting on the floor of my sterile, oversized bedroom in the west wing of their mansion, using a roll of cheap Scotch tape I’d swiped from the study desk, I pieced the torn bills back together. Corner by corner. Grid by grid. When I brought the taped-up bills to a local branch the next afternoon, the teller behind the bulletproof glass stared at me with open pity and disgust for a full minute before processing the exchange. I didn’t give a damn. When she slid two crisp hundred-dollar bills and three clean fives across the counter, the hollow ache behind my ribs finally settled. My heart beat normally again. Money wasn’t greed. Money was the only barrier between your ribs and the cold dirt. That was the single absolute truth I had learned in the fifteen years before the family found me. On Monday, at the private preparatory academy they had enrolled me in, I didn’t go to the dining hall for lunch. Elaine had called the administration that morning to freeze my campus dining account. She called it a “necessary disciplinary measure” for slandering my brother. During the noon break, I walked behind the gymnasium, straight toward the campus recycling and waste station. The elite students tossed their half-drunk bottled juices, imported sodas, and spring water into the sorting bins by the hundreds. I pulled a pair of heavy work gloves from my back pocket, grabbed an industrial black trash bag I’d taken from the janitor’s closet, and went to work. Crush the base. Twist the neck. Flatten it out. The plastic here was premium grade—thick, clean. At the recycling depot three blocks past the highway, they went for ten cents a pound, higher for pristine PET. I had half a bag filled when a dry laugh sounded behind me. “Jesus, tell me my eyes are playing tricks on me.” I didn’t stop. I brought my boot down on an aluminum can with a clean “crunch”. Ian was standing ten feet away, flanked by three boys in varsity blazers. He held a linen handkerchief over his nose, an expression of dramatic pity plastered across his face. “Jude, what are you doing?” Ian called out gently. “If you need lunch money, you just have to ask me. I’ll loan it to you.” One of the boys beside him snorted. “Don’t waste your breath, Ian. You’re too soft on him. You pull a gutter rat out of the swamp, he’s still gonna eat trash. Kid’s got an heir’s last name and the soul of a hobo.” I tied a tight knot in the neck of the heavy bag, rose to my feet, and slapped the dust off my thighs. “Step aside,” I said evenly. “You’re standing on my bottle.” Ian looked down at the empty glass bottle beneath the sole of his designer loafer. Instead of moving, he ground his heel down, crushing it flat into the dirt. “Jude, stop humiliating the family like this. People are looking.” Before the sentence finished, Elaine’s voice cut through the courtyard air. “Jude. What is this?” I lifted the black contractor bag, slinging it slightly over one shoulder. “Bottles. To sell.” Elaine stared at the filthy plastic bag in my hand, then at the smirk on the faces of the boys behind Ian. The color drained from her cheeks, replaced by a dark, mottled rage. “Throw it away.” I tucked the bag behind my back. “There are eighty containers in here. That’s eight dollars.” Elaine let out a laugh that sounded almost unhinged. “Eight dollars? You’re dragging our name through the gutter for eight fucking dollars?” She lunged forward. With a sharp, practiced jerk, she snatched the plastic bag from my grip and hurled it straight into the giant green dumpster behind us, right into the soupy residue of cafeteria slop. “There,” she breathed, dusting off her hands, her eyes burning into mine. “Are you satisfied now?” I looked at the bag sitting in the gray grease of the bin. A sharp, sour cramp twisted in my stomach. Not from the smell. From hunger. I hadn’t eaten dinner last night. I hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning. Those eight dollars were supposed to buy four loaves of day-old sandwich bread from the discount bakery near the bus depot. I looked up, locking my eyes onto Elaine’s face. “You owe me eight dollars.” Elaine blinked, entirely stunned. “What did you say?” I held out an open palm, soot smeared across my lifeline. “You threw away my inventory. Pay me eight dollars.” 3 The boys behind Ian erupted into loud, cruel barks of laughter. Ian reached out, gently catching Elaine’s sleeve. “Elaine, please… don’t be mad at him.” With an air of quiet nobility, he reached into his leather billfold, slid out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and held it out toward my face. “Here, Jude. Keep the change. Just… go buy some real food.” I stared at the hundred-dollar bill fluttering between his manicured fingers. I didn’t reach for it. “I don’t want a hundred,” I said. “I want eight. Exactly eight. Not a cent more.” Elaine slapped Ian’s hand away, the hundred fluttering to the asphalt. “Don’t you dare give him a thing! He’s an ungrateful stray. You feed him, and he’ll bite your hand off just to see if there’s meat on it.” She grabbed Ian’s wrist and dragged him away toward the academic buildings, leaving me standing beside the dumpsters. The wind caught the hundred-dollar bill, tumbling it end over end across the gravel. I walked over, bent down, and picked it up. I walked briskly after them, catching Elaine just before she reached the courtyard archway. “You dropped your money,” I said, shoving the crumpled bill hard into her coat pocket. Then I turned around, walked straight back to the green dumpster, climbed up onto the rusted metal rim, and reached down into the slop to drag my black bag back out. The sour stench of discarded milk and old gravy dripped down my sleeves, pooling at my wrists. I didn’t care. I hauled the bag down, hoisted it over my shoulder, and headed toward the school gates. I knew hunger. It was an old acquaintance. Back in that windowless cellar where the man who raised me drank himself into stupors, if I didn’t bring home twenty dollars by nightfall, he’d shove my head down into a bucket of freezing tap water. He’d hold me under until the air left my lungs in a stream of silver bubbles, pull me up gasping, and lock the pantry for three days straight. I had fought mangy stray dogs behind butcher shops for discarded marrow bones just to stop my teeth from chattering. Wading into a clean school dumpster for eight dollars wasn’t even a challenge. That weekend, my father hosted an informal preview at a luxury lakeside retreat the family firm had just finished developing in the hills. A dozen prominent investors and board members were invited to walk the manicured grounds. I was dragged along. My mother spent the entire forty-minute drive drilling instructions into my ear, her voice tight with anxiety. “These are private equity partners, Jude. Men of standing. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t speak unless someone addresses you, and for God’s sake, don’t wander off looking like an orphan.” I stared out the tinted glass at the pines flashing by. My mind wasn’t on high finance. I was wondering if the construction crews had left behind scrap copper or empty pallets in the unlandscaped perimeter. Once we arrived and the adults gathered on the limestone terrace with their flutes of vintage champagne, I slipped through the hedge line toward the unfinished service wing. Piles of discarded sheetrock, bent rebar, and packaging crates lay half-covered by tarps. And there, half-buried under a stack of drywall scraps, was a spool of heavy-gauge Romex wiring. A goldmine. Strip away the thick PVC shielding, and the bright, heavy copper inside was worth nearly four dollars a pound. I squatted in the dirt behind an idle skid steer, pulled my folding utility knife from my boot, and began methodically stripping the plastic sheath. Long, bright curls of reddish metal caught the afternoon sun. I was halfway through the bundle when a high-pitched cry pierced the air from the terrace. It was Ian. “My ring! It’s gone—it’s just gone!” My hands didn’t stop. The blade slid smooth along the rubber, peeling it away like fruit skin. Minutes later, gravel crunched violently behind me. Elaine rounded the corner of the maintenance shed, flanked by my parents and two of the country club associates. Her eyes locked onto me instantly. “Jude. What the hell are you doing back here?” I gathered the heavy coils of bare copper wire and stuffed them deep into the front pouch of my hoodie. “Nothing.” Ian stumbled through the weeds, his eyes swimming with tears, holding his bare left hand. “Jude… did you see my ring? The sapphire one? Mom just gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday… it was custom-set, worth over eighty thousand dollars…” I shook my head once. “No.” Mother pushed past Elaine, her gaze sweeping down my frame with cold, narrow suspicion. “Why were you hiding back here all by yourself? What’s bulging out of your pockets?” I clamped both hands over the kangaroo pouch of my sweatshirt. “Nothing.” Elaine let out a sharp, mocking breath. “If it’s nothing, why are you clutching it like a thief? Show them your hands, Jude.” I took half a step backward, my heels hitting the tread of the excavator. “This is mine.” Father’s brow furrowed into deep, disappointed ridges. “Jude, stop this nonsense. Take your hands out and let your sister look. If you didn’t take it, nobody is going to accuse you.” “It’s not a ring,” I said stubbornly, my fingers locking through the heavy wire beneath the fleece. “I found it.” Mother’s patience evaporated entirely. She lunged forward, her fingers clawing at my wrists with surprising, desperate strength. “Why are you always so rebellious? We tried to understand… we tried to make allowances for your upbringing! But being poor doesn’t give you the right to be a thief!” She twisted my forearms back. I was taller than her, but I didn’t dare shove her away, and in that split second of hesitation, she yanked the pouch open. A heavy, metallic thud echoed against the concrete foundation. 4 It wasn’t an eighty-thousand-dollar sapphire signet ring. It was a tangled, jagged nest of stripped copper wiring. Along with it, a shower of wrinkled bills tumbled into the gravel—a ten, a five, three worn ones, and a smattering of nickels and dimes. Less than twenty dollars in total. The silence that followed was suffocating. The investors standing near the hedge cleared their throats and quietly shifted their gaze toward the tree line, embarrassed to witness the scene. Mother’s face went from flush red to a sickly, mottled ash. “You… you hid back here for… for garbage?” Ian blinked, letting out a soft, theatrical breath of relief, tapping his fingers against his sternum. “Thank God… I was so worried Jude had pawned it already.” Elaine stared down at the crumpled bills and the dull gleam of the bare wire on the dirt. “Jude, are you genuinely insane?” Her voice shook with contempt. “I shut down your school meal pass for two days, and you’re out here stripping construction scrap like a junkyard stray?” I dropped down onto one knee. Methodically, deliberately, I picked up the wrinkled bills one by one, smoothing them out against my thigh before folding them into fourths. Then I gathered the heavy coils of copper, winding them tight around my palm, and slid them back into my pocket. “Yes,” I said, looking up into Elaine’s eyes. “Without money, I don’t eat. If I don’t scavenge, I starve.” Father took a slow, heavy breath, visibly struggling to maintain his composure in front of his peers. “That’s enough. We have guests. I will not have this circus continue.” He pointed a rigid finger toward the estate’s heavy wrought-iron gates. “Elaine. Take him outside.” He didn’t even look at me as he gave the order. “When he decides he’s ready to throw that junk in the bin and act like an actual human being, he can come back inside.” Elaine grabbed my arm, her grip digging deep into my bicep, and dragged me down the winding driveway. “You can stand out here until you clear your head,” she said, shoving me through the heavy pedestrian gate. “Clang.” The magnetic lock engaged with a dull, heavy thud. “Nobody opens this gate for him without my say-so,” she instructed the gatekeeper, who nodded awkwardly without meeting my eyes. I stood on the other side of the black iron bars, watching the tailored backs of their coats disappear up the paved hill. I reached into my pocket, feeling the cold weight of the copper and the softness of the crumpled bills. Twenty dollars. With the copper, I could get maybe thirty-five down at a salvage yard. I didn’t wait around for their lesson to end. I turned my back on the gates and started walking down the winding two-lane mountain road. I figured there had to be an industrial depot or an auto shop near the highway junction where someone would buy the metal. The afternoon light faded fast behind the ridge. The mountain wind picked up, thin and biting. I walked for two hours. No towns. No depots. Just endlessly rolling asphalt, guardrails, and encroaching dark woods. By the time the first low rumble of thunder vibrated through my chest, I realized the mountain pass didn’t lead directly to the highway; it was a scenic loop. I was lost. A violent crack of lightning split the sky, and the heavens opened up. It wasn’t a gentle rain. It was an ice-cold mountain downpour that drenched my thin hoodie in thirty seconds flat. The gravel shoulder turned into slick, sucking mud. I had no umbrella. I tucked my chin into my collar and kept moving, my sneakers squelching with freezing water. Cold. It got down into the bone marrow. My skin felt hot and prickling, but my core was shivering so hard my teeth clicked together like dice. A familiar, hollow pressure began to pulse behind my temples. Fever. Whenever I caught a fever back in the cellar, the man would drag me into the yard and dump a bucket of well water over my head. “Drive the heat out,” he’d grunt. I didn’t want to drown in the cold again. I forced my legs forward until the yellow glare of a lone security light cut through the sheet of rain. It was an abandoned transit shelter, attached to a boarded-up roadside convenience store. The windows were dark, but under the rotting wooden eaves, mounted to a rusted support pole, was an old payphone. I stumbled under the overhang, my hands shaking so violently I could barely breathe. I reached into my pocket. The twenty dollars were soaked into pulp. Paper couldn’t feed an analog phone. I dropped to the concrete, yanked off my left sneaker, peeled back the wet foam insole, and pried out a flat, silver coin. A quarter. My emergency reserve. I shoved the coin into the slot. “Clink.” I lifted the heavy black receiver, pressed it against my ear, and dialed Elaine’s number. It was the only number she had made me memorize when they brought me back. “If you get arrested or cornered by reporters, you call this number,” she had warned me. “Don’t go embarrassing us to strangers.” The tone rang. Long. Agonizing. “Ring… ring…” Please. Pick up. “Hello?” Elaine’s voice came through the line, sharp and irritated. In the background, I could hear the clink of crystal glasses and the warm, soft laugh of Ian telling a joke. “Elaine… it’s me,” I said, my teeth chattering so hard the words tore at the edges. “I’m lost. It’s pouring down rain, and I’m burning up… I think I have a fever. Can you come get me? I’m at an old store near—” “Jude, do you ever get tired of these pathetic games?” Her cold laugh cut clean through the receiver. “Dad just checked the security footage from the terrace. You were the only person lurking near the drainage ditch where Ian’s ring fell. You kicked it down the grate, didn’t you?” “I didn’t touch his ring—” “Save it! You disappear for two hours, and now you’re playing the sick, helpless victim to get out of trouble? Do you think we’re idiots?” “Elaine, I don’t have money for a cab. I can’t walk out of here—” “Didn’t you have your precious little pile of trash-money in your pocket?” she snapped, disgust dripping from every syllable. “What, too cheap to spend it on your own skin? I am sick to death of this relentless, greedy performance, Jude. Grow the hell up.” “Click.” The line went dead. A flat, mechanical hum filled the receiver. I stood there, the plastic phone still pressed to my ear, until my knees simply gave out. I slid down the damp wooden post, landing hard on the slick concrete. The rain cascaded off the broken gutter above, splashing heavy drops across my burning forehead. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled mess of bills. The paper was gone. Soaked through by the mountain rain, it had dissolved into a useless, gray, pulpy lump of wet fibers. My thirty-five dollars. Gone. I stared at the gray pulp in my open palm as the edges of my vision began to fray into static. It was true, then. Without money, you really do just die.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “569285”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven days before our wedding, Brett started sending out early autumn gifts. To Candice, his childhood friend, he sent overnighted, air-freighted Japanese white jewel strawberries—the kind nestled in individual silk-lined wooden boxes. To me, he brought home two crates of clearance apples from the discount supermarket, buy-one-get-one-free. “Candice has a delicate palate,” he explained, barely looking up from his phone as he set the bruised cardboard box on our kitchen island. “She only eats imported. Besides, you’ve never been picky, and apples are good for you.” Not an hour later, Candice posted a photo on Instagram. A curated shot of dewy, pristine ivory berries bathed in soft morning light. “So lucky to be kept in someone’s thoughts. Berry heaven.” I chewed on a sour, mealy slice of apple and heard my phone buzz. A courier notification. Brett had sent a rush delivery package directly to my office, marked urgent. Inside was an envelope containing Candice’s wedding invitation, a pale blush bridesmaid dress, and an itinerary card. Then his text came through. “Iris, Candice’s maid of honor backed out last minute. I need you to step in.” “Her European fiancé doesn’t know how things work here, and she’s overwhelmed. We have to help them pull this off.” I stared at the date stamped in embossed gold foil on the invitation. It was our wedding date. The exact day Brett and I had booked eight months ago. Before I could type a reply, another message flashed on my screen. “Candice’s depression has been flaring up again. The doctor said she can’t handle any more emotional shock right now. Let’s get her down the aisle first. We can push ours back a little. You’ve already waited three years—what’s another couple of weeks?” My fingers hovered over the glass. “Pushed back to when?” I wrote back. “Once things settle down,” he replied. “We’ll figure it out.” I set my half-eaten apple on the desk, picked up my phone, and called the hotel venue. I told the coordinator I wanted to submit an official request to cancel our reception. He assumed I was just giving up on the ceremony. He didn’t realize that I was giving up on him. … “How long are you going to keep doing this?” Brett leaned against the bedroom doorframe, the shadow of exhaustion and irritation settling into the sharp lines of his face. Even run ragged, he had the kind of effortless, striking beauty that had drawn me in seven years ago. Seeing it now only made my chest ache with a hollow, nauseating pain. I kept my head down, folding my cashmere sweaters into neat, tight squares, placing them one by one into my carry-on suitcase. “I lent your gown to Candice,” he said, his tone softening into that reasoned, paternal cadence he always used when he was about to steamroll me. “Her fiancé’s family had some kind of financial freeze overseas. Her custom dress wasn’t finished in time. It’s only a few days, Iris. We’ll reschedule.” My hands paused over the wool. That dress. I had spent three exhausting weekends visiting boutiques across the city, trying on dozens until I found the one. The pearls trailing down the illusion back had been hand-selected—he had sat on the velvet ottoman outside the dressing room, inspecting them with me. When the zipper had slid up and the curtain pulled back, his eyes had lit up like city lights reflecting on black water. He had whispered, “Iris, you take my breath away in white.” Now, that dress was hanging in another woman’s closet. Brett walked over, his warm fingers wrapping around my wrist to halt the zipper of my luggage. “Iris, look at me. I know you feel slighted.” His voice dropped an octave, intimate and coaxing. “But Candice is falling apart.” I looked down at his hand. On his ring finger sat the plain silver band I had bought him with my very first paycheck out of college. Back then, we split dollar-slice pizzas and counted change for the laundromat. He had slipped that cheap silver onto his finger, kissed my knuckles, and sworn, “The second I make real money, I’m replacing this with the finest ring in the world.” I stared at that band for two seconds, then pulled my wrist from his grip. Somewhere deep in my chest, a structural beam cracked and gave way. “Talk to me, Iris.” His brows knit tight. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger catching my chin to tilt my face toward his. “Don’t give me this cold shoulder. Say something.” For a fleeting second, the old habit kicked in. I almost wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that he cared, that he actually felt the weight of what he was taking from me. Then a faint scent drifted from his collar. Sweet, powdery, cloying. Candice’s signature perfume. I jerked my head to the side, breaking free of his touch. “Understood.” I zipped the last organizer pouch into the suitcase. He seemed to take that single word as a concession. He let out half a sigh of relief and lifted a hand to stroke my hair. I stepped back, out of reach. “I’m staying at the corporate apartment near my office tonight,” I said evenly. “We both need some space to clear our heads.” His mouth parted, but whatever argument he had died on his tongue. Eventually, his shoulders slumped. “Fine,” he muttered, trying to sound reasonable. “Call me when you’ve cooled off.” He grabbed his car keys from the dresser, paused at the door, but didn’t look back. On the dining table sat a thermos of chicken congee his housekeeper had dropped off hours ago. It was still lukewarm. I looked at it once, left it untouched, and pulled my suitcase out into the hall. By the time I reached the street, a cold autumn rain had begun to pelt the pavement. A sharp, familiar constriction seized my trachea. My lungs seized, pulling in thin, useless sips of air. The asthma attack came on fast and brutal. Leaning heavily against the glass panel of the bus shelter, my fingers shook violently as I dug through my purse for my rescue inhaler. Nothing. It wasn’t there. Desperation took over. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It rang and rang, slicing through the hiss of the rain. On the seventh ring, he finally picked up. “Iris, what is it now?” he answered, the impatience bleeding through the speaker. I clutched my chest, my throat whistling with every agonizing breath. “Brett… I’m outside our complex. I’m having… an attack. I don’t have my inhaler.” There was a sudden, startled pause on the line. Then his voice sharpened with alarm: “Did you check your work tote? Do you have your backup?” My fingers clamped white around the phone, heat prickling behind my eyes. Before he could say another word, a sharp, choked sob echoed from his background. Brett’s breath caught instantly. “Take slow breaths,” he said, his words accelerating into a hurried blur. “If you can’t get it under control, call 911 immediately.” I slumped against the cold glass of the shelter, the weight on my ribcage turning into lead. “Can’t you come?” It was a pathetic question. I knew the answer before the words fully left my mouth. But some wounded, dying part of me needed to hear it. Candice’s voice drifted through the receiver, trembling and childlike: “Brett, please… the thunder is so loud. Don’t leave me alone, please…” Two seconds of dead silence stretched over the phone line. “Iris…” Brett started, his tone burdened with torn loyalties. “I can’t walk out right now. She’s hyperventilating. Call an ambulance. The second I calm her down, I’ll head straight to the hospital.” The physical suffocation was instantly eclipsed by a pain so acute, so icy, that it cut straight to the bone. Gathering the ragged shreds of my breath, I whispered, “And what if I stop breathing before you get there?” His tone dropped, stern and defensive. “Stop being dramatic. Don’t say things like that.” In the background, something crashed to the floor. A muffled cry followed. “Go to the ER,” he snapped, his voice tight. “Wait for me.” The line went dead. I stood there in the pouring rain, listening to the hollow cadence of the dial tone. A banner notification dropped down from Instagram. Candice had just posted a story. A black-and-white photo: her head resting gently on the shoulder of a man wearing a tailored coat. Outside the car window, rain streaked across the glass in torrents. Her caption read: “Terrified of storms, but always safe on his shoulder.” I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred into gray. My lungs felt completely vacuumed of oxygen. My phone slipped from my numb fingers, tumbling into a muddy puddle on the sidewalk. I dropped to my knees to reach for it, my hands shaking so hard I couldn’t get a grip. A flashlight beam cut through the dark. The security guard from the front gate rushed over with a large umbrella, pulling me up by the elbows. He fished my phone out of the water and pressed a fresh packet of tissues into my palm. “Miss Cooper? Miss Cooper, you’re turning blue! Let me call a cab—I’ll take you to the clinic down the block!” I shook my head, unable to speak, rain and hot tears washing together down my neck. Three years ago, when I had nicked my thumb slicing lemons, Brett had sprinted three blocks in the dead of winter at midnight just to find antibiotic ointment and butterfly bandages. He had wrapped my finger with trembling hands and whispered that he couldn’t bear to see me bleed. Now, he only had time to wonder if I was alive when Candice wasn’t afraid of the dark. I made it to the company apartment drenched to the bone. I spent the night sitting on the edge of the twin bed, listening to the radiator clank, staring at the gray wall until the sky turned pale. By sunrise, my mind was entirely clear. I had only one thing left to do. Go back to the apartment and get Pumpkin. When the apartment door clicked open, Pumpkin was already sitting on the hardwood runner by the foyer, waiting. The moment he saw me, the little ginger cat trotted over, tilting his head up and purring against the hem of my damp jeans. I reached for his carrier and began packing his prescription kibble and ear drops. The bedroom door creaked. Brett walked out, buttoning his cuffs. The moment his eyes found me, he stopped dead in his tracks. “How’s your breathing? Did you go to the ER?” I didn’t look up, methodically loading cans of food into the side pockets of the canvas bag. “No.” His brow furrowed. “You didn’t go?” He crossed the room and reached out, his palm pressing against my forehead to check for a fever. My heart gave a pathetic, traitorous flutter before I caught myself. “Are you still wheezing? You look awful, Iris.” I jerked my head aside, letting his hand drop into empty air. “I found an old inhaler in my desk. I’m fine.” He studied me for a long, heavy moment. “I called you six times last night after I got her settled,” he said, his voice tightening with suppressed resentment. “You didn’t pick up once.” I had seen every single one. The first call came at 2:17 in the morning. I had been curled up under a thin polyester blanket in the company dorm, running a low-grade fever, the dull ache of oxygen deprivation lingering in my chest. I had watched his name illuminate the dark ceiling, vibrating across the nightstand, and I hadn’t moved an inch. It wasn’t petty retaliation. I simply had no idea what two people who were finished were supposed to say to each other. Brett stood over me, shifting uncomfortably. “I had Mrs. Higgins stew some Asian pear and rock sugar for your throat. It’s in the fridge. Heat it up before you head out.” “Okay,” I said. I didn’t touch the fridge. His gaze drifted downward, finally landing on the open carrier and the small bag of cat supplies on the floor. His posture stiffened. “What is that for?” “I’m taking Pumpkin.” He immediately stepped forward, his leather shoe pinning the strap of the carrier to the floor. “Pumpkin stays here.” I looked up into his eyes. “Why?” “Candice has severe pre-wedding panic attacks. She hasn’t slept a full night all week. Her therapist suggested an emotional support animal could help stabilize her moods.” His explanation tumbled out fast, smooth, rehearsed. “I already promised she could take him for a few days.” He said it with the same casual authority he had used when giving away my wedding gown. I stepped directly between him and the cat. “Pumpkin is terrified of unfamiliar environments. He gets feline idiopathic cystitis whenever he’s stressed. And Candice has never owned a pet in her life.” “I’ll write out an instruction sheet for her.” He looked down at me, his eyes pleading for compliance. “Iris, she is clinically ill. It’s just for a few days. The minute the wedding wraps up, I’ll bring him right back.” His fingers found my shoulder. His thumb began rubbing the collarbone through my sweater, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was his signature maneuver. For seven years, whenever he asked me to swallow a bitter pill, he would rub my shoulder just like this until I caved. A shudder ran through my frame. Not from comfort. From sheer self-loathing that my nervous system still recognized his touch. I bent down to scoop Pumpkin into my arms. Brett moved faster. He swept the cat up against his chest, backing toward the hallway. I lunged forward, grabbing his forearm. “Brett, put him down. Give him to me.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. His voice softened, taking on an infuriatingly tender tone. “Just a few days, sweetheart. I swear I’ll make sure she treats him like royalty.” Seeing my knuckles white around the handle of the canvas bag, he reached down with his free hand and gently, firmly, pried my fingers loose one by one. The force wasn’t violent. But it felt like he was systematically peeling back seven years of devotion, snapping each thread with effortless precision. He carried Pumpkin through the door. By the time I reached the landing, the chrome elevator doors had already slid shut. Three days later, an alert popped up in a local animal rescue forum. A graphic photo of a small ginger cat lying motionless on the asphalt shoulder of the state expressway. I stared at the cracked screen of my phone, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. Three years ago, Brett and I had found Pumpkin shivering behind an industrial dumpster. He was no bigger than my palm, half of his left ear torn away by strays. Brett had stayed up for three consecutive nights, using a plastic syringe to feed him warm kitten formula every two hours until his fever broke. Back then, Brett had held that tiny bundle of orange fur against his chest and told me, “He’s our family now, Iris. We don’t leave family behind.” And now, the very man who saved him had delivered him to his grave. I dialed Brett’s number. It rang until the automated operator almost cut in before he picked up. “What?” His voice sounded ragged, like a man drowning in crises. “Iris, I’m at the medical center.” My throat was so dry the words tore like sandpaper. “Pumpkin is dead.” The line fell dead quiet for three long beats. “I know,” he said, his voice dropping into a tight, defensive pitch. “Iris, I know you’re hurting. But Candice slit her wrists over this—she’s in the psychiatric ward right now. Are you going to push her over the edge? Do you want her blood on your hands?” In the background, Candice’s faint, breathless weeping bled through the speaker. “Brett… I really didn’t mean to… the door opened and he just bolted…” Brett’s voice instantly turned to velvet, soothing and desperate: “Hush, don’t look at it. I’m right here. I’ve got you.” Once she quieted down, he came back to the phone. The sharp edges were gone from his tone, replaced by an unbearable, patronizing fatigue. “Let me handle this emergency first,” he sighed. “I’ll come find you in a couple of days.” He hung up. I walked into the restroom and turned the faucet on full blast, splashing freezing water over my face. In the mirror, the woman staring back had raw, red-rimmed eyes, but not a single tear fell. It was as if every drop of sorrow had been foreclosed, drained dry long before the final blow landed. At ten that night, my phone buzzed again. An unfamiliar area code from upstate. The county hospital in my hometown. “Is this Miss Iris Cooper?” “Speaking.” “I am so sorry to inform you that your maternal aunt, Brenda Cooper, went into cardiac arrest and passed away at 9:45 PM.” My knees hit the linoleum floor. “Why… why am I only hearing about this now?” Aunt Brenda was the woman who had taken me in when a car crash took my parents when I was twelve. She was the only blood I had left in this world. The physician on the other end sounded genuinely remorseful. “When the patient took a critical turn yesterday afternoon, we immediately called the emergency contact listed on her intake chart—a Mr. Brett Lawson. He assured the nursing station he would notify you and that you were both en route. But neither of you ever checked in.” The call ended. The dark screen of my phone reflected my hollowed-out face. To shield Candice from her self-inflicted guilt, Brett had intercepted my life-or-death call. He had made the choice for me. And because of that choice, Aunt Brenda had died alone in a cold hospital room, staring at an empty doorway. I caught the red-eye bus out of the city that very night. In the small memorial chapel in my hometown, I knelt on the wooden kneeler for three days and three nights. I didn’t shed a tear. When a heart is excavated from your chest, the nervous system shuts down; the pain becomes so absolute that you simply stop feeling anything at all. On the third afternoon, a commotion stirred near the double doors. Brett pushed his way inside, his tailored shirt rumpled, dark circles bruising the hollows under his eyes. Candice followed half a step behind him, dressed in a demure, flowing white linen dress, looking frail and delicate. Brett hurried toward the casket, his voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Iris.” I didn’t move. I slowly lifted my chin and looked through him. His voice caught in his throat. “Why didn’t you answer my calls? You should have told me about Aunt Brenda. I’ve been tearing the city apart looking for you for three days.” He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing the dark shadows under my eyes. The touch was featherlight, and a muscle beneath my eyelid twitched. “The hospital called you,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “You swore to the doctor that you would tell me.” He froze. A flicker of genuine panic flashed across his face. “I… they said her vitals were fluctuating. I thought it was just another chronic episode, Iris, I swear to God I didn’t know it was fatal. Candice was coming out of trauma resuscitation right at that second. My head was spinning… and then it slipped my mind.” “It slipped my mind.” Four words, tossed out like loose change. My eyes burned as I held his gaze. “The charge nurse told you she was dying, Brett. She told you it was the end. That wasn’t an oversight. That wasn’t a minor inconvenience.” His jaw worked, words tangling in his throat. “Iris, I screwed up. I admit that. But you can’t just run away without a word—” “Brett…” Candice stepped between us, her eyes glistening with fresh, shimmering tears. Her slender wrist was wrapped in thick, snow-white medical gauze. “It’s all my fault,” she whimpered, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner. “If I wasn’t such a broken burden, you wouldn’t have forgotten to call Iris.” She turned toward me, bowing her head in theatrical penitence. “Iris, I am so, so sorry. Please let me offer some incense to your aunt. I just pray her soul can forgive me.” She glided toward the small altar table, reaching for three sticks of sandalwood incense. As she turned back, her elbow swung wide, clipping the edge of the mahogany table with an audible thud. “Crack.” The antique carved jade comb resting beside Aunt Brenda’s urn tumbled to the floor, striking the brass rail and snapping clean into two pieces. It was my grandmother’s heirloom. The only keepsake Aunt Brenda had carried with her through sixty years of life. Candice gasped, slapping both hands over her mouth as she stumbled backward in horror. Tears spilled down her cheeks on cue. “I didn’t mean to! Oh God, I’m so clumsy! Iris, hit me… please, just strike me, I deserve it!” I pushed myself up from the floor and walked toward the severed green stones. Brett moved on pure instinct, stepping forward to block my path, bracing to protect her. A second later, he realized my hands weren’t aimed at Candice. They were reaching for the floor. His arm froze in midair. Looking down at the shattered jade, he swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “…Iris, it was an accident. Look, I’ll find a master jeweler. I’ll buy you a vintage one, something even better—” I knelt, wrapping my fingers around the two cold, lifeless shards of stone. When I looked up, I saw the complete, unraveling helplessness on Brett’s handsome face. That was his lifelong gift: he could dismantle your world under the noble guise of protecting the weak, and then turn around and offer to write a check to fix the wreckage. But when some things break, they are broken forever. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I turned toward the memorial hall attendant standing by the exit. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the chapel. “Could you please remove these two trespassers? They are disturbing my aunt’s rest.” The guard stepped forward immediately. Brett’s face drained of color. “Iris, I know you’re in agony right now.” He stared down at me, his voice dropping into a desperate plea. “Please… just let me fix this. Let me think of a way.” I didn’t give him another glance. He stood frozen on the carpet for what felt like an eternity. Finally, unable to endure the stares of the staff, he took Candice by the elbow and walked out. That night, I sat alone beside the bronze urn in the quiet chapel. At 2:00 AM, my screen lit up. A message from Brett: “I had the seamstress alter the bridesmaid gown to your exact measurements. I’ll drive up to pick you up at seven tomorrow morning.” A few minutes later, another text arrived: “About the chapel… I’m sorry.” I stared at those words on the glowing screen. I typed two words back. “Sounds good.” I wasn’t going there to stand behind Candice as her maid of honor. I was going because I wanted to witness, with my own eyes, just how thoroughly he could drag our seven years through the mud. And then, I was going to pull the trigger myself. The next morning, when I arrived at the luxury downtown hotel, the grand ballroom was in absolute chaos. Guests were murmuring behind their programs; the event coordinator was sweating through his tuxedo. The supposed European aristocratic groom had failed to materialize. Up on the second-floor mezzanine terrace, Candice had climbed over the wrought-iron railing. She stood on the narrow stone ledge in her trailing white gown, swaying dangerously in the autumn wind. Brett was at the front of the crowd, his face as pale as chalk. “Candice, step back! Grab my hand! It’s too high!” Candice was sobbing hysterically, a silver utility blade pressed firmly against the bandage on her wrist. “He lied to me, Brett! He took my family’s remaining trust fund and disappeared! The whole city is laughing at me—they’re all waiting to watch me crawl into a gutter! I’d rather jump!” Brett’s voice was trembling so violently it cracked. “Nobody is laughing at you while I’m alive. Step off the ledge, Candice. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Anything.” Candice looked down at him through mascara-stained tears, a chilling, triumphant gleam settling behind her pupils. “Then marry me,” she wept. “Take his place. Stand at that altar and finish the ceremony with me right now, and I’ll come down.” A collective gasp rippled through the hundreds of guests. Brett froze like a man struck by lightning. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he turned his head and searched the perimeter of the room until his eyes locked onto mine. He sprinted down the mezzanine steps, pushing through the crowd until he was standing inches from me. “Iris.” For the first time in our seven years together, he was begging. His eyes were shot with red, his chest heaving, his voice reduced to a shattered whisper. “I’m begging you. Just this once.” He grabbed my hands. His palms were clammy. “She’s clinically suicidal. If I don’t do this, she jumps, and her death will be on my soul forever. It’s just a performance, Iris! No marriage license, no legal weight, nothing real. As soon as the paramedics arrive and sedate her, I’ll explain everything to everyone. We will have our wedding next month. I’ll make it ten times more lavish, I swear on my life!” He spoke with the cadence of profound, tragic romance, driving every syllable like a railroad spike through my ribs. Looking at his tortured face, my mind drifted back seven years to our very first date at a seaside diner. His hands had been so sweaty he dropped his fork, yet every time a car sped past the crosswalk, he had stepped instinctively into the street to shield me with his body. I remembered three years ago, when he knelt in our tiny, rented studio apartment with a cheap silver ring, promising that in this life, mine was the only hand he would ever hold. When he made those vows, maybe he really believed them. The problem was, over seven years, he had come to believe something far more dangerous: that no matter how much he bled me dry, I would never, ever leave. I looked into his bloodshot eyes. “Brett, if I were the one standing on that ledge right now, would you marry another woman to save my life?” He recoiled as if slapped. Instinctively, his eyes darted back toward the terrace, toward Candice teetering on the edge. That split-second glance was the only answer I needed. I nodded gently. “Go on then.” He lunged forward to wrap his arms around me in gratitude, but I stepped backward, out of his reach. There was no time for him to decipher what that step meant. He spun around, took the staircase two steps at a time, grabbed the bridal bouquet from the stunned officiant, and walked out onto the mezzanine terrace. Before the cameras, before his business partners and his family, Brett held out his hand to her. Candice let the blade fall from her fingers with a sharp clatter, throwing herself entirely into his chest. I didn’t stay to watch the rest. I turned around and walked calmly toward the hotel front desk. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out a small red velvet box. Inside lay the antique diamond heirloom ring Brett’s late mother had placed in my hands before she passed. She had held my fingers on her deathbed and said, “Brett has an arrogant, stubborn pride. Please, be patient with him.” I had been patient for seven years. That was long enough. I dropped the velvet box straight into the brass trash bin beside the marble counter. Then, I slid my black credit card across the polished granite to the banquet director. “I am officially withdrawing from the joint wedding contract,” I said, my voice steady and clear. “Please calculate the unilateral cancellation penalties assigned to my party and charge the full amount right now.” The director blanched, but seeing my expression, he quickly ran the card through the terminal. I took the pen and signed my name on the settlement agreement. From this second forward, whatever became of this farce of a wedding had nothing to do with me. I pushed through the revolving glass doors into the crisp autumn afternoon. The sunlight hit my retinas with blinding intensity, making my eyes sting. I raised my hand, hailed a yellow cab, and climbed into the backseat. Above on the terrace, the officiant’s mic crackled through the courtyard speakers, broadcasting across the property: “And now, by the power vested in me, may the groom place the ring upon the bride’s finger…” Brett slid the gold band onto Candice’s finger. Just then, the banquet director hurried onto the terrace, holding the signed receipt, his voice hushed but urgently cutting through the applause. “Mr. Lawson. Miss Iris Cooper has settled her contractual penalties in full and officially terminated her wedding reservation.” The director hesitated, glancing at the crowd. “She left one message for you.” Every drop of color drained from Brett’s face. “What did she say?”

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My landlord abruptly announced in our group chat that he was giving us three months of free rent. My roommates lost their minds with excitement. “Mr. Peters is finally acting like a human being!” “I’m saving $2,500 a month! This is a total steal!” But as I stared at that message, my palms grew slick with cold sweat. This was a man who demanded we split a five-dollar fee when the hallway lightbulb burnt out. Why on earth was he suddenly gifting us over twenty grand? I immediately started packing my bags. “I’m moving out tonight.” My roommate Chloe rolled her eyes. “Sarah, do you have a persecution complex or something? Don’t ruin the vibe and cost us our free rent just because you’re a buzzkill.” Another roommate sneered. “Are you just going to throw away your $5,000 security deposit?” I zipped up my suitcase. “I don’t care about it.” That night, at 11:00 PM, the group chat suddenly went dead silent. At 2:00 AM, Chloe’s boyfriend called me, his voice trembling violently: “Sarah, are you home?!” “Can you please go check on Chloe? I think something terrible has happened to her.” 01 Mr. Peters sent the message at 7:20 PM. I had just gotten home from work and was crouching in the entryway taking off my shoes when my phone buzzed. A message popped up in our roommate group chat. Landlord Peters: “Girls, I know it hasn’t been easy living here these past two years.” “The economy is tough right now. I thought about it, and I want to give you all three months of free rent.” A second later, the chat exploded. Maya: “??? Mr. Peters, are you joking?!” Tara: “Three months? For each of us?!” Chloe: “OMG! Did I win the lottery today?!” Lily: “Mr. Peters, you’re being so nice, I almost can’t believe it.” Mr. Peters replied quickly. “It’s true.” “You girls work hard living out here on your own. I’m getting older, just want to build up some good karma.” “Make sure you’re all home tonight, though. I’m going to swing by to drop off some nice desserts and go over the lease addendum for the free rent.” “It’s best if everyone is present, so there’s no confusion later.” I stared at that last sentence. It’s best if everyone is present. Maya burst out of her bedroom, her hair still in curlers. “Sarah! Did you see the chat?! Old man Peters has lost his mind! He’s giving us three months free!” Tara was sitting on the couch, already crunching numbers on her phone. “My rent is $1,500. Three months is $4,500! Oh my god, I can finally pay off my credit cards.” Chloe was hugging her phone, smiling so hard her eyes crinkled. “I thought he only knew how to raise the rent. I can’t believe he’s actually being decent.” Lily had just gotten home from a long shift. She hadn’t even put her bag down, looking exhausted. “Do you think he’s trying to sell the building and just wants to butter us up so we don’t cause trouble?” Maya waved her hand dismissively. “Who cares? Only an idiot turns down free money.” Mr. Peters was the kind of guy who would pinch pennies until they bled. Last month, the living room lightbulb burnt out. Maya asked him to change it. He told us lightbulbs are consumables and it was the tenants’ responsibility. When Tara sent him a screenshot of the maintenance request, he immediately replied: “There are four of you keeping the lights on until midnight every night. Of course the bulbs burn out faster.” In the end, the four of us split the $28 cost of the bulbs. Another time, Chloe’s boyfriend, Liam, came over and sat in the living room for less than two hours. The next day, Mr. Peters texted us, demanding an extra ten dollars for “unauthorized guest water and electricity usage.” A man who was that aggressively cheap over pocket change was suddenly offering free rent? I called bullshit. When a man who calculates money down to the marrow of your bones suddenly decides to throw away thousands of dollars, it’s because he expects to gain something far more valuable in return. I opened my phone and started searching for nearby hotels. Maya noticed my screen and froze. “Sarah, why are you looking at hotels?” I said, “I’m moving out tonight.” 02 The living room went dead silent. Tara looked at me like I had just told a hilarious joke. “Are you serious? You’re moving out when we’re getting free rent? Do you just have money to burn?” I shoved my phone into my purse and stood up to head to my room. “Mr. Peters isn’t the kind of guy who just hands out free money.” Maya rolled her eyes dramatically. “Stop trying to scare everyone, okay? He’s just giving us a rent break, he’s not asking for our kidneys.” I dragged my suitcase down from the top of my closet. The wheels hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. Maya leaned against my doorframe, looking at me like I belonged in a psych ward. “Sarah, are you actually leaving?” I started packing my ID, bank cards, and laptop into my backpack piece by piece. “Yeah.” Tara walked over too, crossing her arms and sneering. “What about your $5,000 security deposit? You’re just going to throw it away?” “Yeah.” She scoffed. “Wow, look at the trust fund baby. Normal people like us can’t afford to just throw away five grand.” I opened my drawer and pulled out my copy of the lease and a photocopy of my ID. “It’s not that I want to throw it away.” “It’s that I don’t think gambling my safety for five grand is worth it.” Chloe stood near the back, looking hesitant. “Sarah, did you notice something off?” My hands paused. “Don’t you guys think Mr. Peters has always been a little… creepy?” Maya frowned. “He’s cheap, sure, but it’s not like he’s done anything evil.” “You just love assuming the absolute worst about everything.” Tara immediately chimed in. “If he gives us free rent tonight, all four of us benefit.” “If you leave now, what if he says ‘everyone isn’t here’ and cancels the deal for the rest of us?” I understood now. It wasn’t that they weren’t afraid at all. It was that the temptation of free rent had overridden their fear. Maya picked up her phone. “I’m going to text Mr. Peters and tell him to come talk you out of it. We’re not losing three months of rent just because you’re throwing a fit.” I took a step forward. “Maya, do not tell him I’m leaving.” She had already hit send. “Too late.” I glared at her. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Maya fired back, her voice raising. “Sarah, I should be asking YOU what you’re doing!” “We finally get something good happening to us, and you have to turn it into a horror movie.” Tara added coldly: “You’ve always acted like you’re better than us. You barely hang out with us. Now you can’t even stand to see us catch a break.” Chloe tried to mediate softly. “Why don’t you just stay for tonight? Once Mr. Peters gets here, just hear what he has to say before you decide.” I looked at them. The roommates I had shared late-night takeout with, split Ubers with, and vented about work with were now standing in my doorway, blocking me like a solid wall. I suddenly felt incredibly exhausted. “I’ve already warned you guys.” I zipped up my suitcase. “The bigger the bargain, the more careful you need to be.” Maya sneered. “Then go.” “You better not regret this.” I didn’t answer. I just turned on the voice recorder on my phone and slipped it into my jacket pocket. I needed to get out before Mr. Peters arrived. But I was too late. 03 As I dragged my suitcase into the living room, the doorbell rang. Ding-dong. All four of us looked at the door. Maya’s face lit up. She hurried over to open it. “It’s definitely him!” Mr. Peters stood in the doorway. He was in his fifties, short, with graying hair. He usually wore a faded, cheap gray jacket that looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. But tonight, he was wearing a clean button-down shirt. He was holding two large shopping bags. The bags had the logo of a high-end, ridiculously expensive local bakery. In his other hand, he carried a large insulated thermos. He was smiling broadly the moment he walked in. “You’re all here! Perfect, perfect.” His eyes swept over the room and landed on my suitcase. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What’s Sarah doing?” Maya jumped in to explain: “Mr. Peters, she insists on moving out. She says you giving us free rent is suspicious.” Mr. Peters didn’t get angry. Instead, he let out a heavy, grandfatherly sigh. “Well, young women these days have their guards up. I don’t blame her.” He placed the bakery bags on the dining table. “I know I’ve been a bit stingy in the past.” “When you get old, you just worry about running out of money.” “A good friend of mine passed away suddenly a few weeks ago. It really put things into perspective. You can’t take your money with you when you die.” As he spoke, he unscrewed the lid of the thermos. A rich, sugary, cloying scent wafted into the room. “I specifically made you girls some bird’s nest soup. It’s great for your health and complexion. You all work so hard, you should each have a bowl.” Maya practically snatched a bowl from him. “Mr. Peters, you’re the best!” Tara opened the bakery bags and gasped. “This place is so expensive! A single slice of cake here is like fifteen bucks!” Chloe looked a bit embarrassed. “Mr. Peters, you really shouldn’t have spent so much on us.” Mr. Peters smiled warmly as he ladled out the soup. “It’s no trouble at all.” “I’m counting on you girls to keep this place lively for me in the future.” He said it so casually. Like a kind, doting uncle. He handed the first bowl to Maya, then served Tara, Chloe, and Lily. His movements were perfectly natural. Finally, he filled a bowl to the brim and held it out to me. “Sarah. Have some.” I didn’t take it. “Sorry, I don’t eat sweets.” Mr. Peters’ hand hovered in mid-air. “It’s not that sweet. Bird’s nest is a luxury, it’s very good for you.” “Thank you, but I’ll pass.” The atmosphere in the living room instantly soured. Maya frowned, holding her bowl. “Sarah, Mr. Peters is giving us free rent AND bringing us expensive soup. You refusing to even take a sip is insanely rude.” Tara added her signature passive-aggressiveness. “Some people just think they’re royalty. Probably thinks we’re trying to poison her.” Chloe looked at me hesitantly. She had already finished half her bowl. Lily had taken a few sips too. She was leaning against the table, rubbing her temples, looking out of it. Mr. Peters pushed the bowl a little closer to me. “Drink this, and we’ll consider the free rent deal sealed.” “I brought the paperwork tonight. Once everyone signs, you won’t have to worry about rent for three months.” I stared at the bowl of soup. The milky-white liquid had a few red dates floating in it. It looked warm and harmless. 04 I reached for my purse instead. “Mr. Peters, keep the security deposit. I’m leaving tonight.” The smile on Mr. Peters’ face completely vanished. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and started walking. Mr. Peters stepped closer to me, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s very late. It’s not safe for a young girl to be out on the streets by herself.” I didn’t engage. I just looked at him dead in the eye. Now wasn’t the time to escalate things into a physical confrontation. The living room was terrifyingly quiet. Suddenly, Mr. Peters smiled again. “Alright. If you want to leave, leave.” “Young people always have to learn the hard way before they realize who actually has their best interests at heart.” He stepped aside to let me pass. I didn’t hesitate. As I dragged my suitcase toward the front door, I glanced back over my shoulder. Maya and Tara were sitting at the table, eating their expensive pastries. Chloe was holding her phone, smiling at her boyfriend Liam on FaceTime. “See? Mr. Peters is actually being super generous today.” Liam’s voice drifted from the speaker. “Don’t eat too much sugar this late, your stomach’s gonna hurt.” Chloe laughed and called him a nag. Lily was leaning heavily against the back of her chair, rubbing her temples again. “I think working overtime totally wiped me out today. I feel so sleepy.” Mr. Peters immediately chimed in. “If you’re tired, you should get some rest.” “The soup is good for your body. You’ll feel much better after a good night’s sleep.” I stopped at the door. Against my better judgment, I threw out one last warning. “You guys shouldn’t eat too much of that. It’s probably hard to digest.” Maya slammed her spoon down. “Sarah, are you done?!” Tara’s face hardened. “If you want to leave, just leave. Nobody’s stopping you. Stop ruining our night.” Chloe walked over and offered me a sympathetic look. “We’ll be careful, Sarah. Get home safe.” She was the only one who still spoke to me decently. The bowl of soup she had left on the table was almost entirely empty. I walked out the door. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw Mr. Peters standing in the doorway of our apartment, watching me. He was still smiling. As soon as I left the complex, I ordered an Uber straight to the nearest hotel. During the ride, I uploaded screenshots of the group chat, Mr. Peters’ initial message, and the audio recording to my secure cloud storage. Then, I texted my cousin my hotel location. “If you don’t hear from me by 9:00 AM tomorrow, call the police.” My cousin replied quickly: “What’s going on?” I stared at the screen for a long time. Finally, I typed: “Nothing. Just a precaution.” Once I got into my hotel room, I locked the deadbolt and engaged the security latch. The roommate group chat was still active. Maya sent a picture of an empty pastry box. “Thanks for feeding us, Mr. Peters! ❤️” Tara replied: “Tonight was amazing.” Mr. Peters sent a smiley face emoji. “Glad you liked it. Get some sleep.” After 11:00 PM, nobody sent another message. I sat in the unfamiliar hotel room, second-guessing myself. Was I really just being paranoid? Did Mr. Peters just have a sudden change of heart? Did I twist a genuine act of kindness into a sinister conspiracy? Right at that moment, my phone rang. It was Liam. When I answered, Liam was breathing heavily, his voice frantic and panicked. “Sarah, are you home?! Can you please check on Chloe for me?!” “I think something happened to her. She just stopped talking.”

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When the phone rang, I was squatting in the cafeteria kitchen, watching the chef julienne potatoes. “Principal Zhou, we have a parent complaint.” The voice of old Mark, our Dean of Students, came through the receiver. He sounded cautious. “What’s the complaint?” “They’re saying the cafeteria lunches are too expensive.” My chopsticks paused in mid-air. “How much per meal?” “Five dollars.” “One meat, two vegetable sides, five dollars… and that’s expensive?” Mark didn’t say anything. I hung up the phone and stood up. My knees popped loudly. The cafeteria was renovated just last summer. I had to make three trips to the district school board and write four separate proposals just to get the $120,000 renovation grant approved. It wasn’t enough. I paid $23,000 out of my own pocket to cover the rest. The stoves were brand new, the ventilation system was new. I found a used commercial refrigerator, but it kept things perfectly cold. Our chef, Lou, used to be the head cook at a popular diner in town. His cooking was phenomenal. I poached him for $3,500 a month. The school budget couldn’t cover a salary that high, so I squeezed the rest out of the administrative fund. Every meal included one main meat dish, two vegetable sides, and unlimited rice. Five dollars. I had done the math. Pork averaged $15 a pound, chicken $12, and fresh vegetables were between $3 and $5 a pound. With 120 students, the food cost alone was over $400 per meal. Add in Lou’s salary, water, gas, and electricity, and the cafeteria was operating at a guaranteed loss of $800 to $1,000 a month. I covered part of the deficit using miscellaneous school funds. Whatever I couldn’t cover, I paid for myself. At five dollars a meal, my conscience was completely clear. The parent who complained was named Quinn. Her son, Toby, was in the fourth grade. He sat in the third row. Mark brought me the official complaint log. Quinn’s exact words were: “Five dollars a meal means $100 a month, and $500 a semester. Our family is struggling financially. Can you make it cheaper?” I didn’t say anything. I just put the log down. The next day at noon, I took a walk through the cafeteria. Toby was carrying a tray piled high with braised pork belly, a piece of fried chicken, a side of stir-fried cabbage, and a mountain of rice. His mouth was greasy with food. I stood on the sidelines and watched for a while, but didn’t interrupt him. When I got back to my office, I called Mark. “No need to reply to that complaint. Keep operations running as normal.” “But what about the parent…” “For a five-dollar meal, I cannot make it any cheaper. If I make it any cheaper, the cafeteria closes.” Mark gave a brief acknowledgment and hung up. I thought the issue was over. Three days later, the district school board called. “Principal Zhou, a parent raised concerns about your school’s cafeteria pricing. The board would like to look into the situation.” I was stunned for two seconds. “What situation?” “The parent claims five dollars a meal is too expensive and is requesting that the school either lower the price or provide free lunches.” “One meat, two vegetable sides. Five dollars,” I repeated. “I understand, but a parent filed a formal complaint, so we have to follow protocol. Principal Zhou, please come down to our office and bring the cafeteria’s financial ledgers.” I dug out the grocery receipts, utility bills, and Lou’s pay stubs, shoving them all into a manila envelope. I rode my electric scooter down to the district office. The person assigned to my case was a young guy named Sun from the Nutrition Department. I placed the envelope on his desk and pulled the papers out one by one. “Here are the pork receipts from last month. We bought 40 pounds, $600.” “Here’s the chicken. 25 pounds, $300.” “Vegetables, tofu, eggs—that adds up to $420.” “The chef’s salary is $3,500. Utilities are $600 a month.” “120 students, one lunch a day, 22 school days a month. Income: $13,200. Expenses: over $14,000.” I pointed to the final number at the bottom of the page. “We lose $800 to $1,000 every single month. I pay for it out of my own pocket.” Sun stared at the papers for a long time, then looked up. “Principal Zhou, the finances are sound. I will report this to the director.” “Alright.” I rode my scooter back to school. The wind was fierce, stinging my eyes. Mark was waiting for me at the school gate. “How did it go?” “It’s fine. Just going through the motions.” Mark nodded, looking like he wanted to say something else. “What else is there?” “Quinn called again.” “What did she say?” “She said her son doesn’t like stir-fried cabbage. She wants to know if we can swap it for steamed egg custard.” I stood at the school gate, the cold wind blowing down my neck. I didn’t say a word. 02 I thought seriously about the egg custard request. It wasn’t impossible to make. With Lou’s skills, making steamed egg custard was easy. The problem was the quantity. We had 120 students, and not everyone wanted egg custard. If we made a special portion just for Toby, what happens when the other kids see it and want some too? If we made it for everyone, the cost of eggs would double. The five-dollar price tag wouldn’t cover it. I went to discuss it with Lou. Lou was squatting by the back door of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. When I finished explaining, he crushed his cigarette out beneath his shoe. “Principal, it’s not that I don’t want to make it. 120 portions of steamed egg custard require 15 pounds of eggs. That’s an extra $70 a day in costs, which means $1,500 a month.” “I know.” “You still want me to make it?” “Yes. Twice a week. Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Lou gave me a look, didn’t say anything, and tied his apron back on. The second week, a new line appeared on the cafeteria menu: Steamed Egg Custard served on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I thought Quinn would finally be satisfied. On Wednesday, Mark came to see me again. “Quinn says the egg custard is too watery. She says it’s not like the kind she makes at home.” I took a deep breath. “Tell her to come down to the cafeteria and see for herself. I can’t steam 120 portions in massive industrial steamers and expect it to have the exact same consistency as a single bowl steamed in a home kitchen.” “I told her that. She said she doesn’t have the time.” I didn’t respond. Another week passed, and the phone rang again. It wasn’t Mark. It was the district school board. “Principal Zhou, we’ve received another parent complaint.” “Regarding what?” “The parent claims the cafeteria’s egg custard did not meet health standards, and it gave their child diarrhea.” My brain buzzed violently. “Who filed the complaint?” “It was submitted anonymously. But please investigate the situation described.” I hung up the phone and marched straight to the kitchen to find Lou. “Last week, did any students report getting diarrhea from the egg custard?” Lou was furious. He slammed a pot lid down on the stove. “Principal, I’ve been a chef for twenty years! Those eggs were delivered fresh that morning from Chen’s poultry farm. I still have the delivery manifests and the health inspection certificates! Which kid got sick?! Bring him here, I want to talk to him face-to-face!” I patted Lou on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll look into it.” I had the homeroom teachers ask every single student from 4th to 6th grade. Not a single child reported having diarrhea. Not one. I compiled the investigation results and rode my scooter back to the district office. After reviewing the documents, Sun looked a bit embarrassed. “Principal Zhou, we apologize. We should have investigated the claims more thoroughly on our end.” “It’s fine, I’m just following protocol. But I have to ask… who exactly filed this complaint?” Sun flipped through his records. “It was an anonymous complaint, but the phone number left on file was…” He read off a string of numbers. I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts. Quinn. The numbers were an exact match. I flashed my phone screen at Sun. I didn’t say a word. Sun didn’t say anything either. I rode my scooter back to school. Passing by the farmer’s market, I stopped and bought two pounds of eggs. Back at the cafeteria, I placed the eggs in front of Lou. “Keep making the egg custard. Twice a week, same standard as before.” “But what about the complaint…” “I’ll handle it.” Lou looked at me. His lips parted, but he only said one word. “Alright.” That month, the district board called me in two more times. Once because a parent claimed “the cafeteria rice is too hard.” And another time because a parent claimed “the cafeteria serves lunch too early; the kids eat at 11:30 AM, and by 3:00 PM, they’re starving.” Both were anonymous complaints. Both times, I didn’t bother cross-referencing the phone numbers. I didn’t need to. I prepared all the necessary paperwork, cooperated with the investigations, signed the forms, and came back. Every time Mark saw me returning from the district office, his expression was exactly the same. A mix of sympathy and sheer helplessness. Sitting in my office, I crunched some numbers. Since the start of the semester, three months had passed. I had been called in for questioning four times. Each trip took forty minutes round-trip, plus the waiting, the reporting, and the paperwork. Each incident ate up at least half my day. Four half-days. I could have used that time to observe classes, revise lesson plans, or monitor academic progress. Instead, I spent it entirely on fielding absurd complaints. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a notebook. The first page was a detailed ledger of the cafeteria’s income and expenses. The second page was the rotating menu plan. The third page was blank. I wrote a single sentence on the third page: “Should the cafeteria stay open?” After writing it, I scribbled it out. I closed the notebook and shoved it back into the drawer. 03 The fifth district summons was about soup. A parent complained that the cafeteria’s seaweed and egg drop soup didn’t contain dried shrimp. When the district called, I was standing on the field watching the students do their morning exercises. My phone vibrated. I glanced at the caller ID, and my chest immediately felt tight. “Principal Zhou, we have another situation.” “Go ahead.” “A parent claims the cafeteria soup lacks nutritional value and suggests adding dried shrimp and goji berries.” I stood on the edge of the field, watching over a hundred kids jumping around in the sun. “Five dollars a meal. One meat, two vegetable sides, plus soup. And now they want dried shrimp and goji berries.” The line went silent for a moment. “Principal Zhou, I understand how difficult this is, but we cannot ignore formal complaints.” “I know. When do you need me?” “Tomorrow morning, if possible.” “Fine.” The next day, I went to the district office. I brought the cafeteria menus, cost breakdowns, and vendor certifications. I had already printed five copies of these documents. I brought one every time I was called in. I practically had them memorized. Sun wasn’t the one handling my case this time. It was a director named Mr. Landis. Director Landis was in his early forties and wore glasses. He flipped through the paperwork and looked up at me. “Principal Zhou, it’s clear that your cafeteria is operating at a loss.” “Correct.” “However, we cannot completely ignore the parents’ demands. Is there any way you can find a compromise or make some adjustments?” “What kind of adjustments?” “For example, offering a richer variety of dishes, giving the students a few more options.” “Director Landis, I have one chef, 120 students, and a budget of five dollars a meal. I can’t perform miracles.” Director Landis pushed his glasses up his nose and didn’t respond. I sat in that hard plastic chair, my back pressed against the cold backrest. “I’ll try to figure something out.” I went back to school and called Lou into my office. “Lou, starting next week, I want you to add an extra dish every Friday. Sweet and sour spare ribs or cola-braised chicken wings, alternating each week.” Lou’s eyes widened. “Principal, ribs are $25 a pound, and chicken wings are $13 or $14. Where is this money coming from?” “I’ll figure it out.” “How much of your own money have you already sunk into this?” “Don’t worry about that.” Lou stared at me for a long time before turning to leave. He stopped at the door and looked back. “Principal… why do you even bother?” I didn’t answer. That Friday, the cafeteria served sweet and sour spare ribs. The kids’ eyes lit up as they held their trays. A second-grade boy ran up to me, looking up with a bright smile: “Principal, the ribs are so good!” I patted his head. “If they’re good, eat as much as you want.” I didn’t eat in the cafeteria that afternoon. I went back to my office and made a cup of instant ramen. Mark pushed the door open, saw the ramen cup on my desk, and his face dropped. “Why are you eating that?” “Food was a little tight in the cafeteria today. I wanted to make sure the kids ate first.” Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. After about ten seconds of silence, he spoke. “Quinn posted a message in the parent group chat.” “What did she say?” “She said the cafeteria didn’t give out enough ribs on Friday. She said her son only got two small pieces.” I put down my fork. The steam from the ramen fogged up my glasses. I took them off, wiped them clean, and put them back on. “What else did she say?” “She said that for a five-dollar meal, getting only two pieces of ribs means the school must be skimming money off the top to make a profit.” The office was dead silent. The sounds of children laughing and playing drifted in through the window. I pushed the ramen cup aside, opened my drawer, and pulled out the notebook. I flipped to the third page. The scribbled-out sentence was still there, the ink still visible. “Should the cafeteria stay open?” I stared at that sentence for a very long time. The sixth summons came the following week. The complaint alleged: “The cafeteria ribs appear to be expired, and the meat texture is dry and stringy.” I didn’t wait for the district to call. I went there voluntarily. I laid out the grocery receipts for the ribs, the vendor’s business license, and the health and safety inspection certificates on the desk. Director Landis looked them over and sighed. “Principal Zhou, I know this isn’t easy for you.” “Director Landis, I just want to ask one question. Have you ever actually investigated any of these complaints to see if they’re true?” Director Landis didn’t answer. I stood up. “You can keep the documents. I’m going back to my school.” Walking out of the district building, the sunlight was blinding. I stood on the steps and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found Quinn’s name. My thumb hovered over it for three seconds. I put my phone away and rode back to school. That night, I sat in my office and recalculated every single expense the cafeteria had incurred since the day it opened. Groceries, utilities, labor, equipment maintenance, and the money I paid out of pocket. Total deficit: $27,400. On the third page of my notebook, I rewrote the sentence I had crossed out. This time, I didn’t cross it out.

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Chapter 1 In my past life, my mother vanished during my uncle’s wedding reception. The bride had walked over, glass of red wine in hand, eyes rimmed with tears. “Clara, thank you so much for everything today. This toast is for you.” My mother drank it. Minutes later, the maid of honor escorted her upstairs to lie down. She never came back. Afterward, the bride’s family sobbed to the guests, claiming fifty thousand dollars from the cash gift box was missing. Our relatives quickly chimed in, saying my mother had always complained about life being hard. They claimed she must have stolen the money and eloped with a secret lover. Twenty years later, federal agents busted a cross-state trafficking ring in the remote mountains. Only then did I find my mother. She was covered in horrific scars, her mind completely shattered. When I opened my eyes again, I was six years old. The reception hall was blazing with chandeliers. The bride was holding that exact glass of red wine, stepping toward my mother. “Clara, thank you so much for everything today.” I let out a bloodcurdling scream, lunged forward, and slammed into her arm. Crash! “Mom! Don’t drink it!” The crystal goblet shattered against the hardwood floor. Dark red wine splattered across the hem of Vanessa’s pristine white wedding gown. Vanessa froze, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Daisy?” “Do you… do you really hate me that much?” In an instant, the relatives swarmed us like vultures. “What is wrong with this kid? Smashing a glass on a wedding day—what a little brat!” “Clara, is this how you raise your daughter?” “The bride comes over to give you a respectful toast, and your kid knocks it over to humiliate her family?” My mother sat at the head table, her face drained of color. She reached out to pull me close. “Daisy, come here.” I threw myself against my mother’s knees, sobbing until my throat burned. “Mom, you can’t drink it! There’s medicine in it! It’s poisoned!” The ballroom fell dead silent. A second later, Vanessa’s mother, Brenda, began shrieking. “Listen to her! Just listen to this vicious little brat!” “My sweet daughter comes over with an innocent toast, and this child claims it’s poisoned?!” Vanessa’s tears spilled over her cheeks. She turned toward my uncle, Ethan, her voice choking with sorrow. “Ethan, I know your sister might not want me in this family.” “I only wanted to thank her.” “If she doesn’t want me as her sister-in-law, she could have just said so.” Ethan’s face darkened with fury. He glared at my mother, barely containing his rage. “Clara, do you have a problem with Vanessa? Is that what this is?” My mother frowned, pulling me behind her. “Ethan, Daisy is only six years old. She probably just tripped.” Brenda slammed her hand onto the table. “A child? Being a child doesn’t give her the right to curse my daughter on her wedding day!” “All our friends and family are watching. If you don’t apologize right now, this wedding is off!” I looked at my uncle, shaking my head violently through my tears. “Uncle Ethan, she can’t drink it! Please, believe me just this once!” Ethan’s brow furrowed deeper, disgust flashing in his eyes. “Daisy, stop throwing a tantrum. Apologize to your aunt right now.” My heart felt like it had been crushed in a vice. Behind Vanessa, one of her bridesmaids, Rachel, casually bent down, reaching for the broken glass shards on the floor. My brain kicked into gear. The evidence! I knocked the glass over, but the wine had soaked deep into the white linen tablecloth. I spun around, grabbed a thick handful of paper napkins, and pressed them hard against the wet spot. The red liquid soaked through the paper in seconds. Vanessa’s expression flickered. “Daisy, what are you doing?” I ignored her. Clenching the soggy napkins in my fist, I ducked under the banquet chairs while the relatives were busy screaming at my mother and sprinted toward the double doors. My father, David, was just hanging up a phone call in the foyer. I slammed directly into his legs. “Daddy!” He knelt down, catching me in his arms. “Daisy? Why are you crying like this?” I shoved the wad of red-stained napkins deep into his inside suit jacket pocket and pressed his hand over it. “Hide it,” I whispered frantically. “Don’t let anyone take it.” Dad blinked, bewildered. I choked on my sobs, my tiny chest heaving. “Daddy, there’s bad medicine in the wine. If Mommy drinks it, she’ll disappear forever.” His eyes hardened. He looked past my shoulder toward the main table. There, Vanessa was dabbing her eyes. Brenda was still bellowing at my mother. Uncle Ethan stood between them, looking thunderous. Dad lowered his voice. “Daisy, what did you see?” “I had a nightmare,” I sobbed, struggling to breathe. “I dreamed Mommy drank that wine, and then she was gone.” “You looked for her for years. Grandma’s hair turned completely white.” “When Mommy finally came back, she couldn’t remember anything… she just kept crying that the wine was bitter.” My father’s arms tightened around me until it almost hurt. He smoothed my hair, his voice low and steady. “Don’t be afraid, Daisy. Daddy is here. I will protect you and Mommy.” Brenda came storming over, her heels clicking aggressively on the marble. “David! Perfect timing!” “Your daughter just ruined my girl’s wedding toast and accused us of poisoning her!” “If you don’t give us an explanation right now, we’re calling the police!” Dad shifted me behind his back, shielding me completely. “Spilled wine can be poured again,” Dad said calmly. “Accusations require proof.” Vanessa paled. “David, you suspect me too?” Dad didn’t answer her. He pushed past them toward my mother. “Clara, you didn’t drink any of it, did you?” Mom shook her head. I let out a tiny breath of relief. But in the next second, Mom swayed, her hand grabbing the edge of the table to steady herself. “David…” she murmured, her voice faint. “Why do I feel so dizzy?” Chapter 2 A dark gleam flashed across Vanessa’s eyes for a fraction of a second before instantly melting into feigned terror. “Is Clara alright? Did Daisy frighten her?” The bridesmaid, Rachel, rushed forward, grabbing Mom’s arm. “There’s a bridal suite upstairs. Let me take her up to lie down.” I lunged forward, throwing my arms around Mom’s other hand. “No! Don’t go!” Rachel bent down, giving me an angelic smile. “Daisy, be a good girl. Your mom is just exhausted.” “It’s noisy down here. She just needs ten minutes of quiet.” I screamed, slapping her hands away with all my strength. “Get your hands off my mom!” Beads of cold sweat formed on Mom’s forehead. She looked down at me weakly. “Daisy, baby, Mommy is fine…” Her voice was slurring. Dad stepped in, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I’m taking her to the emergency room.” Right then, Victor Cross appeared. He was Vanessa’s older brother, dressed in a sharp gray three-piece suit with a boutonnière pinned to his lapel. He offered a warm, helpful smile. “David, don’t panic.” “It’s just the stuffy air in here. The AC has been struggling all afternoon. Take her up to the lounge first.” “Use the staff hallway behind the stage. It’s quiet, and you won’t cause a scene in front of the wedding guests.” I grabbed a handful of Dad’s suit jacket, my knuckles white. “Daddy, we all go together! Do not leave Mommy alone!” Dad nodded firmly. “We stick together.” He scooped me up with one arm while supporting Mom with the other. Suddenly, Brenda lunged, grabbing my arm in a vice-like grip. “You aren’t going anywhere!” “You ruin our daughter’s wedding and think you can just sneak out without an apology?!” The pain made me shriek. Dad’s expression turned lethal. “Let go of my daughter.” Brenda refused. Instead, she dropped onto the floor, wailing like a banshee. “Look at the Millers abusing the bride’s family!” “They accuse us of poisoning! They treat us like criminals!” “This wedding is over! Our family’s dignity has been dragged through the dirt!” The guests gasped, craning their necks and crowding in. Vanessa leaned against Ethan, looking frail and delicate. “Ethan, let it go. Your sister’s family clearly despises me. I don’t want to make things hard for you.” Ethan’s heart broke for her. He stepped directly into Dad’s path, blocking the exit. “David, just apologize to Vanessa. For my sake.” Dad’s voice was dangerously low. “Your sister is sick. I am taking her to a doctor.” “She’s just dizzy!” Ethan barked, panicking. “There are three hundred guests out there! You’re going to destroy my entire wedding over a kid’s imaginary nightmare?!” I whipped my head around to look for Mom. Just seconds ago, she was standing right beside Dad. In the chaos of the crowd, Rachel had already pulled her two steps toward the side corridor. Victor was right behind them. My eyes widened in pure terror. I tried to kick free, but Brenda was still clawing at my leg. Dad shoved Brenda’s hands off me. In those few lost seconds, Rachel and Victor guided Mom through the side exit door. The hem of her lavender silk dress fluttered once. Then it vanished. A bucket of ice water seemed to dump straight over my head. I yanked on Dad’s collar, screaming at the top of my lungs: “Daddy! Mommy’s gone!” Dad spun around. The space beside the table was empty. His face drained of all color. “Clara!” He tossed me onto his hip and sprinted straight for the side door. Uncle Ethan finally realized his sister had vanished, panic flickering across his features. “Where is Clara?” Vanessa spoke quickly: “Rachel just helped her up to the bridal suite! Where else would she be?” Dad kicked open the door to the bridal suites. I buried my face in his shoulder, tears blinding my vision. Lounge one: empty. Dressing room: empty. Bridal suite: empty. Mom wasn’t there. Dad’s breathing turned ragged and shallow. He grabbed a passing hotel busboy by the collar. The young man stammered in terror: “I… I think I saw a bridesmaid helping a woman in a lavender dress down the service stairs… toward the kitchen loading dock.” I was trembling so violently my teeth chattered. “Daddy, the back doors! The delivery van! The van with the ribbons!” Dad ran down the service stairwell with me in his arms. Behind us, Ethan came running down the hall. “David! What the hell is going on?!” Dad dialed 911 with shaking fingers, roaring back over his shoulder: “Your sister has been taken!” Chapter 3 Outside the hotel’s rear loading dock sat several parked vehicles. Perched on Dad’s shoulder, my eyes frantically scanned the alley. There. Tucked into the shadowed corner of the bay was a white commercial cargo van. Red ribbons were tied to the side mirrors. Its engine was humming to life. “Mommy is in that van!” My voice was hoarse from screaming. Dad sprinted forward and threw his entire body directly in front of the hood. The van screeched to a halt, the driver leaning out the window, cursing: “You got a death wish, pal?!” Victor Cross stepped out from behind the loading bay doors, a relaxed grin plastered on his face. “David, what are you doing?” “That’s just the catering van. It’s carrying the extra wedding favors and floral arches.” Dad stared through the windshield. “Open the back.” Victor spread his hands, chuckling dismissively. “On what authority? Your daughter made a scene at the reception, and now you want to search a private vendor’s truck?” Brenda and a crowd of wedding guests came pouring out of the exit doors. “Is there no law in this city?!” Brenda wailed. “Stopping the wedding transport? Searching vehicles on a holy wedding day? It’s bad luck!” “You’re actually believing a six-year-old’s hallucination?!” Vanessa emerged, supported by Ethan, sobbing into his chest. “Ethan, please tell them to stop. Everyone is watching. What will people say about me after today?” Ethan stepped up, looking pale and furious. “Daisy, when are you going to stop this circus?!” A sharp pain pierced my chest. “Uncle Ethan, Mommy is missing.” Ethan froze. Vanessa stiffened, then began weeping louder. “Why does Daisy keep targeting me? Did Clara teach her to hate me like this?” Grandma arrived just in time to hear that sentence. She had her gray hair neatly pinned, wearing the crimson velvet coat she only saved for special holidays. “Where is Clara?” Grandma demanded. No one answered. Brenda kept shouting: “The Vance family owes us an apology! My daughter entered this marriage pure and honorable, and you accuse us of drugging people and kidnapping? You’re trying to kill her!” Grandma strode forward without a word. Smack! Her hand cracked across Ethan’s face with a resounding echo. The entire alley went dead silent. Grandma’s hand was shaking with rage. “Your sister worked two jobs to pay your college tuition. She gave you her life savings for your down payment.” “And now she is missing, and you stand here yelling at a six-year-old child, asking if she’s done throwing a tantrum?!” “Ethan Vance, do you have a soul?!” Ethan went paper-white, clutching his stinging cheek. Dad finished talking to the 911 dispatcher and turned his icy gaze toward the driver. “The police are two minutes out. Turn off the engine.” Panic flickered in the driver’s eyes. Victor lunged forward, trying to shove Dad out of the way. “Stop intimidating my workers! You think you can handle the lawsuit when this turns out to be a misunderstanding?!” Dad blocked him with a single forearm, holding me tightly against his chest. “We wait for the police.” Moments later, the wail of sirens cut through the evening air. Two cruisers pulled into the alley, lights flashing red and blue. The officers stepped out, and Dad immediately laid out the situation. Brenda pushed forward, trying to spin the narrative: “Officers, this is slander! They’re ruining my daughter’s wedding! It’s just wedding favors in that truck! Look for yourselves!” The officers approached the rear of the van and pulled open the double doors. Boxes of wedding favors, silk table runners, flower baskets, and stage props were stacked to the ceiling. At a glance, there was nobody inside. Brenda pointed a triumphant finger at us. “See?! Nobody!” “Clara probably snuck off on her own, and you’re trying to pin it on us!” Vanessa buried her face in Ethan’s arm, weeping. “My reputation is completely ruined. I can never show my face again.” The relatives began to murmur among themselves. “Did they really get it wrong?” “A kid’s bad dream shouldn’t cause this kind of chaos.” “David, you really need to apologize to the bride.” Dad didn’t speak. But through his shirt, I could feel his chest trembling. I stared at the inside of the truck bed. No. That wasn’t right. In the police archives twenty years later, the cold-case file clearly stated: The transport vehicle had a hidden compartment. I pointed frantically toward the back wall. “There’s another wall! The back of the truck is fake!” Victor’s face twisted in panic. “What kind of garbage lies are you feeding them?!” “Knock on the wall!” I screamed, tears streaming down my cheeks. “It’s hollow behind the boxes!” The older officer glanced at me, climbed into the back, shoved aside several crates of floral centerpieces, and tapped his baton against the front interior panel. Thump. Thump. Clack. The sound changed completely. The officer frowned. “This bulkhead isn’t factory standard.” Victor spun on his heel and bolted toward the alley entrance. Dad moved like lightning, grabbing Victor by the collar and slamming him against the brick wall. “Where do you think you’re going?!” Victor struggled, his eyes wild. “I’m going to the bathroom, you psycho!” The second officer drew his taser. “Down on the ground! Now!” Inside the van, the officers pulled down the stacks of fabric. Behind them was a plywood panel, freshly painted, secured with shiny new zinc screws. The officer’s expression darkened. “Pry it open.” A crowbar cracked the wood. The panel was wrenched free, piece by piece. I stared through the widening crack. The moment the panel fell, a blast of freezing, pungent air rushed out. The flashlight beam cut through the dark. There was a coil of nylon rope. A roll of industrial duct tape. A discarded syringe. And lying in the corner was a tiny, delicate mother-of-pearl button. The exact button from the collar of my mother’s lavender dress.

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Chapter 1 Evelyn Vance only gave me a quota of five hours of free personal time each year. Eating a meal with me deducted forty minutes. Going back to visit my hometown deducted two hours. Even our intimacy was timed from the very first second she kissed me. Evelyn was the youngest senior partner at a top-tier white-shoe law firm. Her private consultation fee was $6,000 an hour. I always thought she was just meticulously strict about her time. Until the firm’s annual gala, when Liam Carter—the junior associate she had personally mentored—suddenly smiled and asked: “Evelyn, how much time does your husband have left this year?” Evelyn glanced at her phone. “Seventeen minutes.” The entire table erupted in laughter. Liam tilted his head up to look at her. “What about me?” Evelyn affectionately ruffled his hair. “You don’t need to be timed.” “Shopping for watches with you, getting late-night takeout, catching midnight premieres—when have I ever timed you?” I swallowed the roar of laughter from the crowd, silently guarding my final seventeen minutes. A month later, my father passed away suddenly from a massive heart attack. I used my last seventeen minutes to ask Evelyn to stay with me while I signed my father’s cremation papers. But later, my emotions completely broke down. I grabbed the cuff of Evelyn’s sleeve, begging her to stay for just ten more minutes. She didn’t push me away. I thought that in the face of my father’s death, she was finally willing to break her rule for me. The next day, her secretary sent me a bill for $1,000. That same afternoon, I pawned my wedding ring for $1,500. I used $1,000 to settle her invoice. With the remaining $500, I paid the deposit for an overseas legal translation institute. This time, I didn’t waste any more of her time. And I wasn’t going to waste any more of mine. …… Just after I transferred the $1,000, Evelyn’s secretary quickly sent a receipt confirmation. Attached to the email was a document titled: Personal Time Usage Breakdown for the Current Year. January: Anniversary dinner, 90 minutes. She was 35 minutes late, took a 46-minute phone call from Liam, and the time I actually spent speaking to her was only 9 minutes. Yet, a full 90 minutes was deducted from my quota. May: Hospitalized with a high fever. She stayed in my hospital room for 6 minutes. But that same night, she spent four hours in the ER with Liam for a mild 99-degree fever. August: Intimacy, 21 minutes. After it ended, craving her body heat, I held onto her for two extra minutes. Those two minutes were logged as a separate line item. The original file name of the attachment hadn’t been fully scrubbed. Five-Hour Husband Annual Quota Summary. I stared at those words, my vision blurring. I finally realized that this was what the people at her firm called me behind my back. The Five-Hour Husband. The title I had earned from six years of marriage. It felt like something was blocking my throat. It took a long time before I could force the tears back down. In my inbox sat the enrollment confirmation from the institute in London. There were only twelve days left until orientation. I wiped the moisture from the corners of my eyes and returned to my hometown to handle my father’s affairs. While processing the burial paperwork, the staff member glanced at the family section. “Your wife didn’t come today?” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My father’s old friend, Uncle Ray, quickly covered for me. “Evelyn is a big-shot lawyer. She’s busy.” “Old Mitch always used to say we shouldn’t let family matters delay his daughter-in-law.” The room suddenly went quiet. Uncle Ray looked at my red eyes, hesitated for a long time, and finally spoke in a low voice: “Last winter, your dad heard Evelyn’s stomach ulcers were acting up. He got up in the middle of the night to make her soup, and I drove him to the firm.” “He waited in the lobby for three hours. They didn’t even let him upstairs.” “When that Liam kid came down, he asked if your dad was trying to eat into your five hours, and told him not to come make a mess without an appointment.” My fingernails instantly dug into my palms. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Uncle Ray looked away. “Your dad wouldn’t let me.” “He said your marriage was hard enough already. He didn’t want to humiliate you.” I lowered my head, tears crashing down onto my father’s memorial photo without warning. My father covered for me until the day he died. He didn’t know that I had lost my dignity in the Vance family a long time ago. I found the insulated thermos in the cupboard. Taped to the lid was a crooked note in my father’s handwriting. Evelyn has a bad stomach. Drink less coffee. My phone screen lit up exactly at that moment. Liam had just posted an Instagram story. In the photo, Evelyn was holding a black Amex card, smiling as she paid for his purchase, the corners of her lips turned up. “My first big-boy toy as an adult, gifted by Evelyn.” “The car, the watch, the house, and the love—she gave it all to me. Try not to be too jealous, someone!” I stared at it for a long time, until the screen went completely dark. When I got home that night, the light in the study was on. Evelyn had told me she had work to do. But as I walked past the door, I heard her affectionate, indulgent laughter. “You made me wait in line for two hours and you’re still not satisfied?” “Fine, I’ll stay on the phone with you tonight.” “No, this time doesn’t count.” I froze outside the door, a sour ache blooming in my nose. Chapter 2 I lowered my eyes and walked past the study. When Evelyn saw me, her smile faded slightly. She quickly ended the call, followed me into the bedroom, and wrapped her arms around me from behind. As her familiar perfume pressed down on me, my body dodged away before my mind could even process it. Evelyn’s hands froze in mid-air. She stayed silent for a moment before slowly adjusting her cuffs. “Your reaction today is a bit irrational.” “If you care that much about the $1,000, you could have just brought it up.” I gripped my father’s jacket tightly and didn’t look at her. Evelyn’s tone remained steady. “I understand you are in a grieving period, which is why I didn’t push you away at the crematorium.” “But understanding your emotions does not mean the rules become invalid.” When she finished, much like resolving a simple legal dispute, she offered a settlement. “Next year, I’ll increase your quota by one hour.” “Tonight’s hug won’t be timed either. That should be sufficient.” My eyes burned. “There’s no need,” I replied softly. Evelyn stared at me for a few seconds. The rare sliver of patience in her eyes slowly faded. “Refusing a solution and using silence to continuously express your dissatisfaction only makes communication meaningless.” “Leaving the firm back then was a choice based on your own personal desires.” “This marriage was an arrangement you actively accepted.” “To frame them now as sacrifices isn’t fair to me.” Every sentence was rigorous, clear, and perfectly bulletproof. She stood in the courtroom of our life, dismissing my six years point by point. Six years ago, I was a lawyer at the same firm. After I won three consecutive cases, Evelyn called me into her office and asked if I wanted to maintain an exclusive physical relationship with her. “I don’t have the time to get to know a new man from scratch.” “You’re familiar with my habits. You’re the most suitable.” I asked her what would happen to my job. She answered without a second of hesitation. “Quit.” “When I need you, I don’t want to have to wait for you to finish a trial.” I had loved her for so long that I ultimately gave up my budding career to stay by her side. I had a moment of clarity once and packed my bags to leave. Evelyn chased me to the train station and grabbed my hand in the crowd. Her voice was unusually gentle. “Don’t go. Come back with me.” “I’ll give you a marriage, and in the future, I’ll give you time.” I believed her. Now, that ring had been traded for ten minutes of her company. And the career she had personally severed was now entirely “my own choice.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. A new email from the institute. Please arrive on time for orientation in twelve days. Looking at that sentence, my tears finally fell. Six years ago, Evelyn knew my train schedule, so she was able to drag me back. This time, I wouldn’t tell her my flight. My father couldn’t bear to take up her time even in death. My farewell wouldn’t take up her time, either. Chapter 3 When I clicked “Confirm Enrollment,” Evelyn was still standing at the bedroom door. She glanced at the screen. “That overseas institute again?” “Yes.” “You applied for that three years ago too.” Her tone was flat, clearly not taking it seriously. “There are still many logistical hurdles between confirming enrollment and actually leaving. Let’s talk when you actually have everything in order.” She was absolutely certain I wouldn’t go through with it. And certain I couldn’t bear to leave her. As I put my phone away, Evelyn’s gaze fell on my left hand. “Where is your wedding ring?” Only a faint, pale indentation remained on my ring finger. That ring was worth $68,000. Before the wedding, Evelyn took me to a high-end jeweler. She only looked at one display case before pointing to the ring in the dead center. Choosing it took thirty-two seconds. Swiping the card took fourteen. Before the tea in the VIP lounge was even served, we were walking out of the store. At the time, I only remembered that she didn’t even ask the price when she paid, and I secretly rejoiced over it for a long time. Only later did I realize: she was willing to spend her money, but she wasn’t willing to spend a single extra minute on me. “I pawned it.” Evelyn’s brow twitched. “Why?” “To pay that $1,000 bill.” She fell silent for two seconds, quickly recovering her composure. “If you needed money, you could have drawn from the secondary credit card.” She didn’t even ask if the ring could be redeemed. A knock sounded at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Liam pushed the door open and walked in. “Evelyn, why did you hang up on me just now?” His tone was whiny and flirtatious as his hand naturally climbed up Evelyn’s arm. The limited-edition watch on his wrist glinted blindingly under the light. Last Christmas, my father gave Evelyn a $1,000 holiday check. Evelyn turned around and gave it to Liam, then spent four hours walking around the mall with him, covering the difference to buy that exact watch. For one of Liam’s watches, she patiently shopped for an entire afternoon. Liam noticed me looking and raised his wrist to jingle it. “Does Arthur recognize this?” “The holiday money your dad gave Evelyn was put toward this watch.” He suddenly paused, as if just remembering my father had passed away. “Now that your dad is gone, does this count as one of his relics?” “You wouldn’t make me give it back, would you, Arthur?” Evelyn glanced at him. “Liam, watch your phrasing.” Her tone carried no weight. Liam smiled and casually picked up her water glass to take a sip. “I just didn’t want Arthur to misunderstand.” Evelyn didn’t stop him. I looked at them, and suddenly wanted to ask one final question for the version of myself from the last six years. “Why?” Evelyn looked up. “What?” “When you eat with me, go home with me, or take me to the hospital, you have to calculate the time.” “But when you help him pick out watches, watch movies, and get late-night food, you never count a second.” Evelyn didn’t dodge the question. Like evaluating a case, she gave the clearest possible answer. “Liam is a key associate the firm is heavily investing in.” “His growth translates directly into billable hours and creates long-term revenue for the firm.” She paused, her eyes sweeping across my face. “You currently have no professional output.” “The time you spend waiting for me has no commercial value.” The final, faint thread tugging at my chest snapped in silence. I lowered my eyes, and even the sorrow faded away. Liam leaned against her, reaching up to adjust her slightly messy collar. A gesture that used to keep me awake all night now provoked absolutely nothing in me. But Evelyn looked at me. It seemed my calmness made her far more uncomfortable than an argument would have. She pulled out her tablet and forwarded me the personal time schedule for next year. “The five hours have been pre-allocated.” “Time has been reserved for your birthday, our anniversary, your physical exam, and two family dinners.” Liam snatched the tablet right out of her hands. “I have a mock arbitration on Arthur’s birthday. Move the dinner to next week.” “The anniversary needs to be shortened too. I land that night, and Evelyn has to come pick me up.” Holding the stylus, he casually circled and crossed out dates on my schedule. Evelyn only offered a mild warning: “Don’t pack it too tight.” Liam smiled and handed the mutilated calendar back to me. “Make sure you confirm it, Arthur.” “If you make any last-minute changes, it comes out of your own quota.” I looked at the unrecognizable schedule and pressed Decline. Evelyn frowned slightly. “Why won’t you accept it?” “I won’t need it.” Liam was still clinging to her arm. Evelyn stared at me for a few seconds, but ultimately didn’t press the issue. That evening, my mother-in-law called. She only had two sentences for me: “Your father is already cremated. Stop bringing your depressing energy around Evelyn.” “Bring Liam to the house tonight. He made the partner track shortlist, and the family is throwing him a celebration.” Evelyn put her phone down and looked at me. “We’ll come back right after we eat. Family dinners do not count toward your five hours.” I nodded. Chapter 4 As Liam got into her passenger seat, he turned back and smiled at me. “Sorry you have to endure this, Arthur. Your father just died, and you still have to celebrate my promotion.” At the Vance family’s long dining table, Liam sat right beside Evelyn as always. My mother-in-law poured his wine personally. “When you quit the firm back then, the associate slot opened up and went straight to Liam.” “Looking at it now, that spot definitely didn’t go to waste.” Liam raised his glass to me. “I really should thank Arthur.” “If Arthur hadn’t left, I might not have gotten the chance to be personally mentored by Evelyn.” Seeing my red eyes, Evelyn cut in with a flat tone. “Associate slots rotate based on merit. They don’t belong to anyone.” “Liam stayed because he created sufficient value.” My mother-in-law smiled and nodded. “A man still needs his own career.” “Waiting around for a woman all day, ending up having to beg your wife for a measly five hours—how pathetic is that?” The whole table laughed. I kept my head down and slowly drank my tea, which had long gone cold. When the dinner ended, a maid brought a cardboard box down from upstairs. My mother-in-law casually pushed it toward me. “I had them clear out that nursery in your house.” “When Liam and Evelyn work late, he can organize files in there. It’s close to the study.” Evelyn’s face darkened. “Who gave you permission to touch that room?” “A baby you couldn’t even keep—what’s the point of letting it take up a room?” My mother-in-law looked entirely indifferent. “You can’t let a living person’s career take a backseat to a baby that’s been dead for two years.” Liam clung to Evelyn’s arm. “Evelyn, let’s just put it back.” “I’m sure Arthur can’t bear to give his baby’s room to me.” “There’s no need.” I picked up the box. “I won’t be needing it anymore either.” Evelyn glanced at me, seemingly catching something in my tone. But Liam had a cross-border arbitration call at 10:00 PM. In the end, all she said was: “Let’s go.” It was pouring rain outside. Liam sat in the passenger seat, while I sat in the back with the box. As the car got onto the highway, he suddenly turned around and pulled the ultrasound scan out of the box. “So this was the baby you guys couldn’t keep.” He held it up against the streetlights, then clicked on the fetal heartbeat monitor next to it. A rapid, vibrant heartbeat echoed through the car. Liam laughed and asked, “Evelyn only gives Arthur five hours a year.” “If this baby were still here, would he have had to split his five hours with him?” My breathing violently stopped. Evelyn gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Liam, put it back.” Liam pouted. As he reached back to return the items, a car suddenly swerved into our lane. Evelyn slammed on the brakes. The coffee near Liam’s hand splashed entirely across the ultrasound scan. The heartbeat monitor rolled under the passenger seat and was violently crushed beneath the heel of his dress shoe. I threw myself forward and pulled it out from under the seat. The casing was cracked open, the memory card snapped cleanly in half. The ultrasound scan was completely soaked in coffee. The tiny silhouette of my child blurred into a dark, unrecognizable smudge right before my eyes. “Oops. Sorry, Arthur.” Liam looked at my bloodshot eyes. I rubbed the ultrasound scan with my sleeve, my fingers trembling so hard I could barely hold it. “Get off at the next exit.” “There’s a 24-hour data recovery shop nearby.” Evelyn glanced at the time. “Liam’s conference call is in seventeen minutes.” “I’ll take you after I drop him off.” I gripped the shattered monitor. “Water got into the device. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to recover.” “Going to the shop first will only delay you by ten minutes.” Her voice was frighteningly calm. “An image and a two-year-old recording. Recovering them won’t change the outcome. It’s meaningless.” I looked up, tears finally spilling over. “That was our child.” Evelyn looked at me through the rearview mirror, her expression freezing. She was silent for a long time. “I’ll cancel the five-hour limit next year. Family matters will no longer be timed.” “Consider that my compensation. Is that acceptable?” I was about to argue, but she hit the hazard lights and pulled the car over. It was raining in torrents outside. The nearest exit was still six hundred yards away. She looked at my red eyes and unlocked the doors. “You get out and go home first. Your emotional state right now will disrupt Liam’s preparation.” Evelyn personally opened the car door for me. Seeing my pale face, a rare trace of heartbreak finally surfaced in her eyes. She took off her jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “Secretary Davis will meet you at the exit. Don’t catch a cold.” I held the only two remaining relics of my child, utterly shattered, and stepped out into the rain. I walked down the emergency lane of the highway and rushed to the data recovery shop. The technician opened the monitor, but ultimately shook his head. At 1:00 AM, I placed the signed divorce papers on Evelyn’s desk. At 2:40 AM, my rescheduled flight took off precisely on time. This time, I didn’t want her five hours, or any of her time for the rest of her life.

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Right as I swallowed a handful of pills to end my life, I saw a post on a forum. [What is the worst thing you ever did to your college roommate?] The comment getting dragged the hardest read: [On the first day of freshman year, I forgot my bath towel, so I used my roommate’s. I ended up giving her my infection.] [I was scared, so I told everyone her towel was dirty and that she infected me.] [She even paid me ten thousand dollars for emotional distress.] Someone replied, asking what happened to the roommate. [I used the communal washing machines downstairs to wash my underwear, and I ended up infecting over twenty other girls in the building.] [The school thought it was her fault and expelled her. Thank God I was smart enough to make her take the fall.] The poster’s tone was dripping with smugness. [She paid me out, couldn’t afford her own medication, and the doctors say she doesn’t have long to live.] I stared at that familiar username, my fingertips turning ice cold. I kept wondering: if I hadn’t let her borrow my towel that day, would everything be different? When I opened my eyes, I was actually back on the very first day of freshman year. Chapter 1 Harper’s voice echoed from our dorm bathroom. “I didn’t bring a bath towel. Whose is this one hanging in here? Let me borrow it to dry off.” My brain exploded with a loud buzz. In my past life, Harper told me her luggage hadn’t arrived yet and asked to borrow my towel. I didn’t think much of it and agreed. Five days later, she showed up at the Residence Director’s office crying with a medical report, claiming she had only ever touched my towel. Later, girls across the entire dorm building started reporting itching and rashes. Everyone said I was patient zero. I explained until my throat was hoarse, but no one believed me. I vaulted off my bunk bed and charged straight in. Behind the shower curtain, Harper was taking a shower. Her hand was about to touch my towel. I violently snatched the towel away. A scream erupted from inside. “Avery! What the hell are you doing?! Are you crazy?!” The water shut off. Harper wrapped the shower curtain around herself. “I’m taking a shower! Why did you bust in here? Are you a pervert?!” Lily and Brooke also ran in. Brooke glared at me. “Avery, have you lost your mind? She’s still taking a shower in there!” I stood in the dry area of the bathroom. I didn’t touch the curtain, and I didn’t look inside. “Sorry about that. I just needed to do laundry, and I remembered my towel was still in here. I didn’t think.” Harper started crying from inside. “Didn’t I just tell you I was going to borrow it?” “If you minded, you could have just said so. Did you really need to storm in here?” Lily frowned. “Yeah, it’s just a towel. What’s the big deal about letting her use it?” Brooke chimed in. “Exactly. Busting in to snatch it away is ridiculous.” It’s just a towel. In my past life, they said the exact same thing. But in the end, I was the one expelled, I was the one cyberbullied, and I was the one who felt like staying alive was a luxury. Holding the towel, I walked out of the bathroom door and grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk. Lily froze. “What are you going to do?” I didn’t answer. Snip. The brand-new towel was cut open. Harper’s crying stopped for a second. With one cut after another, I shredded that towel into pieces and threw it into the trash can. Brooke screamed. “Avery, you are actually insane!” I put the scissors back in my drawer. “It’s my property. I can do whatever I want with it.” Harper poked her head out from behind the shower curtain, her voice trembling weakly. “What is that supposed to mean? Do you think I’m dirty?” I looked at her blurry silhouette and smiled. “Yes.” “I think you’re dirty.” The dorm room instantly fell silent. Lily’s face turned ugly. “How can you speak to your classmate like that?” “Even if Harper’s family doesn’t have a lot of money, you can’t just bully her.” Brooke sneered. “So dramatic. It’s just a borrowed towel. What, do you have some kind of disease?” I looked up at them. “Sorry, I’m a germaphobe. My towels, toothbrush, basin, and toiletries, nobody touches them.” “Also, taking my things without my permission isn’t called borrowing.” “It’s called stealing.” Brooke flushed bright red. “Nobody wants to steal your raggedy towel!” Harper started crying again. “Just stop, guys.” “It’s my fault. I didn’t know Avery was so particular about this.” As soon as she said that, Lily’s look toward me grew even more disgusted. Harper suddenly asked in a soft voice: “Avery, you’re reacting so aggressively… is there something wrong with your towel?” Chapter 2 The next day, I went to an off-campus supermarket and bought a massive pack of disposable bath towels. When I got back to the dorm, Lily was doing her makeup. She glanced at the bag and rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think our dorm was a quarantine ward.” Brooke chewed on a straw and laughed. “Leave it alone. She’s a princess. She’s not like us.” She rolled her eyes. “Acting all high and mighty. Really thinks she’s some rich heiress.” Harper was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking down as she folded clothes. Her eyes were red. Seeing me walk in, she spoke very quietly. “Don’t be like that, guys. Avery might just be a clean freak.” Pausing for a moment, she added: “I don’t mind if she thinks I’m gross. I’m used to it.” Lily’s heart immediately melted. “Harper, stop blaming yourself for everything.” Brooke also said, “Exactly. Some people just have no class. This isn’t your fault.” I put the disposable towels into my locker and locked it. Brooke seemed triggered by the sound. “Are you serious, princess? You think we’re going to steal your towels?” I ignored her. At noon, I gathered my jackets and bedsheets and went down to the communal laundry room on the first floor. I had just poured in my laundry detergent when I saw Harper walk in carrying a basin. She stood at the machine next to mine and shoved her clothes in, piece by piece. I stopped what I was doing and took a deep breath. “Harper, the sign on the wall clearly says not to wash underwear or socks in the communal machines.” My voice wasn’t loud. But the laundry room instantly fell silent for a few seconds. Harper’s hands froze. She turned to look at me, her eyes slowly filling with tears. “Avery, are you saying I don’t deserve to use the communal washing machines?” I frowned. “That’s not what I meant. I just said you can’t wash your underwear in them.” She lowered her head, her fingers gripping the hem of her shirt. “But I don’t have the money to buy a mini washer.” “And I’m worried hand-washing won’t get them clean.” “I just want my clothes to be clean.” Two girls nearby turned to look at us. Harper’s voice grew quieter, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I know you think I’m poor and that I’m dirty.” “But just because I’m poor doesn’t mean I should be banned from using the school’s washing machines, right?” Lily happened to be walking in with her laundry basket. Hearing that last sentence, her face instantly darkened. “Avery, are you bullying Harper again?” Brooke walked in right behind her. “You’re micromanaging how she does her laundry now?” I said, “I just reminded her that underwear and socks aren’t supposed to be mixed into the communal machines.” Brooke scoffed. “Couldn’t you have just said it nicely? Did you have to yell it out in front of all these people?” Harper immediately grabbed Brooke’s arm. “Brooke, stop.” “It’s my fault. I won’t wash them here anymore.” She started pulling her wet clothes back out of the machine, tears dripping down her face. Some girls nearby started trying to mediate. “Come on, you already paid for the cycle. Just be careful next time.” “The communal machines are for everyone to use.” “If some people have a problem with it, they can just not use them.” Lily stepped directly in front of Harper to block me. “Avery, you are crossing a serious line.” I looked at them. I suddenly found the whole situation hilarious. I pressed the start button on my machine. “I said what I needed to say.” “If you want to wash them, go ahead.” Harper looked up, a fleeting glimmer of triumph flashing deep in her eyes. I pretended not to see it. From that day on, I officially became the outcast of the dorm. I showered with disposable towels. After using them, I cut them up and threw them away. I locked my toiletries in my cabinet. I aired out the bathroom every time I used the sink, and occasionally sprayed disinfectant, but only on the areas I had personally touched. Despite this, Brooke still complained in our dorm group chat: [Can a certain someone stop being so extra every single day? She makes it seem like our dorm is infested or something.] Lily replied: [She’s not a clean freak. She just thinks we’re dirty.] Harper waited a few minutes before replying: [Please don’t be mean to her guys. Maybe my presence really just makes her uncomfortable.] The chat filled with comforting replies. [Harper, stop being such a doormat.] [She’s just bullying you because you have a good temper.] [Getting stuck with a princess-syndrome roommate is the absolute worst.] I took screenshots of every single message and saved them. Starting on the fifth day, people in the Building 3 group chat started reporting feeling unwell. A girl on the second floor asked if anyone had anti-itch cream. Someone on the fourth floor said she had broken out in a red rash on her legs. Another girl mentioned severe itching down there, wondering if she was allergic to her laundry detergent. Panic began to spread in the group chat. [Could the washing machines be infected from not being sanitized?] Harper also started skipping classes frequently. Until that evening, when my Residence Director, Director Hayes, called me. “Avery, come to my office right now.” I asked, “What’s going on?” She paused for two seconds. “Harper is dealing with a severe medical issue, and she says it’s related to you.” When I arrived at the office, I could already hear crying from inside. Harper was sitting in a chair, deathly pale, clutching a medical report. When she saw me, fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Avery, I swear I never wanted to hurt you.” “But the only thing of yours I ever touched was your bath towel.” Chapter 3 Director Hayes placed the medical report on her desk, looking extremely grim. “Avery, the implications of this are very serious.” “More than one girl in the building is reporting symptoms. The college must address this immediately.” I looked at her. “So how do you plan to address me?” Director Hayes frowned. “We’re not punishing you. We’re asking for your cooperation.” “Go to the campus clinic right now for a full screening.” “Until the results come back, you need to pack a bag and move into temporary isolation housing to prevent exposing other students.” I laughed. “So without any investigation, you’ve already decided I’m patient zero?” Director Hayes’s tone sharpened. “Avery, do not be so defensive.” “Harper’s statement was very clear. She only ever touched your bath towel.” Harper cried and shook her head. “Director Hayes, please don’t make Avery move out.” “I don’t want everyone to know she has a disease.” The office door wasn’t fully closed. Quite a few students were lingering outside in the hallway. I heard muffled whispers: “It’s her?” “I heard it spread from a bath towel.” “Her roommates said she uses disposable towels every single day. She definitely knew she was infected.” My phone buzzed. In the dorm group chat, Brooke wrote: [I’m standing right outside the office. Harper is crying so hard she can barely speak.] Lily: [Exactly. She’s always so sweet. She would never lie about something like this.] Brooke added: [Avery literally called her dirty the other day. Thinking about it now, that is terrifying.] I took a screenshot of the chat, saved it, and looked up. “I will cooperate with the medical screening.” Director Hayes’s expression softened slightly. “Good.” I continued: “But I demand that you pull the security footage and the card-swipe logs for the communal laundry room for the past ten days.” “We need to rule out cross-contamination, allergic reactions, or chemical irritation from the laundry machines.” Director Hayes’s face changed. “Avery, we are currently discussing the situation between you and Harper. Do not deflect the issue.” I stared at her. “If this truly is cross-contamination from the washing machines, and we don’t handle it immediately, what happens if more girls get infected?” Dr. Evans, the physician from the campus clinic who had been sitting quietly in the corner, looked up. She glanced at me, then at Director Hayes. “Avery brings up a valid point.” “With multiple students in the building reporting symptoms, a comprehensive public health audit is mandatory. We cannot draw conclusions based on one statement.” Harper’s crying intensified. “Avery, why are you doing this?” “I’m just scared.” “And now you want to terrify the entire school with an investigation?” I asked her: “If you’re so certain that I’m the problem, why are you opposing an investigation?” She was speechless. The whispers out in the hallway quieted down. Right at that moment, the Vice Dean, Dean Carter, pushed the door open. He scanned the room. “When it comes to student health, we absolutely must conduct a thorough investigation.” Director Hayes stood up immediately. “Dean Carter.” Dean Carter looked at us. “Effective immediately, all relevant items will be sealed as evidence.” “Facilities will pull the laundry room security footage and swipe logs.” “The campus clinic will schedule screenings for all affected students.” “Until an official conclusion is reached, no one is permitted to spread unverified information.” Harper gripped her medical report, her knuckles turning white. The perfect narrative she had written was just ripped wide open by me. At 9:00 PM that night, Dr. Evans called me. Her voice was much lower than it had been during the day. “Avery, don’t panic.” My heart sank. “What’s wrong?” “Your preliminary swab results came back.” She paused. “The sample submitted for testing showed an anomaly. It’s a presumptive positive for fungal spores.” Gripping my phone, my fingertips went instantly cold. Just as I was about to speak, our class group chat suddenly exploded. A screenshot of a medical report had been dropped into the chat. The red word Anomaly burned my eyes. Brooke sent a message: [Avery, are you still going to say it isn’t you?] Chapter 4 Within ten minutes, that report had spread through every freshman group chat. The screenshot was blurry. My name wasn’t fully redacted. Half of my student ID number was visible. But the words Presumptive Positive and Sample Anomaly were crystal clear. The Building 3 group chat was scrolling at light speed. [I KNEW IT WAS HER!] [And she acted so incredibly self-righteous about it.] [She called Harper dirty, but turns out her own lab results are flagged.] [Can we PLEASE force her to move out?! I am genuinely terrified.] Brooke tagged me directly in our dorm chat. [Avery. Apologize.] Lily added: [The report is out. Being stubborn now is pointless.] A long time passed before Harper finally sent a message: [Please stop pressuring Avery, guys. She must be really scared right now.] Then she added: [I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life.] I stared at the screen and laughed out loud. Director Hayes called me shortly after. “Avery, your situation is highly sensitive right now. Please pack your things and move to the temporary isolation dorm tonight.” I asked, “Has the result been verified?” She paused. “Dr. Evans said we still need to run a secondary culture, but the students are extremely agitated.” “So you’re forcing me to move out?” “It’s just a temporary quarantine to de-escalate the situation.” My voice turned cold. “Director Hayes, I have zero symptoms, and the physical examination showed no anomalies. Forcing me to move out now is an implicit admission that I am patient zero.” She sounded annoyed. “Do you expect the entire dorm building to sit around and wait for you?” I gripped my phone tightly. In my past life, she acted exactly like this. She didn’t ask for the truth. She only asked how to toss me to the wolves as quickly as possible to pacify the mob. I hung up, grabbed my backpack, and marched straight to the campus clinic. Dr. Evans was still on call. When she saw me, she immediately closed her office door. “I did not leak that report.” I said, “I know.” She pushed a physical copy of the results across her desk. “Avery, the physical examination of your skin found zero typical lesions.” “The anomaly only showed up on the preliminary surface swab.” “If a sample like that is contaminated during collection or transport, it will yield a false positive.” I asked immediately, “Can we investigate the sample transport chain?” Dr. Evans frowned. “We can request the security footage and the lab’s barcode scanning logs, but it requires authorization from the college.” I nodded. “I want a re-swab.” Dr. Evans said, “We can do that right now.” This time, she supervised the entire process personally. The swabbing, the sealing of the biohazard bag, the barcode scan, the placement into the transport lockbox. I took photos with timestamps at every single step. But the nightmare didn’t stop that night. An anonymous submission was posted on the university confession page. [The suspected patient zero in Building 3 failed her lab test and is still refusing to move out.] Attached was the screenshot of my flagged report. The comments section was a boiling cauldron of hate. [WTF, why is she still allowed in the building?] [Rich kids really think they can buy their way out of anything. Her lab is literally flagged.] [Harper is the real victim here. Called dirty, and then dragged down with her.] At 1:00 AM, Harper texted me. [Avery, if you had just apologized earlier, it wouldn’t have blown up like this.] I stared at the screen and replied: [How did you know my lab report was flagged?] The typing bubble appeared. A long time later, she replied: [Everyone saw it online.] Just as I was about to turn my phone off, a message popped up from Ethan, a senior I knew. [I found something weird.] [Before your preliminary swab was transported to the lab, it was scanned a second time. An anomaly scan.] [The chain-of-custody logs don’t match up.]

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During a televised interview, my husband announced that he had already allocated all of his personal assets. The host jokingly remarked that he must have left a massive fortune for his wife and son. He smiled gently and softly denied it: “I’ve only left them a trust fund with just enough money to live comfortably.” “The rest of my estate, my shares, everything—I’ve given it all to my adopted daughter.” “It was a promise I made to her mother. I swore at her grave that I would make sure her daughter lived a carefree life forever.” In the kitchen, my hands froze as I was prepping dinner for the kids. I sharply looked up at the TV screen. The man on the screen was rambling affectionately about his first love who had passed away too soon. Until the host spoke again. “Does your wife know about this?” He paused for a second, but his smile didn’t waver. “She won’t object.” “She’s been very good to my adopted daughter all these years. Honestly, she’s better than any nanny we could hire.” I took off my apron, walked out of the kitchen, and picked up my son, who was gathering toys for his adopted sister, carrying him back to his room. Six years. I had endured enough. Since my son and I were getting absolutely nothing, someone else could play the role of the devoted nanny. Chapter 1 The interview was split into two segments; the second part was filmed at our house. When Arthur Vance brought the reporter and the camera crew inside, I had just put my son to sleep. He didn’t even acknowledge me. After taking off his coat to shake off the winter chill, he immediately picked up his adopted daughter, Chloe, who was watching cartoons. He affectionately pinched her chubby cheeks. “Did Mommy give you a hard time today?” It was his daily, routine question. In the past, I always assumed he was just teasing. But today, the words carried a different, darker undertone. He was genuinely afraid that when he wasn’t around, I would mistreat the daughter of his beloved “one who got away,” Vivian. “Mr. Vance, you treat your adopted daughter so well,” the host gushed. “If Vivian is watching from heaven, she’d be thrilled to see her only daughter being loved as your own flesh and blood.” “If Vivian hadn’t passed away in that tragic accident… you two would be legendary in the business world.” Arthur’s expression softened with nostalgia, the corners of his lips curving upward. I stood to the side and coughed twice. The atmosphere froze for a few seconds. The host finally realized her comments were incredibly inappropriate with the actual wife standing right there. “Mrs. Vance…” “Sarah, did you wash the outfit Chloe needs for school tomorrow?” He cut the host off, instinctively barking an order at me. “I don’t trust the maid to wash it right. You have to hand-wash it yourself.” Chloe, entirely used to this routine, waddled over on her short little legs and shoved the dirty clothes she had just taken off straight into my arms. Arthur rushed me. “What are you waiting for? Go.” I could feel the gazes of the camera crew assessing me—disdain, pity, contempt. In that split second, I felt an intense kinship with a stray dog on the street. In Arthur’s eyes, I had always just been a maid who was easier to boss around than a regular employee. I lowered my head in humiliation, an overwhelming wave of sorrow and bitterness rising in my throat. I took a deep breath. I let my fingers relax. The bundle of dirty children’s clothes dropped to the hardwood floor. “Arthur, I’m not washing them.” “I am your wife, not your nanny.” His brow slowly furrowed. He shot me a cold, warning glance. “Sarah, what is the meaning of this?” “I saw your interview today.” My fingernails dug into my palms. I gathered every ounce of courage to meet his gaze. “You gave all of our marital assets to someone else’s child.” “On what grounds?” Arthur’s eyes turned razor-sharp, and his voice dropped to freezing temperatures. “What do you mean, ‘someone else’s child’?” He covered Chloe’s ears as he spoke. “Chloe is my child.” “Sarah, when I brought her home five years ago, I gave you a choice. You chose to stay and take care of her!” Looking at the man in front of me, my heart turned to ice. Five years ago, I was weeks away from my due date. He vanished for seven days and seven nights. Frantic and unable to find him, the stress sent me into premature labor. My son was born two weeks early. Arthur finally showed up long after I had given birth. I had just breathed a sigh of relief, wanting to show him our newborn son. But before I could, he thrust a swaddled infant into my face. “Vivian died in childbirth. She entrusted her baby to me.” Chapter 2 “From now on, this child is our adopted daughter.” The color had drained entirely from my face. As I struggled to prop myself up in the hospital bed, Arthur coldly laid down his terms. “If you can’t accept this, we can divorce.” “I’ll pay basic child support every month for your kid, but you won’t get a single cent more.” That was the choice he gave me back then. Swallow my disgust and raise his true love’s child. Or walk away empty-handed with my premature son. I was furious. I had been married to him for years, nearly died giving birth to his son, and on what grounds were my son and I supposed to leave with nothing? So, I swallowed my pride. I stayed. But five years had passed, and he had never shown an ounce of pity or love for me or our son. His capacity for deep, profound love had seemingly died with Vivian. The only warmth he had left was reserved for her daughter. I suddenly realized that all my years of perseverance were nothing but a pathetic, slapstick comedy for his entertainment. A decade of love and hate vanished like smoke in the face of his endless, distrustful accusations. I looked at him calmly. “I want to make a new choice now.” “This time, I choose to take my son and leave.” Arthur looked at me, a scoff of pure disdain escaping his lips. “Leave?” “Sarah, if you leave me, how exactly do you plan to feed yourself and your kid?” “Go back to your room. Stop embarrassing me in front of all these people.” With that, he signaled the maids with his eyes. A couple of them rushed forward, grabbed me by the arms without a word, and shoved me down the hall toward the master bedroom. They locked the door from the outside. The soundproofing in the house wasn’t great. I could still hear their gossip. “I don’t know what Mrs. Vance is throwing a fit about. She has such a great life, why did she have to embarrass Mr. Vance in front of the reporters?” “She’s just raising a kid for a dead woman, so what? She’s a leech who relies entirely on Mr. Vance to survive. She should just shut up and endure it.” A leech? When Arthur and I first got together, he was a broke nobody with absolutely nothing to his name. I drained my entire life savings to fund his startup. I stayed up all night drinking with clients to secure the company’s very first major contract. And it was me who willingly stepped back into the shadows to hold down the fort when he became too busy to manage his own life. But now, in the eyes of everyone else, I was nothing but a parasite feeding off his success. I slid down the door panel and sat on the floor. The noise outside eventually died down. The door clicked open. Arthur walked in, his foot carelessly kicking my side as he stepped into the room. It didn’t hurt physically, but it felt like the final blow to my dignity. Tears welled up in my eyes. Just as I was about to let myself break down and cry, a piece of clothing was thrown over my head. “Stop crying.” “Sarah, you’re good at sewing. Fix the tear on this shirt for me.” I pulled the shirt off my head. It was a white women’s blouse. The cuff was slightly frayed. The tears instantly stopped in my eyes. I couldn’t cry anymore. A massive wave of humiliation hit me, making me want to laugh out of pure anger. I knew this shirt. In this mansion, there were two walk-in closets. One held the clothes for me and the two kids. The other held the clothes for Arthur and Vivian. Vivian was a dead woman, yet Arthur insisted on letting someone who no longer existed in this world occupy a massive space in his daily life. I took a deep breath and threw the shirt hard onto the floor. “Arthur, I am not joking with you.” “I’ve had enough of this life. We are getting a divorce.” I spoke with absolute certainty. But Arthur acted like he hadn’t heard a single word. He started unbuttoning his shirt and spread his arms. “Come help me change.” “Hurry up, I promised Chloe I’d read her a bedtime story.” I walked up to him but didn’t lift a finger. I just repeated, my voice very soft but firm. “I am taking my son and leaving.” This time, he finally looked me in the eye. The unconcealed contempt in his gaze made my entire body ache. “Spit it out. What designer bag do you want to buy this time?” “Sarah, I’ve told you a million times, if you want something, just ask me directly. Stop playing these pathetic, roundabout games.” Saying that, he pulled a black credit card out of his wallet and shoved it into the collar of my shirt. “This should hold you over for a while.” Chapter 3 After that, he changed his own shirt, shoved past me, and went straight to Chloe’s bedroom. The credit card slipped and fell to the floor with a clatter. I stared at it for a long time before letting out a self-deprecating laugh. So in his eyes, I truly was no different than a nanny he could just pay off. I wiped away the tears that threatened to fall and turned toward my son’s room. He was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Hearing the door open, he turned his head, his little mouth pouting in distress. “Mommy, did you and Daddy fight again?” I shook my head. “Not exactly. But Mommy wants to separate from Daddy.” “Do you want to come with Mommy?” My son’s eyes lit up. “Really?” “Mommy, just like you, I’m not happy here at all.” “Every time Chloe is upset, Daddy yells at me with a scary face. If Chloe and I want the exact same toy, Daddy only buys it for Chloe. The toys I play with and the books I read are always just Chloe’s old hand-me-downs.” He counted on his little fingers, his voice lowering with excitement. “If we leave here, will my things finally belong just to me?” A fierce, burning ache stung my eyes. My son should have been the center of the universe, but he had been forced to live in the shadow of Arthur’s extreme favoritism. He was miserable. The absolute last reason I had to maintain this marriage was gone. This divorce was happening, whether Arthur liked it or not. After coordinating the divorce agreement terms with my lawyer, I fell asleep in my son’s room. I had barely closed my eyes when the door was violently shoved open. Arthur, pale as a ghost, aggressively yanked me out of bed. “Chloe is running a dangerously high fever! What do we do?!” This was one of his rare moments of sheer panic. I instinctively checked to make sure my son was still asleep, then quietly walked out into the hall. Once the door was shut tight, I looked at Arthur. “Give her a cold compress, call the nanny, and take her to the ER.” “Arthur, what good does dragging me out do? I’m not a doctor.” Impatience flared in his eyes. But for Chloe’s sake, he forced himself to hold back. “Sarah, you raised Chloe with your own two hands. No one knows her medical history better than you.” “Her fever is really bad right now.” “Can you please not be so cold-blooded?” Cold-blooded. The word echoed in my mind. I let out a cold, bitter laugh. If I were truly cold-blooded, his precious adopted daughter would have died three years ago. Perhaps she inherited it from her biological mother, but Chloe was incredibly prone to severe allergies. When she was three, being a greedy toddler, she snuck some lemon candies while the adults weren’t looking. Hives covered her skin almost instantly. Within minutes, her pale, chubby face turned blue. I happened to check the living room nanny-cam from the kitchen and almost went insane with terror when I saw Chloe collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. I threw her in the car, ran over a dozen red lights, and crashed into a highway guardrail on the way to the hospital. I dragged my bleeding body out of the wreck, gave her the EpiPen, and called 911 before I passed out from the pain. The ambulance took us both. I had a severe concussion and three broken ribs. I was bedridden in the hospital for a month. And during that entire month, Arthur didn’t visit me a single time. Later, when I broke down and confronted him, Arthur just gave me a dismissive side-eye. “You didn’t die, did you?” “You’re a grown adult and you still don’t know how to drive properly. Whose fault is it that you crashed?” “Chloe had it way worse. She hasn’t been able to eat properly for days.” “By the way, hurry up and get discharged. Chloe said she misses your cooking.” It was always like this. When he needed me… I could be a doctor. I could be a private chef. I could be his live-in maid. The only thing I couldn’t be was his respected, cherished wife. I didn’t say a word. I just walked into Chloe’s room. Her face was flushed bright red. I took off her heavy pajamas, rubbed rubbing alcohol on her palms and the back of her neck to cool her down. Then I found the infant fever reducer and fed it to her. The fever broke quickly. The moment she opened her eyes, Arthur shoved me out of the way and scooped her into his arms. “Sweetheart, you scared Daddy to death.” “Do you still feel sick?” Chloe’s eyes were still a bit hazy, but she instinctively wrapped her arms around Arthur’s neck. Chapter 4 In a sweet, childish voice, she said, “Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy. You worked so hard.” “It wasn’t hard work,” Arthur cooed. “As long as our little princess is healthy, nothing Daddy does is hard work.” I stood off to the side, laughing until tears rolled down my face. Hearing my laughter, the father and daughter turned to look at me. I stared straight at Chloe, enunciating every word clearly. “Chloe, I was the one who just took care of you. What hard work did he do?” “For the past five years, I raised you and loved you like my own flesh and blood. What hard work did he do?” “Is it hard work spending all his time mourning the biological mother who birthed you and conveniently dropped dead?” Arthur’s expression cracked, inch by inch. The fury on his face looked like it was ready to burn the entire world to the ground. “Sarah, are you out of your damn mind?!” He covered Chloe’s ears, glaring at me with murderous rage. I calmed myself down and gave a slight smirk. “I just finally thought things through.” “Arthur, the divorce papers will be sent to your office tomorrow.” “Sign them quickly. Once we’re divorced, you can bring Vivian’s urn into the master bedroom and legally marry her ghost.” Stepping out of that nauseating room, my heart suddenly felt incredibly light. Truthfully, I had been completely fed up for years. I spent the rest of the night packing my things. Arthur was genuinely furious. After coaxing Chloe back to sleep, he marched straight back to his master suite. He instinctively gave me the silent treatment, exactly as he had done throughout our entire marriage. But I was already used to his indifference. After packing my and my son’s belongings, I went to his home office. When we first founded the company, I held a significant amount of founder’s shares. Even though Arthur had intentionally diluted them over the years, the shares I still held were more than enough to overturn the balance of power at the executive board level. While retrieving the corporate documents that rightfully belonged to me, I noticed a desk drawer stuffed to the brim with letters. I opened one at random. It was a letter he had written to Vivian. In every single letter, he mentioned me and my son. Reading the contents, I finally understood the true, sick reason behind his blatant favoritism. “I’m raising our daughter perfectly. Don’t worry, I won’t let Sarah and her brat bully our little girl.” “Chloe knows how to say ‘Mommy’ now. Every night, I hold your photo and tell her that YOU are her true mother.” “Sarah is nothing but a live-in nanny here to take care of her.” Every sentence, every word, twisted like a jagged knife in my chest. The confirmation that Chloe was his biological daughter made my stomach violently churn. I doubled over and dry-heaved from sheer disgust. I endured the hardest days with him. I built his empire with him. I sacrificed everything. Ten years of marriage, all built on a mountain of lies. Fighting back my overwhelming nausea, I took photos of every single letter that could be used as evidence. Then, I tore them to shreds, one by one. As confetti-like scraps of paper drifted to the floor, Arthur pushed the office door open. His expression shifted, ultimately settling into a deep, furrowed scowl of annoyance and disgust. “Sarah, where are your manners?” “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” I looked at him with dead, calm eyes. His frown deepened. “What are you looking at? Hurry up and go check on Chloe.” In my hand, I was still holding the final letter he had written just yesterday. In it, he had explicitly detailed his plans to be buried in the same plot as Vivian when he died. Smiling, I slowly and deliberately ripped that final letter into tiny pieces right in front of his face. “Arthur Vance, I wish you the best for the rest of your life.” “I hope you and that dead woman live happily ever after. A perfect family of three for the rest of eternity.” “I am gracefully bowing out to honor your epic romance. I hope you join her in the afterlife soon so you can finally be together.”

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