The company janitor stood in the middle of the courtroom, her face a mask of performative grief, and pointed a trembling finger at me and my daughter. The cameras were rolling, live-streaming our downfall to hundreds of thousands of hungry viewers. “Cassidy Miller’s daughter is a monster!” she shrieked, her voice cracking for the benefit of the microphones. “She played my son like a toy, used him as her backup plan, and when she got pregnant and didn’t want the responsibility, she just threw that poor baby away in a bathroom stall! It was a human life!” She dissolved into sob-wracked hysterics, clutching her chest. “This mother and daughter… they aren’t human. They’re cold-blooded predators!” Her son, Tyler, sat beside her with reddened eyes, the picture of a man shattered by a woman’s cruelty. “I knew Maya was seeing other people,” he choked out, looking down at his intertwined fingers. “I closed my eyes to it because I loved her. I thought she’d settle down eventually. I never thought she was capable of murder. She’s not a person; she’s a sociopath.” The live chat on the side of the screen exploded. [I knew these corporate elites were sick, but dumping a newborn in a toilet? Get them into a cell already.] [This is aggravated abandonment. Life without parole, please. Justice for the baby!] The vitriol surged through the internet like a tidal wave, crashing over us in real-time. I felt the heat of the courtroom lights on my neck, but inside, I was ice-cold. A moment later, I signaled my lawyer to present my daughter’s medical records. The room went dead silent. … The nightmare began on the first Monday back after the New Year break. My car had barely glided into the executive parking garage of Miller Heights Holdings when my assistant’s voice crackled through the Bluetooth. “Cassidy, security just called. The cleaning crew found an infant in the third-floor restroom. It… it didn’t make it.” My stomach dropped. I hung up and sprinted for the elevators. By the time I reached the floor, the police were already cordoning off the area. “The cameras on this wing were down for maintenance,” the lead detective told me, his face grim. “Finding the person who left the child won’t be easy. We’re taking the body for DNA profiling and a cross-check against the state database.” I nodded, my mind racing. “We’ll provide full cooperation. Whatever you need—keycard logs, employee files—it’s yours.” But as I walked back to my office, a heavy sense of unease settled in my chest. Who would do this? Who was so desperate they’d give birth in a corporate restroom and leave their child to die? I hadn’t even sat down at my desk when Martha, one of the veteran janitors, pushed past my assistant. She looked pale, but there was a strange, manic glint in her eyes that made my skin crawl. “Martha, I heard,” I said, trying to be compassionate. “Take a few days off. Paid. You shouldn’t have been the one to find—” She didn’t move. She just stared at me, her gaze unblinking. “I know where that baby came from, Ms. Miller.” I leaned back, gesturing for her to continue. She took a jagged breath, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “That was my grandson. Barely a few hours old.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “And he was your grandson, too.” I froze. A laugh almost bubbled up in my throat—it was so absurd, so fundamentally impossible. “Martha, if you’re suffering from shock, the company will cover a therapist. You’re not making sense.” She didn’t flinch. Instead, she took a step closer, leaning over my mahogany desk. “I’m not looking to make a scene,” she hissed. “But your daughter, Maya, has been dragging my son along for two years. Using him. She got pregnant, hid it, and when the time came, she dumped the evidence in the trash like a used napkin. He froze to death, Cassidy!” Her eyes were bloodshot now, her tone turning venomous. “My son gave her everything. And she treated us like cattle. She took a life!” I stood there, listening to her curse my daughter’s name, and for a moment, the world felt tilted on its axis. Martha saw my silence and mistook it for fear. She straightened up, smoothing her apron. “Let’s be real,” she said, her voice turning transactional. “Two million dollars, and I go away. This stays a mystery. My son and I move out of the city, and your precious reputation stays intact.” She leaned in so close I could smell the stale coffee on her breath. “If I take this to the press… imagine the headlines. ‘The Ice Queen’s Daughter Murders Her Own.’ What do you think that does to your stock price? You’re a businesswoman. You know how to run the numbers.” It was so ludicrous it was almost funny. I slowly stood up, walked to the door, and swung it wide. “You want money? Not a cent. You want to sue? Go ahead,” I said, my voice like a whip. “Now, get out of my office.” Martha’s face turned a bruised purple. She glared at me, shoved past my shoulder, and stormed out. I knew she’d be desperate, but I didn’t expect her to move so fast. By that afternoon, Martha was back, and she’d brought Tyler. They didn’t come to my office; they went straight to the lobby. “Murderers! This company is run by killers!” Martha wailed, throwing herself onto the polished marble floor of the atrium. “They killed my grandson! They’re covering it up!” She put on a masterclass in performance art, weeping to the gathering crowd of employees. “My son loved her! Maya Miller lied to him, used him, and then threw their baby in the trash!” Tyler stood over her, his head bowed, playing the role of the jilted, grieving father to perfection. I walked out to the mezzanine, hearing the whispers of my own staff. “Wait, the baby in the bathroom was Maya’s?” “She always seemed so sweet… I guess you never know with these rich kids.” I didn’t argue with them. I turned to the security team. “These people are trespassing and disturbing the peace. Escort them out. Now.” They were dragged out, kicking and screaming, but the damage was done. By that evening, my assistant called me, her voice shaking. “Cassidy, the video of them in the lobby is all over TikTok. It’s… it’s going viral.” I logged on. The headline was a neon sign of clickbait: “SUMMIT GROUP HEIRESS ABANDONS NEWBORN IN OFFICE RESTROOM: MOTHER COVERS UP CRIME.” Overnight, my daughter and I became the most hated women in America. Abandonment is a crime, but doing it in a cold bathroom stall? That’s a death sentence in the court of public opinion. Because of the massive social media pressure, the DA fast-tracked the investigation. The court decided on a public trial, live-streamed to “ensure transparency.” When I walked into that courtroom, the viewer count on the live stream was climbing by the thousands every second. The chat was a blur of hatred: [Look at her face. No remorse. Burn them both.] [How do you carry a baby for nine months and then just toss it? Monsters.] The judge banged the gavel. The trial began. The plaintiffs’ lawyer stood up first. “Your Honor, I’d like to let my client describe the events in her own words.” Martha took the stand, looking like a shattered grandmother. “Maya Miller thought because her mother owns half the city, she could treat my son like a dog. She used him for his affection and tossed him aside when she got bored. When she realized she was pregnant, we thought she’d change. We thought she’d be a mother.” She let a sob escape. “But she’s got ice in her veins. She gave birth alone and dumped that sweet boy in a stall to freeze. That was my blood! A human being!” The internet erupted. [Is she even human? Maya Miller belongs in a hole.] [Like mother, like daughter. I bet Cassidy taught her how to be a sociopath.] Tyler followed, whispering through tears. “I did everything for her. I ignored the rumors about her being… wild. I thought once the baby came, we’d be a family. But she killed him. She killed our son.” I sat at the defense table, my ears ringing. Watching this mother-son duo pour buckets of filth over my daughter’s head was both surreal and agonizing. “This is a total fabrication,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. “My daughter is incapable of this.” The plaintiff’s lawyer smirked. “Your Honor, permission to present our first piece of evidence.” He projected a security video onto the large screen. It was from the elevator of the Summit Group building on the morning the baby was found. Martha was in the elevator with a young woman. In the video, Martha looked at the girl with concern. “Maya, honey, why didn’t you tell me you were coming into the office today?” The girl had a clear baby bump and a look of cold arrogance. “I’m the boss’s daughter. Do I really need to check in with the cleaning staff?” Martha gave a weak smile. “I just meant… you’re so far along. I could have had Tyler come with you to make sure you’re okay.” The girl didn’t respond. She just stepped out when the doors opened. The clip ended. The chat went into a frenzy. [There it is. The bump. The attitude. Case closed.] [Rich brat thought she was above the law. Hope the prison food is a wake-up call.] Martha added, “I thought she was just there for a meeting. If I’d known she was there to throw away my grandson, I never would have let her out of my sight.” I gripped my pen so hard it nearly snapped. “How can you be sure that’s my daughter based on a grainy video?” The lawyer was ready. “Actually, Your Honor, facial recognition analysis shows an 80% match to Maya Miller.” He pulled up a side-by-side comparison. The girl in the video… at a glance, she looked exactly like her. But I knew my daughter. “That is not my daughter,” I said firmly. “And she was never pregnant with Tyler’s child.” The lawyer rolled his eyes. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, Ms. Miller. Permission to show the second exhibit.” A slideshow began. Photos and videos of Tyler accompanying a young woman to various OBGYN appointments over the last eight months. On the medical intake forms, the name was printed clearly: MAYA MILLER. Martha began to wail again. “You see? My son was there for every check-up! He cared more for that baby than she ever did! And now she wants to lie and say she doesn’t know him? This woman’s heart is made of stone, and her daughter is a demon!” Tyler wiped his eyes. “Mrs. Miller, I know you think I’m trash. I know I’m not ‘good enough’ for your family. But that baby was innocent. How could you be this cruel?” The internet was calling for blood. [Lynch them. Honestly.] [Cassidy Miller should be charged as an accessory. She’s definitely covering for her murderer daughter.] The insults felt like physical blows. My daughter—the girl who would stop to feed every stray kitten, who cried over Disney movies—was being dissected by millions of strangers using the most vile words imaginable. “You keep saying she played you,” I said, standing up. “I want to know—have either of you actually met my daughter? In person?” Martha bristled. “She was carrying my son’s baby! Of course we met her!” I clenched my jaw. “I am telling you, my daughter would never abandon a child.” Martha’s voice rose to a scream. “Fine! You want more proof? I’ll give it to you! Let’s see how long you can keep that mouth shut!” The lawyer presented the third exhibit: a DNA report. “This is a paternity and maternity test comparing the deceased infant to both Tyler Swenson and Maya Miller,” the lawyer announced. “The results show a 99.9% biological match for both.” The courtroom gasped. It was the “smoking gun.” [DNA doesn’t lie. Game over.] Martha looked at me, her eyes red and triumphant. “Now what, Cassidy? The science is right there! You still going to lie?” I took a deep breath. My voice was eerily calm. “I don’t recognize this report. My daughter has no biological connection to that child.” The chat erupted in mockery. [She’s lost it. Denying DNA? Delusional.] [She’s just trying to buy time. Throw the book at her.] Martha lunged toward me but was held back by the bailiffs. “You bitch! My son pulled the hair for that test right off her head! He stayed by her even when she was sleeping with other men, hoping the baby would change her!” Tyler nodded. “I did. I took the samples myself. We did this under police supervision. It’s impossible for there to be a mistake!” The tide was a wall of water now, and I was at the bottom of the ocean. Martha’s lawyer cleared his throat, sensing victory. “Your Honor, the facts of abandonment and the cover-up are clear. We ask for the maximum sentence. Furthermore, my clients are seeking two million dollars in emotional damages for the loss of their child and the trauma inflicted by the Miller family.” The chat agreed. [Two million is cheap. She should lose everything.] [Justice for Tyler. He’s such a sweetheart for putting up with her.] Martha’s lip curled into a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. She thought she had won. “Your Honor,” I said, looking the judge directly in the eye. “I deny every single allegation. My daughter was never with Tyler, she was never pregnant, and she did not abandon that child.” The room devolved into murmurs of “unbelievable” and “disgraceful.” Martha was screaming again. “The evidence is in your face! She had my son’s baby!” I didn’t look at her. I looked at my lawyer, who had just walked in with a sealed envelope. He nodded. “Your Honor,” I said. “I would like to enter my daughter’s current medical records into evidence.” The judge nodded. I took the document and held it up, turning it so the cameras could catch the text. When the viewers saw the result, the collective gasp was deafening.

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I was fined six hundred thousand dollars for eating a damn biscuit. I’d been pulling a double shift, my stomach was growling, and I grabbed a single shortbread from a tin on my desk. That was it. That was the “crime.” Now, Regina Blackwood was standing over me, her finger trembling as she pointed it inches from my nose. She was vibrating with a localized, manic fury. “Don’t you dare think you’re untouchable just because you closed that account, Jack!” she shrieked. Her face was a mottled shade of puce. “This is a place of business, not a cafeteria! If you want to gorge yourself, do it on your own time!” I stared at her, my expression carefully blank. I could feel the silence of the office pressing in on us—my colleagues were frozen, staring at their monitors, trying to become invisible. “The employee handbook is crystal clear: zero tolerance for food in the workspace,” she continued, her voice rising to a glass-shattering pitch. “You knew the rules. You broke them anyway. That’s willful misconduct. Consider your six-hundred-thousand-dollar commission on the Evergreen account forfeited. Canceled. Gone.” I looked at her for a long beat. My heart should have been hammering, but instead, a strange, cool sense of relief washed over me. I’d given eight years of my life to this firm. I’d missed birthdays, funerals, and relationships for the sake of those commissions. And she was flushing it all away over a biscuit. “Whatever,” I said quietly. I leaned back in my chair, interlaced my fingers behind my head, and just… stopped. I stopped caring. I stopped performing. And that was clearly the one thing she wasn’t prepared for. 1 Regina didn’t like my tone. “Jack Miller, you will write a formal apology. You will read it in front of the entire company at the general meeting.” I watched the way the pulse throbbed in her neck. My fists clenched for a split second under the desk, but I forced them to relax. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you want, Regina.” The air in the room seemed to vanish. My coworkers were looking at me like I was a man walking toward a gallows with a smile on his face. Regina turned on her heel, her designer stilettos clicking sharply against the marble floor as she headed for the executive elevators to the 23rd floor. I stayed exactly where I was. Ten minutes later, the company-wide Slack notification pinged. “Effective immediately: Jack Miller of Sales has been found in repeated violation of company conduct. Following a leadership review, his commission for the current month—totaling $600,000—has been revoked. He will deliver a public self-criticism today at 2:00 PM in the main auditorium as a warning to all staff.” The office erupted into a silent chaos of hushed whispers. Cooper, the guy in the cubicle across from me, sent me a private message: Is she going through a mid-life crisis? Don’t let her do this, Jack. Just apologize properly. It’s six hundred grand! I smiled at the screen. Apologizing wouldn’t save me. She was “culling the herd.” She’d been eyeing my territory for months, waiting for a reason to cut my legs out from under me. When the old Chairman, Mr. Kensington, personally headhunted me from Chicago, the deal was simple: I didn’t have to punch a clock, I didn’t have to follow the petty corporate decorum, and I could work however I saw fit. All that mattered was the bottom line. I was the backbone of the sales department. I single-handedly brought in forty percent of the firm’s revenue. The Vanguard Group contract? A hundred-billion-dollar deal? I’d renewed it in a week while Regina was still trying to figure out which tie the CEO wore. She probably thought I made it look too easy. She thought anyone could do it. I typed back to Cooper: Stay tuned. This afternoon isn’t just a roast. It’s a coronation for my replacement. Cooper sent back a “shocked” emoji. I ignored it and began systematically organizing my client files. I printed everything out. Then, I factory-reset my company phone, wiping every contact, every text, every lead. Once the digital slate was clean, I sat down to write my “apology.” Regina floated by my desk once more before the meeting, seeing me typing away. She wore a look of smug, predatory triumph. At 2:00 PM, the auditorium was packed. Over a hundred employees sat in the plush seats of the 23rd floor. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Regina took the stage, her voice projecting with practiced authority. “I want to be clear. This is a corporation, not your living room. We have standards. We have rules. Some people think they are bigger than the brand. They think because the Chairman hired them, they can treat this office like a trash heap.” She scanned the room, her eyes landing on me. “They think making a few calls and having a few lunches makes them special. Newsflash: anyone can do that.” “Jack Miller, front and center. Show the company what happens when you think you’re above the law.” I stood up. I walked to the podium under a hundred pairs of eyes—some sympathetic, some gleeful, most just curious. “Regina is right,” I said into the mic, my voice calm. “I shouldn’t have eaten that biscuit. From this moment on, I promise to follow every single company policy to the letter. I won’t cross a single line.” I looked at her. “Regina, I’m just a simple salesman. I don’t have your vision. If you say no food, then no food. My role here isn’t that important anyway.” “I’m glad you finally realize that,” she snapped. “However, given the gravity of your repeated insubordination, the board has decided to strip you of your title as Director of Sales. You are being demoted to an Associate Sales Representative, effective immediately.” She gestured to a man standing in the wings—a guy with a slicked-back undercut and a suit that cost more than his personality. “This is Bradley. He’s an MBA from LSE, and he’ll be taking over as Director to lead us into a more… disciplined era.” There was a smattering of weak, awkward applause. Cooper looked at me, his jaw literally dropping. Regina leaned back into the mic for the final blow. “Jack, hand over your client database to Bradley. We’ll be redistributing your accounts this afternoon.” “Of course,” I said, handing over the stack of papers I’d printed. Go ahead, Bradley, I thought. See how many of those accounts answer the phone when it isn’t me calling. Regina looked suspicious of how easily I’d folded. She flipped through the papers, checking for the big names. When she saw the Vanguard Group and Evergreen Holdings files, she seemed satisfied. Bradley was already feeling himself. As we walked back down to the sales floor, he tapped on my desk. “Jack, let’s move it. Pack your things and get out of this office. If you leave anything behind, I’m tossing it. I don’t have time for your clutter.” 2 I got the message loud and clear. As Director, I’d sat at the head of the row—a desk with a view of the skyline and the entire floor. Now, Bradley was shoving me into the “dark corner”—a tiny cubicle right against the south-facing window. In the summer, the sun baked that corner. The management had a “no-blinds” policy to maintain the “aesthetic” of the building’s glass facade. The glare on the monitor was blinding, and the heat was stifling, even with the AC on. I didn’t argue. I packed my personal photos and my lucky pen and moved. Bradley followed me, hovering like a vulture. “Not so fast. I need to audit your laptop. I can’t have you walking off with proprietary data.” “Be my guest,” I said, stepping aside. I’d been hand-picked by Mr. Kensington. He’d told me, “Jack, you have carte blanche. Just keep the engines running.”But Kensington was in a private clinic in Switzerland for his health, and the vultures were finally picking at the carcass of his leadership. I knew Regina’s game. She wanted to cut “overhead”—meaning my salary—and replace me with a puppet who would do what she said. She didn’t realize that in this business, the overhead is what keeps the roof from caving in. Bradley found nothing on the laptop. I’d wiped it clean of everything but the standard software. He waved me off with a grunt of frustration. Cooper pinged me again: We’re with you, Jack. This is bullshit. I sent back a smiley face. With me? Maybe. But they wouldn’t stand up for me. The executives on the 23rd floor had to have signed off on this. Even Kensington must have been briefed, and if he didn’t stop it, then the old man was further gone than I thought. Fine. I’d play by their rules. When the clock hit 5:00 PM, I stood up and clocked out. In eight years, I had never clocked out at five. Usually, I was heading to a steakhouse with a client or sitting in a lounge listening to a CFO vent about his divorce. Not today. I drove home, the late afternoon sun painting the city in gold. I laid on my bed—a bed I usually only saw for six hours of restless sleep—and watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling. I felt incredible. I opened my phone and did something I hadn’t done in years: I bought a ticket to a play. There was an actor I’d followed for a decade, someone who had performed hundreds of shows in the city, and I’d never seen a single one. While I was waiting for the curtain to rise, I was added to a new Slack channel: SALES_FORCE_V2. The first message was from Bradley. @All: Starting tomorrow, everyone will submit a daily activity log. Every call, every coffee, every ‘vibe’ check must be documented. I want five new qualified leads from every rep per month. Failure to hit these KPIs will result in a 20% salary deduction. Cooper messaged me privately, ranting: Is he serious? Five leads a month? In this economy? The only reason this firm stays afloat is the legacy clients you brought in! Nobody is buying right now. He’s going to kill us. I replied simply: Just give the man what he wants, Cooper. Jack, how can you be so calm? If I were you, I’d have walked out and taken half the clients with me! I laughed and put the phone on Do Not Disturb. The lights dimmed. The play began. I didn’t care about the leads. I knew what was coming. 3 The next morning, I walked into Bradley’s office and handed him a printed request. “What’s this?” he asked, not looking up from his coffee. “My vacation request. I have eight years of accrued PTO. I’m taking three weeks, starting today.” Bradley finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re trying to sabotage me on my first week?” “Not at all, Bradley,” I said, putting on my best ‘corporate drone’ smile. “I’m just burnt out. And honestly, under your ‘brilliant’ new leadership, I’m sure the team will thrive. I’m just an Associate now, remember? You don’t need me. I’m thirty-four, my back hurts, and I need a nap.” He scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair—my leather chair. “Right. The ‘big shot’ can’t handle the grind once the special treatment stops. You probably only closed those deals by wining and dining people on the company dime anyway.” The prejudice was baked in. He thought I was a relic. He thought sales was just about being a “bro.” “You’re probably right,” I said. “I’m just tired.” He scribbled his signature on the form. “Fine. Get out. But don’t expect a paycheck if your ‘leads’ aren’t in the system by the end of the month.” “Understood. I’m not going anywhere.” Because you’re the ones who are going to be leaving, I thought. I left the office and drove straight to the airport. First stop: San Francisco. I had a date with a theater and a very expensive bottle of wine. Two hours after I landed, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. I ignored it until I got to my hotel. It was a flurry of messages from Cooper. Jack, Bradley just tried to sign the final paperwork for the Evergreen Holdings renewal. Regina told the board the commission belongs to Bradley now because he ‘finalized’ it. They’re grooming him for the VP spot. They’re literally stealing your work, man. Are you really going to let them? I texted back: They can’t finalize what they don’t understand. Watch the show. I silenced my phone and went to the theater. For two hours, I let the drama on stage wash over me. I laughed. I actually cried during the second act. It was the most human I’d felt in a decade. When I walked out into the cool night air, I had 114 missed calls. The most recent was a text from Regina. It was all caps. JACK MILLER. CALL ME NOW. MR. HARRISON FROM EVERGREEN SAYS THE CONTRACT IS VOID. THEY ARE WITHDRAWING. THAT’S A THREE-BILLION-DOLLAR HIT. IF THIS IS YOUR DOING, YOU’RE NOT JUST FIRED, YOU’RE BLACKLISTED. I smirked and typed a quick reply: The account was handed over to Bradley. If he can’t hold it, why am I the one being threatened? If you want to fire me, Regina, make sure my severance package is ready. I tucked the phone away. I knew exactly what happened. Evergreen didn’t sign contracts with “firms.” They signed them with people. And Bradley wasn’t the right person. I spent the next two days eating my way through the city, watching the chaos unfold through Cooper’s “live-reporting.” Apparently, Bradley had tried to “bond” with the Evergreen CEO, Marcus Harrison. He’d shown up with a flashy gift and a bunch of buzzwords. Marcus, a man who built his empire on engineering and grit, had asked Bradley three technical questions about the new automated assembly line Evergreen was installing. Bradley couldn’t even explain the difference between a torque sensor and a load cell. Marcus got worried. He demanded a site visit to the factory floor. I’d walked that floor with Marcus eighty times. Bradley had never been there. They arrived at the plant just as one of the primary CNC machines—the heart of the production line—suffered a catastrophic failure. Bradley panicked. He tried to call an engineer. But the “engineers” Bradley called were the corporate-approved contractors who didn’t know these custom rigs. Usually, when things went south, I was the one who called in the specialists. Bradley, trying to look smart, told Marcus that I must have “sabotaged” the machine before I left. Marcus Harrison didn’t buy it. He told Regina that the firm had become “unprofessional” and “technically illiterate.” He pulled the contract. Thirty billion dollars in projected revenue, gone in an afternoon. The news reached Switzerland. Mr. Kensington was reportedly awake and screaming. Cooper called me, his voice shaking. “Jack, you need to come back. They’re talking about calling the police. They’re saying you committed fraud!”

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I was born with a lethal allergy to men. According to my mother, any physical contact with a male would trigger a violent anaphylactic shock—my throat would close, my skin would erupt in hives, and my heart would simply stop. The doctors called it a rare “heterogeneous protein hypersensitivity.” There was no cure. To keep me alive, my mother divorced my father when I was a toddler and forced my sister, Riley, who is two years younger than me, to attend all-girls schools alongside me. For twenty years, the three of us lived in a sterilized world, a fortress without men. When Riley was seven, she missed our father so much that she sneaked out to see him for an hour. When Mom found out, she went into a manic frenzy. She dragged Riley into the bathroom and doused her in industrial disinfectant from head to toe. Then, she took a steel wool scrub pad and scoured Riley’s hands until the skin was raw and weeping blood. “You selfish little brat! Is a man really worth more than your sister’s life?” Mom screamed, her voice cracking. “Quinn could die at any second, and you’re out there indulging yourself? I’m telling you now—as long as your sister is alive, you are never to touch a man. Not ever!” Riley shook with pain, but she didn’t cry. She just stared at me. In that look, there was a cold, sharp resentment that made me wish I had died right then and there. So, on the eve of Riley’s eighteenth birthday, I decided to give her back a normal life. I decided to end it. I went to a dive bar downtown and found a stranger. But as the sun began to rise, the expected death didn’t come. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, my skin pale but clear, my breath steady. If I wasn’t dying, then what had the last twenty years been for? … I walked into that bar with the cold resolve of a ghost. I had spent my life as a burden, a fragile glass doll that everyone had to tiptoe around. I was done. I chose a stranger. I sat close to him, our shoulders brushing. I leaned in to speak over the music, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. I even let my hand linger against his arm. I had one singular, desperate thought: Let it end tonight. I didn’t want to be the weight around Riley’s neck anymore. I wanted her to have a father, a boyfriend, a home that didn’t smell like bleach and fear. I closed my eyes and waited for the suffocation to begin. One minute. Ten minutes. An hour. The entire night passed. My skin remained smooth. My lungs drew in the stale, smoky air without effort. No hives, no swelling, no shock. Not even a hint of a dizzy spell or an itch. None of the symptoms Mom had used to terrify me since I was old enough to speak ever appeared. Standing in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, I felt a different kind of chill. I had spent the night in close proximity to a man. I had done the one thing that was supposed to kill me ten times over. Why was I still breathing? Had I been cured by some miracle? Or was I already so far gone that I couldn’t feel the symptoms? Or—the most terrifying thought of all—had I never been sick in the first place? I suppressed the rising panic and glanced at the man sleeping on the bed. I grabbed my coat and bolted out the door, heart hammering against my ribs, and ran all the way home. The moment I stepped through the door, the air turned cold. Mom was standing in the living room, her face a mask of fury, clutching Riley’s phone. The screen showed a string of hidden messages between Riley and our father. “Who gave you permission to contact him?” Mom’s voice was like a serrated blade. “You went to see him again, didn’t you?” “Mom, it’s my eighteenth birthday,” Riley whispered, her voice trembling with a decade’s worth of suppressed tears. “Dad just wanted to give me a gift…” Mom lunged forward and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me in front of her like a shield. “Your sister has a severe protein hypersensitivity! It’s not just about touching!” Mom shrieked. “Even the scent of a man, the microscopic dander in the air—it can kill her instantly! And you’re out there rubbing shoulders with men and bringing that filth back into this house? Do you want to kill her? Is that it?” Riley’s eyes turned bloodshot. She bit her lip so hard it bled, her gaze fixed on me with a mixture of agony and pure, unadulterated hate. Mom turned and brought two bowls of brownish liquid from the kitchen. The bitter, pungent scent hit me, making my stomach roll. This was the “suppressant” I had been forced to drink every day for twenty years. “Drink it,” Mom commanded, sliding a bowl toward Riley. “Flush the contamination out of your system.” “I won’t!” Riley finally snapped. “It’s my birthday, and you’re making me drink this poison again? I’m not sick! I’m fine!” Mom’s face hardened. Her words were calculated, meant to draw blood. “Oh, is your birthday special? Your sister is two years older than you, and she’s drunk this every day for two decades without a single complaint. What makes you so special?” She leaned in closer. “You don’t have to drink it. But don’t expect a cent for your tuition or your life. Your sister’s health is a gold mine of medical bills; if she gets sick because of you, there won’t be anything left for you anyway.” Seeing Riley go pale, Mom softened her tone to a sickening sweet coo. “Be a good girl. Drink it, and I’ll buy you that MacBook you’ve been wanting. Consider it my gift to you.” Riley hesitated, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and choked the bitter liquid down. Mom turned to me then, her face radiant with a gentle, terrifying smile. She stroked my hair. “Quinn, honey, Riley is just young and reckless. I have to be firm with her, or you’re the one who pays the price. I’d do anything to keep you safe.” She pressed the other bowl to my lips. “Drink up. This is a special batch. It’ll protect you from the world. You know you’re the one I love most, right?” In the past, I would have been moved to tears of guilt and gratitude. But now, the phantom sensation of the stranger’s skin from the bar was still fresh. I was breathing perfectly. I wasn’t in shock. I wasn’t sick. The wall of lies I had lived behind for twenty years didn’t just crack; it pulverized. If I wasn’t allergic, why had she invented this phantom plague? Why had she torn our family apart? Why had she groomed Riley to hate the very sight of me? I looked at the bitter sludge in the bowl. For the first time in my life, I didn’t open my mouth. One thought echoed in my mind: She’s not protecting me. She’s using me. “Don’t just stare at it. Drink it before it gets cold,” Mom urged, her voice gaining that familiar, non-negotiable edge. I clenched my fists, burying my suspicion deep. Seventeen years of obedience was a hard habit to break. I bowed my head, held my breath, and drained the bowl. As I set the bowl down, Mom’s eyes suddenly sharpened. She lunged toward Riley, her gaze fixed on Riley’s neck. There was a faint, nearly invisible red mark there. “What is this?” Mom’s voice dropped to a deadly chill. Riley flinched. “I… I just scratched myself…” “Scratched yourself?” Mom laughed, a sharp, toxic sound. “In an all-girls school? You’ve been out whoring yourself out to some boy, haven’t you? You disgusting, cheap little girl!” She grabbed Riley and shoved her toward me. “Look at what you’re doing! You’re bringing filth into this house! You’re trying to murder your sister!” “Come on! We’re going to the school right now!” Mom screamed, dragging Riley toward the door. “I want to know exactly which ‘stray’ touched you. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what kind of girl you are!” She gripped my hand tightly as she hauled Riley out. Her voice broke into a sob. “Don’t be scared, Quinn. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll protect you with my life!” The entire way to the school, Mom played the martyr. She wept to the neighbors, told anyone who would listen how ungrateful Riley was, how she was endangering her fragile sister. People looked at us with pity. They whispered about how hard it must be for a single mother with a “special” child. Mom soaked up the sympathy, her head held high in her staged misery. I felt a wave of nausea. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. In the principal’s office, Mom turned on the waterworks for the staff. “My oldest daughter is so cursed… one touch from a man and she’s gone. I sent them to this school to save her life, and now… now Riley is bringing ‘dirt’ home from the hallways. She’s trying to kill us all!” The teachers offered tissues. The parents in the hallway nodded in solemn agreement. “Being a mother is so hard.” “That poor sister… how could the younger one be so heartless?” Everyone took Mom’s side. She stood in the center of the room, a tragic, noble figure, bathed in the warmth of collective pity. Riley stood in the corner, her face a mask of white marble. The hatred in her eyes when she looked at me was so thick I could almost taste it. The school, wanting to avoid a scandal, did a cursory investigation and decided Riley had an “inappropriate” relationship with a boy off-campus. They suspended her and sent her home to “reflect.” The moment we stepped back into our house, the dam broke. Riley lunged at me, shoving me hard. I stumbled back, my spine hitting the wall with a dull thud. “This is all because of you!” she screamed, her voice cracked and raw. “Because of you, I can’t see my father! I can’t have a life! You ruined everything!” Every ounce of her repressed rage poured out onto me. Before I could even catch my breath, Mom was there, stepping between us. She slapped Riley across the face. “You’ve lost your mind! How dare you lay a finger on your sister! Get to the balcony! Now! You stay out there until you apologize. No dinner, no bedroom. If you touch her again, you’re out of this house for good!” Riley was sobbing now, a sound of pure agony. Mom pushed her onto the balcony and locked the sliding glass door. Then, she turned to me and began stroking my back, her voice a soothing hum. “It’s okay, Quinn. Mommy’s here. No one will hurt you.” She raised her voice, making sure Riley could hear through the glass. “It’s her own fault. She needs to learn. Your life is worth more than ten of hers. If she ever stresses you into an attack, she couldn’t pay for the damage in a lifetime.” Riley stared at me through the glass, her eyes glowing with a feral, murderous red. She looked like she wanted to tear me apart. From that day on, Riley’s cruelty intensified. Whenever Mom was out, Riley treated me like a servant. She made me do the laundry, scrub the floors, and clean the grease off the stove. If I was too slow, she’d shove me or call me a “monster.” One afternoon, she forced me into the basement storage room to organize decades of old boxes and textbooks. As I moved a heavy crate from the bottom of a stack, a yellowed medical envelope fell out. Driven by a sudden, frantic curiosity, I opened it. Inside were three physical exam reports. My fingers shook as I read the first one. Name: Quinn Vincent. Female. All vitals normal. No known allergies. My brain went numb. I didn’t have the disease? Then what was the medicine for? What was the isolation for? I thought, maybe Riley was the sick one? Maybe Mom got the names mixed up? I pulled the second report. Name: Riley Vincent. Female. All vitals normal. No known allergies. I felt a cold sweat break across my skin. I wasn’t sick. Riley wasn’t sick. Then why? Why tear the family apart? Why exile our father? Why keep us in a cage? I opened the third document, and the truth hit me like a physical blow. It was all right there, stripped of the lies. Mom wasn’t protecting me. She wasn’t playing favorites with Riley. Mom was the one who was sick. She was the one who couldn’t stand men, who couldn’t bear the presence of any male energy. But she couldn’t admit she was broken. So, she pinned her “insanity” on me. Every bit of guilt I’d carried, every ounce of Riley’s hatred, our father’s exile—it was all a grand, delusional play directed by our mother. The paper rattled in my shaking hands. “Quinn? What are you doing in there?” Mom’s voice drifted down from the doorway. I panicked, shoving the reports back into the box. When I looked up, I forced my face into the mask of the submissive daughter she expected. “Nothing, Mom… Riley just wanted me to finish the storage room.” Mom watched me for a long beat, her eyes searching. Finally, she sighed. “Riley is getting out of hand. I’m sorry I haven’t raised her better. But don’t blame her too much, honey. She’s had to sacrifice a lot for you—staying home, not seeing her father. She’s bitter.” I clenched my hands at my sides. Even now, she was using me as the excuse. She was still stoking the fire between me and my sister to keep her secrets safe. But she didn’t know I knew. Just then, there was a heavy knock at the front door.

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After the earthquake, Dad went to sleep. I was curled into his chest, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive concrete slab. His body was slowly losing its heat, turning into a cooling hearth as I stayed huddled there, sucking on his finger and swallowing the sweet red tea he gave me. A voice crackled from the black screen of his phone. It was Mom. “Save the people with minor injuries and Parker first,” she said, her voice sharp and distant. “As for David—he’s tough as nails. He can wait a little longer. It won’t kill him.” It really was Mom. Dad told me she’d come for us soon. But why did she want him to wait? I looked at my sleeping father and whispered to the phone. “Mom, Dad’s asleep. He gave me lots of sweet tea to drink.” “The tea tastes a bit strange, but I’m not scared. Dad said you’d be here to hold me before the tea ran out.” The phone went silent. I went back to my tea. Then, I heard her voice again, loud and commanding, telling people to find “the baby.” I clapped my hands weakly. Mom was coming to get me. “Found him! Over here! There’s a kid alive!” … A blinding pillar of light stabbed into the darkness, making my eyes ache. I instinctively tried to burrow deeper into Dad’s arms, but he was stiff now, like a statue. “Dad, the sun’s up. Can we go home now?” I pushed against his chest. It wasn’t broad and warm anymore. A huge section of it had collapsed inward, and everything felt sticky. “Quick! Get the boy out first!” A pair of rough, heavy hands wrenched me away from him. “I’m not leaving! Dad’s still sleeping! I have to wait for him!” I screamed, my fingers locked onto a piece of his shirt. Riiiip. The fabric tore away in my hand. I was hauled into the arms of a man in an orange vest. My face was smeared with dark, dried red crust—the remains of the “sweet tea” Dad had fed me. “Jamie! My Jamie!” A figure came stumbling toward us. It was Mom. She was wearing an expensive designer suit, dusted with grime but otherwise intact. She snatched me from the rescuer and crushed me against her. “Thank God. You’re alive. You scared me to death…” She was crying. Her body was shaking. But then, I caught a scent. A crisp, stinging trail of men’s cologne. It was the scent Dad hated most—he called it the “bad man’s smell.” Every time he caught a whiff of it on her, he’d go quiet for hours. I struggled in her arms. “Mom, Dad’s still down there. He’s sleeping.” Mom’s body went rigid. She didn’t look at the ruins where Dad lay. Instead, she pressed my head hard against her shoulder, forcing me to look away. “Be a good boy, Jamie. Dad… Dad went somewhere very far away.” “No, he’s right there!” I got frantic, pointing at the black hole in the earth. “He gave me so much sweet tea. He said when I finished it, you’d be here.” Mom’s face turned deathly pale. She stared at the dark red scabs around my mouth, her lips trembling. The doctors and nurses around us fell into a heavy silence. One of the nurses covered her mouth, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. Only Mom looked away. Her eyes darted around, searching for an exit. What was she afraid of? Was it because of the black phone? Back then, her voice had come through the screen. She said Dad was tough. She said he wouldn’t die. I leaned into her ear and whispered, “Mom, why did we have to make Dad wait?” Mom jerked back and pushed me away as if I had burned her. Her eyes held no relief—only pure, unadulterated terror. The ambulance sirens wailed, a jagged sound against the quiet. I sat on the bench inside, still clutching that scrap of Dad’s shirt. Mom sat across from me, rubbing her hands incessantly. Her hands were clean, her nails painted a perfect, deep crimson. They looked nothing like Dad’s hands. His had been covered in mud and blood. “Jamie… back there… did you hear anything?” she asked tentatively, unable to meet my gaze. I licked my lips. I could still taste the rust. “I heard.” Mom flinched. “Heard… what?” “I heard you say to save Parker first.” The air in the ambulance turned to ice. The medic cleaning my face froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He looked up at Mom, his eyes cold and judging. Mom forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “You misheard, honey. The signal was bad. I was just… I was so worried.” “Was I?” I tilted my head. “But who’s Parker? Why is he more important than Dad?” Mom opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned to the window, pretending to wipe away tears. When we arrived at the hospital, a swarm of people surrounded us. Camera flashes popped like miniature lightning strikes, stinging my eyes. Suddenly, Mom transformed. She scooped me up and sobbed for the cameras. “Thank the Lord for giving me my son back! As long as Jamie is okay, I’d give up everything I own!” The reporters were dabbing their eyes, calling her a hero, a devoted mother. I rested my head on her shoulder, watching her face. She was howling, but there were no tears in her eyes. She looked like a clown on a TV screen. In the ward, I finally saw Parker. He was in a massive private suite, wearing a little designer suit and eating chocolate cake. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Not a single hair was out of place. Sitting by his bed was a man in a crisp white shirt. He was handsome, and he smelled exactly like Mom—that same sharp cologne. “Victoria, you’re here.” The man stood up. His eyes were red, making him look fragile and soulful. Mom set me down and rushed to him, taking his hands. “Harrison, how is Parker? Was he terrified?” I stood in the doorway, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s house. Parker saw me. He wrinkled his nose and pointed. “Dad, is that the dirty kid who drank blood? He smells gross.” Drinking blood. Dirty kid. I looked at the frosting on his lip, and my stomach growled. The man, Harrison, walked over and knelt in front of me. “This must be Jamie. You poor thing. Come let me give you a hug.” He reached out. On his wrist was a gold watch. It was identical to Dad’s. Dad told me Mom gave it to him for their tenth anniversary. Why was it on this man’s arm? A nameless fire ignited in my chest. Like a small, cornered animal, I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his wrist. “Gah!” Harrison screamed, lashing out with his arm. I was small, and the force sent me flying. I hit the foot of the bed hard. It hurt, but I didn’t cry. I just stared at him. “Jamie! Are you insane?” Mom rushed over, shoving me aside to cradle Harrison’s hand. “Harrison! Are you okay? Is it bleeding?” She turned on me, her eyes burning with venom. “Who taught you to be so feral? Apologize to him right now!” I stayed on the floor, feeling something warm trickle down my forehead. It was red, just like the “tea” Dad gave me. I looked at her and said quietly, “Mom, I’m bleeding too. Are you going to make me wait, too?” The room went silent. Mom’s face turned a bruised, ugly purple. Harrison’s eyes flickered, his expression shifting into something performatively kind. He ignored the bite mark and reached out to help me up. “Victoria, don’t blame the boy. He just lost his father. He’s traumatized.” He patted my shoulder. His grip was heavy, intended to hurt. “It’s okay, Jamie. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll buy you some candy.” I slapped his hand away. “I don’t want candy. I have the sweet tea Dad gave me.” Harrison’s face stiffened. Parker started wailing from the bed. “Mom, get this freak out of here! He stinks!” Mom took a deep breath and called for a nurse. “Take Jamie to the next room. Clean him up. And have them check his head. I think something’s wrong with his brain.” Check his head. She thought I was stupid. The nurse led me away. As she wiped my wound, I saw her quiet tears. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll be gentle.” I looked at her. “Is my dad really dead?” The nurse’s hand shook. She pulled me into a hug and sobbed. “Your father… he was a great man.” That evening, my grandparents arrived. My grandmother fainted the moment she saw me. My grandfather leaned on his cane, his hands trembling violently. He wanted to take me home, but Mom refused. “The doctor says his emotional state is unstable,” she said, blocking the door. “It’s better if he stays here for observation.” I knew why. She was afraid of what I’d say. She was afraid of the secret inside the black square. Late that night, the door creaked open. It was Sam, Dad’s best friend. Usually, he was all smiles, but today his eyes were dark. He walked to my bed and pulled something from his pocket. It was a phone with a shattered screen. Dad’s phone. “Jamie,” Sam whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. “They found this in the rubble. It still turns on.” I grabbed the phone and hugged it to my chest. It smelled like Dad. It was stained with his dried blood. Sam stroked my hair. “Jamie, do you want to help your dad?” I looked up at him. There was a flicker of fire in his eyes. “The funeral is in a few days. There will be a lot of people there. That man will be there too.” Sam pointed to a red triangle icon on the screen. “That day, if Mom gets up to speak, I want you to press this triangle. Can you do that for me?” I looked at the red triangle and nodded hard. “Yes.” It was a game. A game only Sam and I knew. I was going to let everyone hear what Mom really said that day. The day of the funeral, it rained. The sky was a dull, dirty gray. I was in a small black suit Nana bought me, a white carnation pinned to my lapel. The chapel was massive, filled with lilies. In the center hung a photo of Dad. He was smiling, his eyes bright like the sun. Mom stood at the front in a sharp black dress. She looked exhausted, her eyes sunken, her makeup failing to hide her fatigue. Everyone whispered about what a devoted widow she was, how she’d wasted away with grief. Harrison didn’t show, but Parker was there. He wore a black shirt and hid behind a pillar, making faces at me. He mouthed the words: You don’t have a dad anymore. I stared at him, my hand in my pocket, gripping the cold, shattered phone. The service began. The music was heavy and suffocating. Mom walked up to the podium, holding a few sheets of paper. She began her eulogy. “David, my love…” She choked up after the first sentence. The guests dabbed their eyes, moved by such “heartbreaking” love. “We were together for ten years. You were my rock, my heart. When the earthquake hit, I wished I could have died in your place.” “If I could turn back time, I would have been there with you, holding your hand so you wouldn’t have to face the dark alone.” She was sobbing now, her body swaying. Relatives rushed up to support her. “David, how could you be so cruel as to leave Jamie and me behind?” she cried out to his portrait, her fists thumping against her chest. I stood in the front row. Sam was right beside me. He knelt down, straightened my collar, and squeezed my hand. His palm was slick with sweat. “Ready, Jamie?” he whispered. I looked at Mom, putting on her grand performance. I looked at her tears and her trembling shoulders. I remembered the rubble. I remembered Dad’s body growing cold. I remembered him putting his finger in my mouth, smiling, telling me it didn’t hurt. I remembered her voice: “Let him wait a little longer.” A massive, hot surge of anger tore through my chest. I didn’t fully understand hate yet, but I knew I wanted to rip her performance to shreds. I broke away from Grandpa’s hand and walked toward the stage, clutching the broken phone. The crowd went silent, thinking I was just a grieving child reaching for my mother. Mom saw me, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes before she masked it. She knelt down, opening her arms. “Jamie, come to Mommy. We miss him so much, don’t we?” She wanted to hug me. She wanted to use me to finish her show. I stopped right in front of her. I didn’t go into her arms. I held up the black square—the phone stained with Dad’s blood. Mom’s pupils contracted. She recognized it. She reached out to grab it. “Jamie, that’s dirty. Give it to Mom—” The moment her fingertips brushed the glass, my thumb slammed down on the red triangle. The Bluetooth connection to the chapel’s massive sound system kicked in instantly.

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My childhood best friend, Roman, has always been the internet’s favorite “Gentle God.” That was until I took off my hearing aids and a cascade of glowing digital comments suddenly began scrolling across my vision. [Lord, this man is such a good actor. Is he really taking advantage of the fact that our girl can’t hear?]
[The Oscar wasn’t a fluke. A saint in the streets, a total beast in the sheets—or at least in his head.]
[Run, honey! He’s literally planning to lock you away!] I stared at the floating text, my mind racing. Instead of panicking, I reached into my pocket and slid in a pair of high-end, near-invisible hearing aids I’d been testing. Then, I watched him. With the most tender, devastatingly handsome expression on his face, he leaned in and whispered: “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay?” I nodded instinctively. In that heartbeat, the Gentle God’s mask shattered. And the comments? They went absolutely nuclear. 1 Late at night, the moment I removed my devices, the glowing words flickered into existence again. [Ugh, my poor baby. She really thinks this guy is some kind of selfless saint.]
[Can’t blame her. He’s an A-lister for a reason. His acting is textbook perfection.]
[He’s only this bold because he thinks she’s in a world of silence. This man is a red flag!]
[Roman, chill! Have some mercy!] I stared at the fading text, paralyzed. The comments were saying… Roman was playing me? That didn’t make sense. Roman had been the one constant in my life. He was the person who cared for me more than anyone else in the world. 2 Our families were old friends; Roman and I had been inseparable since we were in diapers. When we were kids, he used to follow me around, puffing out his chest and promising to be “my ears.” He had the patience of a saint. He would meticulously clean my cochlear implant and sit with me for hours, testing the signal over and over. Sometimes, when the equipment glitched, I’d have to rely on lip-reading. But Roman spoke fast—too fast for me to catch everything. I’d just shake my head, feeling stupid. He’d fix the device, tuck it gently back into place, and wait until the world rushed back in before speaking in that clear, melodic voice of his. “Better? Can you hear me now?” I’d nod and mutter a thank you. He’d usually look away then, clearing his throat awkwardly. My ears always felt a bit sensitive right after putting them back in, so once the static settled, I’d ask, “Roman, what were you saying just now?” His answer was always the same: “Nothing. Just nonsense. It’s probably better you didn’t hear it.” Our relationship hadn’t always been smooth sailing. In elementary school, I thought he was a nuisance—too bossy, too overprotective. Then came middle school, that brutal gauntlet of puberty. My classmates realized I was “different.” They figured out that if they pulled my devices, I became slow, vulnerable. I couldn’t hear their insults, but I could feel their cruelty. I became the “safe” target. Once, during P.E., someone intentionally slammed into me, knocking me down and ripping the processor from my head. Loner. Freak. Mute. I could see their mouths twisting into the shapes of those words. Without sound, the world was terrifyingly, suffocatingly quiet. I didn’t even notice Roman until he was standing behind me. Suddenly, the bullies’ faces went pale. They looked at something behind me with pure terror before scurrying away like rats. Warm hands covered my ears, and Roman carefully fitted my device back on. The sound of the wind flooded back, followed by his voice. “What did they say?” I asked, though I already knew. Roman stared at me for a long time before answering. “They were complimenting you. They said you’re the prettiest girl in school.” I rolled my eyes. “Roman, do I look like I’m five?” He just shrugged, his expression dead serious. “I’m not lying. Really.” After that day, no one touched me. Roman had spent his after-school hours “educating” the ringleaders one by one. My parents got the administration involved, too. From then on, the bullies didn’t just stop; they treated me like I was radioactive. 3 The first time Roman took my hearing aids off without warning was graduation day. The air was thick with the scent of cheap cologne and nervous energy. Everyone was using the chaos to confess their secret crushes. I was standing in the crowd, feeling a bit lost, when I saw a boy from my English class walking toward me, his face a bright, frantic red. Roman was faster. He reached out and plucked the devices from my ears. Silence crashed over me, and I flinched, pulling back. But when I looked up, I was caught in the depths of Roman’s dark eyes. He held the devices in his palm and signed to me: There was a petal caught in the casing.
I’ll get it out for you. I watched the English class boy walk away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Only then did Roman hand my world back to me. “Don’t do that without asking,” I snapped, my heart still racing. “It scares me.” Roman looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. Sorry.” I glanced sideways, trying to find the boy. “Was someone looking for me?” Roman gave me a sharp, sour look. “You really want to know?” I shook my head. “Not really.” I mumbled, “If it was important, he’d say it again. If he didn’t, it probably didn’t matter.” Only then did Roman’s expression soften. “Exactly. It didn’t matter.” 4 Eventually, Roman entered the industry. With his family connections and raw talent, he was an A-lister by twenty-four, an Oscar in his hand and the world at his feet. He was constantly busy, flying between sets and premieres, but he always made time for me. Every time he came home, he brought the latest, most expensive hearing tech. “Try these?” He’d remove my old ones and slide the new ones in. “You mentioned the red ones were hurting your cartilage after a few hours, right?” During those seconds of silence, I’d watch his perfect lips move. I had no idea what he was saying. Then, the cold plastic would click into place. “Maisie, look at me. Can you hear me?” I’d look up at him and nod slowly. He’d smile—that soft, devastating smile that made millions of women scream—and twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “You’re so busy,” I said once. “Why do you waste your energy on this?” Roman shook his head. “Whenever a new model comes out, I send your specs to the specialists. Maybe one day, they’ll find a permanent fix.” I looked down, a familiar pang of disappointment in my chest. “It’s not fixable, Roman. Don’t waste your money.” But he took my face in his hands, his grip firm, almost stubborn. “If it can’t be fixed, then I’ll buy you hearing aids for the rest of your life.” “Maisie, you’re stuck with me. You’ll always have to rely on me.” 5 I’d known Roman too long to believe those digital comments. How could someone act for twenty years? It wasn’t possible. But curiosity is a persistent itch. The next time Roman came over, I wore a pair of tiny, near-invisible hearing aids I’d bought myself. The room was quiet. I could hear the soft scuff-scuff of Roman cleaning the new equipment with a microfiber cloth. Then, his hands were on me, fitting the new devices. That’s when I realized: it wasn’t that the equipment was faulty. It was that Roman never turned them on immediately after putting them in. He intentionally created a “window of silence.” I was about to reach up and tell him they were off when his voice drifted through my hidden earpieces. It was exactly what the comments had warned me about. Roman was smiling at me—that sunny, gentle smile. But the words coming out of his mouth were cold enough to make me shiver. “Why are you being so restless today, Maisie?” His face was a mask of warmth, but his tone was dangerous. “So many little movements. Are you asking for trouble?” Thinking I was deaf to him, he let the mask slip for a fraction of a second. His features sharpened, revealing something dark, obsessive, and brooding. I’d known him nearly twenty years, and I’d never seen this man. Terrified, I swallowed hard. As he adjusted the fit, I instinctively shook my head. I wanted to see how far he’d go. A moment later, Roman leaned into my ear. “Maisie, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you until you’re breathless, okay, baby?” His eyes dragged across my lips, dark and hungry. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. My breathing hitched. In a moment of pure, panicked reflex, I looked him right in the eye and gave a firm, slow nod. Roman froze. His pupils blown wide. I froze, too. The floating comments in front of my eyes went into a frenzy: [HOLY CRAP! SHE HEARD HIM! SHE NODDED!]
[ABORT MISSION! THE MASK IS GONE!]
[Look at his face! He’s going to lose it! Hahahaha!]

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My mother is a textbook misogynist. Even though I’m her daughter—her only child—she’s hated me from the moment I took my first breath. To her, my existence wasn’t a miracle; it was an intrusion. I was beaten for wearing lip gloss, beaten for putting on a sundress, and beaten most severely if I ever dared to show affection toward my father. On the eve of my high school graduation, she did the unthinkable. She went to my school and spread a sickening lie: she told everyone I was a “homewrecker” who was seducing my own father. She pushed me until I had nowhere left to go but over the edge of a fifteen-story ledge. And as I fell, I knew one thing for certain: my mother was finally satisfied. 1 In the delivery room, the doctor beamed as she handed me over to my mother. “It’s a girl,” the doctor whispered, her voice full of warmth. “Look at that skin—she’s going to be a beauty when she grows up.” The color drained from my mother’s face, but not from exhaustion. It was pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged forward, grabbing the young doctor by her hair and swinging her palm across the woman’s face. The hallway echoed with her screams. “You bitch! You swapped him, didn’t you? Where is my son? I followed every old wives’ tale, took every supplement—I was supposed to have a boy!” It took a senior physician and a DNA test to finally quiet her, but the damage was done. When the results confirmed I was hers, she looked at me with eyes that dripped poison. It was only when my aunt called my father, Robert, and begged him to come to the hospital that the immediate violence stopped. My mother never forgave my aunt for that call. A few weeks later, once they were back in the quiet of our suburban home, my aunt came to check on me. My cries were weak, barely audible from the nursery. In the master bedroom, my father was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning warm broth into my mother’s mouth. “Robert, swear to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate, sick kind of love. “Swear I’m the only woman you’ll ever love. You can’t love her just because she’s your daughter.” “I swear, Diane,” he replied softly. “You won’t hold her. You won’t kiss her. She’s just a guest here.” He promised. And in the years that followed, my father proved to be a man of his word. In all my memories, we never once touched. No hugs, no high-fives, no hand-holding. But even my father’s cold distance wasn’t enough to appease her. When I was seven, I walked three miles home from school only to be met with a backhanded strike that sent me reeling. She had found a photo of me on my father’s phone—a simple, blurry picture of me playing in the backyard. “You little tramp,” she hissed, shoving the phone into my face. “Who taught you to pose like that? You’re already trying to steal what’s mine!” I didn’t even know what she was talking about. I looked toward the hallway, hoping to see my father, hoping he’d step in. But the door stayed shut, and the beating continued. After that day, my father never took another photo of me. My mother’s triumphant, territorial smile is burned into my mind. When I was thirteen, I saved my allowance for six months to buy him a birthday gift—a simple navy blue sweater. I left it on his mahogany desk in the study, thinking it was a safe gesture. That night, the house felt like a tomb. I walked into the living room to find a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Diane sneered. “I see right through you, you little slut!” She rained blows down on me until I was curled in a ball on the hardwood, gasping for air. The light was on in the study. My father was right there, behind the door. He never opened it. Diane spent her afternoons at the neighborhood coffee shop or the community pool, sighing to the other mothers: “It’s my cross to bear. My own daughter is a seductress. She won’t leave her father alone. It’s disgusting.” I became the ghost of the neighborhood. People whispered when I walked by. I learned to live in the silence. Until the woman moved in upstairs. Her name was Mrs. Miller. She was soft-spoken, kind, and always smelled like vanilla and rain. Whenever Diane locked me out of the house, Mrs. Miller would find me and slip me a granola bar or a juice box. She was the only light in my world. But God doesn’t let light stay in places like that for long. One afternoon, I was waiting on the porch for Diane to finish her bridge club. Mrs. Miller came down the stairs and noticed my lips were cracked and bleeding from the dry winter air. She reached into her purse and handed me a brand-new, tinted lip balm. “It’ll help, sweetheart,” she said with a sad smile. I had never used makeup. I didn’t realize it had a rosy tint. I applied it, feeling a tiny spark of joy, just as my mother’s car pulled into the driveway. The second she saw the color on my lips, her hand flew. 2 The blow sent me sprawling into the dirt. My vision blurred into a sea of static. My front tooth was loose, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. She screamed insults so vile the neighbors came out onto their porches to watch, but no one stepped forward. To them, I was exactly what my mother said I was: a girl trying to steal her father’s heart. Mrs. Miller heard the commotion and rushed down. I tried to crawl away; I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t want her to hear the filth Diane was spewing. But my mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me toward her. “Was it you?” Diane shrieked at Mrs. Miller. “Did you give this to her? Are you helping her entice my husband? You’re both trash!” I hung my head, burning with a shame that wasn’t mine to carry. But Mrs. Miller didn’t flinch. She stepped between us, her eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and steel. “I gave it to her, Diane. She’s a child. How can you say those things about your own daughter?” Mrs. Miller’s thin frame was a shield, but Diane wasn’t a woman who cared about reason. My mother’s eyes went cold. I felt a chill run down my spine. Diane raised her hand again. Mrs. Miller didn’t move—she probably thought a neighbor wouldn’t actually strike her. But I knew better. I’d seen Diane’s rage break women before. The thought of Mrs. Miller’s kind face being bruised because of me was more than I could bear. Before the blow landed, I lunged forward. It was the first time I ever fought back. I threw my arms around my mother’s waist, trying to pin her arms. It only made the beating more frantic. In the chaos, my head slammed into the rusted iron railing of the porch. Everything went white. Blood began to pour down my face. The neighbors turned away, closing their doors one by one. Diane didn’t stop. She shoved Mrs. Miller to the ground. Through the fog in my brain, I heard the heavy click of the gate. My father was home. I tried to scream for him, but my voice was a broken rasp. He walked past us, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn’t even hesitate. Mrs. Miller begged for me. She went from demanding justice to pleading for mercy. “I’ll go! I’ll move out! I’ll never speak to her again! Just please, stop hitting her!” I looked up and saw tears streaming down Mrs. Miller’s face. Diane finally stopped—either because she’d won or because her arm was tired. She tossed me aside like a bag of refuse and followed my father into the house. I never saw Mrs. Miller again. Before she left, she managed to leave a small box for me hidden in the bushes. A few items of clothing, some snacks, and a book. I hid them away, treats I never dared to use, talismans of a life I wasn’t allowed to have. As the years passed, Diane’s hatred matured. Every birthday I had was a countdown to her losing her grip on Robert. She began to look at me not as a daughter, but as a rival she needed to liquidate. The only thing that kept me going was school. And Zoey. Zoey was my best friend. She didn’t know the details of my home life, but she saw the bruises. Every morning, she would pull me into a hug in the hallway. “It’s going to be okay, Nancy. Just breathe,” she’d say. That one sentence, that one hug—it was my oxygen. I was a straight-A student. I worked harder than anyone else because I knew that a scholarship was my only ticket out of that hellhole. My guidance counselor, Mr. Harrison, believed in me. He’d pat my shoulder and tell me I had a brilliant future. Senior year arrived. Mr. Harrison pulled me aside after a mock exam. “Nancy, look at these scores. Keep this up, and you’re looking at a full ride to the state university. Maybe even Columbia.” I was in the top ten of my class. I was twenty days away from freedom. One afternoon, after a celebratory lunch with the honor society, I walked across the campus alone. I was so happy it felt like a fever dream. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about a dorm room, a locked door, and a life where no one called me a slut for existing. “Nancy, wait up!” Mr. Harrison called out. He caught up to me, sensing my uncharacteristic glow. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. The road is long, but you’re almost there.” I saw Zoey waving at me from the parking lot. The sun was hitting the trees, and for a second, the world looked beautiful. I thought, Maybe I can be like her. Maybe I can be normal. That night, I walked into the house. Diane was sitting in the living room, the TV off. My heart skipped a beat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar electricity. I tried to bolt for my room, but she was faster. She lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me to the floor. 3 The impact knocked the wind out of me. My backpack, heavy with textbooks, dug into my spine. Diane kicked me twice before stalking over to the coffee table. She was trembling with a manic, jagged energy. “The junk removal guy found your little stash,” she hissed, throwing a handful of items at me. “Dresses! Lipsticks! You’ve been stealing from us to buy these things, haven’t you?” They were the things Mrs. Miller had left me. The lip balm was dried up, the snacks were long expired, and the sundress smelled of mildew from being hidden under the floorboards. “You’re just dying for him to see you in this, aren’t you? You want to take him from me!” She threw the dress at my face. I curled into a ball, clutching the moth-eaten fabric. Just a little longer, I whispered to myself. Just twenty days. Just survive twenty days. The pain was a dull roar. I could handle the pain. Hope was so close I could taste it. But the world had other plans. Two weeks before graduation, the school announced a mandatory parent-teacher night. I didn’t think much of it. My parents never showed up to anything. I figured I’d have the night to myself. But the next morning, Diane was gone before I woke up. She had left early, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach all day. When I saw her later that afternoon, sitting on the porch of a neighbor’s house, laughing and drinking tea, I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she was just having a good day. I had already lined up a summer job at a diner three towns over. The manager had promised me a spot in the staff dorms. I had it all mapped out. I was so lost in my daydream that I didn’t notice the way the other students were looking at me. Cruel smirks. Disgusted whispers. Zoey was standing by her locker. I walked up to her, but when I reached out, she flinched away. “Zoey? What’s wrong?” my voice was trembling. “My mom said…” Zoey’s eyes were full of a coldness I’d never seen. She couldn’t even finish the sentence. A boy from the football team finished it for her. “She said you’ve been sleeping with your own dad, Nancy. That you’re a freak.” The hallway erupted in laughter. It was like a physical wall of sound hitting me. “Hey, Nancy, I didn’t know you were into that!” “Is that how you got the straight As? Practicing at home?” My face went white. I threw my books at them, but they just laughed harder, dodging easily. “Whoa! The slut’s got a temper!” I felt the blood rushing to my head. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to die. Mr. Harrison appeared and ushered me into his office. He didn’t pat my shoulder this time. He looked at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment. “Nancy… your mother came by this morning. She was… distraught. She told me everything. I know you’re young, and sometimes boundaries get blurred in difficult homes, but—” The room started to spin. I finally understood why Diane had been humming. She hadn’t just beaten me; she had reached out and poisoned the only world I had left. I didn’t say a word. I tucked my chin into my collar and walked out of the school. The next few days were a living nightmare. Zoey stopped talking to me. The girls in the cafeteria moved their trays if I sat within ten feet of them. The boys were worse. They would block my way in the halls, whispering graphic things, telling me that since I was “doing it with my old man,” I might as well give them a turn. When I went to the office to collect my graded senior thesis—the culmination of four years of work—I found it in the trash can in the girls’ bathroom. It was soaked in soda and covered in slurs. I looked around the school, and I realized I didn’t have a single person left. Not one. When I got home that night, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in her hand. She gave me a slow, satisfied smile. This was her masterpiece. She had isolated me so completely that I was hers again. 4 The noise from the courtyard below pulled me back to the present. I was standing on the roof of the science building. It was senior skip day, but a lot of kids were hanging out by the fountain below. I could see their bright, youthful faces looking up at me. “Hey! Look! She’s actually going to do it!” a voice yelled. My notebooks, my carefully curated life, were all gone. I was tired. I was so incredibly tired of fighting a war I was born to lose. I just wanted to live. Why was that so much to ask? “Just jump already!” someone shouted. “People like you don’t belong here!” The cruelty of teenagers is a special kind of sharp. I didn’t look at them. I looked at the horizon, at the life I would never have. One boy, a kid I’d helped with his chemistry homework just a month ago, climbed up onto the ledge a few feet away. “Come on, Nancy. Give us a show before you go. Or better yet, come down and play. I bet you’re as good as your mom says.” He reached for my arm. I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn’t planned to jump—I just wanted to get away from them—but as I looked down, I realized there was nowhere else to go. The rumors were a snowball that had turned into an avalanche. There was no explaining this away. My mother’s word was law. “She’s the girl from the honor society, right? I heard she’s been sleeping around since she was twelve.” “Her mom said it. Why would a mother lie about that?” I stared at a girl in the crowd. She looked like Zoey. She was recording me on her phone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stepped off. The wind was a roar in my ears. Then, a sudden, bone-shattering crack. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t on the pavement. I was sitting in a recliner. My hand was clutching a TV remote. The screen was flickering with static, a news report playing about a local tragedy—a high school girl jumping to her death. I stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway. I didn’t see Nancy. I saw a face lined with seventy years of life. White hair, clouded eyes, the scent of lavender and mothballs. I was Martha. My grandmother. My mother, Diane, had never been close to Martha. They saw each other maybe twice a year. Martha was the only person who had ever been kind to me in a quiet, distant way—a crisp twenty-dollar bill in a Christmas card, a soft pat on the head when Diane wasn’t looking. I checked the calendar on the wall. It had been exactly one day since I—Nancy—had died. The grief in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating hum of rage. I grabbed a cane and began the slow, painful walk to my old house. It was only two blocks away, but in this body, it took me forty minutes. The front door was propped open. I heard Diane’s voice coming from the hallway. “Just take it all. The books, the clothes, everything in that back room. Just give me a flat rate for the lot.” I walked inside. A junk removal guy was bundling my life into heavy plastic bags. My honors society plaques, my favorite novels, the few clothes I owned—all being weighed like scrap metal. “What are you doing here?” Diane asked, looking up. She didn’t sound sad. She sounded annoyed. I looked at the bag containing my books and whispered, “Where is Nancy?” “Dead,” she said flatly.

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Ten years into the collapse. Daniel’s little protégée, Tinsley, had been throwing a tantrum because she wanted to celebrate “Queen’s Day” despite the rations being thin. Her selfishness led them straight into a swarm, and a stray crawler ripped into her forearm. In my past life, Daniel came to me, frantic, claiming he was the one who had been hurt. The moment I stepped through the door to help him, he pinned me down. Without a flicker of hesitation, he hacked off my arm. He didn’t miss a beat. He grafted my severed limb onto Tinsley to save her. And me? He gave me her infected, rotting stump, already black with the necrosis of the hollow-virus. “Cassie, you have the Mending gift,” he’d said, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Even with the infection, you won’t die. But Tinsley… she isn’t strong like you.” He was right. I didn’t die. Instead, my powers began to wither, poisoned by the very limb I’d been forced to accept. They stripped me of my title as Colony Commander. Eventually, when I was no longer “useful,” they lashed me to the ramparts, slicing my veins open to let the scent of my blood lure the horde away from the gates. I died being torn apart, bone by bone. I opened my eyes. The phantom pain of the blade was still there, a searing heat against my skin. But when I looked down, my left hand was still there, fingers twitching against the rough fabric of my cot. Outside the door, a voice shouted—a voice I recognized with a sickening jolt. It was Beckett, one of the scouts I’d personally pulled from a pile of corpses years ago. In my last life, he was the one who held my legs down while the saw bit into my bone. “Commander! Daniel’s hurt bad! You need to come, now!” I slowly wiped the cold sweat from my palms. A dark, jagged smile touched my lips. “What’s the rush, Beckett?” I called out, my voice steady. “The colony has plenty of Medics. Find someone else.” … Thump. Thump. Thump. The knocking was violent now, sending plumes of dust dancing down from the doorframe. “Cassie! Please! He’s losing too much blood! He asked for you specifically!” I stared at the ceiling, the familiar cracks looking like a map of a life I had already failed. There was no stench of rotting flesh here. No agonizing heat of a thousand teeth tearing into my midsection. My arm hung heavy and whole at my side. In that other life, the moment I heard Daniel was hurt, I’d bolted out of bed, my heart in my throat. I’d run straight into the ambush he’d spent weeks perfecting. Daniel had stood just a few feet away, holding the very blade I’d forged for him from reclaimed steel. He didn’t look away when he swung it. “Don’t hate me for this, Cassie,” he’d whispered as I screamed. “Tinsley lost her arm trying to save me. You’re a Healer. Your tissue is the only thing that will take. You’ve survived bites before; you’re practically immortal. You’ll be fine.” He’d called the rotting stump he gave me a “gift”—a way to keep me from being a “cripple.” I had spent months pouring my dwindling energy into that dead limb, trying to keep the virus from reaching my heart. My skin turned the color of wet ash. My hair fell out in clumps. I’d applied for the colony’s restricted serum—the stuff that could kickstart a Healer’s marrow. Once. Twice. Three times. Denied. The Quartermaster wouldn’t even look me in the eye. “Resources are tight, Cassie. It has to go to the front lines.” It wasn’t until the very end that I learned the truth. The front lines weren’t starving for supplies. Daniel, using his new authority as Commander, had been funneling every vial of serum to Tinsley. He wanted to see if he could force her body to develop a “Gift” of her own. When I’d dragged my skeletal body to his office to confront him, he just sighed. “Tinsley is showing signs of awakening an Ability, Cassie. She needs the nourishment. You’ve always been the tough one. Just endure a little longer.” Endure. I had endured until I was a husk. And when the well ran dry, they tied me to the stone like a piece of livestock, letting my blood “serve the colony” one last time. I closed my eyes, and for a second, I was back on those ramparts. Tinsley was standing below me, looking up with a face full of manufactured pity. “Oh, Cassie,” she’d cooed. “You’re infected and powerless. You’re basically a ghost already. You were the Commander once—don’t you want to die a hero? Think of it as your final contribution.” My fist clenched until my nails drew blood. Suddenly, a strange sensation bloomed in my palm. It wasn’t the warm, golden hum of the Mending. It was cold. It felt like graveyard soil and sharpened iron. A flicker of grey light danced between my fingers, swallowing the gold. A second Gift. Something that hadn’t existed before the rebirth. “Commander? Cassie! Are you in there?!” Beckett’s voice was frantic now. “He’s dying! The Medics say if we wait any longer, there will be permanent damage!” Permanent damage. The lie was so bold, so practiced, it made my skin crawl. I remembered Beckett’s face from the meeting where they stripped me of my rank. “Cassie’s a woman, and a broken one at that,” he’d told the council. “Why should a literal invalid run our home? Daniel is the one keeping us alive.” He had knelt before me once, years ago, sobbing that he’d never forget my kindness. Apparently, memory is a luxury the apocalypse doesn’t afford. The knocking turned into a rhythmic pounding. “Cassie! Open the damn door!” I took a long, jagged breath, pushing the rage down until it was a cold stone in my gut. When I opened the door, my face was a mask of perfect, frantic concern. “Where is he? Lead the way.” Beckett’s shoulders slumped with visible relief. “Thank god. Follow me!” He led me toward the restricted wing, to a room with reinforced walls and a door that locked only from the outside. In my past life, I hadn’t noticed the trap. I had been too busy looking for bloodstains on the floor. As we reached the door, Beckett glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes darting away quickly. He reached for the handle. I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask questions. I gathered that new, oily grey energy in my palm and shoved. My foot connected with the small of Beckett’s back, sending him stumbling into the room. I slammed the door and threw the heavy iron bolt. From inside, a sickening squelch echoed, followed by a scream that sounded like a pig in a slaughterhouse. “What the hell? Beckett?” “Where’s Cassie? She was supposed to be the one!” Daniel’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl. Silence followed, then a shaky whisper from one of the others. “Captain… it’s Beckett. He’s… he’s passed out from the shock.” I heard Daniel approach the door, but a female voice stopped him. It was the colony’s head surgeon. “Don’t open it! If we don’t graft an arm onto her now, the necrosis will hit her heart. We already did the amputation. We have to use what’s in the room.” “No! I don’t want a man’s arm!” Tinsley’s voice rose in a shrill, hysterical peak. “It’s disgusting! It won’t match! You promised me Cassie’s! You said hers was the only one that was pure!” “Tinsley, shut up and hold still,” Daniel snapped, though his tone softened. “It’s a temporary fix. I’ll… I’ll find you a better one later. I promise.” Later. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the door and laughed, a quiet, jagged sound. “Good luck with that, Daniel,” I whispered. “I don’t think your ‘later’ is going to look the way you planned.” I walked away. I expected them to lay low, to try and hide their failure. But I underestimated Daniel’s arrogance. An hour later, he kicked in the door to the medical ward where I was checking the supply crates. He lunged for me, his fingers bruising my arm as he wrenched me toward him. “You bitch,” he hissed. “Because of your little stunt, Tinsley had to take Beckett’s arm. She’s locked herself in her room, crying her eyes out! She won’t even look at me!” He began dragging me toward the exit. “You’re going to her room. You’re going to get on your knees and beg for her forgiveness. And then, you’re going to ‘voluntarily’ offer your arm for a second transplant. If you don’t, I swear to God, you will never see the sun again.” I wrenched my arm back. The coldness in my chest flared, a localized blizzard. “Beg? Her?” I spat the words like venom. “Tinsley is a parasite, Daniel. She’s a nothing. And you? You’re just the man who forgot who actually built this place.” The slap was so hard it sent me stumbling into a rack of glass vials. My cheek went numb instantly. Behind Daniel, a few of his loyalists stepped forward. “Give it a rest, Cassie,” one of them sneered. “You’re just a Healer. You hide behind the walls while we do the real work. Losing an arm won’t kill you. Quit being so dramatic.” “Seriously,” another added. “The colony only stands because of Daniel. He only kept you around out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. You’re a leech, Cassie. You don’t even compare to Tinsley.” “Go apologize. Maybe then we won’t vote to kick you out of the gates tonight.” I looked at their faces. I had shared my bread with these men. I had stayed up for seventy-two hours straight during the Great Blight, weaving my Mending energy through the infirmary until I coughed up blood, just to keep their fevers from breaking. I remembered the hike through the Dead Zone—two hundred miles on foot to bring back the winter supplies they were too afraid to scout for. I remembered the siege at the West Gate, where I stood alone in the breach because Daniel had “clutched his chest” and retreated to the command center. “He’s the one who keeps us alive?” I started to laugh. It was a dark, hysterical sound that echoed off the sterile walls. “Is that what he told you?” “That’s enough!” Daniel barked. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes before being replaced by ice. “I know you’re bitter, Cassie, but don’t try to rewrite history. I’ve bled for this colony while you sat in your office playing Commander. You’re done.” I pushed past him, my hand hovering over the console on my wrist. I tapped a command, and several holographic displays flickered to life in the air. They were the faces of the colony’s founding members—the ones who had been there since Day One. “Arthur,” I said, addressing the oldest of them. “Tell them.” Arthur’s face was etched with a weary, hollow kind of shame. “Cassie… don’t make this harder. Daniel is the face of the Sanctuary. He’s the strength. You’re a woman, dear. Without him to protect you, you never would have lasted this long.” The world seemed to tilt. I remembered pulling Arthur out of a burning wreck. I remembered carrying him on my back across a field of glass. I looked at Daniel. He was watching me with a smug, predatory satisfaction. “See, Cassie? I told you. You think too much of yourself.” I turned to walk away, but a hand caught my hair. I was jerked backward, my knees slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack. “You aren’t going anywhere,” Daniel growled. He knelt down, gripping my chin so hard I felt my teeth grind together. The mask was gone. The “hero” was gone. There was only the beast underneath. “You wouldn’t give the arm up willingly? Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. Consider this a down payment for Tinsley’s trauma.” He stood back. A fist caught me in the temple. Then a boot to the stomach, knocking the air from my lungs in a spray of red mist. Someone grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up just to drive a knee into my ribs. I heard the distinct snap of bone. Blood pooled in my mouth, tasting of copper and failure. I pressed my face against the cold floor, peering through the shattered glass of the medicine vials. And then, I felt it. A vibration. Deep in the earth. A low, rhythmic thrumming that felt like a heartbeat. They’re here. I closed my eyes. The floor beneath us didn’t just crack; it exploded. A massive, slick tentacle, dripping with black bile and lined with obsidian thorns, burst through the concrete. It swung with the force of a wrecking ball, sending three of Daniel’s men flying into the far wall like ragdolls. Then came the second. And the third. From every corridor, the sound of the dead began to rise—not a moan, but a coordinated, guttural roar. “Monster!” “It’s a swarm! How did they get inside the perimeter?!” The room descended into chaos. Daniel’s face went white, but his eyes landed on me. “She’s a Gifted! Her blood is concentrated!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Throw her to them! Use her as bait while we hit the emergency exit!” Rough hands grabbed me. A blade nicked my throat, and I felt the warm slide of blood down my collar. They threw me toward the breach in the floor. I hit the rubble, the stench of decay filling my senses. I looked up. Dozens of pale, milky eyes were fixed on me. Daniel was already halfway to the safety tunnel, a jagged, triumphant grin on his face as he watched the “leech” finally get consumed. I sat up slowly. I raised my hand. And I snapped my fingers. The dead stopped. As one, they turned their heads away from me and fixed their gaze on the man in the tunnel.

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After eight years of loving Nate, my mother finally caved. She was ready to accept him—his commitment issues, his “phobia” of marriage, all of it. I was heading home with a fresh Chilean sea bass, his favorite, thinking about how I’d tell him the news. But as I reached the door, I heard his friend, Cooper, inside. “I thought you were dead-set against marriage, man,” Cooper said. “What changed? Why the sudden wedding?” My heart leaped. I thought he was going to surprise me. I thought he’d finally found the courage to give us a future. Then Nate spoke, his voice casual, almost bored. “I didn’t have a choice. She’s pregnant. For the sake of the kid, I have to give the girl a name. It’s the right thing to do.” I froze. The world tilted on its axis. The bag of groceries felt like lead in my hand. “Wait,” Cooper stammered. “You’re marrying the side piece? What about Jo? What are you going to do about Joanna?” Nate’s tone didn’t even flicker. “What do you mean, ‘do about her’? We keep things as they are. It’s not like I’m leaving her.” “And if she finds out? If she dumps you?” Nate let out a confident, low chuckle. “She won’t. I know Jo.” He paused, and I could almost picture the smug tilt of his head. “She wants a family so badly, yet she gave up the idea of marriage and kids just to stay with me. If she can handle that, she can handle anything. She’s not going anywhere.” So, he knew. He knew how much I longed for a wedding, for a home, for a life that wasn’t lived in the shadows of his trauma. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my chest, though it didn’t reach my lips. He didn’t know me at all. To me, a dishonest man isn’t a partner; he’s just trash waiting to be tossed. 1 I walked in while they were still talking. Nate didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly pivoted the conversation to the NFL, his face a mask of effortless calm. When he saw me, he gave me that trademark look of practiced devotion. “Hey, babe. You’re back.” Cooper, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the guilt. His smile was forced, his eyes darting toward the floor in a cocktail of pity and shame. “I thought I heard something,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Something about marriage? Who’s the lucky guy?” Eight years. You develop feelings for a stray cat in eight years, let alone a man you’ve shared a bed with every night. I was giving him one last chance. One final, desperate hope that he would be man enough to tell me the truth and end it. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes before he stood up and walked over to wrap his arms around me. “Just an old friend from college,” Nate lied, pulling me into his chest. “Cooper was asking if I wanted to fly out for the wedding.” Cooper jumped in, desperate to help bury the lead. “Yeah, totally. The guy was a hardcore bachelor, too. No one saw it coming.” My heart went cold. Watching Nate lie to my face without even a hint of a blush, I realized there was no point in a grand breakup speech. He didn’t deserve my honesty. He didn’t deserve my vulnerability. I pulled away from his embrace, my skin crawling. He took it as shyness because Cooper was watching. He turned his attention to the groceries. “Did you get the sea bass?” “Jo treats you too well, man,” Cooper joked, though his voice sounded hollow. “She always hunts down the freshest catch because she knows you love it. Nate’s always bragging about your cooking, Jo. Says no one does it better.” I lifted the bag. “Actually, I bought this for my dad. He’s been craving it.” “Well, make it for me next time then,” Nate said, his tone entitled and sweet. I let a faint, bitter smile touch my lips. There wouldn’t be a next time. Nate, I’m never cooking for you again. “You’re the only one who takes care of me,” he said, slipping back into his usual routine of public affection. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even know what good food tastes like.” He didn’t notice the emptiness in my eyes. He was used to saying these things—calling me the most important person in his life, his “anchor.” He’d said it so often it had become white noise. And it was true; before he met me, he didn’t eat fish. It was his greatest trigger, a food that carried the weight of a dark childhood. On our first date, I had ordered sea bass. I’ll never forget the sheer terror that washed over his face. Later, he told me why. When he was three, his mother remarried a man who treated Nate like an intruder. His stepfather would eat the meat of the fish and leave only the bones and spines for Nate. He’d been choked by them, poked by them, terrified by them. And his mother? She never protected him. She was too busy trying to keep her own head above water in that house. That house was the reason he claimed he was “broken,” the reason he said he couldn’t handle the “suffocation” of a marriage license. I was the one who healed him. Piece by piece, I fed him the best parts of the fish. I promised him, “I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives. With me, you’ll always have the best cut.” That night, he cried in my arms like a child. He begged me, “Please stay with me forever. Don’t ever throw me away.” 2 For eight years, my love for him hadn’t wavered. But he was the one who had stopped cherishing it. I went into the bedroom, grabbed my ID and my bank cards, and headed for the door with the fish. “Call me when you’re heading back, I’ll pick you up,” Nate called out, not looking up from the TV. I paused. “Don’t bother. I’m not coming back tonight.” “Really? You’re going to leave me in a cold bed all by myself?” He pouted, playing the role of the lonely lover. He didn’t hear the finality in my voice. He thought it was just a weekend trip to my parents’. I looked at him, my heart in pieces, yet my voice remained calm. “For eight years, Nate, I’ve been a rebellious daughter to my parents because of you. It’s time I started listening to my mother.” He still didn’t get it. He just thought I was feeling guilty about not spending enough time with family. He walked over, stroking my hair with a patronizing tenderness. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish. Your parents need you. Why don’t you stay there for a few days? Take all the time you need.” “Goodbye,” I said. He smiled. “See you in a couple of days.” There is no ‘in a couple of days,’ Nate. You’re officially out of my life. I went to my parents’ house and cooked that fish for them instead. My father sighed as he ate. “If he’s really the only one for you, Joanna… then bring him over. We’ll make it work.” Initially, my dad liked Nate. But by the third year, when there was no talk of an engagement, he grew frustrated. That was when Nate revealed his “trauma.” He showed me stacks of therapy records, explaining how his childhood had left him with deep psychological scars. He had night terrors. He was genuinely afraid of the institution of marriage. I pities him. I thought as long as we loved each other, a piece of paper didn’t matter. In our fifth year, I got pregnant. With twins. I hoped that for the sake of the babies, he would finally overcome his fear. I wanted a family. A real one. But he broke down. He told me, “Jo, I’m sorry. I can’t be a father. A child wouldn’t be happy with me. Besides, childbirth is dangerous. My mother died giving birth to that man’s child… I can’t risk losing you.” He used his mother’s death to guilt me. He used his trauma as a shield. So, I had the abortion. I promised him we could be enough for each other—no marriage, no kids, just us. And yet now, another woman was pregnant, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to marry her. He made me, and the children we never had, look like a total joke. “What does he like to eat? I’ll prepare something for tomorrow,” my mom added, her voice soft with resignation. They had shed so many tears over my refusal to leave him. “I don’t want him anymore,” I said quietly. “I’m done.” 3 My mother froze, the spatula mid-air. “Joanna… what did you say?” My father couldn’t hide the hope in his eyes. My throat tightened. I forced a smile through the lump in my chest. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not wasting another second on him. I want to start over.” My parents wept with joy. They thanked God that I had finally woken up. My mom insisted that the best way to move on was to find someone new, and within forty-eight hours, she had told every relative and friend that I was single. She started setting up blind dates. I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to break her heart again, so I went through the motions. I was coming out of a mall with a guy my mom had set me up with when I ran into Nate. He was carrying bags from a maternity store. The moment he saw me with another man, his face darkened with possessiveness. He stepped toward us, marking his territory. “Hey, honey. Who’s this?” The blind date, sensing the tension, made a quick exit. Nate was fuming. “Is your mother setting you up again? You promised me you’d say no! What am I to you, Jo?” He knew the pressure I was under to get married. But he had never moved an inch to alleviate it. I looked at the maternity bags in his hand. “Who are those for?” “Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, then softened his tone when he saw me staring. “I told you, Mike’s wife is pregnant. It’s a gift for the baby shower. Now, why were you with that guy?” He still thought I was an idiot. He didn’t know that the previous night, I had received an anonymous package. Inside were photos of him and a girl named Piper holding their marriage certificate. There were ultrasounds, photos of them decorating a nursery, and shots of them looking like the perfect couple. The moment I left our apartment, he had gone and made it official with her. And Piper, eager to stake her claim, hadn’t waited long to let me know. She even included the date and location of their upcoming wedding. My blood boiled, but I kept my face neutral. I wanted to see how long he could keep up the act. “Nate, you know my parents are breathing down my neck. What if we just got married? Right now. Today.” The anger in his eyes turned to guilt. He tried his old trick—opening his arms to pull me in. “Babe, I’m so sorry. You know I love you more than anything. I’ll give you everything else—the money, the house, my heart—but that paper… I just can’t do it. I can’t get past the mental block. You know that.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. My smile was cold. It was true. He had given me everything but the title. Five years ago, in a fit of “guilt” over the abortion, he had signed a legally binding agreement transferring his entire company to me as a gift. He was the CEO, but technically, he was my employee. He worked for a salary I approved. The house, the cars, the investments—they were all in my name. Even the “new” house he’d bought for Piper had been put under my name years ago during a tax restructuring he thought I wouldn’t notice. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I saw that flicker of panic. It was Piper. “Work emergency,” he lied, backing away. “I have to go. We’ll talk later, okay?” As soon as he disappeared, I got a text from an unknown number. I didn’t want to make this ugly, but you clearly can’t take a hint. This is your final notice: get your stuff out of our house. We’re adults here, Joanna. Be graceful. If your things aren’t gone by tomorrow, they’re going in the trash. I stared at the screen and laughed. She was getting desperate. 4 I didn’t go back for my things the next day. Piper, apparently losing her patience, tracked me down at a cafe near my office. She didn’t look like a “mistress”; she looked like a girl who had won. She was young—maybe twenty-two, the same age I was when I first met Nate. She slid their marriage certificate across the table. “I think this gives me the right to ask you to clear out,” she said. Her voice was high, polished. “I haven’t thrown your stuff on the curb yet because I have class, Miss Miller. Don’t mistake my kindness for permission to keep clinging to my husband.” I looked her over. She was pretty in a generic way. There were faint love bites on her neck, partially hidden by a pink diamond necklace. I recognized that necklace. Nate had outbid three people for it at a charity auction last year. He told me it was an investment for “our” future. “You’re here because you’re too afraid to tell Nate you know about me, aren’t you?” I asked. She flinched, then doubled down. “I’m trying to let you keep a shred of dignity. You were with him for eight years and he never put a ring on it. Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?” She let out a mocking snort. “Why be the desperate ex?” I pushed the certificate back toward her. “I know when the wedding is, Piper. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to… congratulate you.” She panicked. “Don’t you dare. If you make a scene, you’ll be the one looking like a fool. Just leave gracefully. I don’t want you anywhere near my wedding. You’re bad luck.” I gave her a thin, sharp smile. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have a wedding.” Her eyes flashed with rage. “You really are a piece of work.” Then, her expression shifted. It was like watching a professional actress. She glanced toward the entrance of the cafe, then suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet. She grabbed my arm, tears welling up instantly. “I didn’t know about you!” she sobbed, loud enough for the other patrons to turn. “Please, we’re married now, and I’m pregnant. Please don’t take him away from me and my baby!” I groaned, reaching for my purse to leave. I didn’t have time for this melodrama. But as I tried to stand, she threw herself backward, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. “Ah! My stomach! Help! My baby!” She screamed in feigned agony. “Someone call my husband! 206-555-0198! Please!” The cafe erupted. People rushed over to her, shooting me looks of pure disgust. Since Nate’s office was only a block away, he arrived in less than five minutes, drenched in sweat and panic. He stopped dead when he saw me standing there. Piper reached out for him, trembling. “Nate! This woman… she told me she was your girlfriend. She told me to leave the house… when I said no, she pushed me! My stomach hurts so much…” Nate’s eyes were filled with terror. He scooped her up right in front of me. Guilt kept him from yelling at me, but he looked at me with a pleading desperation. “Jo, I’ll explain everything. I promise. I just have to get her to the hospital.” I stood there, cold as marble. “Nate, before you go, a quick reminder.” He paused, Piper moaning in his arms. “That black card in your wallet? It’s an authorized user card on my account. I just deactivated it. You might want to find another way to pay the hospital bill.” The color drained from his face. I turned my gaze to Piper. “And one more thing you should know. Nate signed over every cent of his assets to me years ago. The house you’re living in? Mine. The company he runs? Mine. He’s just an employee, and as of five minutes ago, he’s fired.” I looked back at Nate, whose expression was now one of pure horror. “Technically, he’s penniless. So, Piper? You’re the one who needs to get out of my house.” Piper’s face went ghost-white. The “pain” in her stomach seemed forgotten. “Nate?” I prompted, my voice low and dangerous. “Tell her. Is any of that a lie?”

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I was born with a storm in my blood. In my world, if you clip my wings, I’ll burn your whole forest down. That’s just the math of it. But growing up, my parents and my brother treated me like a piece of fragile porcelain. They smothered me with so much love and indulgence that my temper never had a chance to breathe. I was a weapon with no war to fight. Until I turned eighteen and enrolled at Beaumont Academy—a playground for the elite, the entitled, and the downright sociopathic. The school’s “Golden Girl,” a girl named Lexi Montgomery, made a sport out of destroying reputations. Her favorite move was photoshopping the scholarship girls into compromising, naked positions to ensure her own “purity” shone even brighter. I didn’t waste time with a dialogue. I smashed her iPhone into the marble floor, ripped the designer silk off her back, and let the entire student body see exactly what she was made of. Naturally, her pet thug and the school’s star quarterback, Brantley Pierce, didn’t take it well. He and his goons cornered me in the girl’s locker room, water buckets in hand. He grabbed me by the hair, forcing my head back, demanding I beg Lexi for forgiveness. I didn’t beg. I kicked him squarely in the groin with enough force to make his ancestors feel it. While he was doubled over, I dragged him into the stalls and shoved a filth-caked mop—the kind that had seen years of locker room grime—directly into his mouth. He passed out from the shock and the stench. I filmed the whole thing and posted it to the school’s private server. I thought that would be the end of it. I didn’t expect the Guidance Counselor to be even stupider than the students. Mrs. Gable was firmly in the pockets of the wealthy parents. She looked at me like I was a stain on her carpet, claiming I was the aggressor. Her “punishment”? A five-hundred-page handwritten apology and an order to kneel on the gravel of the track field while reciting it over a megaphone. “You want me to grovel?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. I didn’t wait for her answer. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her forehead against the mahogany desk. Again. And again. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I hissed. “Do you honestly think your little titles mean a damn thing to me?” … 1 “You’re psychotic! You laid hands on a faculty member! I’ll have you expelled before the sun sets!” Mrs. Gable was screaming, clutching her bleeding forehead. “You told me to grovel and apologize, didn’t you?” I wiped a stray drop of blood off my knuckle. “You just didn’t specify whose head should be hitting the floor.” I tossed her aside like a piece of yesterday’s trash. Looking at her pale, trembling face, a cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. These people spent their lives crushing the weak, but the second someone handed them their own medicine, they crumbled. Brantley, recovered and fuming, suddenly grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the desk and hurled it at my head. I ducked, but a shard grazed my temple. A flicker of sick satisfaction danced in his eyes when he saw the red streak on my skin. “Listen to me, Kit. This is Beaumont,” Brantley spat, stepping into my space. “Scholarship rats like you are here for one reason: to be our footstools. How dare you push back?” He lunged, throwing a heavy punch into my stomach. I took the hit, the air leaving my lungs for a split second. “Your parents probably sold their souls just to get you in here,” he sneered, leaning down to my ear. “If you want to stay, you’re going to bring them here. They can kneel on the gravel with you.” I didn’t let him finish. I caught his wrist, twisted it until the bone groaned, and stomped my boot onto his foot with a sickening crunch. He let out a strangled wheeze. Apologize? To them? They didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as my parents. If Brantley Pierce knew even a fraction of who my father was, he’d be hyperventilating. I was about to give them a reality check when Lexi Montgomery let out a sharp, mocking laugh. She picked up my student file from the floor, flipping through it with manicured nails and a look of pure disdain. “Parents’ background: Classified?” Lexi looked me up and down. “Please. That’s just code for ‘white trash.’ Your dad’s probably a low-level tweaker and your mom’s a back-alley pro. That explains why you have no manners. You don’t understand how the world works, Kit.” She stepped closer, her eyes glittering with malice. “Do you have any idea who our families are? Brantley’s father and mine are two of the three primary trustees of this entire institution. You didn’t just break a rule. You hit a brick wall.” A brick wall? To me, they weren’t even toothpicks. The “scholarship student” label was just a cloak my parents had draped over me. My family didn’t just have money; we owned the school. We were the majority shareholders. My parents had opened the doors to underprivileged students as a way to give back, but lately, rumors had reached us—rumors of scholarship kids disappearing, of “suicides” that didn’t make sense. My parents sent me here to burn out the rot. And Lexi had made it easy for me by posting those fake nudes of me on the first day, calling me the school’s “communal toy.” “I really wonder if you guys use your brains for anything other than hairspray storage,” I said, tilting my head. Lexi’s face contorted. She whipped out her phone and started sobbing into the receiver. “Dad! There’s a girl—a scholarship student—she’s attacking us! You need to find out who her parents are. Right now. I want them ruined. I want them at the bottom of the Atlantic!” She hung up, looking at me like she’d already won. I just smirked. “Your dad? He isn’t fit to shine my father’s shoes.” “You little bitch!” she screamed. Brantley tried to swing at me again. I parried, sent him back to the floor, and planted my heel firmly on his chest. My stomach still throbbed from his punch, and my patience was gone. “Still hungry, Brantley? Or should I go back to the stalls and get you a second helping of that mop?” Lexi started laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. “You’re dead, Kit! You’re so dead! My father is sending his security team. And Brantley’s dad won’t let this go. You’ve destroyed your life.” I shrugged, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. “Good. Bring them all. I’d love to see them all grovel at once.” 2 Lexi helped Brantley up, her hands shaking with rage. “You think you’re tough because you can fight? You bullied us. You bullied Mrs. Gable! Her husband is the reigning champion of our family’s underground fight club. When they’re done beating your parents into the dirt, we’ll see if you still have that smart mouth.” “I’m the bully?” I asked. The audacity was almost impressive. There were three girls in the infirmary right now who Lexi had pushed down a flight of stairs last month. They still hadn’t woken up. “Yes! You’re a monster! I can only imagine the kind of filth that raised you.” My parents sent me here precisely because they knew I didn’t have a “forgive and forget” bone in my body. I was their retribution. I remembered when I was ten. An uncle had tried to embezzle from my father and suggested I be sent away to “boarding school” so he could replace me with his own daughter. I ended that dream by kicking a heavy door into his face, nearly blinding him. When I was twelve, a kidnapper grabbed me from a park. I didn’t cry; I bit his ear off and waited for the police to find him. My parents were often away on business, and my older brother, Sebastian, was too gentle for our world. He was the kind of person who apologized to the chair if he bumped into it. Our head butler once tried to steal my mother’s jewelry, thinking I was too young to notice. I taught myself basic coding in three days, drained his offshore accounts, and leaked his extracurricular affairs to the entire domestic service industry. He’s currently sorting recycling for a living. In my family, I wasn’t “bad.” I was “equipped.” “This is about the family legacy, Kit,” my father had told me before I left. “Find out who is hurting those kids. And once you find the rot… do whatever you have to do. I’ll handle the cleanup.” I didn’t even have to look for the rot. It had found me on day one. Mrs. Gable had tried to “mentor” me during my first week, implying that if I wanted to keep my scholarship, I’d have to be “accommodating” to the wealthy donors’ sons. She was a glorified madam. I was about to tell them that my family was the Valentine dynasty—the oldest money in the city—and that Lexi’s mother used to be my mother’s personal shopper, when the door burst open. Lexi’s face lit up, then fell. It wasn’t a hit squad. It was just the school’s medical team. “Miss Montgomery, we’re here to tend to Mrs. Gable and Mr. Pierce,” the lead medic said. “Your father and Mr. Pierce are in an emergency board meeting with the Chairman. They can’t come down yet.” Lexi’s eyes snapped back to me, the fire returning. “The Chairman is the most powerful man in this state. He doesn’t tolerate trash like you. When my dad tells him what you’ve done, your whole family is finished.” 3 “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I said, turning to leave. Brantley blocked the door again, a cocky smirk plastered on his bruised face. “Scared? Running away?” “I’m bored, Brantley. There’s a difference.” “Tell you what,” he said, leaning in. “There’s one way you can save your family. Join the Hunt tonight. If you play, we might forget all about this.” Lexi sneered. “The Hunt is a privilege for scholarship rats. Don’t be ungrateful.” The “Hunt” was a twisted Beaumont tradition. Scholarship students were “mice,” hiding across the dark campus while the “cats”—the rich kids—hunted them down. If you were caught, you were at their mercy. If you survived the night, you supposedly got a cash prize. My roommate, Chloe, had told me about it. She’d spent her last Hunt locked in a cold basement. “What if the mouse decides to hunt the cats?” I asked. Before he could react, I grabbed his hand and twisted it at an angle that shouldn’t exist. He screamed as I walked past him toward the dorms. When I arrived at my room, I found Chloe sobbing in the hallway. I pushed the door open. Our beds had been smashed to kindling. Every piece of clothing we owned had been tossed into the dumpster outside. And the closet… they’d filled it with live rats. My phone buzzed. A message in the school group chat from Mrs. Gable. “Room 604 failed inspection. Deplorable conditions. Room lead Kit Valentine and her roommates are stripped of all credits and assigned to janitorial duty for the entire campus. Effective immediately.” Chloe was hyperventilating. “The scholarship… my mom is sick, Kit. I needed that money for her treatment. If I lose my credits, I’m out.” My other roommates were pale, but they didn’t blame me. “It’s okay, Kit. We know you were standing up for us. We’ll do the cleaning. You’re hurt, stay here.” Rage, hot and oily, bubbled up in my chest. My father’s scholarship fund was meant to be a lifeline, not a leash. I pulled up the group chat and sent a message to everyone. “Janitorial duty? Go to hell. Is fifty thousand enough to cover your stress? Because I’m bored of the drama.” I started hitting ‘Send’ on wire transfers. Every scholarship student in the school suddenly received fifty thousand dollars in their accounts. Before I could finish the list, I was kicked from the chat. A second later, I was added to a private group with Lexi, Brantley, and Mrs. Gable. “Where did you get that money? Did you steal a student’s credit card?” Mrs. Gable typed. I screenshot the transaction record, highlighting my name as the account holder. The amount I’d just dropped was more than Brantley’s monthly allowance. They went silent for three beats before Lexi typed: “I knew it. You’re a high-end escort. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure your parents know exactly how you’re earning your keep.” Three minutes later, Lexi posted a photo. It was a picture of me and my brother, Sebastian. We were laughing at a gala, his arm around my shoulder. “Looks like she’s the ‘special guest’ of the Valentine heir. I wonder if Sebastian Valentine knows his little plaything is a violent bully? I bet he’d cut her off in a heartbeat.” I stared at the screen. How did they get a photo of me and Sebastian? Before I could process it, a text came from an unknown number. “Your friend Chloe is having a bit of a problem at the old gym. Better hurry.” 4 By the time I reached the gym, it was a nightmare. Two thugs were holding Chloe down while Lexi and Brantley stood over her, phones out, the flashes strobing like a sick club. Mrs. Gable was there too, along with the school Principal, who was nodding as Gable pointed at Chloe. “This is the girl, sir. Bringing outsiders onto campus for ‘services.’ Absolutely disgusting behavior.” Chloe was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. I realized then—she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came out. “She spends sixteen hours a day in the library,” I said, my voice echoing in the rafters. “She doesn’t even leave campus to get coffee. How is her ‘private life’ a mess?” The lead thug pointed at me. “You’re the one who called us, babe! You told us when you transferred that once you got into the Academy, you’d find us some fresh meat. Chloe was just the first one you offered.” “Check the security tapes,” I said, stepping toward the Principal. The Head of Security stepped forward, smirking. “Cameras are down for maintenance. Such a shame.” Brantley walked over and tapped my cheek, leaning in close. “You see now? Money is cute, Kit. But power? Power is the only currency that matters. Sebastian Valentine might be a big deal, but he’s one of us. He’s not going to ruin his reputation for a girl he’s bored with. Give up.” I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Give up?” I walked over to Chloe, gently took the glasses off her face, and popped out the tiny pinhole camera I’d installed in the frame that morning. I synced it to my phone and projected the feed directly onto the school’s giant billboard in the courtyard. The video was clear: The thugs dragging Chloe out while she was cleaning. Mrs. Gable handing them a bottle of “vocal suppressant.” And Lexi, leaning into the frame, saying: “Blame your roommate, Chloe. She’s the one who made us do this.” Brantley’s face went gray. I patted his cheek, mimicking his gesture. “The problem with being arrogant, Brantley, is that you forget to check if the mouse is wearing a wire.” The video was scrubbed from the server within minutes, but I didn’t care. I knew that taking down Brantley and Lexi wasn’t enough. I needed to take down their fathers. I needed to cauterize the wound. So, I played along. For the next week, I didn’t retaliate. I watched. I waited. Every year, Beaumont hosted a Masquerade Ball. For the first time, all scholarship students were “invited” and provided with gowns. I checked the fabric. Water-soluble. One spill, one “accident” with the sprinklers, and every scholarship girl would be standing naked in front of the elite. I made a few phone calls. The night before the ball, the scholarship group chat was in a panic. All their provided gowns had been “vandalized” or shredded. Lexi and her crew were feigning outrage. “You clearly didn’t take care of them!” They rushed an order for a new set of gowns, paying double for overnight delivery. I made sure my contact was the one who fulfilled that order. The night of the ball arrived. The scholarship students were ushered in first. Above them, the sprinkler system was primed. Cameras were hidden in every corner. When Lexi and Brantley walked in, arm in arm, they stopped dead. Every scholarship girl was wearing a stunning, high-quality gown that was perfectly intact. I stood at the center of the room, holding a tray of champagne. “Care for a drink?” I asked. On my signal, the girls didn’t wait. They threw their drinks—not at the scholarship students, but at Lexi and Brantley. Their designer clothes—the ones I’d swapped into their dressing rooms—melted like wet sugar. Lexi screamed, trying to cover herself with her hands as the fabric dissolved into nothing. The photos were everywhere before they could even reach the exit. They snapped. The next day, Mrs. Gable screamed at me to get out of her classroom. Lexi and a group of her “followers” tried to corner me in the cafeteria, promising to “make me bleed.” Brantley went even further—he started sniffing around my brother, Sebastian, trying to convince him to “drop the charity case” before she ruined his name. Next week was the Annual Honors Gala. All the trustees would be there. “I talked to Sebastian,” Brantley hissed at me in the hall. “He barely remembered who you were. Just a girl he met at a party. Let’s see what the Chairman thinks when he finds out you’ve been using the Valentine name to bully his students.” I just watched him, like a scientist watching a bug in a jar. The Gala was a sea of tuxedos and floor-length silk. Brantley’s father, Arthur Pierce, and Lexi’s father, Marcus Montgomery, were there, looking smug. Beside them stood a man who looked like a retired linebacker—Mrs. Gable’s husband, the “fighter.” He caught my eye and made a throat-slitting gesture. Marcus Montgomery laughed loudly, making sure I heard him. “My sweet Lexi, tonight the Chairman and his son arrive. Finally, the trash will be swept out of this school for good.” Arthur Pierce nodded. “The scholarship program was a mistake. If the Chairman hears there’s a ‘Demon’ among the mice, he’ll pull the funding for good.” The scholarship students stood in the back, their eyes filled with dread. Then, the doors swung open. A phalanx of security guards cleared a path. A man in a bespoke suit walked in, the very air in the room shifting toward him. Lexi’s eyes gleamed. “You’re dead, Kit.” But the light in her eyes died an instant later. Because instead of shrinking away, I walked straight up to the man and looped my arm through his.

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It was International Women’s Day, a day supposedly meant for honoring the women who anchor our lives. Instead, I watched my husband hand a bouquet of fresh-cut peonies—the ones he’d promised were for our anniversary dinner—to the woman living in the apartment next door. His first love. “She’s been living alone for so many years, Diana,” Parker said, his voice smooth but hurried. “It’s Women’s Day. I just wanted to do something kind. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’re straight to the theater, okay?” He was wearing the deep navy silk robe I’d bought him for Christmas. It was cinched loosely, the collar hanging open to reveal far more skin than was appropriate for a neighborly visit. We had been married for five years. The last time I’d seen him look this frantic, this desperate, was three years ago when I’d come home early from a business trip. I’d walked into the living room to find him entangled with that same woman on our velvet sofa. The image of their pale, intertwined limbs had seared itself into my retinas. Back then, he had dropped to his knees, sobbing. He didn’t even bother to wipe the sweat from his face; he just grabbed a throw blanket to cover Lydia, his high school sweetheart. “Rose, please… she seduced me. I didn’t want this, I swear!” “Don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging you…” I stayed. I stayed for the sake of our families—our fathers had been business partners for decades, and our lives were woven together in a tapestry of social obligations. For a long time, he was a model husband. He was attentive, domestic, and eager to please me in every way possible. Until tonight. I looked at the restless hunger in his eyes and reached out to straighten the ribbon on the bouquet. “Go on then,” I said quietly. “Give them to her while they’re still fresh.” I knew, even as the words left my mouth, that after those flowers were delivered, there would be no “us” left to save. 1 Parker clearly hadn’t expected me to cave so easily. He froze for a second, then a look of pure, boyish relief broke across his face. He leaned in to pull me into a hug. “Thanks, babe! You’re the best, seriously. I’ll be back before you can even pick out a pair of shoes!” I tilted my head, letting his kiss land harmlessly on my cheek. But I couldn’t stop the last shred of wife-like instinct from speaking up. “Parker, it’s pouring out there. You’re going out in just your robe?” He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. “Lydia keeps her place like a sauna. I’ll be fine. I’m literally going twenty feet. I’ll be right back.” “I mean it,” he added, almost as a challenge to himself. He didn’t look back at me. He slipped out the door and into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, I heard the heavy thud of the door next door closing. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I walked over to the window. From this angle, I could see the glow of Lydia’s living room. She was standing there in a silk slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. As soon as Parker entered, she threw herself into his arms. Parker didn’t pull away. He didn’t even pretend to. He wrapped his arms around her, their heads leaning together in a dark, intimate whisper. Then, slowly, the curtains were drawn, cutting off the view and leaving me in the shadows of our own apartment. I looked at my phone. 8:00 PM. The gala we were supposed to attend was starting. I looked at the few stray flowers left on the table—the rejects he hadn’t put in her bouquet. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I picked up the half-empty bottle of expensive red wine I’d opened and dumped it, along with the wilting flowers, into the trash. This five-year marriage was exactly like those flowers: something that should never have been forced to live this long. I was the only one tending the soil, and I’d finally run out of water. Half an hour passed. Parker didn’t return. The TV was on in the background, some festive special blaring cheerful music that felt like a mockery of my stupidity. I sat on the sofa, watching my phone screen light up and dim, light up and dim. The family group chat was exploding. Cousins were posting photos from various parties and events. A message from my mother popped up, tagging me: “Diana, where’s Parker? Why haven’t you posted any photos of the two of you tonight?” “You guys better be out celebrating! Send me a picture of that dress you bought!” Reading her voice in my head made my throat tighten. My mother adored Parker. Three years ago, when I’d caught him, she was the one who held my hand and begged me to give him another chance. She reminded me of how much our families owed each other, how a scandal would break my father’s heart. I forced a smile I didn’t feel and took a photo of the discarded bouquet on the counter from an angle that looked intentional. I texted back: “He’s tied up with something right now, Mom. I’ll call you in a bit.” Just as I set the phone down, a notification red dot appeared on my Instagram feed. It was Lydia. It was a photo of the peonies in a crystal vase. In the blurred background, you could clearly see the distinctive navy silk of Parker’s robe. The caption read: Another year ends, and you’re still the only one by my side. Thank you for always being there. Parker had already “liked” it. I let out a short, dry laugh. I was done waiting. I stood up, walked into our bedroom, and pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet. I had bought this penthouse with my own money when we got married. Parker had lived here, rent-free, for years. I’d chosen this building specifically because there were only two units per floor, thinking it would give us privacy. Now, his designer suits took up three-quarters of the walk-in closet. As I started packing, I realized with a jolt how little of “me” was actually in this room. I couldn’t find a single thing in the apartment that he had bought for me out of genuine thought. Five years, and we were less than roommates. We were a business arrangement that had gone bankrupt. I shook my head, tucked my passport and some essentials into my bag, and moved to the study to gather my professional files. By the time I was finished, it was nearly midnight. I sat back on the sofa and waited until the clock struck twelve before calling him. It rang for a long time. When he finally picked up, the background was loud—music, laughter. Parker sounded breathless, his voice laced with an edge of annoyance. “Hey. Look, Diana, I’m on my way back. Lydia’s still showing me her new art pieces, okay?” Right as he finished the sentence, I heard a woman’s low, melodic giggle on the other end. A second later, Parker’s voice hitched, turning into a muffled groan. “Mmm… Diana… I gotta go…” The line went dead. 2 I walked out onto the balcony, watching the distant fireworks over the city skyline. I remembered five years ago—Parker in a white tuxedo, promising forever before a priest. But there are no gods in this city, and there was no loyalty in Parker. One look from Lydia, and I ceased to exist. When Lydia first moved into 4B, he’d acted outraged. He’d complained to me about how she was “stalking” him, how she wouldn’t let the past stay dead. Looking back, it was a masterful performance. He wasn’t annoyed; he was setting the stage. Thirty minutes later, the front door unlocked. Parker stumbled in, smelling of a perfume that wasn’t mine. He was carrying a floral umbrella. Lydia’s umbrella. He had that post-coital glow, a lazy, satisfied slump to his shoulders. “Babe, I am so sorry. Got caught up. Are we still good to go out?” He stepped toward me, trying to pull me into his arms. The scent of her—heavy, cloying vanilla—hit me like a physical wall. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Are the flowers pretty?” I asked. He blinked, a practiced, charming smile sliding onto his face. “They’re great. Lydia said you have impeccable taste.” I looked at him, and the very last spark of affection I held for him flickered out into ash. “She said that? By what right does she get to comment on my taste?” Parker realized his mistake, his tone shifting to that “calm down” voice men use when they want to make you sound crazy. “Hey, it was just a compliment. Don’t be petty, Diana. It’s a holiday.” As he spoke, he carelessly leaned Lydia’s umbrella against the coat rack, right next to my wool trench coat. It felt like a silent, mocking invasion. “Parker, do you remember the promise you made me three years ago?” His body stiffened. The smile became a brittle mask. “Of course I do. I said I was done with the past. And I am. Tonight was just… she was lonely, and I felt sorry for her…” “Sorry enough to go over there with your robe hanging open?” Parker turned deathly pale. He instinctively clutched the lapels of his robe shut. “Diana, let me explain—” “Don’t.” I pointed to the coffee table, where a manila envelope sat. “Sign the papers.” The color didn’t come back to his face. He looked at the divorce decree as if it were a coiled snake. “Diana, are you seriously doing this? Tonight? On a holiday?” “I told you, she’s alone. We’re neighbors, we went to school together. What’s the big deal about being a good person?” “It was a bouquet of flowers! You used to be bigger than this. You’re being so small-minded.” The more he spoke, the more “disappointed” he sounded, as if I were the one failing him. In the past, this was where I would have softened. I would have wondered if I was being too sensitive. Now, I just felt a deep, oily sense of disgust. “Parker,” I interrupted his performance. “The curtains weren’t closed all the way. And you aren’t a good enough actor to hide what you were doing on the phone.” His face went slack. The mask shattered, leaving only a panicked, pathetic man underneath. He pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the marks I knew were on his skin. “You… you were spying on me?” The sheer audacity of the deflection made me laugh. I didn’t answer. I just turned and went into the bedroom to grab my suitcase. Parker chased after me, grabbing the handle of my bag. “I’m not letting you leave! I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m sorry. I was out of line.” “Look, nothing happened. We… we just got caught up in the moment, a kiss, that’s it! Nothing more!” “You know how it is. It’s the history. It’s hard to just turn it off. But you’re the one I love! We’ve been married for five years. Are you really going to throw away our home over a stupid mistake?” He sounded so sincere. Exactly like he had five years ago. I’d believed him then, thinking he was just confused. But a man who is “confused” for five years is just a man who is a liar. I shoved his hand off the suitcase, but before I could reach the door, my phone began to scream. It was my father. I answered, and my father’s voice came through the line, jagged and unrecognizable with panic. “Diana! Get to the hospital! Now! Your mother… it’s her heart. They’re taking her into surgery!” 3 The world tilted. My suitcase hit the floor with a heavy thud. “Dad? Dad, stay calm. I’m coming. I’m coming right now!” I grabbed my keys and bolted for the door. Parker was startled, too. He followed me toward the elevator. “I’m coming with you! You know how much she means to me!” I didn’t even look at him. When the elevator doors opened, I sprinted toward the parking garage. But when I got to my SUV and reached into my bag, my hand hit empty leather. My car keys were gone. Parker stood by the car door, his eyes darting everywhere but at my face. “Where are my keys, Parker?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “I… I thought we weren’t going anywhere tonight. I lent them to Lydia’s parents. They needed to pick someone up from the airport and their car wouldn’t start…” He couldn’t even look at me. I didn’t have time for his lies. I shoved past him, running toward the street to hail a cab. But it was midnight on a holiday in a secluded, high-end residential district. The streets were empty. “Call an Uber! Now!” I screamed at him as I ran toward the gate. Parker pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. “I… my phone’s dead. It just shut off.” My heart plummeted. My mother had a serious heart condition. I knew why this was happening—my father had mentioned earlier that day that he was worried about how much time Parker was spending “next door.” My mother was a woman of immense pride and she loved me fiercely. The stress of the rumors must have finally broken her. I looked at my own phone. The rideshare app was spinning—no cars available for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t wait. I ran toward the security kiosk to ask for help. As I passed Lydia’s designated parking spot, I saw a brand-new Mercedes sitting there. “Parker, go to Lydia’s. Now. Tell her to drive me to the hospital!” It was the most humiliating thing I had ever had to say. But Parker grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “No! We can’t ask her!” “It’s a matter of life and death, Parker! Let go of me!” I tried to shake him off, but he gripped my wrist with a terrifying strength. “Diana, please! Just don’t go over there… she… she’s been drinking. She can’t drive!” I looked at the sheer, unadulterated guilt written on his face. “Are you afraid of what I’ll see? I don’t care!” “I don’t give a damn if you were screwing her five minutes ago! I need a car!” Parker seemed shocked by my outburst. He finally let go, looking defeated. He ran up to 4B and pounded on the door. The door opened. Lydia stood there in her slip dress, her hair damp, the air of the apartment smelling of sex and expensive gin. Parker started explaining, his voice shaking. Lydia leaned against the doorframe, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips as she looked at me. “If you want a favor, Diana, ask for it yourself. Don’t use my Parker as a messenger.” My chest was heaving, but for the sake of my mother, I swallowed every ounce of my pride. “Lydia. Please. Let me borrow the car.” She didn’t move. She took a slow drag from a cigarette she’d just lit and exhaled the smoke directly into my face. I choked on the gray cloud, my eyes watering, but I didn’t move. She tapped the ash onto the hallway carpet and gestured toward the floor with her chin. “You want the car? Show me some respect. It’s a holiday. A little ‘thank you’ on your knees wouldn’t be out of place for a girl like you, would it?” My eyes burned. I turned to Parker. “Is this what you want?” Parker looked away, his voice a pathetic mumble. “Diana, just do it. Don’t be stubborn. Your mom is waiting.” “Lydia’s just upset because of how you’ve been acting tonight. She just wants an apology. Just… give her what she wants so we can go.” The coldness that settled in my bones was absolute. Lydia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, and leaned her head on Parker’s shoulder. “See? Parker understands. If you won’t bow, then get lost. We have a long night ahead of us.” The seconds were ticking by. Every heartbeat was a second my mother might not have. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, there was nothing left but a dead, hollow silence. “Fine.” 4 I let my knees hit the hard wood of the hallway floor. Thud. The sound of my pride breaking was deafening in my own ears. Humiliation washed over me like freezing water. Satisfied, Lydia chirped a little laugh and tossed her car keys. They struck me in the face, the metal leaving a sharp sting on my cheek before clattering to the floor. As I reached for them, she playfully kicked them further down the hall. “Oops. My hand slipped. You’ll have to fetch them, sweetie.” Then, she wrapped her arms around Parker’s neck and planted a lingering, possessive kiss on his cheek. “Parker’s staying here. Good luck at the hospital.” She slammed the door. I didn’t waste a second. I grabbed the keys, ignored the sob trapped in my throat, and ran for the stairs. But when I got into the Mercedes and pressed the ignition, the dashboard glowed red. The tank was bone-dry. Empty. The car wouldn’t even make it out of the parking garage, let alone thirty miles to the city hospital. “You bitch!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, the sound of my own breakdown muffled by the luxury interior. She had planned this. Every second of it. I pulled out my phone to scream at Parker, but my finger slipped and opened my Instagram feed instead. Parker had just posted. It was a video of me. Me, on my knees in the hallway. Me, looking broken and pathetic. The caption: When the ‘Ice Queen’ finally learns her place. Some guys just have that touch. He’d filmed it. While I was debasing myself to save my mother’s life, he was thinking about how many likes he could get from his “bros.” I scrolled through the comments, my face burning as if I’d been slapped a thousand times. “Holy shit, Parker! You actually got her to bow? Absolute legend.” “I always knew Diana was a closet sub. Nice work, man.” “Lydia for the win! Taking back what’s hers.” My stomach turned. But I couldn’t afford revenge yet. Not yet. I wiped my eyes, gritted my teeth until I tasted blood, and forced myself to think. I opened the neighborhood’s private community group on Facebook. HELP. Emergency. Mother having a heart attack. Need a ride to Mercy General immediately. Will pay anything. Most of the residents were asleep or out, but a few seconds later, a reply popped up. “I’m in 12C. I’ve got a car in the driveway. Come up.” Fifteen minutes later, I burst through the hospital doors. The fluorescent lights were blinding, the hallway smelling of antiseptic and death. My father was sitting on a plastic chair, looking as though he had aged ten years in a single night. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. “Diana… you’re here… your mother…” Before he could finish, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the double doors. “Doctor? How is she? Can I see her?” The doctor took a long, heavy breath and slowly shook his head. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

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