Tonight, the rain was a relentless gray curtain over the city. I was finishing my shift, driving my Lyft XL, when I picked up a high-end fare from The Sovereign—the kind of exclusive members-only club where the initiation fee alone could buy a house. The destination, however, was a jarring contrast: a crumbling block in the East End, a place the locals called “The Sink,” where the streetlights were mostly shadows and the air tasted like damp concrete. A man, dressed in a suit that cost more than my car, helped a woman into the backseat. She was breathtaking, draped in silk and smelling of expensive gin and expensive secrets, her head lolling in a drunken haze. I couldn’t help but wonder what two people who belonged in a penthouse were doing heading toward the slums. I kept my voice neutral as I pulled away from the curb. “Rough neighborhood for a night out, isn’t it?” The man sighed, a sound of affectionate exasperation. He adjusted her head onto his shoulder. “Tell me about it. My wife… she’s stubborn. Refuses to accept the family inheritance. Insists on ‘making it on her own’ in the trenches.” He looked down at her, his eyes softening with a proprietary kind of love. “But the charade is almost over. We’re having the official ceremony in two weeks. A real society wedding.” I managed a small, tight smile. “Congratulations. My wedding is in two weeks, too.” As we drove past the Montgomery Plazas—the two glass-and-steel monoliths that dominated the skyline—the man pointed a polished finger at them. “See those towers? Those belong to her family. The Montgomery Group.” I glanced up. Montgomery. It was the same last name as my fiancée, Kat. A coincidence, I told myself. A common enough name in this circle. “Baby, are we there yet?” the woman suddenly slurred. The sound of her voice hit me like a physical blow. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped. My grip tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “Almost there, honey,” the man whispered, brushing a stray hair from her face. Then, she lifted her head. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. For a second, the world outside the car vanished. The rain, the city, the engine—everything went silent. Someone tell me. Someone explain how my fiancée—the woman who was supposed to be pulling twelve-hour shifts on a dusty construction site to save up for our future—was sitting in the back of my car, draped in the wealth of a dynasty. 1 Kat’s pupils contracted sharply. I saw the flash of pure, unadulterated panic in her eyes before she masked it. I slammed on the brakes. The tires shrieked against the wet asphalt, the car fishtailing slightly before jerking to a halt. “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?” the man shouted, bracing himself against the front seat. “Do you have any idea who is sitting back here? Learn how to drive or find a new job!” I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. I was staring at the woman in the mirror. She looked so elegant, so refined—a stranger. There was no trace of the soot-stained, exhausted girl who used to come home to me, complaining about the physical toll of the site. “Who is she?” my voice came out raw, a jagged edge of itself. The man let out a sharp, condescending laugh. He leaned back, pulling Kat closer to his chest as if displaying a trophy. “The Montgomery Group. Ring a bell? My wife is the sole heir to the entire empire.” “Is that right?” I said, my gaze locked on Kat, refusing to let her look away. “Funny. I didn’t know that.” Kat finally found her voice. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, brittle composure. She reached out and wrapped her arms around the man, leaning into him. “Sweetheart,” she murmured to him, her voice smooth as velvet. “We don’t need to explain ourselves to the help.” Then she looked at me. The warmth I had lived for over the last five years was gone. In its place was a sharp, clinical warning. “Just drive, Leo. Don’t ask questions that aren’t yours to ask.” My blood turned to ice. The help. This was the woman who, only this morning, had clung to me in our cramped kitchen, her eyes brimming with faux-guilt. “I’m so sorry you have to work so hard, Nate,” she’d whispered. “I swear, I’ll find a way to give us a better life. You won’t have to break your back forever.” I had a thousand questions screaming in my throat. I wanted to ask if this was a mistake. I wanted to ask if this man was delusional. But under her icy, indifferent stare, the words felt like broken glass in my mouth. I put the car back in gear and drove. The man, Tyler, didn’t stop talking. He was drunk on his own ego, eager to narrate his fairy-tale life to a captive audience. “You wouldn’t believe it, man,” Tyler chuckled, rubbing Kat’s shoulder. “When we got our marriage license last year, Kat handed out thousand-dollar bonuses to everyone in the clerk’s office. Just to hear them wish us a happy life. Cost her over fifty grand in five minutes.” He kissed her temple. “I love you, Kat. Why are you so good to me?” Kat flicked a glance toward the front, then patted his cheek. “Hush now.” I felt the color drain from my face. My stomach dropped into a hollow pit. Fifty-two thousand dollars. Exactly six months ago, I had needed forty-eight thousand for the surgery to save my pinky finger after an accident on a freelance gig. We didn’t have the money. I had to choose between the debt and the digit. I lost the finger. It turns out, that was just pocket change to her. A tip for strangers. During the days after the amputation, Kat had never left my side. She had cried as she watched the nurse change the bandages. “I’m so sorry, Nate. I’m so useless. I couldn’t even find the money for your surgery.” She had kissed my scarred hand, her eyes shining with what I thought was soul-deep sincerity. “From now on, I’ll be your hand. I’ll carry everything for you.” What was that, then? A performance? An exercise in Method acting? I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached, fighting the urge to drive the car off a bridge. Tyler wasn’t done. He gave a shy, boyish laugh. “And get this—she proposed to me in a cathedral in Italy. She said it was the only place holy enough to hold her love for me.” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. My dream wedding had always been a simple church ceremony. I’d mentioned it once, years ago. Kat had brushed it off, saying she didn’t believe in the performative nature of religion, that a church felt too cold, too restrictive. I guess it wasn’t the church she hated. It was the idea of being there with me. She’d already sworn her soul to another man before a cross. Two hours later, we reached the outskirts of The Hollows. “Finally,” Tyler groaned. “Kat, when are you coming home for real? I hate having to sneak around these projects just to see you.” Kat opened the door, stepping out with a grace that didn’t belong in the mud. “Not now, Tyler. Go on.” She turned back, flicked a hundred-dollar bill through the driver’s side window onto my lap, and walked away without a word. I stared at the bill. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Then, my phone chimed. A text from Kat. Stay in the car. I watched them. I watched them walk into the building—into the apartment that I had spent three years paying for, the place we called our home. They walked in together, her arm draped intimately around his waist. Minutes ticked by like slow-turning knives. Eventually, Tyler emerged. A black town car was waiting for him at the curb. He got in and disappeared into the night. My phone buzzed again. Two words, cold and command-like: Come up. 2 When I walked into the apartment, Kat was sitting on our secondhand sofa. She didn’t look like a construction worker anymore. She looked like a queen surveying a peasant. She beckoned me with a flick of her wrist. “Sit down, Nate. We need to talk.” I walked over, but I didn’t sit. As I stood near her, I could smell it—the lingering scent of Tyler’s heavy cologne on her neck. It made my skin crawl. The fact that she wasn’t even trying to apologize, that she sat there with such casual indifference after being caught in a five-year lie, made a hot, jagged rage flare in my chest. I recoiled, stepping back as if she were something venomous. “You’ve been lying to me for five years, Kat. Five years of ‘struggling’ together, five years of me working double shifts so you could ‘rest.’ And all you have to say is ‘we need to talk’?” Her dark eyes, usually so soft, turned flat and hard. “And what do you want me to say?” She kicked off her heels and leaned back, crossing her legs. “Don’t overplay your hand, Nate Miller.” I felt the floor shift beneath me. This Kat was a stranger. This arrogant, entitled creature was the polar opposite of the warm, supportive woman I’d loved. And yet, the face was the same. “Why?” I choked out, my eyes stinging. I felt small. I felt pathetic. “You’re a Montgomery. You’re the heir to a fortune. Why did you watch me lose my finger? Why didn’t you help me?” She let out a short, dry chuckle and stood up. She walked toward me, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her touch felt like ice. “Because the Kat you were with was a girl on a construction site,” she said, her voice dripping with a terrifying kind of logic. “She didn’t have fifty thousand dollars. And Nate… if you really loved me, you wouldn’t be questioning the money. Unless, of course, you’re only interested in the inheritance?” Slap. The sound echoed through the small room, sharp as a gunshot. The air turned frigid. My breath hitched, my vision blurring with tears of pure fury. “I’m interested in the money? Kat, look me in the eye and say that again. Look at the man who sold his blood and his time for you!” Kat’s head stayed turned to the side, her jaw tight. Slowly, she looked back at me, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Calm down, Nate.” I shook my head, stumbling back. “I can’t be calm! Do you think this is a joke? While you were sipping hundred-dollar vintages at the Sovereign, were you laughing at me? Was my love just a punchline for your rich friends?” Kat’s patience snapped. She shoved me back and headed for the door. “Talk to me when you’ve stopped being hysterical.” She paused at the threshold, looking back at me with a chilling, clinical gaze. “If you want, I can keep you. You’d be a very comfortable mistress, Nate. Think about it.” The door slammed with a force that shook the walls. Then, silence. I sat on the floor for a long time, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. Searching for the truth is easy when you have a name. I found Tyler Preston’s Instagram. The top post was a photo of their marriage certificate—filed in New York a year ago. I stumbled into our bedroom and opened the small floor safe. I pulled out two documents. They were symbolic “marriage certificates” from a trip we took to a remote village in Ireland two years ago. She had held my face that night, the stars reflecting in her eyes. “In this village, Nate, the old traditions say a vow is forever. There is no such thing as divorce here. I brought you here to tell you that we are bound for eternity.” I finally understood. She didn’t want to marry me in the States because she was already married. The trip to Ireland, the “forever vow”—it was all a smokescreen to keep me compliant, to give me the illusion of commitment without the legal reality. A bitter, jagged laugh escaped me. The stress of the revelation triggered a familiar, searing pain in my wrist. An old injury from when I’d shielded her from a falling pallet on a job site years ago. It had never healed properly because I couldn’t afford the physical therapy. I pulled out my phone and texted her: The old injury is flaring up. It’s bad, Kat. I can barely breathe. In less than thirty minutes, she was back. Her expression was dark, her movements hurried. She grabbed my arm. “Get in the car. We’re going to the clinic.” My heart jumped. Was there a spark of the old Kat left? “Why the sudden concern?” She didn’t look at me as she dragged me toward the door. “You can’t be a mess right now. Not with Tyler around. I need you healthy enough to stand upright and not look like a charity case. We’re going to get you a steroid shot to suppress the pain. You are not going to ruin things by falling apart in public.” She looked at me, a flicker of something—guilt? Pity?—crossing her face. “Be a good boy, Nate. I’ll make it up to you later.” The coldness that washed over me was absolute. “No… Kat, the doctor said if I keep suppressing the inflammation with drugs, I’ll lose the use of the hand entirely. It needs rest, not a mask.” I tried to pull away. “My hand, it’s—” “Enough!” Kat snapped, her voice echoing in the hallway. “Nate Miller, you don’t have the luxury of choice anymore. You’re coming with me.” 3 I was sedated and taken to a private wing of a hospital I didn’t recognize. Kat had the doctors pump me full of high-dose painkillers and nerve blockers to “mask” the injury. When I woke up, the sun was streaming through the window. I was alone. The door pushed open, and a doctor I’d seen months ago at the free clinic walked in. He looked at my chart, then at me, his face a mask of grim frustration. “What were you thinking?” he asked, his voice low. “I told you after the accident that you needed rest and careful rehab. Now? These high-potency suppressants have scorched the nerves. You…” He took a deep breath, looking away. “You’re likely going to lose all motor function in this hand. You won’t be able to lift a coffee cup, let alone work.” I stared at my hand under the sheets. It felt heavy, like a piece of dead wood attached to my arm. Tears blurred my vision. “I didn’t have a choice…” The woman I loved had systematically dismantled the only thing I had left—my ability to provide for myself. The doctor sighed. “There’s more. The nerve damage is permanent, and the complications from the old injury are going to cause you chronic, systemic pain. You need to prepare yourself for a very difficult road ahead.” The door burst open the second the doctor left. A figure blurred toward me, grabbing me by the hair and snapping my head back. Slap. “You pathetic little leach!” Tyler Preston was shaking with rage, his face contorted. “I knew it. You’re not just some driver—you’re Kat’s little side-piece! That apartment in the Hollows? That was yours, wasn’t it?” I winced, the pain in my neck sharp and sudden. I was almost pulled off the bed. I looked him in the eye, my voice trembling but clear. “Tyler, I’m not the one who lied to you.” He laughed, a shrill, ugly sound. “You think I care? Look at you. A crippled nobody trying to climb the Montgomery ladder. Kat didn’t even tell you who she was! She kept you in a cage because she knew you were a gold-digger!” I gripped the bedsheets, my body shaking. Before I could retort, Kat appeared in the doorway. She looked at the scene—Tyler hovering over me—and her expression merely went flat. She stepped forward, putting a protective arm around Tyler. “Tyler, stop. It’s not what you think.” Tyler turned to her, his eyes brimming with performative tears. “You’re still defending him!” Kat saw his tears and immediately softened. She began wiping them away with her thumb, her voice a coo of pure devotion. “No, baby… I’m not.” She sighed, a look of utter surrender on her face. “Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.” Tyler turned back to me, a cruel, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He looked at my pale, ghost-like face and made his demand. “I want him at the wedding. Not in the back. I want him to be my Best Man. I want him to stand there and watch every second of us becoming one. I want him to see what a real marriage looks like.” “Done,” Kat said. “No,” I whispered. The two words collided. I looked at Kat, the pain in my chest eclipsing the pain in my arm. “Kat, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? My hand… I can never use it again. I’m going to be in pain for the rest of my life because of what you did yesterday.” “That’s enough,” she interrupted, her voice like a sheet of lead. “You don’t have the right to refuse, Nate. Behave yourself.” She turned back to Tyler, smiling. “There. Satisfied?” I closed my eyes, a cold stone settling in my gut. “I said no. I won’t go.” “Get out,” I told them, my voice devoid of emotion. “Both of you. Get out.” They didn’t move. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, determined to leave, even if I had to crawl. Then, Kat’s voice stopped me. It was a low, vibrationless threat. “Nate Miller. Your brother, Ben? He’s still at that university in Chicago, isn’t he? Accidents happen on campuses every day. Muggings, hit-and-runs… it’s a dangerous world.” I froze. My hand gripped the doorframe so hard the wood groaned. I turned back, my gaze filled with a sudden, sharp hatred. “You wouldn’t.” “Try me,” she said. I looked at her—really looked at her—and realized I had been in love with a ghost for five years. The woman standing there was a monster. “Fine,” I spat. “I’ll go. Just leave him alone.” She nodded, satisfied. Tyler grinned. “Rehearsal is tomorrow. At the Stone Creek Chapel. Don’t be late.” The next day, I dragged my broken body and my shattered spirit to the chapel. I didn’t expect that a “rehearsal” would involve Tyler’s entire inner circle of trust-fund vultures. 4 The moment they saw me, the air filled with sneers. “So this is the guy who tried to seduce Kat?” a guy in a tailored vest smirked. “Looks like a stray dog. Where do they even find these people?” “Should we teach him some manners, Tyler? He looks like he needs a reminder of where he belongs.” Tyler looked at me with a fake, weary sigh. He was wearing a custom-tailored suit that made Kat’s lace gown look even more luminous. “Let it go, guys,” Tyler said, though his eyes were dancing with malice. “I just want to have a beautiful day with my Kat. I don’t want any trouble.” His friends weren’t about to let their “brother” be insulted by my mere existence. A guy with a shock of red hair stepped forward, his eyes narrowed with disdain. Without a word of warning, his hand blurred. The slap was so hard it sent me reeling. Between the painkillers and my weakened state, I didn’t have the balance to stay upright. I crashed into a row of wooden pews, my forehead slamming against the sharp corner of the oak. Warm blood immediately began to trickle down my face. The red-haired guy didn’t even flinch. He spat on the floor near my head. “Trash.” The others moved in, mocking me, shoving me, their hands stinging as they pinched and pulled at my clothes as if I were a rag doll. “What’s going on?” Kat walked in, her brow furrowing as she saw the commotion. Tyler immediately turned on the waterworks. He looked at her with huge, shimmering eyes. “Kat… Nate is angry. He doesn’t want to be the Best Man. He started screaming at me, saying you don’t really love me, that it’s all a lie. My friends… they just couldn’t stand to hear him talk to me like that.” Kat’s gaze moved to me. I was on the floor, bleeding and broken. Her eyes flickered for a fraction of a second—a ghost of a memory—before turning to cold stone. “Nate Miller,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous register. “It seems you don’t care about your brother’s safety after all.” I looked up at her through the blood, a cold dread seizing my heart. “What do you mean?” I tried to crawl toward her, my voice a desperate rasp. “Kat, please. Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll stand there, I’ll smile, just please—” She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. I turned and dropped to my knees before Tyler. I lowered my head, the ultimate humiliation. “Mr. Preston… I’m sorry. Please. I was wrong. Just let my brother go.” After a long, agonizing silence, Tyler chuckled. “Geez, Nate, don’t be so dramatic. Fine. Let’s get on with the rehearsal.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. As long as Ben was safe, I didn’t care about my dignity. He was the only family I had left in the world. I remembered Kat once telling me: “Nate, from now on, my family is yours. I’ll always be your rock.” What a joke. We were halfway through the ceremony walk-through when Kat’s assistant burst through the chapel doors, her face white as a sheet. “Ms. Montgomery… there’s been an incident. Nate’s brother, Ben… he was picked up by some men. There was a high-speed chase. His car rolled. He… he’s gone.” The world tilted. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Kat’s face tightened. “Who picked him up? I didn’t give that order yet.” The assistant hesitated, glancing at Tyler. Tyler shrugged, looking bored. “I did. I just wanted to move him to a more ‘secure’ location to make sure Nate behaved. I didn’t know the kid would freak out and try to run. It was an accident.” The grief hit me like a physical explosion. I felt the blood rush to my head, my vision turning red. I lunged at Tyler, a primal scream tearing from my throat. “I’ll kill you!” Thump. Before I could even touch him, Kat’s foot connected with my ribs. I was thrown back, hitting the floor like a broken bird. “He didn’t do it on purpose!” Kat snapped. She looked at me, a flicker of something that might have been regret crossing her face, but it was quickly buried under her cold pragmatism. “I’ll pay for the funeral. A top-tier service.” She looked away. “Think about your position. The wedding is in ten days. Don’t be late. I’ll make it up to you after the honeymoon.” She took Tyler’s hand and walked out, leaving me in the dirt. Ben was dead. I had nothing. No hand, no family, no love. The pain was so absolute it was numbing. I walked out of the chapel, toward the highway. I saw a semi-truck barreling down the road at sixty miles an hour. I closed my eyes and stepped into the light. The next morning, the chapel coordinator called Kat. “Ms. Montgomery? We might need to discuss moving the venue. There was a… situation at the chapel. It might be bad luck.” Kat felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest. “What do you mean?” “A man committed suicide on the road right outside the gates yesterday. It was… messy. He seemed completely out of his mind.”

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My mother’s body wasn’t even cold when I put my billionaire father’s “One Who Got Away” up for sale on the internet. [For just $888, unlock the complete dossier on Harrison Blackwood’s first love. The look, the scent, the secrets. Perfect the imitation, and you might just become the next Mrs. Blackwood.] In my previous life, shortly after my mother passed, my father held my hands and promised, “You’re my only child, Remi. Everything I’ve built—the estates, the company, the legacy—it’s all yours.” But his “Golden Girl” from the past, Isabella Rossi, didn’t stay a memory for long. She showed up on our doorstep, playing the part of the grieving soulmate, and they picked up exactly where they’d left off twenty years ago. Isabella didn’t just replace my mother; she systematically dismantled my life. She tormented me behind closed doors while whispering poison into my father’s ear. Eventually, she gave him the one thing he always wanted—a son. I was stripped of my inheritance, cast out of the Blackwood dynasty, and left to starve to death in the rain, collapsed over my mother’s neglected grave. Now that I’ve been sent back, I will protect my place as the sole heir of this empire by any means necessary. The “Isabella Starter Pack” went viral instantly. I sold over 9,999 copies. Suddenly, New York was crawling with Isabella look-alikes. Women were getting filler, reshaping their jawlines, and adopting that specific “innocent-yet-haughty” Italian-American lilt just to catch my father’s eye. It turned his life into a chaotic hall of mirrors. Later, when the real Isabella Rossi finally made her grand return, my father didn’t run to her with open arms. Instead, he shoved me forward. “Another plastic clone, Remi. Get rid of her. I’m exhausted.” 1 When I saw the real Isabella Rossi standing there, that familiar surge of hatred boiled in my veins. Without a second thought, I stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap across her face. “Don’t think a trip to a surgeon and a vintage dress is going to get you into this house,” I spat. “Get lost.” Isabella clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with genuine shock. “Are you insane? How dare you touch me! I’m the woman your father has spent half his life dreaming about!” I crossed my arms and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “That’s what the last three hundred girls said. You need a new script, honey. This one is vintage, and not in a good way.” Isabella looked utterly bewildered. She didn’t understand how she had been categorized as a ‘fake.’ Desperate, she screamed past me toward the foyer. “Harrison! Harrison, look at me! It’s really me! It’s Isabella!” But my father was leaning against the grand piano, rubbing his temples. He’d heard this exact performance ten times this week already. He didn’t even bother to look up. I suppressed a smile. So what if the real Isabella was finally here? Ever since I’d turned her identity into a commodity, the world was saturated with her likeness. Social climbers and gold-diggers had spent thousands to mimic her personality and study her old social media footprints. They bought my father’s schedule on the black market, staging “chance encounters” at his favorite bistros. At first, my father was mesmerized by these ghosts. He indulged them, showered them with Cartier bracelets and six-figure wire transfers, chasing the emotional high of his youth. But as the Isabella clones multiplied like weeds, he started to get suspicious. “Why are there so many of them, Remi? It’s… it’s eerie. They all look like her. They even smell like that specific perfume she used to wear.” That was when I stepped in, handing him a meticulously curated folder. “You’re right to be suspicious, Dad. These women are hunting you. They knew Mom was gone and figured the best way to get to your bank account was to wear the face of your first love. It’s a calculated play for the Blackwood fortune.” Harrison was livid. He felt violated, his sacred memory turned into a cheap trend. He threw them all out. The constant influx of “Isabellas” had turned his nostalgia into a physiological aversion. Now, whenever a woman with dark curls and doe eyes appeared, my father would delegate the dirty work to me. “Handle it, Remi. Consider it training. You’re going to run this empire one day; you can’t let these vultures win.” So, just like the dozens of times before, I blocked Isabella’s path. “I’ve seen your type all month. You’re the 99th ‘Isabella’ I’ve had to kick off the property this week.” My father waved a hand dismissively from the hallway. “Remi, don’t waste your breath. Just release the dogs.” “You got it, Dad!” I signaled the security detail, and within seconds, three massive Dobermans were circling Isabella. As the dogs growled, ready to spring, she frantically fumbled with her Chanel clutch and pulled out a stack of documents. “Harrison, look! My passport, my birth certificate! Look at the dates! I’m the real Isabella Rossi!” My father finally looked up, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. 2 Isabella’s face lit up with a flash of triumph. She waved the documents in the air like a flag of surrender. “I have everything to prove who I am. Just look at them!” When my father didn’t move, she tossed her hair back with that practiced, effortless grace. “Fakes can’t recreate the soul, Harrison. You used to say you could find me in a dark room just by the way I breathe. Look into my eyes. You know it’s me.” My heart hammered against my ribs. She was right—logic could only go so far. Eventually, the truth has a way of vibrating at a different frequency. I stayed calm. I snatched the documents out of her hand and dropped them into the gravel. “Dad, this is the thirty-eighth woman to bring ‘authentic’ forged documents. The black market for fake IDs is getting terrifyingly good. We should probably call the DA.” Because a few of the earlier “clones” had been particularly clever, my father didn’t even bother to check the papers. He stared at Isabella for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “Remi, modern surgery is a miracle. This one… she actually looks like the memory I had. It’s almost impressive.” Isabella’s voice turned into a shriek. “Harrison, are you senile? It’s me! What do I have to do to make you believe me?” Her screaming agitated the Dobermans. They lunged forward, barking furiously, forcing her to stumble back toward the gate. I turned to my father, playing the role of the concerned daughter. “Dad, remember the one from last Tuesday? You said the same thing about her. Honestly, I think the other girl’s nose was more natural.” Harrison gave a weary, cynical laugh. “I can’t tell anymore. I’ve seen this face so much lately I’m starting to get sick of it.” He cast a cold, final look at Isabella. “If you aren’t off my property in sixty seconds, I’m letting the dogs finish their job. I don’t care how much you spent on that face; it’s not worth a trip to the ER.” He turned away, patting my shoulder as we walked back into the mansion. “Thank God I have you, Remi. I’d be drowning in these lunatics without you. Go back to those quarterly reports. If you keep this up, the board won’t have any choice but to recognize you as my successor.” Isabella stood at the gate, trembling with rage. She hadn’t flown all the way from Italy to be treated like a cheap knock-off. In my last life, she had used her “First Love” status to waltz into our lives and marry my father within months. She’d started small—hiding my medications, putting tacks in my shoes, making me look like the “troubled daughter.” Then, once she was pregnant with his “true heir,” she turned him completely against me. This time, I was the one holding the cards. As the gate began to hiss shut, she turned and locked eyes with me. “Remi Blackwood,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “I know your father isn’t this cynical on his own. You’re behind this. You enjoy your little victory for now, but I’m going to make him realize who I am. And when I’m your stepmother, I’m going to make you wish you’d died with your mother.” 3 I watched her silhouette disappear down the driveway, a cold weight settling in my stomach. If Isabella was going to play the long game, she’d eventually find a way to break through. She had memories I couldn’t fake—private moments, inside jokes. Eventually, the “clones” wouldn’t be enough of a distraction. A fierce, protective fire ignited in my chest. I wouldn’t lose my home again. I wouldn’t let her take the Blackwood name. That night, I put my father up for sale, too. [For $666, unlock Harrison Blackwood’s ‘Type.’ His favorite wines, his secret turn-ons, the specific way he likes to be flattered, and his complete social calendar for the next three months.] Every gala, every charity auction, every private dinner—I leaked it all to the most ambitious social climbers in Manhattan. The “product” sold out within hours. Any woman with a designer dress and a dream was now equipped with a roadmap to my father’s heart. I wanted Isabella to have so much competition that she couldn’t even get in the room. A week later, Isabella showed up at a high-end charity gala for the Met, looking radiant in a custom gown. But when she walked in, she froze. My father was already the center of a literal swarm of beautiful women. “Harrison,” purred a twenty-two-year-old NYU grad with a face like an angel. “I’m the girl you sponsored through that scholarship program years ago. I’ve always wanted to thank you… properly.” Harrison lingered on her for a moment. Youth was a powerful drug. “Mr. Blackwood, you look like you’ve been working too hard,” cooed a sophisticated thirty-something divorcee with a voice like velvet. “A man in your position needs someone who understands the pressure.” “Your shoes are dusty, sir,” whispered a stunning model, kneeling down to “fix” his lace, giving him a deliberate view of her cleavage. Isabella was forty. No matter how much Botox she had, she couldn’t compete with the raw, hungry energy of these twenty-something predators who had my “Isabella Dossier” memorized. I spotted her standing by the bar, clutching her champagne glass so hard I thought it might shatter. I sauntered over. “Still trying, Isabella? You’re looking a little… tired. My dad is busy with his fan club.” She turned to me, her lip curling. “How can you stand this, Remi? Your mother hasn’t been gone for half a year, and you’re acting as a pimp for your father? These women are vultures. You should be helping him, not encouraging this circus!” I laughed, the sound sharp and cold. “I’m a big girl, Isabella. My dad is in his prime; why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? I’d much rather he have a hundred girlfriends than one manipulative stepmother.” As long as my father was distracted by a rotating cast of “fun” women, he wouldn’t settle down. He knew these girls were just for show, and they didn’t require an emotional commitment. Plus, I had been slipping long-term male contraceptives into his daily “longevity supplements.” There would be no surprise heirs this time. Isabella left the gala in tears. For months, the plan worked perfectly. My father was so preoccupied with his social life that he started handing over more and more corporate responsibility to me. I solidified my alliances with the board and secured the loyalty of our biggest clients. Isabella vanished from the scene. I thought I’d won. Then, one morning, my father walked into the breakfast nook looking uncharacteristically nervous. “The strangest thing happened, Remi. My old prep school mentor is organizing a small ‘legacy’ reunion tonight. He insisted I come for old time’s sake.” A cold chill ran down my spine. The reunion. In the first life, that was where Isabella had cornered him. She’d orchestrated the whole event, got him drunk, and ended up in his bed. That night was the beginning of my nightmare. 4 Isabella Rossi was nothing if not persistent. I leaned in and forced a sweet, concerned smile. “Oh, Dad, you know those reunions always end in too much scotch. Why don’t I come with you? I’ll be your designated driver and keep the boring stories at bay.” “My girl,” he beamed. “You really are my rock. It’ll be good to show you off—everyone needs to see who’s really running the show at Blackwood Inc. these days.” Before we left, I made sure he took his “supplements.” We walked into the private room at the University Club, and the trap was sprung immediately. His old professor steered him toward the center of the room, where a woman stood waiting. She was wearing a simple, modest white dress. Her hair was in a soft, nostalgic braid. She looked exactly like a Polaroid from 1998. “Harrison,” she whispered, her eyes glistening. “It’s been a lifetime.” My father stopped dead. The “clones” had been too much—too loud, too aggressive. But this? This was the quiet, understated ghost of his youth. The “supplement” I’d given him hadn’t kicked in yet, or perhaps the alcohol hit faster. “Isabella,” he breathed, pulling her into a fierce hug. “It’s really you. I knew it. Those other girls… they were just static. You’re the melody.” Isabella blinked innocently, leaning into his chest. “What girls, darling? I’ve been in Italy, just trying to find my way back to you.” The room erupted in cheers and “Awws.” Someone shouted, “You’re both single now—it’s fate! Pick up where you left off!” Isabella looked at me over my father’s shoulder, a venomous spark of victory in her eyes. “Oh, Harrison, your daughter is right there. We shouldn’t talk like this in front of her.” My father didn’t even look at me. “Remi is the most supportive daughter in the world. She just wants me to be happy. She won’t mind.” A few months ago, when he was cycling through models, I’d told him I just wanted him to find “true joy” to secure my position. Now, those words were coming back to haunt me. I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood in my palms. “A daughter just wants what’s best for her father,” I said, my voice tight but steady. Isabella smirked and spent the rest of the night glued to his side. They were drinking, whispering, and reliving a past that I was determined to bury. That night, Harrison took her to a hotel. I wasn’t too worried about a “miracle baby” yet because of the meds, but I needed to break their momentum. The next day, I called in the “Isabella Clones”—the top ten most ambitious ones. “Each of you gets $50,000 if you can occupy his time,” I told them. “I don’t care what you do. Don’t let him spend a single hour alone with Isabella Rossi.” The war began. One girl took him on a yacht party; another lured him to a weekend at a private vineyard. Isabella was being out-hustled by her own reflections. I thought I had managed to stall her again. But then, while my father was in a suite at the St. Regis with a lingerie model I’d “vetted,” Isabella burst through the door. I was waiting in the hallway. “Which little bitch is it this time?” Isabella snarled, trying to shove past me. “Move, Remi!” I looked at her like she was a stain on the carpet. “Watch your mouth. These ‘beautiful women’ are my father’s guests. They have a title. You? You’re just a ghost who doesn’t know she’s dead.” I expected her to crumble. Instead, she looked at me with a sickening, pitying smile. “Remi, you really should learn some respect for your future stepmother. Otherwise, you’re going to be crying very soon.” She pulled out her phone and dialed my father. I laughed. “He’s busy. He doesn’t want to see a woman who reminds him of his mortgage and his mid-life crisis. Get out before I call security.” I reached for the house phone to make good on my threat. But then, the suite door swung open. My father stepped out, pulling his silk robe shut. He looked at me with a coldness I hadn’t seen in this lifetime. “Remi, stop it. Isabella is going to be your stepmother. You will show her the respect she deserves.” I froze. Isabella caught my eye and winked.

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Seven years of marriage, and my husband finally agreed to spend the holidays with my parents. But for the seventh year in a row, the car pulled up in front of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment complex. “I took a wrong turn,” Miles said, his eyes never leaving his phone. “Since we’re already here, we might as well grab lunch with them.” Bridget’s mother was already at the door, beaming. She reached out and grasped Miles’s wrist with practiced familiarity. “My favorite son-in-law! You’re finally here.” When she saw our son, her smile widened. “Max, honey, did you miss your Grandma?” Max chirped a greeting and ran into her arms. I was left standing in the foyer, still clutching the gift baskets I’d bought for my own mother. This was the seventh time he had “accidentally” taken a wrong turn. Looking at the three of them, a cold realization washed over me. Maybe it was time I took a different road, too. … “Oh, Diana. You’re here as well?” Mrs. Gable’s eyes flickered with a hint of annoyance before she masked it with a polite, hollow smile. “You’re getting older, dear. Why are you still following your brother around every year?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. It was a sick joke, really. I had been married to Miles for seven years, and every holiday season, he brought me here. He told everyone I was his sister. In front of Bridget’s mother, I was the tag-along sibling. Even my own son, Max, was coached to call me “Aunt Diana” whenever we were in this house. “Ma, don’t worry about her,” Miles said with a light chuckle, walking inside like he owned the place. “Where’s Bridget?” Right on cue, Bridget stepped out of the bedroom. She glided over and naturally looped her arm through Miles’s. “Hey, baby.” Max saw her and immediately lunged, hugging her knees. “Mommy! I missed you!” Miles looked down at them, a smile tugging at his lips. His eyes held a warmth, a gentle tenderness, that I had never once seen directed at me. My chest tightened, the air leaving my lungs as if someone were squeezing the life out of me. As Mrs. Gable headed into the kitchen, I caught Miles’s sleeve and lowered my voice. “You said… you said we were going to my parents’ place this year.” He didn’t even look at me. “I’m just used to the drive. It was a mistake.” Max, playing with blocks on the rug, piped up in his sweet, high-pitched voice. “Mommy is here. I like it here. I don’t want to go to your house.” I froze. The words were soft, innocent, but they twisted in my gut like a serrated blade. Bridget leaned in, her face a mask of performative guilt. “Diana, I’m so sorry. Don’t listen to him, he’s just a kid.” She sighed, her eyes welling with tears. “I feel terrible… if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have to deal with all this.” Miles’s face hardened instantly. He pulled her against his shoulder. “How is any of this your fault?” He gently wiped a stray tear from her cheek before turning to me, his brow furrowed in a scowl. “Diana, don’t start drama. Not today.” I looked away, my gaze landing on a framed photo on the side table. It was the three of them—Miles, Bridget, and Max—grinning at a park. Miles and I didn’t have a single photo together. He always said he hated being in pictures. The truth was, he just hated being in them with me. I had loved Miles for fifteen years. When he and Bridget broke up years ago over a misunderstanding, he married me in a fit of spite and familial pressure. I was ecstatic, foolishly thinking I could win him over. But on our wedding night, he had looked at me with chilling indifference and said, “I don’t love you. I never will.” I didn’t believe him. I stayed. I tried. The day Max was born, Miles stood by the hospital bed for two minutes. “Good job,” he’d said. It was the kindest thing he’d ever told me. I thought it was a start. I thought we were finally becoming a family. Then Bridget came back. She had thrown herself into his arms, sobbing about her mother’s terminal illness—a diagnosis that seemed to conveniently linger for years without change. “Miles, please,” she’d begged. “My mom’s last wish is to see us together. Can you just… play along for her sake?” He had agreed without a second thought. And for years, he used the “wrong turn” excuse to trap me in this charade. The sounds of laughter and the sizzle of garlic drifted from the kitchen. Miles and Bridget were helping Mrs. Gable, and Max was perched on a stool, giggling as Mrs. Gable snuck him a piece of bacon. They looked like a perfect family. And I was the ghost haunting the hallway. The weight in my chest became unbearable. When Miles came out to grab some silverware, I blocked his path. “I’m leaving.” He stopped, his eyebrows twitching upward. “Lunch isn’t even ready. Where are you going?” “I can’t stay here, Miles.” “Don’t be ridiculous. If you leave now, it’ll look like Mrs. Gable was a bad hostess. Just sit down.” He tried to brush past me. I grabbed his arm. “I mean it. I’m going home.” He looked down at my hand on his sleeve, his expression darkening. “What is wrong with you lately? You’ve been doing this for years. Stop being so sensitive. We’ll leave after we eat.” I didn’t let go. “I want to leave now.” The air between us turned icy. Miles let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fine. Go. See how far you get.” I was stunned that he actually gave in, but I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I turned and walked out the door. The winter air hit me like a physical blow, but I welcomed it. I pulled out my phone and opened a rideshare app. The screen spun for a second before a notification popped up: [Transaction Declined: Insufficient Funds] My blood ran cold. I turned around. Miles was standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, watching me with a calm, predatory stillness. He had done it on purpose. He let me walk out because he knew I had nowhere to go. He had frozen my cards. “Done throwing your tantrum?” he asked, his voice flat. “Get back inside. Food’s getting cold.” I felt a wave of humiliation so intense I thought I might be sick. “Daddy!” Max ran out the door, followed by Bridget. He looked at me with a scowl. “Grandma says come eat!” Bridget hovered behind them, her eyes darting between Miles and me. “Is everything okay? Diana, did I do something to upset you? I’m so, so sorry… please don’t be mad…” Seeing Bridget’s “distress,” Max stepped in front of her, glaring at me. “You’re a mean lady! Stop being mean to my Mommy!” I felt my heart shatter into a million jagged pieces. This was the child I had carried for nine months. Miles hadn’t wanted a baby. He only gave in because his parents were relentless. I had spent my pregnancy in and out of the ER with severe morning sickness, often lying on a hospital cot at 3:00 AM completely alone. Miles never showed up. I didn’t mind then. I thought the baby would be my anchor. I quit my job to be a stay-at-home mom, giving up my financial independence to raise him. And now, my son looked at me like I was a villain. “Let’s go. Inside. Now,” Miles commanded. “No,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. “I’m going home, Miles.” The silence that followed was heavy. Miles stared at me for a long time, his gaze turning into something sharp and cruel. “Fine. Walk, then.” He turned, taking Bridget’s hand and leading Max back into the warm house. The door clicked shut, but I could still hear Bridget’s voice through the wood. “Miles, is she going to be okay out there?” “She’s fine. She just needs to cool her head.” “Yeah, Mommy, don’t worry about that mean lady!” The first snowflake drifted down, landing on my hand. My house was thirty miles away. He was telling me to walk thirty miles in a blizzard. I looked down, my vision blurring. A hot tear traced a searing line down my frozen cheek. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Diana? Honey, where are you? We’ve been waiting.” I bit my lip, trying to swallow the sob rising in my throat. “I’m sorry, Mom. Miles… he took a wrong turn. We’re not going to make it today.” There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a forced, cheerful sigh. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. We’ll see you after the holidays. Just… take care of yourself, okay? Don’t let yourself get pushed around.” I hung up, unable to speak. I crumpled onto the snowy curb, shivering. This neighborhood was in the far suburbs. On the day after Christmas, everything was closed. The streets were deserted. There was nowhere to hide from the cold. I don’t know how much time passed before a pair of boots appeared in my peripheral vision. Miles sighed and scooped me up into his arms. His touch was unexpectedly gentle. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he muttered. “You’re freezing.” I didn’t answer. I just let the tears fall silently as he carried me to the car and cranked the heat. As the warmth rushed over me, my frozen fingers began to throb with pain. He glanced at me. “Max wants to spend the night with Bridget. I’ll pick him up tomorrow. He doesn’t like being around you when you’re like this, Diana. You really should reflect on why your own son prefers someone else.” I let out a hollow laugh. The reason was simple: I was the one who made him do his homework and eat his vegetables. Bridget was the one who gave him candy and told him stories about how “Aunt Diana” was a bitter woman. I had nothing to reflect on. Miles’s tone softened. “I only come here because Bridget’s mom is sick. It doesn’t mean anything else. Don’t be mad, okay?” He reached into his pocket and tossed a small velvet box into my lap. “I bought you that necklace you liked. Consider it an apology. Now stop the act.” I opened the box. Inside was a diamond pendant I’d seen in a magazine once. A limited-edition piece. I stared at his profile. He couldn’t remember our anniversary, but he remembered a random page I’d flipped past. He didn’t love me, but he knew exactly how to keep me on the hook. “Better?” He reached over and ruffled my hair. “You’re so easy to please.” I opened my mouth to speak, but his phone rang. He answered it immediately. Bridget’s frantic sobbing filled the car. “Miles… I tripped on the stairs… my ankle, it hurts so bad… can you come back? Please?” Miles’s face transformed. Without a word of explanation to me, he slammed the car into reverse and sped back to the apartment. “Stay here,” he said as he jumped out. “She’s fragile. She needs me.” I watched through the window as he ran to the door and gathered Bridget into his arms. She buried her face in his chest. Max stood beside them, patting Bridget’s arm, mimicking his father’s protective stance. I couldn’t hear them, but I didn’t need to. They were a unit. A family. And I was an intruder. My fingers hovered over the phone screen. I opened a draft and typed seven words: Have the divorce papers ready by Monday. Miles didn’t get home until after midnight. I was waiting in the living room, ready to end it, but the door opened and Bridget walked in, leaning on his arm, with Max trailing behind. “Her ankle is bad,” Miles said defensively. “She’s staying here for a few days so I can look after her.” Max cheered. “Mommy! Can you stay forever?” He looked at me with a sneer. “I don’t like her! I want you to be my real mommy!” Miles chuckled softly. Then, noticing my expression, he frowned. “It’s just for a few days. Don’t be petty. Besides, I pay the mortgage. I decide who stays here.” I felt a strange, numbing calm settle over me. The pain had reached a peak and simply snapped. “Fine,” I said. “She can stay.” “What?” Miles blinked, surprised by my lack of resistance. “I said fine. In fact, why don’t the three of you take the master bedroom? I’ll move into the guest room.” Miles’s face went pale. “What the hell are you talking about?” Bridget started to cry again, her voice trembling. “Diana… please don’t be like that… if I’m not welcome, I’ll go… I’ll just crawl back to my place…” Max hugged her waist, screaming at me. “Mommy stays here! You mean lady! You’re just mean!” I stood up and grabbed a blanket from the closet. “I’m serious. Stay as long as you want. Like you said, Miles—it’s your house.” I walked into the guest room and locked the door, muffling the sound of Max’s cheers and Bridget’s faux-protests. A few minutes later, Miles knocked. “Diana? Open up. What’s wrong with you?” I opened the door and smiled at him. It was the most honest smile I’d given him in years. “Nothing is wrong. I’m great.” “You’re obviously pissed. Bridget is just a guest. Don’t make this weird.” I nodded. “I’m not making it weird. I truly don’t care.” He searched my face, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he sighed. “Look, I know you’re still upset about the holiday thing. How about this: I’ll take you to your parents’ tomorrow. Just the two of us. Okay?” I stared at him. For seven years, my mother had called him every holiday, and for seven years, he was “too busy.” Now, he was offering it like a scrap of meat to a dog. “No thanks,” I said. “Stay here with Bridget.” He looked frustrated. “I said I’d go. I’m trying here, Diana.” “I have a gift for you tomorrow instead,” I said softly. “A gift? For what?” “You’ll see. I think you’re really going to like it.” He looked relieved. He stepped forward and tried to pull me into a hug. “There she is. Stop being a brat. Go to sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.” I didn’t hug him back. The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. A text from Miles was waiting on my phone: [Bridget’s ankle was acting up, took her to the clinic. Wait for me, I’ll be back in an hour and then we can go to your mom’s. Stay put.] I didn’t reply. I had spent fifteen years waiting for him. I was done. I packed my suitcase, walked into the kitchen, and placed the envelope on the marble island. The “gift” he had wanted for years: his freedom. I took one last look at the house that never felt like a home, and I walked out. I was leaving the man I’d loved for half my life, and I was never coming back.

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Since Cole Miller and Serena Vale became the nation’s favorite on-screen couple, I—Cole’s legal wife—have become a magnet for “accidents.” The first time, funeral wreaths were piled high against our front door, and the “Welcome” mat was soaked in what smelled like rot. The second time, I was cornered outside my office and doused in a bucket of thick, metallic-smelling animal blood. The third time, a car “lost control” on the sidewalk, sending me flying. I spent three months shattered in a hospital bed. Every time I cried to him, Cole’s response was a cool, detached shrug. “They’re just fans, Nicole. They get a little overzealous. Maybe if you stayed home like I told you, this wouldn’t happen.” Then came the tenth time. A “mysterious” fire broke out in our house while I was sleeping. I woke up to a wall of flames and ended up in the ICU for seven days, clinging to life with burns covering my body. The day I was discharged, Cole didn’t offer a hand to help me into the car. He offered a pen. He slid a divorce settlement across the seat. “Serena and I have a few more months of promotion. We need to get married to keep the momentum of the show alive. We’ll divorce now, and once the ‘showmance’ peak passes, we’ll quietly remarry.” He looked at me with those eyes the world fell in love with—eyes that used to belong to me. “It’s just PR, Nicole. You know that.” This time, I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I simply took the pen and signed my name. 1 “Nicole, honey, you can’t do this. You can’t leave Cole!” My mother-in-law, Margaret, rushed to the hospital the moment she heard. She grabbed my hands, her face a mask of genuine distress. “You two have been through everything together. You built this life from nothing.” “I know you’re hurting because of the rumors about him and Serena. I’ll call him right now. I’ll make him apologize!” Maybe Cole thought the same thing. He thought our history—the years of struggling in cramped Studio City apartments, sharing cheap ramen—was an unbreakable chain. He thought I’d never actually walk away. But I just shook my head, a tired, hollow smile touching my lips. I pulled out my phone and played a video. The room was dimly lit, but the figures were unmistakable. Cole and Serena, their bodies tangled, breathless and desperate. “Cole… I wish we could stay in the script forever,” Serena moaned. “I never want to leave this.” Cole kissed her, his voice a low, gravelly rasp I hadn’t heard in years. “If only I’d met you sooner. If only things were different.” I placed the phone on the bed and pushed the signed papers toward Margaret. My voice was a whisper. “His heart found a new home a long time ago. It’s time I let mine do the same.” The day I left the hospital was the day of Cole and Serena’s “Century Wedding.” The internet was a sea of blue hearts and celebratory hashtags. Every digital billboard in the city seemed to be looping the footage of their grand, romantic ceremony. The sun caught the massive sapphire on Serena’s finger, the glare so sharp it made my eyes ache. When we started, we were just two nobodies working as extras on the backlots of Burbank. We shared a dream, and that dream was the glue that held us together. When we got our marriage license, we didn’t have money for a ceremony, let alone a ring. We eventually scrounged enough to buy a thin silver band. It was a little too small, a little too plain. But back then, he’d gripped my hand and promised, “One day, Nicole, I’m going to give you the biggest diamond in the world. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret choosing me.” Now, he was fulfilling that promise to a different woman. The first time the tabloids caught them, I cried. He held me, smelling of guilt and expensive cologne, promising it was just “method acting” and that he’d set boundaries. The second time they were caught sharing an “intimate dinner,” he snapped at me. He told me they were “workshopping the script” and called me paranoid for “making something out of nothing.” The third time… I was alone in a cold clinic recovering from an ectopic pregnancy surgery when a video was DM’d to me. It showed them entering a hotel suite at 2:00 AM. When I confronted him, Cole didn’t even blink. “We were running lines, Nicole! Jesus, stop being so small-minded. I’m a public figure now. If you can’t handle the heat of this life, maybe you shouldn’t have married an actor.” When the show wrapped, a photo of them kissing on set—tearful and passionate—blew up globally. The comments were a unanimous chorus of adoration. [Look at them. That’s not acting. That’s true love. My ship has finally sailed!] [Cole Miller is the only man I’d forgive for cheating. He and Serena are soulmates!] [Can Cole’s wife just get out of the way already? How can some plain, retired extra even stand next to an Emmy winner?] That was the day the stalking intensified. The day the threats became physical. And every time I begged Cole for help, he just looked at me with cold, bored eyes. “My fans are rational people, Nicole. They wouldn’t do that. Maybe you should look at your own life and see who you’ve pissed off.” Then came the fire. When I woke up from the smoke inhalation and the burns, he was standing there with the divorce papers. “Serena and I need the buzz. It’s just a role.” “Be a good girl. Give me a month. Once the PR cycle ends, we’ll remarry.” I realized then that our marriage hadn’t just hit a wall. It had burned to ash in that house. 2 The day after I was discharged, my phone buzzed. It was Cole. “Nicole, did you forget to tell my mother that this is temporary? She’s making things impossible for Serena!” His voice was sharp, entitled. “You need to go over there right now and fix this, or don’t even think about us remarrying.” In the past, no matter who was at fault, I was always the one to bow my head first. But now, hearing the arrogance in his voice, I just said calmly, “Fine. Then let’s not remarry.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then he let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Don’t play hard to get, Nicole. It doesn’t suit you. We both know you’ll be crawling back to me in a week.” I remembered a time when the rumors were everywhere. We had planned a quiet dinner for my birthday, but Serena called. She had a “panic attack,” she said. Cole left before the appetizers arrived. That was our biggest fight. I screamed that I wanted a divorce. Cole’s eyes turned to ice. “Don’t you dare threaten me, Nicole. You’ll regret it.” He didn’t come home for three months. He blocked me everywhere. Desperate, I went to his hotel to find him, but he looked me in the eye and told the security guards he didn’t know who I was. I was arrested for stalking. I spent seven days in a holding cell—cold, hungry, and terrified—until Cole finally showed up to bail me out. He looked down at me, looking like a mess, and whispered, “Let that be a lesson, Nicole. Watch your mouth.” That was the day my heart shattered for the first time. After that, I stopped fighting about Serena. I became the perfect, quiet wife. I stayed in my lane. But in the end, I still lost everything. It was a family dinner at the estate. Margaret had called, begging me to come over for a “final” family meal. I couldn’t say no to her; she was the only person in that family who had ever been kind to me. But the moment I walked in, I saw Cole sitting at the table, meticulously peeling shrimp for Serena. I froze. Cole used to hate “messy” food. He hated the effort. But here he was, breaking his own rules for her. When he saw me, his forehead creased in irritation. “We’re divorced, Nicole. What are you doing here? If the paparazzi see you, it’ll ruin Serena’s image!” “I invited her,” Margaret said firmly, gesturing for me to sit beside her. Her expression was pained. Serena suddenly spoke up, her voice dripping with mock-sweetness. “Nicole, I heard you used to be an actress too. Is it true you quit because of that… incident with the director? The ‘casting couch’ thing?” The room went deathly silent. My body went rigid. That was my first real gig. A director had spiked my drink at a wrap party. I’d managed to text Cole my location before I blacked out. He’d found me in time, but the trauma had been paralyzing. Cole had taken two months off to stay with me, telling me I should just stay home where it was safe. That was why I quit. Serena tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. “I mean, some girls try to sleep their way to the top and then cry ‘assault’ when the deal falls through. I always wondered… you were already half-undressed when Cole found you, weren’t you? Who knows what really happened?” 3 Cole slammed his glass onto the table. The glass shattered, shards flying across the tablecloth. One sliced into my finger, but I didn’t feel it. I was too busy watching Cole’s face, which had turned a sickly shade of gray. A month after that trauma, I’d discovered I was pregnant. Cole had said he believed me back then, but I’d find him on the balcony at 3:00 AM, smoking in silence, looking at me with suspicion. We fought constantly. I lost the baby shortly after. After the miscarriage, the distance between us became a canyon. Cole’s voice cut through the air, cold and sharp. “Nicole. I’m asking you one more time. That night… were you actually raped?” The question was a knife, twisting in an old wound. “You never believed me, did you, Cole?” He stared at me, his jaw tight. “I just want the truth. I need to know the truth before I can commit to remarrying you.” I started to laugh—a soft, broken sound. “I’m not remarrying you, Cole. Ever.” “If you believe her so much, then stay with her. You deserve each other.” Cole sneered, his voice dropping to a cruel, tender tone. “Stop the theatrics. You have no career, no income. I’m the only thing keeping you from the gutter. You don’t have the guts to leave me.” Finally, the ugly truth was out. “Enough!” Margaret shouted, slamming her hand on the table. She reached over to comfort me, but as she took a bite of her salad, her face suddenly flushed a deep, terrifying red. She began to cough violently, gasping for air. “Mom!” Cole rushed to her side. He looked at the plate, then turned on me with a primal fury. “You knew she was deathly allergic to celery! She’s forgetful lately, but you—you did this on purpose!” “I didn’t—” He didn’t let me finish. He shoved me, hard. I tumbled backward, my hand landing on the jagged edge of the broken glass. Blood bloomed across my palm instantly. Cole paused for a fraction of a second, but then he looked away, his face hardening. He scooped Margaret up. “Serena, let’s get her to the hospital. Now!” I followed them, desperate to know she was okay. At the hospital, Margaret was stabilized. Through the thin walls of the observation room, I heard Serena sobbing. “It’s all my fault, Cole… I didn’t know about the celery.” “It’s fine, baby,” Cole’s voice was hauntingly gentle. “We’ll just tell everyone Nicole did it. Mom loves her; she won’t press charges. It’ll be okay.” I stood in the hallway, the blood from my hand dripping onto the white linoleum. I was his shield. His scapegoat. His trash. Over the next few weeks, I couldn’t escape them. They were on every talk show, every “Day in the Life” segment. They visited orphanages together, looking like the perfect young family. Late one night, Serena posted a photo from a hotel room. It was a shot of Cole sleeping, his arm draped over her. Both of them were covered in “love bites.” She deleted it within seconds, but the internet caught it. The fans went wild, asking when the “real” wedding was happening. I just smiled. The pain was finally being replaced by a strange, hollow peace. On the final day of his “month,” Cole called. His voice sounded wrecked. “Meet me at the courthouse. I’m divorcing Serena today, and we’re going to get our license again.” “Nicole, isn’t this what you wanted?” I hung up. I didn’t go. An hour later, my front door was nearly kicked off its hinges. Cole was there, his eyes bloodshot, his grip bruising as he grabbed my arm. “I told you I was coming back! And you… to get back at Serena, you hired people to hurt her? How could you be so vile?” “If anything happens to her, I will destroy you!” 4 I stared at him, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” He dragged me to the hospital. Serena was there, huddled in a corner of a private suite, shaking uncontrollably. Cole’s eyes filled with tears. He threw me aside and ran to her, pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay, Serena. I’ve already dealt with them. No one will ever touch you again.” When Serena saw me, she let out a blood-curdling shriek. She scrambled out of bed and knelt at my feet, sobbing. “Nicole, please… please don’t let those men come back. I’ll quit. I’ll leave the industry. I’ll never see Cole again, just please…” Her neck and arms were covered in dark bruises. Her face was swollen. I looked at her, my heart hammering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Slap! The force of Cole’s hand sent me spinning to the floor. My ears rang. Cole loomed over me, his face twisted in a mask of pure hatred. “Because it happened to you, you wanted it to happen to her? You’re sick, Nicole! I can’t believe I ever felt sorry for you!” “I should have never saved you that night at the hotel.” That sentence… it was the one that finally killed the last part of me that loved him. “I didn’t do this…” I whispered. He didn’t hear me. Or he didn’t care. He signaled to his security team. They hauled me into a car and drove me to the very hotel where everything had ended for me years ago. He threw me into the exact same room. “Since you love this place so much, since you love playing the victim, why don’t you stay here and reminisce?” The furniture was the same. The smell was the same. My body began to shake with a violent, primal terror. I grabbed his sleeve, my voice breaking. “I won’t remarry you. I’ll sign anything. Just please, take me away from here.” Cole leaned in, his voice a cold, terrifying whisper. “You want to know why you really lost that baby, Nicole?” “Serena told me that if I couldn’t look at you without wondering whose kid it was, I shouldn’t have it. So I slipped something into your water. I ended it myself.” The world tilted. The air left my lungs. I screamed—a raw, guttural sound of agony. “That was your child, Cole! You murdered your own child!” Because of that “miscarriage” and my previous surgery, the doctors had told me I could never conceive again. He hadn’t just killed a baby; he had killed my entire future. Suddenly, a guard burst in. “Mr. Miller! Miss Vale is hysterical—she just tried to jump from the second-floor balcony!” Cole’s face went pale. He turned and ran without a second glance. At the door, he paused. “Rot in here, Nicole. See how it feels.” The door slammed shut. I heard the lock click. I pounded on the wood until my knuckles bled. Then, I felt a presence behind me. A pair of large, heavy hands grabbed my waist. I was thrown onto the bed. I looked up and the scream died in my throat. It was him. The director from all those years ago. He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “You ruined my career, you little bitch. You made me a pariah.” “Let’s see who saves you this time.” I lunged for the door, but he caught my hair, dragging me back. I screamed for help, but the walls were soundproofed. He pinned my wrists with his boots, the pain searing. He began tearing at my clothes. As he moved closer, his hand clamped over my mouth and nose. I couldn’t breathe. The world began to go black. Just as my consciousness started to slip, I heard a thundering crash. The door flew off its hinges. After he settled Serena down, a strange, gnawing anxiety began to eat at Cole. He remembered the look in my eyes when he left. He told himself he was just teaching me a lesson, but something felt wrong. He drove back to the hotel. He expected to find me crying. Instead, he found a nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

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The condo my uncle bought for me sixteen years ago is now worth $1.2 million. When he called out of the blue saying he desperately needed $450,000 to keep his head above water, my heart sank. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to help—it was the sheer scale of the number. It was a life-altering amount of money. I was still processing the shock when my husband, Scott, cut in. He didn’t even wait for me to move the phone away from my ear. “Your uncle gave you that place as a gift, right? He didn’t say anything about wanting a return on investment back then?” I nodded dumbly, my hand trembling against the receiver. Scott let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Then what right does he have to come begging now? He gave it to you. Period. Now that the market’s peaked and the property is worth a fortune, he wants to crawl back and leach off your equity? He’s dreaming.” I froze. My entire body went rigid. On the other end of the line, the silence was absolute. My uncle had heard everything. That silence traveled through the airwaves like a localized frost, settling deep in my bones. It felt like a serrated blade pressing against my eardrum. Every second that passed felt like a slow burn, a suffocating heat I couldn’t escape. I could almost see him—my kind, unassuming Uncle Pete—his face turning ashen, his pride crumbling into dust in some cramped kitchen miles away. “Uncle Pete…” I started, my voice thick. … My throat felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. Each word was a struggle. Click. The line went dead. It wasn’t a violent hang-up, the kind fueled by rage. It was the sound of a man whose spirit had simply snapped, his fingers sliding off the phone in total exhaustion. I stayed there for a moment, my hand still suspended in mid-air, staring at the screen as it faded to black. The recessed lighting in our living room was designer-perfect, bright and warm, yet I had never felt colder. Scott, the man I’d shared a bed with for five years, was lounging on the West Elm sectional opposite me. There wasn’t a flicker of guilt on his face. Instead, he looked smug, almost triumphant. “See? He hung up the second I called him on it. Guilty conscience,” Scott said. He picked up a Honeycrisp apple from the marble coffee table and took a loud, wet bite. The crunch echoed through the room like a gunshot. “I’m doing this for your own good, Nora,” he continued, pointing the half-eaten apple at me. “You’re too soft. You let people pull at your heartstrings. These kinds of relatives—the ones who stayed in the sticks—they see you doing well, see the property values in the city, and they decide it’s harvest season. Today he wants half a million. Tomorrow it’ll be more. It’s a sinkhole, and I’m not letting us fall into it.” Every word he spoke felt like a precision strike, a poisoned needle aimed at the softest parts of my soul. I looked at him—at the sharp jawline and the confident eyes I used to find so handsome, so reliable—and felt like I was looking at a stranger. Or worse, a monster I’d invited into my house. “Scott, that is my uncle,” I said, my voice vibrating with a fury I didn’t know I possessed. “When my parents died, every other relative treated me like a biohazard. Pete was the one who liquidated everything he had to buy me this condo. He gave me a roof over my head when the world was trying to swallow me whole. You can’t put a price tag on that kind of debt.” Scott scoffed, tossing the apple core into the trash with a careless flick of his wrist. “Debt? You can’t eat ‘debt,’ Nora. Wake up. We live in the real world, not some sentimental Hallmark movie. What did he pay for this place back then? A couple hundred grand? Now it’s $1.2 million! He’s trying to turn a twenty-year-old ‘favor’ into a massive cash exit at our expense.” I saw the greed dancing in his eyes. The way he said the number—1.2 million—it sounded hungry. “Our expense?” I caught the word, a chill crawling up my spine. “Scott, this condo is a pre-marital asset. It’s mine.” His expression darkened instantly. The smugness vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory hardness. “What is that supposed to mean, Nora? We’re married. What’s yours is ours. I’ve busted my ass for this family for five years. Don’t tell me that doesn’t count for anything.” He started his usual litany of “contributions.” The long hours at the firm, the holidays spent with my family, the way he’d been a “rock.” He painted himself as a martyr of domesticity. It was a joke. A sick, twisted joke. We’d been married for five years, and I covered seventy percent of our expenses because my salary doubled his. His money was always “for his future business ventures” or “networking.” Meanwhile, I paid the property taxes, the HOA fees, and the grocery bills. And now, he was already spending the equity in my home. “Once we flip this place, we can move out to the suburbs. A real house. A yard. Maybe a pool,” he said, his voice returning to that breezy, delusional tone. “And I want to help my brother get his feet under him—he needs a down payment for a place in the city. The rest we can tuck away for the kids’ college funds. It’s a perfect plan.” He laid it out so logically, as if my uncle’s life-or-death crisis was nothing more than a convenient catalyst for his own lifestyle upgrade. The man I had loved for five years was gone. In his place sat a man for whom love, loyalty, and blood were all just variables in a spreadsheet. I didn’t want to argue anymore. You can’t reason with someone who views people as ATMs. I turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door. I needed to drown out the sound of his voice. I reached into the back of my nightstand and pulled out an old, battered photo album. The silk cover was frayed, the corners yellowed with age. On the very first page was a photo of me at sixteen. I was a ghost of a girl back then, rail-thin and hollow-eyed from the grief of losing my parents. In the photo, Uncle Pete has his arm around my shoulders. His hands were rough, calloused from years of manual labor, but his grip was steady. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were fixed on me with a fierce, protective love. The background was this very condo—back when the neighborhood was still gritty and the paint was fresh. I remember him pointing at the skyline and saying, “Nora, don’t be scared. This is your fortress. No one can ever take this from you.” A tear hit the plastic sleeve of the album, blurring his face. The bedroom door burst open. Scott walked in, smelling of bourbon and resentment. “I’m warning you, Nora. Do not call that man back,” he snapped. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed. “And don’t you dare mention money. Not a cent. If I find out you’re funneling cash to him behind my back, we’re done. I mean it.” I looked at him, my vision clearing through the tears. “By what authority, Scott?” My coldness rattled him. He stepped closer, towering over me. “By the authority of being your husband! Everything you have, you have because of the life we built. You were a lonely orphan when I found you. If I hadn’t stepped up, God knows where you’d be drifting right now. Don’t act like you’re some self-made mogul. You’re part of the Miller family now, and I won’t let some deadbeat relative from your past bleed us dry!” It was like a physical blow. A slap across the face couldn’t have stung more. To him, I was still that “lonely orphan.” My only value was the rising market price of the walls around us. I started to laugh. It was a sharp, jagged sound that didn’t feel like it belonged to me. It was the sound of a woman watching her life crumble and realizing she didn’t mind the rubble. That night, sleep was impossible. I stared at the ceiling until the first grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds. I had made my choice. I was going to help my uncle. Even if it meant burning my world to the ground. The next morning, the doorbell rang with a frantic, aggressive rhythm. I checked the Ring camera. It was my mother-in-law, Peggy. The reinforcements had arrived. I opened the door, and Peggy practically shoved past me. “Oh, my poor boy! Scott, honey, you look terrible.” She grabbed Scott’s face, fretting over him as if he’d survived a war instead of a tantrum. Scott slumped into a chair, playing the role of the exhausted, wronged husband perfectly. Peggy turned her gaze on me. Her eyes were like two cold pebbles. “Nora, I heard the news. Your uncle is trying to shake you down for money?” “He’s in trouble, Peggy,” I said, my voice flat. “How much?” “Almost half a million.” Peggy gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Half a million? Is he insane? He’s trying to bankrupt this family! He’s trying to rob my son!” “He’s my uncle,” I reminded her. “And it’s a loan. He’s in a corner.” Peggy sat on the edge of the sofa, her face twisting into a mask of faux-concern. “Nora, honey, you have to be smart. When people like that ask for money, it’s a black hole. You’ll never see it again. You’re a Miller now. You have to think about your family. Your husband. This condo… it might be in your name, but it’s a Miller asset now. It’s my son’s security.” The sheer audacity of her logic made my head spin. “Peggy,” I said, a smile twitching on my lips. “At what point did my house become Scott’s security?” She saw the opening and took it. Her tone shifted from “concerned mother” to “shrewd negotiator.” “Well, if you really want to protect the family—and prove you’re not just going to throw your life away on a whim—maybe it’s time to put Scott’s name on the deed. Make it official. A joint asset. That way, if your uncle comes calling again, you can just tell him it’s out of your hands. Legal protection, Nora. It’s for the best.” Finally. The mask was off. This was the real reason she was here. “No,” I said. One word. Absolute. Peggy’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. “You… you ungrateful girl! We took you in! We made you one of us!” Scott stood up then, stepping into my space again. “Nora, what are you doing? We’re a team. Why are you acting like we’re enemies? Are you already planning your exit? Is that why you’re guarding the deed like a hawk?” He was gaslighting me, painting me as the selfish one while he reached for my wallet. “A team?” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “My uncle is drowning, and you’re standing on his head to keep your own shoes dry. You don’t know the first thing about being a team.” Peggy jumped up, pointing a finger at my face. “Who cares about your uncle’s son? Why should my son suffer because your side of the family can’t manage their lives? We aren’t paying for their mistakes!” The words hit me like a lightning strike. I looked at them—this mother and son, so certain of their own righteousness, so devoid of basic human empathy. For the first time in five years, the word divorce didn’t feel like a tragedy. It felt like a rescue. This wasn’t my home. They weren’t my family. They were parasites waiting for the host to weaken. “Get out,” I said. They both froze. “What?” Scott asked, his eyes wide. “I said, get out of my house. Both of you.” Peggy lunged toward me, her face contorted. “You little bitch! You can’t talk to me like—” I stepped aside, catching her momentum and shoving her toward the door. I had spent years being the “quiet, grateful orphan.” That girl was dead. Scott tried to intervene, his voice rising in a mix of command and desperation. “Nora, you’ve lost your mind! You’re going to throw away your marriage for a ghost?” I didn’t answer. I just pushed. I pushed until they were both in the hallway, and then I slammed the heavy oak door. I turned the deadbolt. Click. The silence that followed was beautiful. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door and let my body slide to the floor. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but my mind was clearer than it had been in years. This house was my fortress. And the siege was over. I sat there until my legs went numb. Once I stopped shaking, I did the only thing that mattered: I called my uncle back. It rang for a long time before my aunt answered. Her voice was raw from crying. “Nora?” “It’s me. Is Pete there?” A moment later, his gravelly voice came through. “Nora… honey. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have called. I didn’t mean to cause a fight between you and Scott.” He was still protecting me. My heart broke all over again. “Uncle Pete, stop. Don’t apologize. Tell me what happened. Really.” He finally broke. My cousin, Toby, had been diagnosed with aggressive leukemia. He needed a bone marrow transplant, and even with insurance, the out-of-network costs, the travel, and the specialized post-op care were astronomical. $450,000 was the price of his life. “He’s only twenty-five, Nora,” Pete choked out. “The doctors say if we can get the funds, the success rate is high. But we don’t have it. We just don’t have it.” “You do now,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I’m going to get you the money. I promise. Just give me a few days.” After I hung up, I logged into our joint savings account to see what I could liquidate immediately. I stared at the screen. My stomach dropped. $4,217. We should have had nearly $200,000 in that account. My bonuses alone over the last three years had been six figures. I called Scott immediately. “Where is the money, Scott?” I didn’t say hello. I didn’t yell. “What are you talking about?” He sounded annoyed, but there was a tremor of guilt in his voice. “The joint account. It’s empty. Where is it?” “I… I had to help my brother with his business loan. And my parents’ roof needed replacing. We talked about this, Nora. We’re a family. It’s all one pot.” “We never talked about $190,000, Scott.” He hung up on me. The betrayal was complete. He had been draining me for years to subsidize his own family while sneering at mine. I didn’t cry this time. I opened my laptop and started searching for real estate agents. This condo—my history, my sanctuary—was going to save Toby. I think my parents would have wanted it that way. But Scott wasn’t going to make it easy. He moved back in that evening, acting as though nothing had happened, but he wasn’t alone. Peggy was with him. They became my jailers. If I went to the bathroom, Peggy stood in the hall. If I made tea, Scott was at my elbow. They took my passport. They took the physical deed from my desk. They took my car keys. “You aren’t selling this place, Nora,” Scott said, locking the documents in his personal safe. “You’re staying right here until you come to your senses.” I didn’t fight them. I didn’t scream. I just watched them. They thought they had won. They thought that without the physical papers, I was trapped. What they didn’t know was that I’d already filed for a replacement ID weeks ago after “losing” my wallet. It was tucked inside the lining of my gym bag. They didn’t know that I had digital copies of every property document stored in an encrypted cloud drive they couldn’t access. While Scott was at work and Peggy was napping, I met with an agent named Brenda. She was a shark in a Chanel suit, and she smelled blood. “Honey,” Brenda said after I told her everything. “I’ve seen it all. The missing deed is a hurdle, but with your ID and the original purchase contract—which I can pull from the county records—we can move. We’ll do an off-market pocket listing. Cash buyers only. We can close in ten days.” I signed the digital listing agreement in the back of Brenda’s Lexus while Peggy was upstairs watching The Price is Right. The counter-attack had begun.

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The company’s annual spring retreat was supposed to be a team-building exercise. After a democratic vote—which I suspect was rigged by the HR department’s obsession with “mindfulness”—we ended up at St. Jude’s Mission, a sprawling, historic estate famous for its ancient chapel and a massive, decommissioned bronze bell. But ten minutes into the tour, my husband and his personal assistant were nowhere to be found. I scanned the courtyard, my heart doing that slow, nauseating crawl it always did when Preston went missing. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Our company’s “Culture Trip” livestream was blowing up. I looked down, and a series of chat bubbles scrolled across the screen like a digital Greek chorus: [God, the female lead is so bold. Suggesting they hide under the Old Jubilee Bell for a quickie? No wonder he’s obsessed with her!] [Under the bell? That’s terrifying. If someone actually rang it, they’d be deafened in seconds.] I froze. The air in the courtyard turned brittle. My husband, Preston, and his “indispensable” assistant, Celine, hadn’t just wandered off to look at the architecture. They were right there, ten feet away from me, hidden in the hollow, dark womb of that rusted bronze monster. I felt a sudden wave of vertigo. I reached out, steadying myself against the cold, pitted surface of the bell. It vibrated ever so slightly under my palm. The livestream chat went nuclear: [OMG, she’s touching the bell! The tension! I can’t breathe!] “Nina? Are you okay?” Kaylee, the front desk girl, walked up to me with a saccharine smile. “We’re all heading into the chapel to light some candles for ‘corporate prosperity.’ Do you want to join us?” I pulled my hand back, feeling the ghost of the vibration in my marrow. I looked at Kaylee. She was the one who had accidentally-on-purpose showed me a “leaked” photo of Preston at a jewelry store two months ago. She was playing both sides, acting as the confidante for the affair while pretending to be my loyal employee. I smiled at her. It was the sharpest thing I’d ever done. “No candles for me, Kaylee,” I said, my voice steady. “Actually, go find the groundskeeper. Or the Father. Whoever is in charge of the ceremonial tolls.” “The tolls?” Kaylee blinked, her smile faltering. “I want to make a legacy donation,” I continued, projecting my voice so the nearby staff could hear. “A hundred and eight tolls of the Jubilee Bell to ‘cleanse the company’s spirit.’ If they do it, I’ll personally fund the entire restoration of the Mission’s sanctuary.” Kaylee froze. The livestream comments stopped scrolling for a beat of pure, digital shock. One hundred and eight tolls. In the old traditions, that was a cleansing. In reality, for those trapped inside? It was a death sentence. … I didn’t look away from Kaylee’s pale face. Was she really that surprised? I wasn’t just going to pay for the tolls; I was going to invite every passerby to take a turn at the rope. I wanted the whole world to participate in the “cleansing.” It was the only way to do justice to the two people currently tangled together in the dark beneath us. Kaylee had once sent “accidental” thirst traps to Preston’s work phone. I’d caught her, of course. She’d sobbed in my office, telling me about her sick mother and her younger siblings who depended on her paycheck. I’d been soft. I’d let her stay. I hadn’t realized she’d immediately pivoted to becoming Celine’s little spy. Now, she was trying to lure me into the chapel so her “real” boss and my husband could crawl out from under that bell and fix their clothes. “Did you hear me?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave. “Go get the bell ringer. Why are you still standing there?” “Nina… it’s a decommissioned bell,” Kaylee stammered. “It’s… it’s not meant to be rung like that. It’s bad luck. It’s superstition!” I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Wasn’t this retreat your idea, Kaylee? ‘Connecting with our roots’? You didn’t seem to care about superstition when you were booking the bus.” An elderly woman, a local parishioner leaning on a heavy oak cane, shuffled toward us. “Who says it’s superstition?” the woman barked. Her voice was surprisingly resonant. “A bell is a sacred vessel. It clears the air of filth and wakes the soul. It’s a blessing, child. I’ve lived by the sound of this bell since I was a girl. Even if it’s old, its voice is still holy.” She raised her heavy cane and struck the side of the bell. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. The sound was massive. It wasn’t just a noise; it was a physical weight that rolled over us, making the very ground shudder. The livestream exploded: [HOLY SHIT! She actually did it!] [It’s over. They’re cooked. Kaylee, you fake bitch, do something! Save them!] [Wait… did the male lead just go limp??] I turned to the gathering crowd of employees. I patted the bronze side of the bell like it was a prized stallion. “Anyone can ring it today,” I announced. “One thousand dollars per toll. Cash, Venmo, Zelle—on the spot.” The crowd erupted. Greed is a much more powerful motivator than ‘corporate mindfulness.’ Kaylee rushed forward, her arms outspread as if she could shield the entire circumference of the bell. “No! Stop! This is a historical artifact! If you crack it, you’ll be sued for millions!” I looked at her, my eyes cold. “I’m paying for the restoration of the whole Mission, Kaylee. I think I can afford a cracked bell.” “Besides,” a junior analyst shouted, pushing past her, “The boss’s wife said it’s okay! Move it, Kaylee! That’s a mortgage payment for one swing!” The resentment toward Kaylee—the teacher’s pet, the office snitch—poured out like a broken dam. They shoved her aside. She stood there, face flushed, looking at the vibrating bronze with a look of pure, unadulterated terror. “Ring it!” I commanded. “Every one of you. I’ve set aside ten million dollars for ‘performance bonuses’ today. Let’s see how much of it you can take.” Kaylee’s jaw dropped. She looked at her colleagues jostling for the rope, then back at the bell. “Wait! Stop!” she screamed. “Nina, that money belongs to the estate! It’s marital property! You can’t just give it away without Preston’s consent! He’ll fire everyone! He’ll sue you!” The crowd hesitated. The mention of Preston—the man who held their health insurance in his hands—acted like a bucket of ice water. The chat feed mirrored their fear: [The ‘best friend’ is smart! That’s a legal checkmate!] [But a thousand bucks a swing… God, the temptation.] [The villainess is so cruel. She’s literally using money to vibrate them to death.] I didn’t argue. I simply turned toward the group of tourists who were watching the drama from the edge of the courtyard. “A thousand dollars a toll,” I shouted to the strangers. “Scan the code, get the money instantly. Who wants to go first?” The silence lasted three seconds. “Is this for real?” a burly man in a flannel shirt asked, stepping forward. I held up my phone, my banking app open. “Try me.” “Hell,” the man said, grinning. “I don’t work for your husband. I like money.” He grabbed a heavy ornamental stone from the garden bed, stepped up, and slammed it against the bronze with every bit of his strength. BOOM—! The sound was deafening. My vision blurred for a split second from the sheer pressure of the sound wave. I didn’t flinch. I scanned his phone. Ding. The sound of a successful transfer echoed in the sudden silence. “She’s legit! A grand! Right there!” the man roared. The floodgates opened. It was a riot of ‘blessings.’ Tourists and the bolder employees dived for the bell. They used stones, they used their fists, they kicked it. The sound became a chaotic, rhythmic assault. Clang. Boom. Thud. Clang. I stood there, a statue of calm in the middle of a sonic storm, scanning codes and hitting ‘Send.’ The livestream was a blur of fire emojis and “RIP” messages. [She’s a psycho! He’s going to divorce her for every penny!] [Look! In the video—is Preston covering Celine’s ears? He really does love her! This is so tragic!] [Wait, is the bell moving? Are they trying to push it up? The sound must be hell in there.] I raised my phone again, smiling at the crowd. “Everyone, get your phones out,” I said. “Max volume. Pull up ‘The Great Litany of Deliverance’ on Spotify. The heavy choral version.” “The loudest phone gets a ten-thousand-dollar bonus,” I added. For a moment, there was a vacuum of sound. Then— SCREECH— The wailing, low-frequency chant began to pour from fifty different speakers at once. The courtyard transformed into a wall of noise—monastic chanting layered over the relentless, bone-shaking battering of the bell. I signaled the burly man from before. “One more favor,” I yelled over the din. “Go to the rectory. Find the Head Priest. Tell him I need the ceremonial strikers. The heavy wooden beams.” I scanned his phone for another two thousand. “Run.” He didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted toward the back of the Mission like a sprinter. Kaylee was paralyzed. A few minutes later, the man returned, dragging a bewildered, elderly priest in heavy robes. Behind them, two younger groundskeepers carried the ceremonial ram—a massive, iron-shod wooden beam used for holiday celebrations. The priest looked at the chaos—the chanting phones, the people throwing rocks at the bell—with utter confusion. I stepped forward and bowed slightly. “Father, I apologize for the disturbance. I wish to perform the full hundred-and-eight-toll cleansing. For my family’s sins.” I pointed to the bell. “I have the donation ready. Upon completion, I will sign the endowment for the new sanctuary.” “Bless you, my child,” the priest said, his eyes widening at the mention of the endowment. He turned to his assistants. “Get the striker into position. Call the others. If this woman wants to cleanse her house, we shall give her the voice of God.” The striker. The heavy, swinging ram that required four men to operate. That wouldn’t just make noise. That would create a resonant frequency capable of liquefying internal organs if you were close enough. It would turn that bell into a pressurized chamber of agony. I looked at the bell. It was shaking now, visibly vibrating against the stone plinth. Enjoy the baptism, you two. The chat went into a frenzy: [The ram?! That thing is the size of a redwood trunk!] [They’re going to be turned into jelly. This is literal physical exorcism.] [The villainess is too much! Where is the hero to save them?!] Kaylee lunged forward again, grabbing the priest’s sleeve. “Father! You can’t! The noise… it’s disturbing the peace! It’s a public nuisance! God wouldn’t want this!” Before I could speak, the burly man roared, “Shut up! It sounds like heaven to me!” “Yeah! Let her pray!” another tourist yelled. The priest gently uncoupled Kaylee’s hand. “Child, the voice of the bell is never a nuisance. It is a reminder of our mortality. If this woman wishes to hear it, who are we to deny the call to repentance?” Kaylee’s face turned a sickly shade of grey. I stepped closer to her. “You’ve tried everything, haven’t you, Kaylee?” “Superstition. Legal threats. Public nuisance. You’re really working hard for a ‘friend’ who isn’t even here.” I leaned in, whispering so only she could hear. “You’re fired, Kaylee. Pack your things. If I see you on company property after today, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. Get out of my sight.” Kaylee collapsed onto the cobblestones, weeping. [Kaylee is finished. The villainess just wiped her out.] [Look at the base of the bell! Is that… is that blood? Oh my god, are they dying?!] [They’re the leads! They can’t die! They’re going to come out and make her pay!] Would they? I watched the monks take their positions. I felt no pity. Only a cold, crystalline sense of justice. When I first met Preston, he was a middle-manager with a silver tongue and a bankrupt bank account. My father had seen “potential” in him. My father had given him the connections, the seed money, the house we lived in. I had spent a decade building his image, smoothing over his mistakes, and playing the perfect corporate wife. And Kaylee? I’d fed her. I’d given her my old designer bags and paid for her mother’s dental work. This was their “thank you.” THOOM—!!! The first strike of the ram hit. The sound didn’t just vibrate; it tore through the air. Suddenly, a screeching voice cut through the reverberation from the courtyard entrance. “NINA! YOU INSANE BITCH! STOP THIS AT ONCE!” The crowd parted. A woman in a garish, leopard-print wrap dress, dripping in tacky gold jewelry, stormed toward us. Her hair was a bleached-blonde nest, and her face was contorted in a permanent sneer of “New Money” arrogance. Preston’s mother. My mother-in-law. Mrs. Beaumont had arrived. “How dare you throw away my son’s money on this… this clanging garbage! Ten million dollars?! Have you lost your mind?!” “I told him! I told him to dump you years ago! You’re a curse on this family! You spend like a drunken sailor and you don’t even have the decency to give me a grandson!” I stood my ground, watching her scream. She was the woman who had lived off my father’s “gifts” for ten years while calling my family “boring” behind our backs. I saw Kaylee look up, a spark of hope in her eyes. She’d called the cavalry. I walked over to Mrs. Beaumont and took her arm, my voice dripping with fake concern. “Mother, please. You’ve misunderstood.” “This isn’t Preston’s money. This is my inheritance. The trust my father left me that I’ve never touched.” “Your inheritance?” Her greed immediately fought with her rage. “Well… that’s still Beaumont money now! You’re married! What’s yours is his!” “Of course, Mother. You’re absolutely right.” I lowered my voice, acting fragile. “That’s why I’m doing this. The Father told me this bell has ancient power. A hundred and eight tolls to clear the family’s ‘karmic debt.’ I’m doing this for Preston. To ensure his next deal goes through. To ensure your health and longevity.” Mrs. Beaumont paused, her eyes darting to the priest. “Longevity?” “A hundred and eight tolls,” I whispered. “It’s a blessing that lasts a lifetime.” She puffed out her chest, adjusting her gold bracelets. “Well. Why didn’t you say so? If it’s for my son’s success…” She turned to the monks. “What are you waiting for?! Ring the damn thing! Harder!”

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The day of my emergency C-section, David vanished. The surgeon stood over me, clutching the consent forms, her voice tight as she explained that they needed a spouse’s signature for the secondary procedure. My heart was thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs. I called him. No answer. I called again. He declined it. On the third try, he finally picked up. The background was a chaotic blur of sirens and shouting. He told me his student, Becca, had been in a car accident. I looked at the fetal heart monitor—the red numbers were dipping, a silent alarm in the sterile room. My voice shook. “David, you’re on paternity leave. Why are they calling you? You need to come back. They won’t start the surgery without your signature, and the baby… the baby’s heart rate is dropping. He’s in distress.” Before I could finish, David cut me off, his tone sharp with that familiar, patronizing edge. “She’s fragile, Madeline. She’s not like you. I can’t just leave her safety to some stranger. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” A bitter taste rose in my throat, a mix of bile and fury. “Is it really an accident, David? Or is she just pulling your leash again, hoping we both end up dead on this table so she can have you to herself?” His breath hitched. He was about to hang up. I screamed into the phone, loud enough to make the nurses flinch. “David Miller, if you hang up this phone, we are done! Do you hear me? We are over!” “Calm down,” he said, his voice dropping into that weary, patient tone he used for difficult children. “Stop using our son to play games.” The line went dead. The dial tone hummed in my ear as they wheeled me into the operating theater. When I finally opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw wasn’t my husband. It was a notification on my phone—an Instagram post from Becca. [So thankful Professor Miller could be here for me. I’m such a klutz, I can’t believe I crashed my bike…] The photo was taken inside David’s faculty housing. She was holding up a hand with a cartoonish Band-Aid—the exact same box of Band-Aids I’d bought for our home. 1 I had just set the phone down when I heard the nurses whispering at the station outside my door. “That couple in the hallway is exhausting,” one muttered. “Last week he brought her into the ER because she twisted her ankle. Today it’s a scrape from a bicycle, and he’s acting like she’s lost a limb. I heard it’s a professor and his student. Honestly, the way he dotes on her makes me sick.” The other nurse sighed, her voice drifting toward my room. “And then you look at the girl in Bed 4. She’s been through a traumatic birth, and the husband is a ghost. It’s night and day.” Through the cracked door, I couldn’t see David’s face, but I could hear his voice. It was a low, tender murmur I hadn’t heard in months. He was asking Becca if her finger hurt, his voice thick with a protectiveness he used to reserve for me. He didn’t seem to realize that his wife had just been sliced through seven layers of tissue. He didn’t seem to care that his son was in the NICU, struggling for his first breaths. My mother sat by my bed, her eyes rimmed with red, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. My father was pacing, his knuckles white, looking like he wanted to storm out there and drag David in by his throat. I reached out and snagged my father’s sleeve. “Dad, don’t.” He stopped, looking down at me with a shattered expression. “His parents died when he was young, Maddy. Your mother and I treated him like our own son! And this is how he repays us? Leaving you in a pool of blood for some student?” I forced a dry laugh, my fingers still tight on his shirt. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s really okay.” I said it because I was used to it. I remembered the time he promised to take me to my parents’ for Christmas. We were in the driveway, the car packed, when a call came in. David said he had to go—an emergency. I told him to go, thinking it was a matter of life and death. Later that day, I saw him at the mall near our house, kneeling on the floor, gently tying Becca’s shoelaces. He told me she had fallen down a flight of stairs and was badly injured. I found out later she had tripped on a single step. Explanation after explanation. Fight after fight. I had screamed until I was hoarse, and he had always looked at me like I was the one who was unstable. He believed her every word, every time. My phone buzzed. A text from David. [Becca is still feeling faint. I’ll come see you and the baby later. Get some rest. Don’t wait up.] No apology. No explanation for the missed surgery. I stared at his profile picture. It was still our wedding photo. He was looking at me with a gaze that used to feel like sunshine. We had been together for eight years before we married. He was the rising star of the architecture department; I had built a successful floral design studio. We were the “golden couple” of the university. Then, in our seventh year, Becca appeared. Her name began to pepper his conversations. She was at his office, she “ran into him” at the dining hall, she stayed after every lecture to ask questions until the sun went down. At first, I thought she was just an ambitious student. I even invited her over for dinner once, trying to be the supportive faculty wife. Looking back, that was the day she decided she wanted my life. And me? I had spent a year gathering disappointments like dry kindling. Now, I was ready to let it all burn. David, I don’t want you anymore. I scrolled through my contacts to a name I hadn’t called in years. It picked up on the first ring. A deep, steady voice filled the line. “Maddy?” I gripped the phone, my voice a mere shadow. “Do you remember what you said? That if I ever left him, you’d be waiting?” “I meant every word.” “Good,” I whispered. “I’ll see you in three days.” 2 The sound of familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway. I hung up the phone instantly. David walked in, staring at his screen, a faint smile lingering on his lips. It was the smile he used to give only to me. Now, it belonged to her. A sharp, stinging ache blossomed in my chest—the last gasps of a dying love. My phone rang again. It wasn’t the private number. “Ms. Ruth? Congratulations. Your landscape design submission took first place in the National Gala. The awards ceremony is in three days at the university auditorium. We’d love for you to attend.” I blinked, my voice hollow. “I’ll be there.” The door swung open wider. David stepped in. He glanced briefly at the empty bassinet—our son was still in observation—and then at me. His brow furrowed. “Why are you still awake? You’re supposed to be recovering. You’ll ruin your eyes staring at that screen in the dark.” The worry in his eyes looked so real. If I hadn’t seen him with her in the hallway an hour ago, I might have believed it. Now, it just made me nauseous. I didn’t speak. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for my hand. He slid a delicate gold chain around my wrist. A small, shimmering star dangled from it. I stared at it, stunned. David gave flowers, never jewelry. He said jewelry was “materialistic.” “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice softening. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when he was born. Maddy, you did so well. Thank you.” A second later, his phone lit up on the nightstand. A message from Becca. [Professor, are you at the hospital? Does your wife’s incision still hurt?] [I told you to go back to her, but you’re so worried about me. You’re like a nagging old man.] [By the way, please don’t tell her I didn’t want that bracelet because it looked too ‘middle-aged.’ I don’t want her to be mad at me.] The words seared into my retinas. I looked up at David. His face went ghostly pale. He lunged for the phone, but I was faster. I grabbed it, unlocked it, and scrolled. The chat history was scrubbed clean, except for those few messages. But I saw the contact name: Becca 🤍. David was a man of meticulous academic detail but total domestic chaos. He had hundreds of contacts in his phone, and I was the only one he had ever given a nickname or an emoji to. Until now. I closed my eyes, pretending I hadn’t seen it. I felt him sag with relief. But as soon as he turned his back to get me a glass of water, I unclipped the gold star and dropped it into the biohazard trash bin by the bed. 3 The day I was discharged, I went straight to the university. The awards ceremony was held in the grand ballroom. I was wearing an old silk dress—the only thing that fit my post-surgical body—and I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. “Maddy! You’re here!” My old classmates crowded around. “We heard you won! That’s incredible.” “You were always the best in our design cohort,” one friend said, squeezing my arm. “We all thought it was a crime when you gave up your grad school placement so David could take that fellowship. It’s about time you got your flowers.” I tried to smile, but my face felt like cracking plaster. Suddenly, the room went quiet. I followed the crowd’s gaze. David was walking through the side entrance. Becca was trailing half a step behind him. He said something to her, and she ducked her head, blushing like a schoolgirl. Some of the younger students started whistling. Someone nudged Becca, and she “tripped,” falling right into David’s arms. He didn’t pull away. He steadied her, his hands lingering on her waist, and then he reached out and ruffled her hair. It was a gesture so intimate, so practiced, it felt like a slap. My former classmates looked at me, their eyes filled with that suffocating, pitying “oh, honey” look. “I need the restroom,” I whispered. I stood at the sink, the cold water numbing my hands. A shadow appeared in the mirror behind me. Becca. “Oh, hi, Madeline,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I didn’t expect to see you here. The students were just playing around earlier—I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way.” She leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. “But coming here right after a C-section? You must be really insecure if you feel the need to keep tabs on the Professor like this.” I dried my hands and turned to face her. “Becca, I’m here because I won.” I took a step forward, letting my shadow fall over her. “And a word of advice: focus on your portfolio, not your flirtation. Take it from someone who knows—men like David are a terrible investment.” She hissed in frustration and stormed out. I walked back into the hall, ready to take the stage, when a hand clamped onto my wrist. David was standing there, his eyes bloodshot, his chest heaving. “Madeline, how could you?” I frowned. “What are you talking about?” He let go of me as if I were toxic. He grabbed Becca’s hand and pulled her up onto the stage, snatching the microphone from the emcee. “Everyone, listen,” David’s voice boomed through the speakers. “My wife, Madeline, is a florist. This design she submitted today? It’s a fraud. She stole it.” The room gasped. I froze at the foot of the stairs. “She went through my laptop,” David continued, his voice dripping with righteous fury. “She stole this design from one of my most talented students. This award belongs to Becca.” Becca stood there, covering her face, her shoulders shaking with “sobs.” But I saw the look she threw me—a look of pure triumph. The whispers started, sharp and jagged. “Stole it? She actually had the nerve to show up?” “I guess being a florist wasn’t enough for her.” “I heard her husband is practically living with that student. I see why now. Who’d want a thief for a wife?” “Get her out of here!” The insults pelted me like stones. I walked up the stairs, one agonizing step at a time. I looked David in the eye. “David, is that all I am to you? A housewife who plays with flowers?” My voice was trembling, but I wouldn’t let the tears fall. “You’re really going to believe her lies and destroy me in front of everyone?” David’s face twisted with disgust. “Did the pregnancy destroy your morals too, Maddy? You stole from a girl who has nothing. I don’t even recognize you.” Becca reached out, her voice a fragile whimper. “Professor, it’s okay. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She’s probably just… hormonal.” I didn’t wait for her to finish. I walked right up to her and swung. The slap echoed through the hall. Becca shrieked and stumbled back. David lunged forward, his face a mask of rage. He shoved me back to get to her. I lost my footing. I fell back off the stage, my body hitting the hardwood floor with a sickening thud. A searing, white-hot pain exploded in my abdomen. I looked down. The front of my dress was turning dark, soaked with blood as my internal stitches tore wide open. David looked at me for a split second, his eyes wide with horror. He made a move toward me, but Becca clutched his sleeve, sobbing hysterically about her face. Before I blacked out, I saw David turn away from me. He picked Becca up in his arms and ran toward the campus clinic. When I woke up, I was back in the hospital. My mother was holding a bundle, her eyes swollen. When she saw me open my eyes, she started crying again. “Maddy, thank God. That bastard… how could he push you? Your father is flying back from his business trip right now.” 4 The baby in her arms was crying—a thin, exhausted wail. He was barely a week old and already sounded like his heart was breaking. I tried to sit up, wanting to hold him, but the pain in my stomach felt like I was being branded with a hot iron. “Mom, give him to me. He’s hungry.” My mother pressed me back down, her hands shaking. “You can’t, Maddy. The wound… it was a total dehiscence. Your internal organs… they had to operate for three hours to put everything back. You almost died.” Her tears fell onto my hand. “You’re on a heavy cocktail of antibiotics and morphine. You have a severe infection. If you try to nurse him, or even move too much… Maddy, I can’t lose you too.” The baby kept crying. My chest ached with a heavy, throbbing pressure, but I didn’t even have the strength to lift my arms. The door pushed open. David walked in, Becca hovering behind him like a shadow. He saw me, and for a second, his face went ashen. A flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. But Becca tugged at his arm, and the guilt vanished, replaced by a defensive scowl. “Madeline, I know I shouldn’t have pushed you, but this has to stop. You know how I feel about academic integrity. Just apologize to Becca for the theft and the assault, and we can put this behind us.” I closed my eyes. I couldn’t even look at him. My mother stood up, shielding my bed. Her voice was a low, dangerous hiss. “David Miller, how dare you show your face here? My daughter nearly died while you were playing hero for that girl. You pushed a woman who just had major surgery!” “Brenda, the push was an accident, but that’s a separate issue,” David snapped. “She stole. She has to take responsibility.” “Stole?” My mother pointed at Becca. “You’re ruining your wife’s life for this… this little homewrecker? My daughter almost died on that floor, and you still have the nerve to insult her? Are you even human?” Becca shrank back, her eyes welling up with practiced tears. David’s face darkened. My mother, still holding the baby, tried to push them toward the door. “Get out! Both of you, get out!” David reached out to steady himself or push back—I’ll never know which—but he shoved her shoulder. My mother stumbled. Her foot caught on the wheels of my IV stand. She fell backward, her arms flying open. I watched in slow motion as the small, swaddled bundle slipped from her grasp. He didn’t make a sound. There was just the thud of him hitting the linoleum floor. Silence. No crying. No movement. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. “NOAH!” The scream finally tore out of me, shattering the silence of the room. Nurses and doctors flooded in like a tidal wave. David stood frozen, his face the color of bone. Becca grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the hallway as the chaos took over. They worked on him for a long time. But he was gone. My parents wheeled me to the cemetery a few days later. I was holding a small, heavy box. My eyes were bloodshot, but I had no tears left; the well was dry. I was still in my hospital gown under a coat, my body trembling with every step. We reached the tiny plot. The headstone was simple. Noah Ruth. I insisted on my surname. I wanted nothing of David left in him. He never even got to see the world because I had chosen the wrong man to love. I sat on the cold ground, pressing my face against the urn, trying to say a final goodbye. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me. David appeared, grabbing my shoulders and hauling me up. “Where is he? Maddy, where did you hide the baby?” He was hysterical, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. “Stop the games! Tell me where you moved him! Becca checked—she said the hospital said the baby was fine. You’re just doing this to punish me, aren’t you? You’re so cruel!” I didn’t say a word. I just looked at the small box on the grass. He kept shouting, threatening, accusing. My mother fainted nearby; my father was fumbling for his heart medication. But David’s words were just white noise. All I could hear was the memory of Noah’s last cry. He was so small. He was hungry, and I couldn’t feed him. He was scared, and his father never even looked at him because he was too busy looking at her. I looked up at David. My voice was a dead, hollow rasp. “He’s dead.” David blinked. “Because of you, David. He’s dead.” Becca stepped up from behind him, linking her arm through his. She let out a soft, theatrical sigh. “Professor, I think she’s had a mental break. It’s right after the holidays—maybe she’s just trying to curse us. That box is probably empty. She just wants to make you feel guilty. It’s honestly sick.” David stared at me, his teeth gritted. “Madeline, I’m asking you one last time. Where is my son?” I didn’t answer. I turned away, kneeling down to pick up the urn. He lunged forward and snatched it out of my hands. “I’m going to show everyone what a liar you are!” He wrenched the lid open. The wind caught the contents instantly. I stayed on my knees, watching as the fine, gray dust of my son’s remains took flight, scattering across the grass, the trees, and the indifferent headstones. David froze, staring at his empty, ashen hands. His voice began to tremble. “What… what is this?”

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When my mom divorced my gambling-addict father, she didn’t hesitate for a second. she took my younger brother, Justin, and left me behind in the wreckage. The thing is, I could see the Truth. Above her head, a floating translucent bar—a “Favorability Meter”—glowed a steady, mocking 100%. I refused to believe she didn’t love me. I tracked her down to her new house, desperate for an explanation, only to have her slap me across the face so hard my vision blurred. “Get out of here, you brat! Stop stalking us!” Maybe she was afraid I’d keep coming back, because she and Justin vanished that night. I heard through the grapevine that every house they moved into was more palatial than the last. Meanwhile, my father, Frank, racked up debts he could never pay. He’d swing broken beer bottles at me, leaving me half-dead on the linoleum floor. While I bled, I imagined Justin lounging in a mansion, enjoying a life I was denied. I had never hated her more. But at my absolute lowest point, the “Feed” appeared—flickering text scrolling across my vision like a glitch in the universe: [Wake up, Casey! Your mom has stage four stomach cancer. She’s doing this so she doesn’t drag you down with her!] [That bastard Frank bound her to a System. If she doesn’t act like she loves the son more, the System will literally electrocute you to death!] [She loves you more than anything. She’s already written her will—everything goes to you!] The world snapped into focus. I reached up and caught the beer bottle mid-swing. If those were the rules of the game, it was time for a new player. … 1 The bottle whistled through the air as I wrenched it from Frank’s grip and smashed it over his head. [Holy hell, she’s finally fighting back! This is what I’m talking about!] [My poor girl… she’s so small, but look at her standing up for herself.] [Am I the only one crying for the mom right now?] Frank crumpled to the floor, reeking of cheap lager and shouting profanities. “You little bitch! You’re gonna pay for that… my head…” I wiped the blood from my face with my sleeve and picked up a jagged shard of glass from the floor. I held it an inch from his eyebrow. My voice was eerily steady, a cold calm settling over my bones. “Where are the stomach meds? Give them to me.” [Stomach meds? She’s trying to save her mom. There’s hope!] Hope? No, it wasn’t that simple. Pieces of the puzzle were finally clicking together. After the divorce, Valerie—my mother—had become a different person. Every time she saw me, she treated me like her worst enemy. She’d go out of her way to dote on Justin right in front of me. “Get out! This is my house. You don’t belong here!” “Stop crying about ‘fairness.’ If I’d had your brother first, you wouldn’t even exist!” Those words had been knives in my heart. I realized now they weren’t meant to wound. They were a shield. My chest ached so sharply I could barely breathe. While Frank was still dazed from the blow, I snatched his phone. I scrolled through his recent texts with Valerie. It was all about me. Frank: Send $10,000 now. Or I’ll break your daughter’s legs. Valerie: Leave her alone. I’ll send $20,000. Frank: $30,000. Valerie: Fine. Just don’t touch her. She had once told me she wished she could kill him. Instead, she was letting him bleed her dry to keep me breathing. My nails dug into my palms until I drew blood. I was shaking with a grief so profound it felt like a physical weight. Frank groaned, the alcohol wearing off. He lunged upward, his palm connecting with my face. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. He threw a bottle of pills at me, sneering. “That bitch doesn’t want you, and you’re still worried about her meds? Save your breath. She’s got one foot in the grave anyway.” He stood up, towering over me. “And you… you think you’re tough now? I’ll show you what happens when you lay a finger on your father.” He grabbed a fresh bottle. It came down again and again. I curled into a ball, clutching the stomach medicine to my chest, refusing to scream. When Frank was sober, he was a monster. He grabbed me by the hair and slammed me into the floor. Shards of glass sliced into my skin. “Your mother was right,” he hissed, his boot hovering over my ribs. “You’re a mistake.” He stomped down. I heard the sickening crack of bone. The pain was so intense it turned the world white. My ribs were broken. I must have blacked out. When I woke, I didn’t care about the agony in my side. I crawled out of that house and staggered toward the address I’d found for Valerie. When I finally reached her door, covered in blood and grime, she looked horrified for a split second. Then, her mask slid back on. “Get lost!” she screamed, her voice cracking with a desperation she tried to hide. “You’re nothing to me! Stay away from us!” I threw the pills over the gate and looked her right in the eye. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice cold. “This is the last time. When you die, don’t expect me to show up for the funeral.” 2 Liar, I thought as I walked away. You aren’t dying. Not if I have anything to say about it. Mom, I think I’ve figured out how the game works. Just don’t give up yet. Okay? For the next two weeks, I hid from Frank in a cramped, moldy studio apartment I rented with cash. I spent the time nursing my ribs and analyzing the “System” Frank had shackled to Valerie. The rule was simple: If Valerie wasn’t “good” to Justin, I got hit with a lethal dose of electricity. I checked Justin’s Instagram. It was a highlight reel of excess—luxury watches, designer sneakers, expensive cars. I used to hate her for that. I didn’t realize that every time she spoiled him, she was buying my safety. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. But what if I flipped the script? [Oh my god! What is she doing with those electrodes? Is she going to shock herself?] [Stop! This is insane! She’s trying to force a system backlash!] I didn’t hesitate. I pressed the electrodes against my own skin and flipped the switch. White-hot agony ripped through my nervous system. It felt like my very soul was being shredded. A new post popped up on Justin’s feed: “Wanted the limited edition Nikes. The old lady actually said no for once? What the hell is her problem…” I collapsed on the floor, gasping for air, a weak, triumphant smile on my pale face. It worked. If I shocked myself, the system registered the “damage” as having already happened, or perhaps the feedback loop was glitching. Either way, Justin lost his influence. Valerie was getting her free will back, bit by bit. Hang on, Mom. I’m coming for you. A few nights later, I was in a dimly lit, velvet-draped VIP lounge at an upscale club. I was curled into the lap of a powerful man named Victor—a pharmaceutical bigwig who supposedly held the patent for a new, experimental cancer drug. The room was filled with the sound of clinking glasses and predatory laughter. “V, this little kitten is pretty cute,” one of his associates teased. “Why don’t you let her try your new ‘blue candy’?” My heart hammered against my broken ribs. Victor pulled a small blue pill from his pocket. “Swallow,” he commanded. He pinched my jaw so hard I thought the bone would snap. I couldn’t fight back. I swallowed, and within seconds, my eyelids felt like lead. Rough hands began to wander over me. I felt myself slipping, my vision blurring into shadows. Just as I was about to give up, the door burst open. Valerie stood there. She looked at me with a perfect imitation of disgust, though I saw the flicker of raw agony in her eyes. “Victor,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “I’m sorry my club didn’t provide enough entertainment. This girl is trouble. Let me swap her out for someone more… compliant.” She waved a hand, and several scantily clad girls stepped forward. I pushed them away and stood up, swaying on my feet. “Victor is my client,” I spat, staring at my mother with faux-malice. “Since when does the madam steal business from her own girls? That’s pretty low, don’t you think?” Valerie’s breath hitched. She looked like she wanted to scream, to grab me and run. Instead, she raised her hand to slap me. Before she could, Justin appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smirk. “Well, if it isn’t my pathetic sister. I didn’t realize you’d sunk this low just to get a meal…” Valerie barked at him to shut up, her voice sharp as a whip. Justin looked stunned. While he was distracted, I reached into my sleeve and touched the electrodes hidden there. Steady, Mom, I thought. Don’t let them see you crack. The rules are changing. 3 The tragedy hit sooner than I expected. Frank found me. He realized I was the only leverage he had left to squeeze more money out of Valerie. I was visiting my grandfather—Valerie’s father—when Frank showed up. He was drunk, his eyes bloodshot from a losing streak at the track. He tackled me to the ground and screamed into his phone. “Valerie! Send me half a million right now, or your daughter dies today!” Grandpa tried to intervene, swinging his cane, but Frank shoved the old man hard. He fell, his head cracking against the stone steps of the porch. “Grandpa!” I screamed. Valerie arrived minutes later, tires screeching. she sprinted to my grandfather, shielding him. “You’re dreaming, Frank! You’re never getting another cent from me!” Frank froze, then let out a manic laugh. He hauled me up by my hair and slammed me back down. I felt my partially healed ribs give way again. The world spun. “Fine. Then all three of you die today.” Frank stepped toward Valerie, his face a mask of pure malice. “You really thought a divorce was that easy? I told you, that System is tied to your life force. It’s tied to your cancer. You can’t delete it. You can only… transfer it. Like a cell.” My heart stopped. Transfer? [Casey, get out of there! Run! He’s going to kill you!] [This is unbearable. Why won’t her mom save her?] [Shut up! You think it’s easy for a mother to watch her child suffer when she’s paralyzed by a curse?] Frank swung a heavy fist toward Valerie. I don’t know where the strength came from. I lunged forward, throwing my body in front of hers. I took the blow full in the face. The world turned to static. I collapsed. Frank stopped, surprised. He kicked my limp body. “Still protecting her? After she threw you away for the boy? She doesn’t love you, kid.” I struggled to my knees, spitting blood. I looked at Valerie with a gaze like ice. “You think I did that for her? Grandpa likes his porch clean. I just didn’t want her trashy blood staining his stairs.” Valerie’s lip trembled. She reached out, her fingers twitching as she held my grandfather’s arm. She said nothing, but her eyes were a deep, agonizing red. I didn’t look back. I pressed the electrodes in my sleeve. I kept pressing until my skin charred, until the pain was so great I started seizing on the ground. Frank finally got scared. If I died, his leverage was gone. The System would have no target. The distant wail of sirens echoed through the neighborhood. Frank panicked and bolted into the trees. Valerie tried to help me up, but I flinched away. “Don’t touch me! I don’t have a mother!” I managed to stumble around the corner of the street before the copper taste in my throat became a flood. I vomited a massive amount of blood. A sudden, sharp pain exploded in my stomach—a pain I recognized from Valerie’s medical files. [Oh god! The System found the loophole! It’s transferring the cancer to Casey!] 4 [Is this what Frank meant by ‘transfer’? This is devastating.] [This mother-daughter bond is breaking me. They’re both trying to die for each other.] Good, I thought, slumped against a brick wall. If the cancer moved to me, Valerie would be healthy. The System would lose its grip on her life. It didn’t matter if I died. Between the shocks and the beatings, I was already a ghost. But Frank wasn’t done with me. A few nights later, I was working a shift at a dive bar. As I was closing up, a group of local thugs walked in. The leader had a buzz cut and a jagged scar running from his eye to his jaw. Frank stepped out from behind them. He grabbed my collar and shoved me toward the scarred man. “Victor, use the girl to clear my thirty thousand in debt. She’s all yours.” The man, Victor—not the CEO, but a street-level butcher—pinched my chin, inspecting me like livestock. “Thirty? She looks like she’s about to keel over. Twenty, max.” Frank got desperate. “She’s sturdy, I swear! She can work. Come on, thirty!” The men laughed, their eyes full of a dark, predatory hunger. I lunged forward and bit Victor’s wrist as hard as I could. “You little bitch!” He grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back until I thought my scalp would tear. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him a sound. “She’s got spirit. I like that,” Victor grinned, showing yellowed teeth. He tossed me to his crew. “Have some fun, boys. Just don’t break the merchandise too fast.” They swarmed me. Frank watched with a smile, then turned and walked out of the bar, rubbing his hands together. Hands tore at my clothes. Someone pinned me to a table. The smell of stale beer and sweat was suffocating. I felt a surge of nausea. I turned my head and sprayed a mouthful of blood directly into the face of the man holding me. He recoiled, wiping the gore from his eyes. I laughed, a raspy, jagged sound. “My father lied to you. I’m not worth thirty thousand.” “I have terminal stomach cancer. It’s in my blood. If you touch me, you’re dead men walking.” The thugs froze. They scrambled back, looking at each other in terror. Victor stared at me for a second, spat a curse, and kicked me hard in the chest. A rain of blows followed. My vision began to fade. I felt my ribs snap—again. It was fine. It was almost over. Just as my consciousness began to flicker out, the front door was kicked off its hinges. Valerie stormed in, flanked by a dozen suited men. Her eyes were glowing with a murderous, unholy rage. “If any of you touched my daughter,” she whispered, her voice vibrating with power, “you aren’t leaving this room alive.”

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I was Carter’s beautifully kept secret for seven long years. On the very day his tech startup finally went public, ringing the bell on Wall Street, he officially announced his new relationship with a photo of his hand intertwined with another woman’s. “Blair, I have to take responsibility for her,” he told me. “You’re a survivor. You’ve got teeth. You’ll be fine without me. But she’s fragile. She only has me.” The exit of an adult from a dying romance is supposed to be polite. Dignified. When the town car finally rolled to a stop outside my family’s old estate—a place I hadn’t seen in years—a familiar face was waiting by the iron gates. “Finally figured out how to find your way home?” He handed me a steaming paper cup of hot apple cider through the rolled-down window. His tone was distinctly cool, laced with a biting edge. “I’ve been waiting for you for ten goddamn years.” 1 The night before the company went public, Carter had been insatiable. We spent half the night tangled in the sheets, shifting from one frantic position to another. Eventually, I collapsed against the mattress, exhausted, and nudged him away with my bare foot. “It’s an IPO tomorrow, Carter, not an execution. If you keep going this hard, we aren’t going to survive the week.” He stepped out of the en-suite bathroom, a towel slung low, his dark hair still dripping wet. “If I told you we actually weren’t going to survive this—that we’re done—would you make a scene?” “It’s been seven years…” I pushed myself up on my elbows, the words slipping out automatically. “Are you insane?” And then the silence stretched. The air in the room shifted. My chest tightened, a hard knot forming in my throat. “There’s someone else.” If this had been seven years ago, I would have launched myself off that bed. I would have screamed, thrown things, demanded an explanation with tears streaming down my face. But I was twenty-seven now. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, lit one, and kept my voice unnervingly level. “So what happens to the engagement party? We already put down the deposit.” Carter plucked the cigarette from my trembling fingers. “Don’t smoke. It’s an ugly habit.” I watched him place that very same cigarette between his own lips, inhaling deeply without a second thought. A sudden, violent burn of acidity filled my eyes. “Who is she, Carter?” My voice finally cracked. “Who?” Was she stunningly beautiful? Was her family old money? What exactly gave her the right to reach into my chest and pull my beating heart out of your hands? The tears fell then, pathetic and unbidden. Carter frowned, an expression of tired resignation settling over his handsome face. “Blair, we’re adults. Let’s not do the hysterical, life-or-death routine, alright?” Carter had never been the kind of man to coddle me. In our early days, I used to throw tantrums. But whenever I did, he would just give me this look—a tight, tolerant, utterly patronizing half-smile, as if he were waiting for a toddler to tucker herself out. I hated that look. So, I changed. I sanded down my rough edges. I became the “Cool Girl.” He loved bragging to his frat-boy buddies and corporate investors about how chill his Blair was. She’s not like other women. She doesn’t nag, she doesn’t make a scene over nothing. But sitting in that dim bedroom, the sickening truth finally washed over me. Other women made scenes because they had the capital to do so. They had the confidence. They knew they were loved, cherished, and protected. I was “chill,” and my reward was seven years of absolute invisibility. I was a ghost who hadn’t even earned the dignity of a public title. I wiped the wetness from my face with the back of my hand, forcing a cold serenity I didn’t feel, and stood up to get dressed. Carter caught my wrist, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against my pulse point. I froze. The glow of the bedside lamp was sickly and amber, casting his familiar features into shadowed, unrecognizable planes. “It’s barely 4:00 AM. Wait a bit. It’s not safe to call an Uber right now.” The words were a needle, piercing straight into the last, stupidly soft corner of my heart. I felt like an absolute clown. I yanked my arm away with everything I had. He snatched it back, his grip bruising now, the cool resignation on his face cracking into genuine irritation. “Are you done throwing a fit?” “If you hadn’t turned into this completely closed-off person, why would I have ever fallen for someone else?” he demanded. “Can’t you just take a minute and reflect on your own behavior, Blair?” A dry, hollow laugh ripped its way out of my throat. He cheats. He breaks every promise he ever made. He destroys a seven-year partnership. And somehow, he is standing here, self-righteous and indignant, blaming me for changing? He was the exact same man I had loved since I was twenty, yet in that microscopic fraction of a second, it felt as though I was looking at a complete stranger. The moment my heart truly went ice-cold, the tears miraculously stopped. I gently, methodically peeled his fingers off my arm. “Okay,” I whispered. There was no point in arguing. Carter had clearly forgotten something fundamental about me. Underneath the carefully curated “chill girlfriend” facade, Blair had a vicious, unforgiving temper. And I had never, ever lacked the brutal determination to cut my losses and walk away. Seeing my sudden, eerie calm, Carter’s demeanor snapped back to an aloof, corporate detachment. He started talking about her. “Her name is Mia. She’s not even twenty yet. Her family sheltered her her whole life, so she’s incredibly innocent. Sweet-tempered.” “I have to do right by her. If she stays with me without an official title, the gossip will destroy her.” “Blair, you’re wild. You’re a fighter. You’ll build a great life without me. But she’s fragile. She only has me.” As he spoke about her, the hard, ruthless angles of his face softened into something tender. It was the exact same look the twenty-one-year-old Carter had given me, seven years ago. Leaning against a beat-up vintage motorcycle, holding my hand in the freezing wind. “Think about it, Blair. I’m just an unacknowledged bastard from a messed-up family. There’s no future with me.” Later that night, he had driven me halfway across the city on that bike, sold it to a chop shop for four thousand dollars, and used the cash to rent a rat-infested studio apartment. Our first home. We were drowning in poverty back then, armed with absolutely nothing but our love for each other. Yet, I hadn’t felt an ounce of bitterness. My heart had felt so full I thought it might burst. At 6:00 AM, Mia called him. “Carter,” she whimpered through the speaker, her voice a syrupy, pathetic whine. “I had a nightmare. I dreamt you left me.” She cried beautifully—the kind of weeping designed to make a man feel like a god. Carter didn’t say a single word to me. He just grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text from him. “Take your time packing. No rush. I’m taking her to the Four Seasons for a few days.” “Please make sure you don’t leave any of your things behind. If she sees them, it’ll upset her.” I set the phone down on the mattress and began, in total silence, to pack my life into cardboard boxes. A moment later, another text lit up the screen. “If you ever need anything, financially, you can always reach out.” “We can still be friends.” My fingers curled into a tight, agonizing fist. The next second, I picked up the phone and hurled it as hard as I could into the drywall. The screen shattered, raining glass onto the hardwood. Carter, you arrogant, cruel bastard. How terrified was he that I would cling to him, that he felt the need to grant me this condescending, magnanimous title of “friend” just to keep the peace? It was utterly absurd. 2 We had only moved into this penthouse two years ago, but as I packed, I realized just how much of myself I had bled into this space. Outside, a relentless, icy gray rain began to fall over the city skyline. I stood on my tiptoes, peeling the very last polaroid off the refrigerator door. It was a candid shot, taken by one of Carter’s old buddies in a subterranean, dingy pool hall. In the picture, Carter was leaning against a pool cue, exhaling a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. I was next to him, my face flushed red from coughing. He had laughed that careless, devastating laugh of his. “Blair, a good girl like you doesn’t belong in a dive like this.” I had grabbed the hem of his faded leather jacket, pulled his hand toward my mouth, and taken a deep drag of his cigarette. He panicked, pinching my nose to force me to open my mouth and breathe. I had coughed so hard I thought my lungs would collapse, burying my face in his chest, looking up at him with watering eyes. “Carter, wherever you are, that’s exactly where I belong.” Back then, his mother had just died of a heroin overdose, and his billionaire biological father still refused to acknowledge his existence. Carter was bouncing at that pool hall for under-the-table cash, just scraping by for a hot meal and a couch to sleep on. The night we finally made it official, a regular at the bar had a polaroid camera and snapped that picture. We were too broke for anniversary gifts or fancy dinners. It was the only tangible memory we had of that night. I traced my thumb over my own youthful face in the photograph. So raw. So unbelievably stubborn. A girl whose heart was entirely ready to bleed out for the boy she loved. A twenty-one-year-old Carter had tapped the polaroid with his index finger. “Just wait, Blair. I’m gonna climb to the very top.” “And when I do, I’m going to marry you in the biggest, most beautiful wedding this city has ever seen.” My newly purchased replacement phone suddenly chimed. A mutual acquaintance had forwarded me a video clip. It was Carter at a private club, his arm wrapped tightly around a young woman’s waist, introducing her to his inner circle. “This is my girlfriend, Mia. Look out for her, alright?” The girl’s face was fresh, naive, and plagued by a bizarre sense of familiarity. The friend who sent the video added a text: “What the hell is this? You guys taking a break again?” I stared at the screen for a long beat. Then, I crushed the old polaroid into a tight, jagged little ball and dropped it into the black contractor trash bag. “No break,” I texted back. “We’re done for good.” I was never going to get that grand, beautiful wedding. At twenty-eight, having finally built his empire, he conveniently developed amnesia regarding everything he had ever promised me. After boxing up my personal items, I wired an exorbitant amount of money to a luxury demolition crew. I paid them double to strip the apartment down to the studs. Every piece of custom furniture, every rug, every memory we had picked out together—sold for pennies or dragged to the dump. I left Carter a blindingly white, sterile, echoing empty box. Just before I permanently left the city limits, the VP of Finance at his company called me in a panic. The books were off by a massive margin ahead of the final IPO audit, and she was begging me to come in and look at the ledgers one last time. My departure had been so abrupt, I had essentially abandoned my team to work overnight shifts to cover my workload. Guilt chewed at my conscience. So, I agreed to go in. I didn’t expect to be locked out by the biometric scanners in the lobby. The young receptionist stared at me in absolute shock when I pulled off my baseball cap. It took her a full minute before she tentatively whispered, “Blair?” She escorted me all the way up to the executive finance suite. Before leaving, she hesitated, then smiled warmly. “You know, you look incredible with barely any makeup on. Really youthful. It suits you.” I naturally had a softer, younger face. But over the years, fighting tooth and nail alongside Carter in cutthroat boardrooms, I had actively weaponized my appearance. I wore severe, dark clothing, sharp stilettos, and deep red lipstick, forcing myself into the mold of a cold, intimidating corporate shark. I had worn the armor for so long, I had practically forgotten the shape of my own face. Diane, the seasoned head of finance, sighed heavily when she saw me in a simple sweater and jeans. After we finally reconciled the accounts, she walked me toward the elevators. It was shift change, and a crowd of my former colleagues swarmed around me, their voices overlapping in genuine distress. “Blair, you can’t just leave like this. The clients from the West Coast accounts are having an absolute meltdown.” “Exactly! Without you playing hardball, we had to concede five percent on the downtown development just to get them to sign the term sheet.” I offered them all polite, comforting smiles. I didn’t utter a single negative syllable about Carter. The exit of an adult from a dying romance is supposed to be polite. Dignified. I had bled to build this company with him. Even if I was walking away, I wasn’t going to burn down the livelihood of the people who worked for me. Back in the early days, the board was packed with old-money cronies sent by Carter’s father, men who did nothing but sabotage my every move. Carter had been my shield. He let me act as the battering ram. I fought the bloody battles on the front lines, while he maneuvered in the shadows. Together, we were lethal. Within three years, we had purged his father’s loyalists and secured absolute control of the firm. But suddenly, a cold, sharp voice sliced through the chatter. “Are we under the impression the company is going to file for bankruptcy just because Blair is no longer on the payroll?” 3 The crowd instantly fell dead silent, parting like the Red Sea. Carter stood there, his fingers laced tightly with Mia’s, glaring at the group of employees. “If someone walked in here right now, they’d think Blair was the CEO.” He tilted his head, his tone laced with venom. “If you miss her that much, you’re all welcome to pack your desks and follow her out.” No one dared to breathe. Carter’s word was absolute law here now. He radiated the kind of arrogant, suffocating authority that only came with immense wealth. It was just a brutal irony that the very first person he had purged from his empire upon taking the throne—was me. Mia gave his hand a gentle tug. Her voice was breathy and sweet. “Carter, is this Blair? She looks… a lot different than you described.” Her doe-eyes drifted down to my feet. “Oh my god. We’re wearing the exact same shoes…” Carter’s brow furrowed. He looked me up and down, his gaze entirely devoid of warmth. It wasn’t just the designer loafers. My oversized trench coat and the baseball cap were from the exact same luxury capsule collection she was wearing. When I had seen that video clip the night before, I knew Mia looked familiar. Seeing her in the flesh, under the harsh fluorescent lights, it finally clicked. She looked exactly like me. The pin-straight, raven hair. The pale, unblemished skin. The soft jawline. Looking at her was like staring into a funhouse mirror that reflected the twenty-one-year-old version of myself. A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. At least his aesthetic taste was consistent. “Blair,” Carter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We agreed you weren’t going to make a scene.” My mind snapped back to the present. I let out a tired exhale. “I didn’t stalk her, Carter. Believe whatever you want.” Mia’s bottom lip trembled. “But… this collection literally dropped yesterday. Carter took me to the flagship store to get it.” I knew exactly what game she was playing. The subtle, catty flex of his attention. What she didn’t know was that I possessed a titanium Black Card for that department store. I didn’t need to stand in line at a flagship. Before the merchandise even hit the velvet displays, a private concierge hand-delivered the pieces to my penthouse. In fact, Carter had been the one to sign for the delivery boxes when they arrived. I bit my tongue, stubbornly refusing to defend myself. I wanted to see what he would do. What he would say. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, his fingers drumming a rapid, irritated rhythm against a nearby glass partition. Anyone who worked with him knew the tell. It was his ultimate signal of lost patience. “It’s pathetic, Blair,” he said coldly. “Like a cheap knockoff.” “Why are you humiliating yourself like this? Go to the boutique across the street and buy something else. Change.” He snapped his fingers at his executive assistant, who hurriedly handed him a sleek leather checkbook. Carter uncapped his gold pen and paused. “How much do you want?” he asked, not looking up. “Name your price right now, get it all out of your system, and never pull a pathetic stunt like this again.” Next to me, Diane’s grip on my arm tightened painfully. My own fingernails bit so hard into my palms they broke the skin. My breathing grew shallow and erratic, a violent knot twisting in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my voice from rising, the volume echoing off the glass walls. “You think I’m doing this for a payout, Carter?” His eyes were dead, frozen over. “You gave me seven years. You’re entitled to a severance package.” Outside of a very tight inner circle, almost no one in this building knew we had been sleeping together. It was a strategic decision we had made years ago, to ensure the board couldn’t use our relationship as leverage. Once the board was handled, he simply never brought up going public. God, I had spent hours daydreaming about the day he would finally announce us. The gasps of our colleagues, the champagne, the congratulations. Never in my darkest nightmares did I imagine that his big “reveal” of our history would be entirely designed to humiliate me—to paint me as the hysterical, gold-digging ex-girlfriend who couldn’t let go. Mia practically melted into Carter’s chest, wrapping both arms around his torso. Even when Carter and I were deeply, madly in love, he rarely held my hand in front of the staff. He was obsessed with “maintaining optics.” Yet here he was, letting Mia press her face into his neck in front of fifty employees. “It’s okay, Carter,” she murmured loudly enough for the room to hear. “She doesn’t have to change. It’s fine.” “I totally get where she’s coming from. I mean, you’re such an incredible, successful man. What girl would ever want to let you go?” She beamed up at him, sickeningly sweet. “It just makes me realize how lucky I am. As long as you love me, that’s all that matters.” Carter gazed down at her, entirely captivated, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her perfect mouth. Deep inside my chest, the last remaining pillars of my love for him shattered into fine, useless dust. The words clawed their way up my throat, thick with the metallic taste of blood from where I had bitten the inside of my cheek. I used the physical pain to ground me. “You’re right,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “There is something I want.” Carter smirked, a look of vindicated arrogance crossing his face. “Like I said. Name your price.” 4 I took two deliberate steps forward, reached out, and grabbed the heavy silver St. Jude medallion resting against his sternum. Years ago, when his father had first recognized him as a legitimate heir, he had handed Carter this failing, debt-ridden tech firm as a sick joke. A test he was meant to fail. Carter had been terrified. Paralyzed by the pressure. He didn’t eat or sleep, desperate to prove his worth. I had been the one shaking hands in seedy bars, wining and dining volatile investors to secure the seed funding. On the night I finally got the lead investor to sign, I had drank so much scotch my stomach ulcer perforated. I woke up on an operating table. It was the first time I had ever seen Carter truly lose his mind with fear. He had run to the hospital in the pouring rain, slipping in the mud. He arrived covered in dirt and blood, looking infinitely worse than the girl in the hospital bed. He had gripped my hand, sobbing uncontrollably like a little boy. “Blair, does it hurt? Please tell me it doesn’t hurt.” I was hospitalized for a week, and he didn’t leave the plastic chair beside my bed for a single second. When I was coming down from the anesthesia, floating in a haze of pain and confusion, I just kept screaming his name. Every single time I called out, he answered. He didn’t stop to eat. He didn’t stop to drink water. By the time I was fully lucid, his vocal cords were completely blown. He could only croak. One of the night nurses had adjusted my IV and smiled at me. “When you finally fell asleep, he just kept talking. Kept whispering that you were safe, that he was here. He must have said it a thousand times, even though you couldn’t hear him.” “He said he wanted his voice to be the only thing in your nightmares so you wouldn’t be scared. You’ve got a good one, honey. You’re a lucky girl.” God, how wildly, violently Carter had loved me back then. The day I was discharged, he disappeared for twelve hours. When he finally showed up at the apartment, his knuckles were bruised and his knees were scraped raw. But he was grinning like an absolute idiot, holding up a heavy, antique silver medallion. Then he handed me the exact matching half. “The guy at the pawn shop swore by these. St. Jude. The patron saint of lost causes. Said they carry a protective aura. That they keep you safe.” “But the trick is, you have to put it around the neck of the person you love. If you put it on me, and I put it on you… it means we survive everything. It means we last forever.” What a brilliant, hilarious joke. His definition of forever. Seven years. That was the lifespan of his eternity. Hot tears spilled over my lower lashes, dropping silently onto the marble floor. I stared directly into Carter’s eyes. I watched the smug irritation in his expression slowly warp into genuine, chaotic panic. “I want this,” I whispered. “Seven years of my life. This is the only thing that covers the debt.” I yanked my hand back with everything I had. Carter let out a sharp cry of pain as the heavy silver chain snapped, slicing an angry red line into the back of his neck. When he had originally given it to me, the pendant was strung on a cheap, frayed leather cord. Once the company took off, Carter hated looking at the cheap leather. He dragged me to a jeweler and forced me to swap it for pure platinum chains. He made it expensive, but he also made it fragile. I reached up and unclasped my own pendant, letting it drop into my palm. Seeing my raised hand, Carter lunged forward, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “Blair, don’t—” But it was too late. I hurled both pieces of silver violently against the marble floor. The heavy metal dented, the clasps shattering into unrecognizable, broken pieces of shrapnel. Some things, once broken, can never be repaired. This was the end, Carter. The absolute, irreversible end.

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It was the weekend. My wife had invited a male colleague over for dinner. As the three of us walked up to the front door of our house, the colleague reached out, casually pressing his thumb against the biometric scanner of our smart lock. A soft chime rang out. The deadbolt clicked open. I stood frozen on the porch, staring at him. Rebecca glanced at me, her tone perfectly breezy. “He’s been over a few times for work. I had him add his fingerprint. It’s just easier this way.” Her colleague offered me a polite, easy smile. I smiled back, a hollow stretching of my lips. Then I turned around, gripped my briefcase, and started walking down the driveway. “Where are you going?” Rebecca called out, jogging a few steps after me. I pulled open my car door. “Since I’m clearly not the man of this house, I’m leaving.” Rebecca froze, utterly scandalized. She looked at me as if a stranger had suddenly possessed her husband’s body. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” … I repeated it, letting the words hang in the cool evening air. “I said, since I am clearly not the man of this house, it’s only right that I leave.” Beside her, Wesley—the colleague—immediately reached out and touched her arm. “Rebecca, this is my fault,” his voice was soft, laced with a practiced, gentle panic. “I shouldn’t have done the fingerprint thing. I’ll delete it right now. Nathan, please don’t be mad. I really just thought it would be more convenient.” His eyes were wide and apologetic, but the remorse didn’t quite reach the pupils. Rebecca instantly stepped in front of him, a human shield. “It has nothing to do with you, Wesley.” She turned her glare on me. “Nathan, stop overthinking this. It’s a fingerprint. Wesley comes over all the time to drop off files or work on late projects. I didn’t want him standing out in the cold waiting for me to get the door.” She crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in deep disapproval. “What is wrong with you today? Why are you acting like a child?” “Like a child?” I let out a dry, breathy laugh. “Right. I’m being childish. I suppose I should have stood on the welcome mat and applauded, ushering you and your coworker into the house. ‘Welcome home, honey.’ Is that it?” I turned my back to them, didn’t even step a foot inside the foyer, and walked straight to my car. Rebecca rushed down the driveway and grabbed my wrist. “What exactly are you trying to do?” “Let go.” “Nathan, stop causing a scene. Wesley is watching.” I wrenched my arm out of her grip and yanked my car door open. “Let him watch. Let him get a good look at how the actual husband gets driven out of his own home.” I didn’t look back. The slam of the car door echoed like a gunshot in the quiet suburban cul-de-sac. I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time before turning the key. Rebecca and I met through a setup by mutual family friends. I was twenty-nine; she was twenty-seven. We had hit that invisible, ticking-clock age where our parents’ casual hints had sharpened into relentless pressure. The mutual friends pitched Rebecca as practical, stable, from a good family. My parents were thrilled. When we finally met for coffee, she was quiet, grounded, and seemed utterly devoid of drama. I had just crawled out of the wreckage of a five-year relationship. I was emotionally hollowed out, exhausted by the thought of ever navigating a messy, passionate romance again. I just wanted peace. I thought finding someone stable, someone to build a quiet partnership with, would be enough. The day we went to the courthouse to get our marriage license, I looked at her and asked, “Rebecca, what do you need from me in this marriage?” She looked straight ahead. “Just don’t try to control me.” “Okay,” I said. And for the first year of our marriage, that was exactly how we lived. I did my thing; she did hers. She worked late, traveled for conferences, spent weekends out with friends. I never checked her phone, never asked her where she had been. I thought I was giving her respect. I thought we had an unspoken, mature understanding. I played the role of the reliable, supportive husband. My parents always told me that real marriage was just water—plain, quiet, unexciting. I believed them. I genuinely thought we could live out the rest of our lives in this polite, courteous roommate arrangement. Until today. A coworker’s thumbprint on my front door was the sudden, blinding flash of light that exposed the truth: the place I called my home was, to her, nothing more than a hotel where she could bring another man whenever she pleased. I was being humiliated right on my own doorstep. What was the point of enduring this? Divorce. The moment the word bloomed in my mind, a physical weight lifted off my chest. My shoulders dropped. I started the engine, drove miles away to a quiet diner, and ate dinner alone in a booth. When I finally drove back and unlocked the front door, the living room lights were blazing. Rebecca and Wesley were sitting side-by-side on my sofa, watching TV. On the coffee table sat the expensive charcuterie and fresh fruit I had bought just yesterday. At the sound of the door, they both turned. Wesley shot up from the cushions like a startled rabbit. “Nathan, you’re back. I’m so sorry, I—” “What are you apologizing for?” Rebecca snapped, cutting him off. “Sit down.” She looked at me, her face a mask of cold indifference. “You’re back.” “Yeah.” I kicked off my shoes, ignoring them completely, and walked straight down the hall to the master bedroom. I needed to take inventory of my things. When I opened my desk drawer, I froze. My new fountain pen was gone. It was a custom-ordered Montblanc, incredibly hard to find. I had paid a proxy buyer in Europe over four hundred dollars to track it down for me. I had only used it once. I walked back out to the living room. “Rebecca, where is my pen?” She was flipping through channels with the remote, not even bothering to look up. “Oh. Wesley said his ink ran out, so I told him to grab yours.” The blood rushed to my ears, a deafening roar. “You told him to take it?” “Yeah.” She finally looked at me, her expression practically screaming what’s the big deal. “It’s just a pen. I’ll buy you a new one on Amazon tomorrow.” Wesley hovered nervously near the couch, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Nathan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was an expensive one. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.” “How do you return a custom nib that’s already been compromised?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. Rebecca rolled her eyes, her patience evaporating. “Nathan, enough. It’s a damn pen. I said I’d replace it. Do you really need to walk around with a dark cloud over your head over something so trivial?” Trivial? This was my home, and he had the key to it. These were my things, and he could just take them. Trivial. “Let’s get a divorce,” I said. The living room plunged into a suffocating silence. Rebecca stared at me like I had just delivered the punchline to a terrible joke. “What did you say?” “I said, I want a divorce.” She stood up, marching across the rug until she was right in my face. “You want to throw away our marriage over a pen? Are you out of your mind, Nathan?” “I’m not crazy,” I said, holding her gaze. “I’m just disgusted.” Her face flushed a deep, mottled red. “Fine. Great. I disgust you?” She snatched her coat off the armchair, spinning toward the door. “I’m not coming home tonight. You can sit here all by yourself and be disgusted.” She slammed the door so hard the framed photos on the wall rattled. Wesley stood there, shifting his weight, looking utterly lost. “Nathan, please don’t be angry. You know how Rebecca gets. I’ll… I’ll go to the store and buy your pen back.” “Don’t bother,” I said, looking right through him. “You need to leave, too.” He flinched. The color drained from his face. Wordlessly, he gathered his messenger bag and practically scurried out the door. The house was finally silent. I sat down on the sofa, pulled out my phone, and called my mother. “Mom. I’m getting a divorce.” There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. “Nathan, you’re acting up again. Couples fight. It’s normal. Why are you throwing the D-word around so easily?” “Mom, she registered another man’s fingerprint on our front door.” “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for that. You can’t be so narrow-minded, honey. You need to be more understanding of her work life.” “She gave him my brand-new fountain pen.” “How much could a pen possibly cost? Nathan, you can’t be this stubborn. Rebecca is a good girl. Don’t push a good thing away because you’re throwing a tantrum.” I stopped talking. Of course. In their eyes, I was the villain. I was the one being unreasonable, petty, and childish. “I’m tired, Mom. I have to go.” I hung up. Rebecca didn’t come home that night. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, the clatter of pans in the kitchen woke me. I walked out to find Rebecca standing at the stove, flipping eggs. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, catching the edges of her apron. From behind, she looked like the picture-perfect, domestic wife. Hearing my footsteps, she turned around. “You’re up? I made breakfast.” She set a plate of eggs and a mug of black coffee on the dining table. “I was out of line yesterday. My temper got the best of me. Please, let’s just drop it.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from Venmo. She had just sent me a thousand dollars. “Buy the pen, buy a watch, buy whatever you want. Just stop being mad, okay?” She pulled out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. “Wesley… he actually has a really sad life.” I stared at her. I didn’t say a word. “His wife is awful to him. They fight constantly. She spends every dime he makes. He’s been taking on all this extra work just so he can save enough money to finally leave her.” She let out a heavy sigh, her eyes softening with pity. “I just feel bad for him. I’m just trying to help him out. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” I picked up the coffee mug, took a slow sip, and set it down. Then I looked at her. “You should marry him, then. Since your heart bleeds for him so much, marry him. Then you can take care of him every day, and it’ll be perfectly justified.” Her face turned to stone. “Do you really have to speak to me like that?” “I’m just offering a practical solution.” She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the hardwood. “I wasn’t going to tell you this soon, but since you’re backing me into a corner, I’ll just lay it out.” She locked eyes with me. “Wesley is moving in.” I thought I misheard her. “What?” “I said, Wesley is moving in. He finally told his wife he’s leaving, and she kicked him out. He has nowhere to go. We have a guest room that just sits empty. It makes perfect sense.” She said it with such absolute, unwavering conviction. “Are you insane, Rebecca?” “I’m not insane. I am informing you.” Her voice dropped several degrees, becoming icy and corporate. “My parents paid the down payment for this house. I pay the monthly mortgage. I have the right to decide who stays here.” “You have to agree to this.” “And if I don’t?” She smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. “If you can’t handle it, you are more than welcome to pack your bags and move out.” She untied her apron, threw it onto the chair, and grabbed her purse. “I’m bringing his things over this afternoon. Adjust your attitude.” The door slammed again. I sat at the table, looking at the cold, untouched eggs. The breakfast, the apology, the thousand dollars—none of it was about seeking my forgiveness. It was all just a cheap down payment for the eviction notice she was about to serve me. At three o’clock that afternoon, the front door opened. Rebecca walked in, dragging two large suitcases. Wesley trailed behind her, clutching a cardboard moving box to his chest. When he saw me standing in the hallway, a flicker of genuine fear crossed his face. “Nathan, I’m just crashing here temporarily. I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon.” Rebecca dropped the suitcases in the middle of the living room rug. “What do you mean temporarily? You stay as long as you need. Here’s the spare key.” She held out a silver key. Wesley didn’t take it. He kept his eyes fixed on me. “Nathan… are you okay with this?” I didn’t look at him. I looked at my wife. “This is her house, her decision. You don’t need my permission.” Rebecca looked incredibly smug at my apparent surrender. She grabbed the handles of the suitcases and wheeled them down the hall toward the spare room. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the door close behind them. That room was supposed to be for my mother when she visited. I had just washed the duvet cover and the bedsheets last month. I had folded them perfectly. They smelled like clean linen and sunshine. And now, they belonged to another man. That evening, I cooked dinner. I roasted a chicken, sautéed some asparagus, and made a complex wild rice pilaf. I set the dining table. Two placemats. Two plates. Two sets of silverware. Mine, and Rebecca’s. Rebecca emerged from the bedroom, her eyes scanning the table. “Where’s Wesley’s plate?” “I didn’t cook for him.” Her brows snapped together. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means I am only responsible for feeding the two people in this marriage. I don’t cater to strays.” Wesley stepped out of the spare room right at that moment. He heard every word. A flush of deep embarrassment crept up his neck. “It’s fine, Rebecca. I grabbed a sandwich on the way over.” Rebecca’s face was thunderous. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you, Nathan?” “Yes.” I didn’t blink. “I am doing it entirely on purpose.” Dinner was a study in psychological warfare. Three people, two completely different realities. Rebecca and I ate in suffocating silence. Wesley sat alone on the sofa, scrolling on his phone, stealing anxious glances at the dining table every few minutes. When we finished, I cleared the plates and took them to the kitchen sink. Rebecca followed me in. “You completely humiliated me out there.” “Did you think about my humiliation when you moved another man into my house?” “It’s not the same thing. He needed help.” “So do I.” She paused, caught off guard. “I need a home that doesn’t have strangers living in it. Can you help me with that?” She didn’t answer. That night, I locked the master bedroom door from the inside. Around 2:00 AM, I heard the brass handle jiggle. It was Rebecca. She twisted the knob a few times, realizing the deadbolt was thrown. She stood outside the wood for a long, silent minute. Then, I heard her footsteps pad away down the hall. I heard her stop at the guest room. I don’t know if she went inside. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my eyes wide open until the sun came up. Day two of the invasion. I walked into the master bathroom to brush my teeth and stopped cold. The vanity was cluttered with new debris. His debris. His cheap plastic razor, his toothbrush, his toothpaste, all aggressively wedged right next to my grooming supplies. I looked down at my bottle of La Mer facial cleanser. The cap was left unscrewed, the tube lying carelessly on its side. I picked it up. It was lighter. At least a fifth of the bottle had been squeezed out. I walked out of the bathroom, clutching the green tube. Wesley and Rebecca were at the dining table. Wesley had made breakfast—croissant sandwiches and pour-over coffee. “Morning, Nathan!” Wesley offered a bright, overly eager smile. “I made breakfast. Come sit.” I walked straight past the food and slammed the La Mer tube onto the table in front of him. “Did you use my face wash?” His eager smile fractured. “I… I couldn’t find mine in the boxes, so I just borrowed a little. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask.” Rebecca dropped her croissant. “He just used a drop. Why are you being so incredibly cheap?” “It has nothing to do with money.” I stared dead into Wesley’s eyes. “It’s called stealing.” Wesley’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to. I’ll buy you a new one.” “You can’t afford it.” Rebecca slammed her palm against the tabletop. “Enough! Do you wake up every morning just trying to find ways to start a fight, Nathan?” “Who is starting the fights here?” I shot back. “Who moved a parasite into my house to use my things and eat my food?” “He’s not a parasite, he’s family!” Rebecca screamed. The words hung in the air, echoing off the drywall. She looked shocked that she had even said it. Wesley lowered his head, his shoulders trembling. He looked like he was crying. I just laughed. A dry, scraping sound in my throat. “Great. He’s family. What does that make me?” Rebecca had no answer. I turned around, walked back into the master bedroom, and started packing. I took every expensive watch, every piece of jewelry, every high-end bottle of cologne, and shoved them into a duffel bag, burying it in the back of my closet. Then I pulled out my phone, went on Amazon, and ordered a heavy-duty storage trunk with a combination lock. I skipped coming home for lunch. After work, I drove to Costco. I bought a mini-fridge. I bought premium snacks, imported sparkling water, expensive deli meats, and fruit. I hauled it all into my bedroom, plugged the fridge into the corner, and loaded it up. From that day forward, the kitchen fridge no longer contained a single item that belonged to me. That evening, Rebecca and Wesley were on the sofa watching a movie. A romance. They were sitting close, their shoulders brushing. When a sad scene played, Wesley sniffled, wiping his eyes with a tissue. Rebecca reached over, gently rubbing his back to comfort him. If you looked through the window, you would think they were the married couple. I sat in the armchair across the room, wearing noise-canceling headphones, reading a book, existing in a completely separate universe. Halfway through the movie, I saw Wesley’s lips move. “Rebecca, I really want some yogurt.” Rebecca paused the TV and walked to the kitchen. She opened the fridge. “We’re out. You ate the last one this morning.” “Oh,” Wesley pouted, slumping back against the cushions. Rebecca turned around and glared across the room at me. She knew exactly what I had in my bedroom. I kept my eyes glued to my book. She marched over and snatched the left headphone off my ear. “You have yogurt in your little bunker, right? Go get one for Wesley.” “No.” “I literally saw you unload a whole case from the car.” “They’re mine.” She stared down at me, her eyes blazing with absolute fury. “Are you really going to be this vindictive, Nathan? Is this who you are?” “You set the rules. I’m just playing by them.” We stared each other down in a silent, freezing standoff. Finally, she broke. She turned around and grabbed her car keys off the console table. “Hold on,” she told Wesley, her voice suddenly dripping with sweetness. “I’ll go to the store and get you some.” “You don’t have to,” Wesley mumbled, looking at the floor. “It’s too much trouble.” “It’s no trouble at all.” The front door shut. She was gone. Wesley sat on the sofa. Slowly, he turned to look at me. The pitiful, helpless act dropped from his face for a split second. “Nathan, why do you have to be like this? We could all just get along.” “I have zero interest in getting along with you.” “Are you threatened by me? Do you think I’m going to steal Rebecca away?” I closed my book and let it rest on my lap. “She’s a human being, not a flat-screen TV. Nobody is ‘stealing’ anything. If she wants to be with you, that’s her choice.” “Then why are you torturing her?” “How I treat my wife is between me and her. You living here, mooching off her money, soaking up her pity—that’s between you two.” I stood up, towering over him. “But you are sleeping in a room I paid to renovate. You are using things I bought with my hard-earned money. And you expect me to sit here and smile at you? Wesley, you really are out of your mind.” He snapped his mouth shut and looked away. That weekend, I hired a locksmith. I had the master bedroom doorknob removed and replaced with a heavy-duty electronic keypad lock. When Rebecca came home and saw the sleek black metal staring back at her, her face turned ashen. “What is this? Are you locking me out?” “Yes.” She was so furious she couldn’t even form words. She just stood there, shaking. That night, Wesley was in the kitchen, making a giant pot of chicken noodle soup. He claimed it was to help Rebecca de-stress. The entire house smelled like simmering broth and celery. I ignored it, pulled a microwave meal from my mini-fridge, and heated it up in the kitchen while he stirred his pot. Wesley ladled a bowl of the soup and turned to me just as the microwave dinged. “Nathan, I made plenty. You should have some. It’s really good for the immune system.” “I’ll pass. The smell makes me nauseous.” Sitting at the island, blowing on her spoonful of broth, Rebecca shot me a murderous glare. “You just love ruining the mood, don’t you?” I didn’t dignify that with a response. I took my hot plastic tray, walked to my bedroom, keyed in my passcode, and let the heavy door click shut behind me. Sometime around midnight, I heard a murmur coming from the living room. I slipped out of bed, padded to the door, and cracked it open just a fraction of an inch. Wesley was sitting right next to Rebecca in the dark.

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