The moment I discovered I didn’t share a single drop of blood with my parents, I stopped being Manhattan’s most reckless, spoiled heir. Instead, I became the quietest, most compliant boy in the room. When Christian wanted my tailored suits, I let him have them. When he ruined my twenty-first birthday party, I didn’t say a word. Even when he smiled and told me he had fallen in love with Serena—my girlfriend of four years—I simply nodded, swallowed my pride, and stepped aside. But the next day, Serena cornered me against the brick wall of the corridor, her eyes bloodshot as she demanded, “Why are you acting like this? It’s just a piece of paper. Does blood really matter that much to you? Are you really going to just throw me away?” I looked at her, at the raw desperation in her face, and felt nothing but a hollow confusion. She was acting as if she wasn’t the very one who had forged the DNA test proving I was the “fake” son in the first place. … She stood there, her eyes brimming with tears, waiting for an answer. I gently pushed her hands off me and stepped past her. “You should be inside with Christian, Serena. He needs you.” “My graduation ceremony starts in an hour,” I added, my voice flat. “Please let me through.” Christian had only recently woken up from his comatose state. He was fragile, clinging to Serena like a lifeline. And in this house, my needs would always, without fail, be pushed to the very bottom of the pile if Christian was in the equation. Serena froze, but she wouldn’t let it go. “Jace, you promised you’d want me by your side today.” I kept walking without looking back. “I don’t have the luxury of wanting things anymore.” Walking out of the estate, my father’s town car was parked by the driveway. My parents, Richard and Linda, were standing by the car, dressed in elegant formal wear. “Even though we aren’t biologically related,” Richard said, adjusting his cuffs, “we raised you for over twenty years. That bond doesn’t just disappear. We’re going to your graduation.” Linda smiled warmly. “We won’t miss any of your milestones, sweetheart.” Suddenly, she stopped. Her gaze drifted past my shoulder, landing on the front doors of the villa. Christian was standing under the portico, tears streaming down his face. Before anyone could speak, he turned and bolted back inside. My parents’ faces fell instantly. Forgetting all about their expensive attire and the dignity they usually guarded so fiercely, they dashed after him. I could hear Christian’s hysterical cries echoing from the hallway. “Are you going to leave me alone again? The hospital room was so cold, so dark… I don’t want to be alone!” Two minutes later, Richard and Linda emerged, holding a trembling Christian between them. Linda gave me an apologetic, strained smile. “Christian never got to finish college because of his accident,” she said. “We’re going to bring him along so he can see what it’s like. It’ll make up for what he lost.” I murmured a soft agreement, keeping my face entirely blank. I knew the truth. The moment Christian was involved, I became the afterthought. The “along for the ride” guy. I used to fight it, but every time I did, I only ended up looking pathetic. Everyone in our social circle whispered the same thing: if Christian hadn’t gotten into that car crash and ended up in a vegetative state, the Kingsleys would have never adopted me to fill the void. I was just the placeholder. Now that I knew my place, I didn’t fight. Whatever Christian wanted, he could have. At the graduation venue, my classmates crowded around me, trying to take pictures. Then Christian appeared beside me, wearing an expression of pure, innocent wonder. Instantly, the attention shifted. “Oh, who’s your friend, Jace? He’s gorgeous. Can we get a picture with him?” one of the girls asked. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. There was no need for introductions. Christian was already smiling warmly, stepping into the frame. “Of course! But I’m not just his friend. I’m actually his parents’ biological son.” The implication hung heavily in the air. My classmates’ faces went through a rapid succession of shock, gossip-fueled realization, and pity. Within seconds, they had swept Christian away, laughing and chatting with him as if they’d known him for years. When they looked back at me, their gazes had changed. Just like that, with the effortless grace of a true heir, Christian took my friends, just as he had taken everything else. I stood alone in the center of the lawn, the space around me suddenly vast and empty. Linda walked over, stopping exactly three paces away. That was the “safe distance” Christian had established. “After graduation, we’ll put out a formal press release,” she said quietly. “We’re going to legally adopt you as our son. You won’t have to worry about being a ‘fake’ anymore. You will officially be a Kingsley.” Any foster child or adoptee would have wept with gratitude. I just shook my head and smiled softly. “Don’t go to the trouble, Mom. Just having you here today is enough.” Once graduation was over, it would be time to sever the ties completely anyway. My phone buzzed with a message from the class president, telling us to gather for the group photo. I hurried back to the car to grab my cap and gown, but when I zipped open the garment bag, it was completely empty. A short distance away, by the ivy-covered brick wall, Christian was wearing my gown, posing for couple’s photos with Serena. Their fingers were tightly intertwined, their bodies pressed close. Their graduation caps bumped together, and they both burst into laughter. Those caps were custom-made. I had spent three months designing them myself—a matching pair for Serena and me. Sensing my gaze, Christian’s laughter faltered. Serena frowned, stepping defensively in front of him. “Christian just wanted to feel what it’s like to be a graduate, Jace. It’s just a piece of fabric. I’ll have my assistant send you another gown.” The words “don’t bother” were still on my tongue when Christian noticed the crowd gathering for the group photo. Curious, he drifted toward them. Serena followed him closely, acting like his personal protector. Christian whispered something to the class president, then stepped onto a chair, taking the very spot in the center that had been reserved for me. I could already picture it: years from now, when my classmates looked at the graduation photo, their fingers would rest on my spot, but all they would talk about was Christian. And I would leave no trace behind. Linda, who had been watching Christian with a tender gaze, noticed my silence. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a tense, guarded look. “Jace, I know you love taking portraits on special occasions. How about the whole family goes to the studio tonight? We’ll take ten different sets of portraits with you.” To them, this was a generous peace offering. But to me, it felt like damage control. They were bracing themselves, waiting for me to lose my mind and throw a tantrum, to claw for my place against Christian like I used to. But I had no leverage left. Why would I be foolish enough to challenge the real heir? I shook my head gently. “I’m not a Kingsley by blood. Even if I go far away, no one will miss me. There’s no point in taking portraits.” “And besides, it’s just a graduation photo. It doesn’t matter.” Christian had completely stolen the spotlight of my graduation. Linda froze, her smile completely fading. A complex, unreadable shadow fell over her eyes. Christian walked back over, cradling the bouquets of flowers my classmates and friends had bought for me. “Happy graduation, Jace,” he said, beaming. He reached into one of the bouquets, plucked out a single, green filler leaf, and handed it to me as a graduation gift. My parents watched us intensely. I quietly accepted the leaf. “Thank you.” Christian’s smile turned slightly mocking. He turned to Richard. “Dad, didn’t you get Jace a graduation gift? Don’t leave him out just because of me.” The air went dead silent. Because before Christian woke up, my parents had indeed prepared a graduation gift: a ten percent share in the family enterprise. It was even more than what they had given my eldest sister, Delia, who was running the branch office in London. But since Christian’s recovery, no one had mentioned it. Seeing my parents struggle to find words, I offered a reassuring smile. “I don’t deserve something that valuable, Dad. Only Christian does.” As for Serena, she had planned to propose to me today. But now, the ring I had dreamed of for over a decade was already sitting snugly on Christian’s ring finger. I realized then that I had absolutely nothing left to lose. Years ago, to stay close to my family and Serena, I had turned down an offer to pursue my master’s at Oxford. Now, it was time to get my life back on track. When we returned home, I immediately locked myself in my room and began contacting my old advisor. As I sat at my desk, a burst of laughter erupted from downstairs. Delia was back. When I was a child, I was clingy, and I practically grew up in her arms. But after she moved to London to manage the firm, she became so busy she barely had five minutes to reply to my texts. A few months ago, I had asked her if she could come back for my graduation. That email had gone unanswered. I wasn’t naive enough to think her sudden return today was a surprise for me. Sure enough, through the crack in my door, I saw Delia affectionately ruffling Christian’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetie. I can’t believe I missed taking photos with you today. I deserve to be punished.” Christian wrapped his arms around hers. “Then your punishment is no work for the next three months. You have to stay here and play with me.” Delia agreed instantly, without a shred of hesitation. That ease, that deep-seated affection… it was something I had never received once I grew up. I used to think Delia had just grown distant with age, until the night I accidentally overheard Linda on the phone with her. Linda had casually asked why she used to adore me so much as a child, yet practically fled the country to avoid me later. There was a long, heavy silence on the line. Then Delia’s voice crackled through the speaker, raspy and raw: “Because when Jace was little, he looked exactly like Christian.” Those words shattered me. Delia had sighed deeply. “I don’t want to treat them differently. But every time I look at Jace’s healthy, smiling face, all I can think about is Christian lying cold and motionless in that hospital room. It’s just not fair.” I had cried myself to sleep that night. I couldn’t understand why a tragedy I had no part in was being taken out on me. I refused to accept it. So, I did everything I could to fight Christian for my place. Until that forged DNA report was dumped on my desk. I hadn’t believed it at first. I had secretly run another test on my own, which confirmed that I was indeed Richard and Linda’s biological son. But looking at how they chose to believe the fake report just to appease Christian, I gave up. I stopped fighting. I let Christian have my clothes, watching quietly as he shredded them in front of me. I let him ruin my birthdays. I even let him have Serena. Because the moment my family decided to sever their biological ties with me just to make Christian feel secure, I knew I had already lost. I pulled myself out of the memory as Christian’s laughter rang out from the hallway. “Alright, I’ll give you one chance to make it up to me. Let’s go take our family portrait.” “Serena, you come too!” Everyone scrambled to cater to his whims. A second later, Christian let out a dramatic gasp. “Delia! The watch you sent me is gone! I wanted to wear it for the portrait! I know I put it in the pocket of the graduation gown. It must be Jace. Why would Jace take my watch?” Christian began pounding on my bedroom door, sobbing. “Jace, please give it back. That was the first gift Delia gave me after I woke up. If you think I took all the attention away from you, I promise I won’t talk to Mom, Dad, Delia, or Serena ever again. Just please give it back!” Inside my room, I was in the middle of packing my bags. The real DNA test—the one proving I was their biological son—was sitting on my desk. Hearing Christian’s dramatic cries, I froze. Before I could open the door to explain, the lock clicked violently as Delia forced her way in. “Jace, hand over the watch.” But I hadn’t touched his watch. No one believed me. Linda glared at me, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “We thought you had finally grown up because you’ve been so quiet lately. It was all a front, wasn’t it? You just wanted us to let our guard down so you could steal the one thing Christian treasures most!” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug deep into my palms. My voice felt dry, like sand. “I didn’t take his watch.” Christian slumped, looking as if he were about to faint from crying. Serena caught him quickly, shouting at me in a rage. “Jace, when is this going to end? All we asked was for you to be the bigger brother! Are you so consumed by jealousy that you’re trying to kill him?” I shut my mouth. The defense died in my throat, cutting me open from the inside out. Suddenly, Christian lunged at my packed suitcase, ripping it open and tearing through my things. In the chaos, the paper on my desk—the real DNA report—was knocked to the floor. Then, Christian’s hand reached for my Oxford admission letter. My heart stopped. I lunged forward, screaming, “Don’t touch that! Stop!” Oxford’s registration process was incredibly strict; the physical copy of the admission letter was irreplaceable. But I was too late. Christian shredded the document in one swift tear. My mind went completely blank. As he leaned down near me in the scuffle, Christian whispered in my ear, his voice dripping with malice: “Your little classmate was right—you were planning to run off to grad school abroad. Want to escape? No way. I’m going to make sure you spend the rest of your life in my shadow.” “I never lost any watch, by the way. I just needed an excuse to destroy your ticket out of here. Oops.” A spark of raw fury ignited in my chest. Losing all control, I shoved him away hard and dropped to my knees, desperately trying to piece the torn fragments of my letter back together. Christian hit the floor, sobbing hysterically. Delia grabbed my arm roughly, her mouth opening to scold me, but then she stepped on something. She looked down. Right there, under her shoe, the words [RELATIONSHIP: BIOLOGICAL SON] stared back at her in cold, bold print.

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On our anniversary, Williams spent a small fortune to plaster my name across every digital billboard in the city. I watched the neon glow of my own name reflecting in his eyes, so moved that I let tears slip down my cheeks. That night, I officially declined my offer for an Ivy League graduate program, choosing him over my own future. But today, the building administrator came by for a routine residency check. She looked at me with a soft, pitying expression. “Mrs. Calloway, according to our system, this penthouse belongs to Camille Weaver. And the woman registered as your husband’s legal spouse is also her.” “As far as the building records are concerned, you’re just a temporary guest.” I pushed open the heavy double doors of Williams’s private office at the Calloway Group. He was leaning over his mahogany desk, his lips pressed softly against Camille’s ring finger. When I demanded an explanation, his brows furrowed, and his face hardened with immediate frustration. “Camille grew up without parents, Isabel. She has no sense of security. It’s just a deed and a marriage certificate—I only gave her those titles to put her mind at ease.” “I gave you a million-dollar wedding that the entire city envied. I gave you all the public dignity any woman could ask for. Is none of that enough for you?” Camille leaned back against his chest with a soft, mocking smile. “Don’t be angry, Isabel. I only wanted the title. At the end of the day, he still comes home to your bed to play the husband, doesn’t he?” I looked down at the diamond ring on my finger. Suddenly, its sparkle felt blindingly cheap. I slid it off and placed it quietly on his desk. I turned and walked away, pulling out my phone to text my father. Three words: I’m coming home. … “Miss Calloway, I’m so sorry, but Ms. Weaver submitted a request to revoke your long-term access permissions. If you plan to continue staying here, we’ll need to re-file your temporary residency paperwork.” The building manager stood in the hallway, looking deeply uncomfortable. I stared at the smart-lock screen. Biometrics not recognized. My finger hovered in the air, frozen. “Temporary residency?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Yes, ma’am.” The manager pulled up the digital portal on her tablet and gently turned it toward me. “The sole owner of this property is Camille Weaver.” “According to the building’s HOA policies, anyone who is not the deed holder’s legal spouse or direct relative must be registered as a temporary occupant.” The bright blue light of the screen made my eyes sting. Owner: Camille Weaver. Spouse: Williams Calloway. The digital file was stark, clear, and utterly devoid of misunderstanding. I pulled my hand back, my voice barely a whisper. “I understand. Thank you.” She gave me one last pitying look before stepping back into the elevator. The hallway fell dead silent, save for the low buzz of the motion-sensor lights. I pulled out my phone and dialed Williams. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was quiet, the faint rustle of documents the only sound. “What is it, Isabel?” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying that effortless composure I had fallen in love with. “I’m locked out of the penthouse,” I said, staring at the matte-black door. There was a brief pause on the other end. “Camille mentioned she’s been feeling anxious about privacy lately,” Williams sighed, his tone adopting a patient, soothing cadence. “She wanted to audit the security permissions. She must have cleared your biometrics by mistake.” He let out a soft breath, trying to placate me. “Just use the keypad for now. The code is still the same—my birthday.” “Isabel, don’t take this to heart. I’ll handle it.” I lowered my gaze to the tips of my shoes. “Williams, the building manager told me I’m registered as a temporary guest.” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. Then, he let out a low, weary laugh. “Isabel, didn’t you make enough of a scene at the office today?” “I already explained it to you. Camille grew up in the system. She’s an orphan. She has a desperate need to feel like she actually belongs somewhere, that she has a home of her own.” “Putting her name on the deed was just to give her some security.” “You got the wedding of the century. Everyone in Chicago knows you’re Mrs. Williams Calloway.” “You live in that penthouse. Who would dare call you a guest?” In his mind, it was a neat equation: love and public prestige belonged to me; the legal titles and real estate belonged to Camille. “And the marriage license?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “You kept telling me the county system was experiencing a backlog, that our certified copy was taking longer to process.” “But in the city registry, she is your legal wife.” Williams’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Isabel, what has gotten into you? You’ve never been like this.” “Whose home do I return to every single night? Whose hand did I hold in front of the entire city on our anniversary?” “A piece of paper doesn’t change how I feel about you. You are more important to me than any document.” “I will sort this out. I just need a little time.” I didn’t answer. A dull, sickening ache bloomed in my stomach. “Alright?” Williams’s tone softened again, returning to his familiar coaxing rhythm. “I have a client dinner tonight, but I’ll be home late to make it up to you. Don’t overthink things. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” The line went dead. I stared at the blank screen, then reached out and punched in his birthday. Beep. The lock clicked open. In the foyer, the fresh lilies I had arranged yesterday were still blooming. But on the marble coffee table in the living room sat a stack of cardboard moving boxes. I walked over and lifted the lid of the top box. Inside was the hand-lettered parchment of our wedding vows. Beside it lay my dried bridal bouquet. Yesterday, I had proudly displayed them on the mantel. Now, they had been packed away like junk. I walked into the master bedroom. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Our marriage certificate lay inside. On our wedding day, Williams had handed it to me, calling it the ultimate proof of our commitment. I pulled it out and opened the folder. Our names were printed in elegant calligraphy, but the space for the official court seal was entirely blank. It was nothing more than a souvenir prop. With my fingernail, I pried at the adhesive lining of the leather certificate holder. A small, glossy photo slipped out. In it, Williams wore a crisp white shirt, his smile bright and unburdened. Camille was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved with pure joy. I stared at the photograph for a long time. Then, I slid it back into the hidden sleeve and placed the folder back in the drawer. I pulled my suitcase from the closet. I folded a few essential pieces of clothing and packed them inside. Just as I zipped the suitcase shut, the doorbell rang. I walked back to the foyer and pulled the door open. Camille stood in the hallway wearing a camel trench coat. Behind her stood a man in a sharp gray suit, flanked by two movers in uniform. “Isabel, I had a feeling you’d still be here,” Camille said, her smile sweet and guileless as her eyes swept past me into the apartment. “What are you doing here?” I blocked the threshold, making no move to let her in. The man in the suit stepped forward, offering me a business card. “Good afternoon, Miss Calloway. I am Ms. Weaver’s legal counsel.” “This property is registered as Ms. Weaver’s personal asset under her marriage settlement. She has requested to begin redecorating and taking possession of the premises.” “We ask for your full cooperation.” Camille sighed, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Don’t misunderstand, Isabel.” “I just find the current minimalist style a bit too cold. I want to bring in some warmer furniture.” “After all… this is Williams’s and my home now.” She let the words Williams’s and my home linger in the air. “I don’t mind that you’ve been living here. I just need you to vacate the master bedroom so I can move in.” I looked at her face, and suddenly, the anger drained out of me, replaced by an overwhelming sense of futility. “There’s no need to clear anything out,” I said, stepping aside. “I’m leaving.” Camille’s eyes lit up with a flash of triumph. She immediately turned and gestured for the movers to bring in the boxes. Just then, the elevator doors chimed open. Williams strode out, his brow furrowed in a deep, tense line. “Camille, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp with frustration as he approached her. Camille’s eyes welled with tears instantly. She grabbed his sleeve, looking up at him. “Williams, I just wanted to see our new home. But Isabel seems so angry with me.” “Did I do something wrong?” Williams patted her hand gently, then turned his gaze to me. His eyes fell on the suitcase at my feet. His expression darkened. “Isabel, are you seriously doing this right now?” “I told you, the code hasn’t changed. You are welcome to stay here.” I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “Your legal wife is here with her attorney to claim her property, Williams. What exactly would I be if I stayed?” “Your tenant? Or your mistress?” Williams’s face turned ash-gray. He stepped forward and gripped my wrist. His grip was tight, but his thumb reflexively stroked the delicate skin over my pulse point. “Isabel, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re better than this.” “I told you, I love you. A legal title for Camille doesn’t change what we have.” “She’s had an incredibly hard life, and I couldn’t let her bear the brunt of public scrutiny.” He glanced at the quiet, sniffling Camille, then back at me. “I’m not trying to excuse her, Isabel. I just don’t want any more misunderstandings.” “Go stay at a hotel for a few days.” “Once things settle down here, I’ll come and bring you back myself.” I looked down at his hand gripping mine. His fingers were long, his knuckles elegant and familiar. This was the same hand that had held me so desperately at O’Hare airport. I had just received my Ivy League acceptance letter. He had pulled me into his chest in the middle of the crowded terminal, his eyes bloodshot, whispering: Isabel, stay. Let me build a life for us. And I had stayed. Now, he was asking me to pack up my things and move into a hotel. I reached down and, finger by finger, peeled his hand off my wrist. “Okay,” I said. I picked up the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the elevator. Williams froze, clearly taken aback by how easily I was giving in. He took two quick steps after me. “I’ll have my assistant book your usual suite at the Peninsula. I’ll order some warm soup for you—your stomach has been acting up.” “Don’t bother.” I pressed the elevator button. “Isabel,” Williams’s voice took on a firmer, authoritative edge behind me. “The Calloway Group’s annual charity gala is in three days.” “Get yourself ready. I need you to attend with me.” I turned my head to look at him. “In what capacity?” Williams frowned, as if the question itself were absurd. “As my wife, of course.” “The entire city knows I married you. If you don’t show up, the media will tear Camille apart.” Three days later. I had no intention of going to the gala. But Williams’s assistant was waiting in the lobby of my hotel four hours before the event. He brought a team of stylists and a garment bag holding an exquisite haute couture gown. “Miss Calloway, Mr. Calloway wanted me to remind you that tonight is critical for the firm’s image. Please, keep the bigger picture in mind.” The assistant’s tone was polite, but his stance was unyielding. I looked at the dress. Before our wedding, Williams had spent hours watching me try on gowns. He had touched the silk of this very dress and said, Isabel, this was made for you. You will never have to envy anyone else. I put on the dress and got into the town car. When we arrived at the venue, the red carpet was already lined with flashing cameras. Williams was waiting for me at the end of the carpet. He looked striking in his black tuxedo. The moment my door opened, he stepped forward, wrapping his hand possessively around my waist. “You look breathtaking,” he murmured in my ear. “Just bear with it tonight, Isabel. As long as you stand by my side, you are the only Mrs. Calloway they see.” I remained silent, letting him guide me through the grand doors. But the moment we stepped into the ballroom, a sudden murmur rippled through the crowd. I followed the direction of everyone’s gazes. Camille was standing near the champagne tower, a glass of sparkling cider in her hand. She was wearing the exact same gown. Except hers had been altered at the waist, draped in a way that made her look fragile, almost ethereal. She raised a hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. On her ring finger, the diamond wedding band caught the light of the crystal chandeliers, sparkling mockingly. The guests began to whisper. “Is that a wardrobe clash?” “Wait, isn’t that his executive assistant? Why is she wearing his wedding band?” “Who did Williams actually marry?” A few reporters quickly converged on her. “Ms. Weaver, is your dress tonight a coincidence?” “Does the ring on your finger mean there’s an announcement coming soon?” Camille shrank back, looking appropriately startled. She cast a timid, helpless look toward Williams. Then, speaking softly into a reporter’s microphone, her voice trembled. “Please, don’t misunderstand.” “Williams and I are legally married. It’s just that Isabel… she really wanted the dream of a grand wedding, so Williams threw that ceremony for her to keep her happy.” The ballroom erupted. In an instant, every lens swung around, targeting Williams and me. The barrage of flashes was blinding. “Mr. Calloway, is what Ms. Weaver said true?” “The public registry confirms Camille Weaver is your legal spouse. Where does that leave Isabel?” “Miss Calloway, did you knowingly enter a relationship with a married man, or were you deceived?” Microphones were thrust into my face. The crowd pressed closer, and someone shoved me from behind. Williams instinctively pulled me against his chest, his palm shielding my lower abdomen. His expression turned lethal as he glared at the press. “Step back,” he commanded. The reporters retreated slightly, intimidated by his tone, but the cameras kept clicking. “Mr. Calloway, please give us a direct statement.” I turned my head to look at Williams. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes filled with a turbulent mix of emotions. I waited for him to speak. I waited for him to clear my name, to tell the world that this was all a terrible mistake, that I was not an interloper in my own life. But he only tightened his grip around my waist. “Everyone in this room knows who my wife is,” he said to the cameras, his voice flat and controlled. “Tonight is a charity event. Our focus should be on those we are here to help, not my private affairs.” It was a non-answer, and the press knew it. Their questions grew sharper, more vicious. Camille, her eyes red, walked over and stood on Williams’s other side. “Please, stop pressing him. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Williams reached out, steadying her shoulder and pulling her half-behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he whispered to her. Then he looked back at me, his brow furrowed, his voice urgent. “Isabel, stay steady.” “I’ve got this.” I stared at his face. He was telling me to stay steady. Yet, in the very moment I was being branded a home-wrecker to the world, his words of protection were entirely empty. The ballroom air conditioning was blasting, but I felt cold from the inside out. My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn’t need to look to know the internet was already exploding with the story. I reached down and pushed Williams’s hand off my waist. I took a step back, separating myself from him. “Williams.” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush of the ballroom, it carried clearly. “If you stand in front of these cameras right now and tell them I am not a mistress…” “I will believe you. One last time.” The reporters fell silent, thrusting their recorders forward. Williams’s face went pale. He lowered his voice, his tone laced with mounting panic. “Isabel, calm down.” “This isn’t the time or the place. I will explain everything to you once we get through tonight.” “If you say anything now, it will only make things worse.” I ignored his warning, my eyes locked onto his. “Do you dare tell them that you never legally married me?” “Do you dare admit that the wedding you gave me was nothing but a sham?” Williams went silent. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered frantically between me and Camille. He couldn’t do it. He was terrified that if he clarified the truth, Camille would be branded a homewrecker. He was terrified of the fallout to his own pristine reputation. His silence was the final, fatal blow. Seeing his hesitation, Camille suddenly let out a sob. She broke away from Williams and stepped in front of me. And there, in front of every media outlet in the city, she fell to her knees. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” she wept, grabbing the hem of my gown. “I know how much you love Williams. I shouldn’t have been greedy for a title.” “I’ll sign the divorce papers tomorrow. I’ll give him back to you. Just please, don’t force him into a corner like this.” The flashbulbs went wild. The whispers around us morphed into outright condemnation. “The poor wife… reduced to begging on her knees.” “How shameless can a mistress get?” I looked down at Camille kneeling on the floor, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. I reached down to yank my dress out of her grasp. “Let go of me,” I said. But Camille held on tight, looking up at me. Behind her tear-stained eyes, I saw the cold, sharp glint of malice. Suddenly, using the momentum of my pull, she threw herself backward. “Ah!” she gasped. Williams’s face drained of color. He lunged forward, catching Camille before she hit the floor. But in the split second she fell, Camille’s hand shot out from beneath her sleeve, giving my knee a sharp, deliberate shove. I was already off-balance in my heels. The force of her push sent me staggering backward. Behind me was the towering pyramid of champagne flutes. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the ballroom like gunfire. I hit the hard floor. A deluge of crystal and alcohol rained down on me, cutting into my skin. The room went completely still. I lay in the wreckage, my palm pressed against a jagged piece of glass, but I couldn’t feel the pain in my hand. Because a sudden, tearing agony in my lower abdomen eclipsed everything else. It felt as if my insides were being violently ripped apart. A warm, thick tide of fluid began to seep down my thighs, staining the pristine silk of my gown with a rapidly blooming circle of crimson. Williams was still holding Camille in his arms. But when he turned his head and saw the pool of blood spreading beneath me, every ounce of color vanished from his face. “Isabel!”

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The cramping in my abdomen was so blinding, so all-consuming, that I couldn’t even pull myself out of bed. To distract myself from the physical agony, I unlocked my phone and tapped open the Instagram account I’d been following for three years. It wasn’t a viral page, just a quiet, cozy corner of the internet. A digital scrapbook documenting a long-distance relationship between a girl and her boyfriend who lived an ocean away. I scrolled down to a familiar post, rereading the story of how she had caught a terrible flu, offhandedly mentioned she missed him, and within twenty-four hours, he had flown halfway across the world just to show up at her hospital room. I was touched by it. I always was. It was the kind of fierce, unapologetic love that felt increasingly rare. I pulled down to refresh the feed. A new post popped up. [I need to see him. Even if it takes an eight-hour flight to get to his city, I have to see him.] [But during those eight hours in the air, while I was disconnected from the world, he confessed everything.] [He told me he has a fiancée of ten years. They are getting married this year. He begged me not to come looking for him.] The comment section exploded within sixty seconds. Her small, dedicated following couldn’t fathom that the epic romance they had been deeply invested in was built on an affair. Notifications rolled in like a slot machine—people begging the blogger to just call him, to clear up what surely had to be a terrible misunderstanding. In the next second, the man sitting on the edge of my bed—my fiancé—abruptly rejected an incoming call. … “Who was that?” I asked, my voice tight from the cramps. Colin glanced at his screen, hit the side button to black it out, and slid it casually into his sweatpants pocket. “Just a telemarketer.” He slid his hand back beneath the duvet, his warm palm resting against my lower abdomen, massaging with the perfect amount of pressure. On my screen, the blogger uploaded a new slide. It was a screenshot of a text thread. Her boyfriend had refused to pick up the phone. [He won’t answer. He says his fiancée is having a terrible endometriosis flare-up, and he needs to stay and take care of her.] [But I need him right now, too… I just sat on a plane for eight hours, just for the chance to look him in the eye.] The tone in the comments shifted from disbelief to profound pity. They called her a victim of manipulation, urging her to hold her head high. [Oh honey, don’t be stupid. A man like that isn’t worth your tears!] [But she flew eight hours! How can he just throw her away after all that?] [Replying to the above: Because he has a fiancée of ten years, and they’re getting married. That’s how.] Amidst the chaos of the comment section, I lay perfectly still, staring blankly at the screenshot. The profile picture of the boyfriend had been blurred out. But the chat background hadn’t been. It was a photo of a couple, holding each other close. The man in the background picture was a mirror image of the man sitting next to me. I turned my head slowly. I looked at Colin, right there on the edge of my mattress. Noticing my gaze, his brow furrowed in that gentle, concerned way I loved so much. “Is the pain getting worse?” he asked softly. I shook my head. Under his perplexed stare, I held out my hand. “Your phone,” I said. “Let me see it.” He froze. Just for a fraction of a second, but I saw it. “What?” We had been together for ten years. I had never once asked to check his phone. He had never checked mine. It was an unspoken pact of absolute trust. But right now, the air in the room felt terribly thin. I needed to see it. He looked at me. I looked at him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Colin softened his tone, letting out a small, affectionate sigh. “Have you been reading those toxic relationship threads again?” he asked, his voice entirely reasonable. “You’re not feeling well. Don’t go down a rabbit hole, Nico. It’s not good for you.” “What toxic threads?” I asked, my voice eerily calm. “You know… those pop-psychology influencers who tell women to constantly audit their boyfriends’ phones.” He stood up, smoothly changing the subject. “Be good. I’m going to go make you some chamomile tea and get the heating pad.” He walked out. On my screen, the post was gaining traction, hitting the algorithm and pulling in outsiders. The blogger was still typing. [He just texted back. He said he only added me on social media back then because he was bored. That flying across the world to see me every month was just a distraction.] [He broke up with me. He said he loves his fiancée deeply, and begged me not to ruin their life together.] […But what about me? I know he loved me too. I felt it.] More and more people flooded in to comfort her, telling her to just book a hotel and get some rest. But she was spiraling, trapped in the agonizing loop of wondering why she wasn’t the one he chose. Finally, she wrote: He said his fiancée comes from a good family, that she’s established. But I have a great career too.] [Why am I the collateral damage?] My mind began to rewind violently, tape snapping and spooling backward. Three years ago. Colin and I had just hit our seven-year mark. Maybe it was the seven-year itch, but he had completely forgotten our anniversary, even after I had gently reminded him twice. I had cried out of sheer frustration; he had accused me of making a mountain out of a molehill, calling me petty. On the third day of our cold war, my appendix ruptured. I called him. He didn’t answer. I had to bite down on my own lip to keep from screaming as I ordered an Uber, rode to the ER alone, and signed my own surgical consent forms with a trembling hand. It was that exact night, lying alone in a sterile hospital bed, that I had stumbled upon this newly created Instagram account. It only had one post back then. The caption read: He flew 6,000 miles to see me.] The story was so simple. She was studying abroad, got hospitalized with a severe infection, and casually texted a guy she’d recently met online, saying, I wish you were here.] She thought it was a joke. They barely knew each other, and half the globe separated them. But at dawn the next day, he walked through her hospital room door. [He didn’t even bring a suitcase. He just grabbed his passport, his phone, and got on a plane, she had written. I hadn’t showered, I had no makeup on, but he pulled my hands away from my face and told me I was beautiful.] There were only a handful of comments on that post, but I read it over and over in the dark of my own hospital room. It made me realize that if a man loved you enough, with enough fire, he would treat your throwaway wishes as gospel. Eventually, I was discharged. Colin and I made up. The forgotten anniversary was swept under the rug. But I kept following her account. She posted rarely, maybe once every few months, but every single caption dripped with quiet, undeniable joy. It was a small community of followers, all of us collectively agreeing this was the purest love story on the internet. Whenever I saw her updates, I used to leave a joking comment: Your long-distance romance is so much better than my same-city one! Thinking back on it now, the irony tasted like ash. I didn’t know who to pity more—the girl who had been fed a fairy tale for three years, or the woman who had been living with a ghost for ten. My phone buzzed. She had tagged her location. She was at the airport. It was a photo of the arrivals terminal. [I’ve been waiting for hours. He didn’t show up.] [I told him if he doesn’t come, I’m going straight to his office. I need to look him in the eye when he says it.] The comments lost their collective minds. [Girl, NO! He has a fiancée! She doesn’t deserve this mess!] [What are you even going to achieve? You’re just humiliating yourself at this point.] [Honestly, I think she’s brave. I wouldn’t have the guts.] I traced the edge of my phone case with my thumb, then closed the app. “Tea is ready.” Colin walked back into the bedroom, holding a steaming mug. “Careful, it’s hot. Let it sit for a minute.” His eyes flicked away from mine, landing somewhere on the wall. “Hey, babe, something urgent just came up at the office. I actually need to head in.” “Take care of yourself, okay? If the cramps get unbearable, just call me.” I looked up at him. He was already shrugging into his jacket. “Colin,” I said. He paused in the doorway. “Yeah?” I wanted to say a hundred things. I wanted to scream. But the words turned into lead on my tongue and sank to the bottom of my stomach. “Nothing. Drive safe.” The moment I heard the front door click shut, the blogger posted again. [True love doesn’t care who came first. If he ever truly loved me, he will come see me.] This time, the tone in the comments took a sharp, brutal turn. [Wait, so you know he’s engaged, but you’re still trying to destroy a 10-year relationship?] [Yeah, the moment you started bringing up how your career was just as good as hers, the vibe shifted. Screams internalized misogyny.] [Honestly, if you marched up to him and slapped him, I’d cheer for you. But this pathetic whining? I’m over it.] [I felt bad for you before, but now you’re just being the other woman on purpose.] But she still had her defenders. [Who cares if it’s been ten years? The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.] [She flew eight hours for love, and she just wants closure. Why are y’all tearing her apart?] [Wow, gotta love how everyone is demanding the victim be perfect while the man is entirely invisible. Hilarious.] Someone even asked if she was going to go on Instagram Live. I backed out of the post, but I didn’t close the app. Like a masochist, I began scrolling back. I looked at every single post, every single photo she had uploaded over the last three years. Back then, I only saw the sweetness. Now, every post was a surgical blade, carving me open. My eyes were bone dry. No tears. Maybe it just hurt too much. A pain so profound that my body didn’t know how to metabolize it into crying. I took a deep breath, steadying my shaking hands, and screen-recorded and saved every single post and photo to a secure cloud drive. Then, I dialed Colin’s number. “Nico?” he answered. “What’s wrong? Is your stomach killing you again?” “Colin,” I asked softly. “Where are you?” “I told you, I’m at the office. We’re in the conference room. That software rollout hit a massive snag. I’m probably going to be here late.” He lowered his voice to a perfect, hushed, I’m-in-a-meeting whisper. He sounded so incredibly authentic. “Can we FaceTime?” I said. “I just… I want to see your face.” Silence on the line for two beats. “Why do you want to FaceTime? I’m in a room full of people, babe. It’s not a good time.” “Just for a second,” I pressed. “I feel awful. I just want to see you.” “Nico, stop being difficult,” he said, a thread of strained patience weaving into his voice. “I’m dealing with a crisis here. Be good, alright? I’ll come home and hold you as soon as this is handled.” “Just one second, Colin.” “I said it’s not a good time!” His voice flared with sudden irritation. “Are your hormones just all over the place right now? Stop overthinking. Drink your tea and go to sleep, please.” “Then I’ll come to the office.” I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper. “Nicola!” His voice spiked. “What the hell is going on with you? I am working! If you come down here, I won’t even have time to look at you!” I listened to the cadence of his voice, picturing the expression on his face. Was he panicking? Or just annoyed that I was stepping out of line? “Colin,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are you so afraid to turn on your camera?” Another beat of silence. Then, the line went dead. He hung up. A moment later, a text came through. [Nico, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.] [I really can’t leave this room right now, but if you want to come down, you can. You can wait in my office.] [Take an Uber, don’t drive. Let me know when you’re downstairs.] I stared at the glowing text bubble. And I smiled. He thought I’d take the bait. He thought that if he rushed to his office building and sat behind his desk waiting for me, he could patch this lie right up. I didn’t move. Because I realized there was no point in going. What would I even say? Confront him? He had a hundred silver-tongued excuses locked and loaded. Show him the Instagram posts? He would tell me it was a bizarre coincidence, or that someone had photoshopped it to extort him. Ten years. I knew the architecture of his mind perfectly. Unless I handed him ironclad, undeniable proof, he would twist reality until black was white, until I was the one apologizing for being a hysterical, paranoid fiancé. I sat back against the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest, staring at the screen. It dimmed, then brightened. Dimmed, then brightened. No new texts from him. But the blogger posted again. [I saw him.] The comments instantly lost their minds. [Holy shit! You actually went? What happened?!] [Girl, talk to us! Where is he?] [Please don’t tell me you guys got back together.] The blogger replied to one of the comments: [He came out to see me. But he only stayed for twenty minutes.] [He said his fiancée is waiting for him at home and he had to go back.] [I begged him to stay just a little longer. He said he couldn’t. She’s having bad cramps and he was worried about her.] The comment section practically caught fire. [I am losing my mind. This guy is a sociopath.] [So he’s literally bouncing between the two of you? Putting out fires on both sides?] [WAKE UP GIRL. He’s never going to pick you!] Another update from the blogger. [He left in a panic because he got a phone call. I think it was his fiancée. I heard them arguing on the phone.] [I’ve mailed him packages before. I know his home address.] [I’m getting an Uber. I’m going to talk to her.] Panic erupted in the comments. [NO! DO NOT DO THAT! If you go there, you are officially the homewrecker!] [Girl, breathe! This isn’t her fault! The MAN lied to you!] [Yeah, take it up with him, why are you bringing the fiancée into this?!] [Oh my god, this is going to be a bloodbath.] My phone vibrated in my hand. The final update. [I’m outside her house. She deserves to know the truth.] [Whatever happens, at least I fought for this.] The very next second, my doorbell rang.

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The ceremony was scheduled for exactly four o’clock, but when the music began, my groom, Zach, was nowhere to be found. At that exact moment, my mother sent a video to our family group chat. In the clip, Zach was down on one knee, proposing to my cousin, Cindy. The living room in the video was packed with relatives cheering and clapping. My father stood right beside them, his face stretched into a wide, beaming grin. I pulled off my veil, my chest tight, ready to demand an explanation. But before I could take a step, a notification popped up in the chat. My mother had tagged me. “Naomi, Cindy is your cousin. She’s spent her whole life letting you have the spotlight. It’s your turn to step aside and let her have this.” My hands shook so hard I could barely dial her number. When she answered, I demanded to know why everyone had kept this from me. My mother’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if she were explaining the weather. “Because you’ve always been so narrow-minded, sweetie. If we told you beforehand, how would those two ever have had their happy ending?” “Just listen to me. You’re smart, you have your own business, you’ll find someone else. We’re family. Let’s not make a scene over some man.” My throat closed up. I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. It wasn’t just my engagement that was a lie. My entire family was a fiction. … I stumbled back into the bridal suite. I sent a short text to Zach: The wedding is off. The phone rang almost instantly. “Naomi, have you not thrown enough of a tantrum?” Zach’s voice was sharp, laced with irritation. “Cindy literally just slit her wrists. And you’re sitting there obsessing over a ceremony?” I stared at myself in the vanity mirror. The pristine silk of my hand-embroidered wedding dress mocked me. Seven years. Seven years of my life, reduced to a bad joke. When I didn’t answer, Zach let out a heavy sigh, his tone softening just a fraction. “The doctor says she’s severely depressed, Naomi. Her only obsession, her only tether to this world, is to wear a wedding dress just once. To marry me, just once.” “You’ve always been the strong one, the sensible one. Can’t you just help Cindy through this crisis?” “It’s just a ceremony. It’s not legally binding.” “As soon as she’s stable, I’ll take you to the courthouse tomorrow to sign the papers.” I looked at the silver band waiting on the velvet tray. I said nothing. Zach huffed, his patience wearing thin. “Hello? Naomi? Are you even listening?” Finally, I spoke. My voice was eerily quiet. “Zach, today is our seventh anniversary. We spent six months planning this wedding.” “I know that,” he cut in. “But this is life or death. You’re strong, Naomi. You’re mentally stable. Even if we don’t do the ceremony today, you’re still my fiancée.” “But Cindy has nothing. She only has me.” “If you really loved me, you’d understand what I’m going through.” Then, over the receiver, I heard my mother’s voice in the background. “Zach, why are you wasting your breath on that ungrateful girl?” “She just can’t stand to see her cousin happy.” “Cindy grew up without parents, living under our roof. I always said we should treat her like our own blood.” “This wedding is happening for Cindy today.” “If Naomi dares to make a scene, she is no longer my daughter.” I hung up. Carefully, methodically, I unzipped the dress. I let the heavy silk pool at my feet and threw it onto the velvet sofa. My bridesmaid, Becca, pushed the door open, looking at me with wide, anxious eyes. “Naomi… the guests outside are starting to ask where the groom is.” “He’s not coming,” I said, picking up a cotton pad and soaking it in micellar water. “What?” Becca gasped. “He’s in the grand ballroom next door. Proposing to Cindy.” I slowly wiped away the crimson lipstick from my mouth. The girl in the mirror looked paper-pale. My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Zach. Naomi, Cindy said she absolutely loves that custom embroidery on your gown. Can you unzip it and send it over? Seeing her in it will help her recover faster. I stared at the screen. I stared at it for what felt like an eternity. I had spent three grueling months hand-stitching the intricate lace on that gown. My fingers had been pricked so many times they were raw, just to get the delicate floral patterns perfect. Zach had held my hands back then, kissing my bandaged fingertips, promising he would make me the most beautiful bride in the world. Now, he wanted me to hand it over to Cindy. I typed back a single word. Okay. Half an hour later, carrying the gown in a garment bag, I walked into the grand ballroom next door. The space was buzzing with life. Zach, looking sharp in his tuxedo, was gently wiping tears from Cindy’s face. My mother held Cindy’s hand, her face crinkling with joy. “Oh, Cindy, you look absolutely breathtaking today.” “And Zach is such a responsible, wonderful man.” “You two build a beautiful life together. I’ll even help watch the kids.” Aunt Carol, chewing on a candied pecan, spoke up loudly. “Cindy is the lucky one, after all.” “Naomi is just too overbearing. What man can stand that?” “Exactly. Always so competitive, trying to steal everything from Cindy,” my cousin Chelsea muttered, rolling her eyes. “Zach did the right thing. Real men protect the vulnerable.” I stood in the shadows, watching this family of mine. Zach looked up and caught my eye. His brow furrowed, and he walked over quickly. “Why did you bring it yourself? You couldn’t have just hired a courier?” There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Are you trying to make Cindy feel guilty?” I handed him the bag. “The dress.” Zach let out a sigh of relief, taking the bag. His voice softened again. “Thank you. Don’t worry, once Cindy is better, I’ll throw you a much grander wedding.” He took two steps, then turned back. “But since you’re here, just grab a seat. If you leave, Cindy might think you’re angry, and it’ll trigger her.” The cold appetizers had already been served. I picked up a glazed pecan and put it in my mouth. It was sweet—so sweet it tasted bitter. Zach brought the dress to Cindy, who squealed with delight and ran to the dressing room to change. When she emerged, the room erupted into applause. The gown had been tailored specifically to my measurements. Cindy was shorter and thinner than me. The dress hung loosely on her, the hem dragging on the floor. But Zach looked at her with pure adoration. “Cindy, you’re stunning.” My mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Thank God. I can finally look your late mother in the eye.” Cindy held up the skirt, leaning shyly into Zach’s chest. “Zach… do you think Naomi is mad at me? This was supposed to be my wedding. I feel like I’m stealing her place.” Zach stroked her hair, his voice tender. “Of course not. Naomi isn’t petty like that. She knows you’re sick, so she willingly gave up the wedding for you. Look, she even brought the dress over herself.” Zach pointed toward me. Every eye in the room turned my way. Cindy covered her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. “Naomi, do you really not blame me?” My mother rushed over, snatching the fork out of my hand. “Today is your cousin’s special day. Why are you sitting here with a face like a funeral? Since you’re here, raise a glass and wish them a lifetime of happiness.” I looked at my mother. “Mom, today was supposed to be my special day too.” My mother froze for a second, then waved her hand dismissively. “You and Zach have been together for seven years. Why do you care about these empty formalities? Don’t you know how severe Cindy’s depression is? The doctor said she could hurt herself at any moment. You’re healthy, Naomi. What’s wrong with letting her have this? Do you want to drive her to the edge?” Aunt Carol stepped in, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Naomi, I’m not trying to criticize you, but you have your own business, you’re successful, you don’t lack anything. Cindy only has Zach. Women should support women. Just be kind.” “Exactly. We’re family. Don’t make a scene over a man,” Chelsea chimed in. I looked at these relatives. They demanded I give up my fiancé, my wedding, my hand-stitched dress—all because I was strong, because I had “everything.” Zach walked over, looking down at me with a tight frown. “Naomi, what is wrong with you today? You’re usually so reasonable. Cindy is about to cry. Just apologize and tell her you’re not angry.” I stared at Zach. We had been together for seven years. He knew I had pulled eighty-hour weeks for a month to prepare for this wedding. He knew my greatest dream since childhood was to have a home of my own. Yet here he was, demanding I apologize to the woman who had stolen my groom. I stood up. I picked up a glass of red wine from the table. Zach’s face paled, and he instinctively stepped in front of Cindy. “Naomi, what are you doing? Don’t make a scene.” He thought I was going to throw it. He was protecting her from me. I looked at him and felt a sudden, profound emptiness. I raised the glass and drank it in one draft. “May you live happily ever after.” I set the glass down and walked out. Behind me, I heard Cindy’s timid voice. “Zach, is Naomi still mad at me? Maybe I shouldn’t wear this dress…” Zach cooed in response. “Don’t worry about her. She’s just being stubborn. She’ll get over it in a couple of days.” Leaving the hotel, I went back to the townhouse Zach and I had bought together in Charleston. We had picked it out together, split the down payment fifty-fifty, and I had personally spent weekends at hardware stores selecting every tile and light fixture. I pushed the door open. My pink slippers at the entryway were gone. In their place sat a pair of floral-patterned slippers—Cindy’s favorite style. In the living room, the potted ivy I had nurtured for six months was stuffed into the trash can. The coffee table was cluttered with Cindy’s prescription bottles and her favorite anime figurines. The bedroom door was half-open. Zach’s best friend, Parker, was directing movers, packing my clothes into bags. “Hurry up, throw these old clothes into the guest bedroom. Change the master bedsheets to the floral ones Cindy likes.” I stood in the doorway, watching quietly. Parker turned around and saw me. The awkwardness on his face lasted only a second before his defensive posture took over. “Hey, Naomi. Don’t get the wrong idea.” “Zach said Cindy’s been having terrible insomnia. This place has great natural light, which is good for her recovery. Zach wants her to move in for a bit.” I walked to the sofa and stared at the cheap plastic bags holding my belongings on the floor. “Why wasn’t I told about my own things being packed?” Parker scratched his neck. “Zach said you were busy and didn’t want to stress you out. Plus, you’re always so generous, Naomi. You wouldn’t mind a small favor like this, right?” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look, we all know Zach only loves you. But he’s a responsible guy. He can’t just abandon Cindy in her state. Just swallow your pride for a bit. Once she’s better, the house is yours again.” I looked at Parker. Just last week, he was calling me “sister-in-law” and begging to come over for dinner. Now, he was helping Zach throw my life into the trash. “Where is Zach?” I asked. “He took Cindy to buy new furniture. Said he wanted to make her feel safe here.” Parker reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewelry box. “Oh, right. Zach wanted me to give you this. He knows today was rough on you. Think of it as an apology.” I took the box and opened it. It was a necklace. Extremely expensive. But I have a severe contact allergy to metals. Zach and I had been together for seven years, and he had never bothered to remember. He only knew that money could solve problems. I tossed the box onto the coffee table. “Come on, Naomi, don’t be like that,” Parker frowned. “Zach went to three different boutiques to find this. Cindy wanted it, but he insisted on saving it for you.” I knelt down and unzipped one of the plastic bags. Inside was my favorite dress, crumpled and dusty. Next to it was the hand-carved wooden comb Zach had given me for our anniversary. He had told me it symbolized a lifetime of devotion. I pulled out the comb. One of the teeth was already broken. I walked into the kitchen and tossed the comb into the trash bin, burying it beneath the sour smell of discarded food. Parker shouted from behind me, “Naomi, what are you doing? Zach spent hours carving that for you!” I didn’t answer. I picked up my heavy bags and walked out of the townhouse. Behind me, I heard one of the movers ask, “Should we let her just leave like that?” Parker’s voice was dismissive. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Naomi can’t live without Zach. He’ll buy her some flowers in a couple of days, and she’ll be fine.” The next morning, Zach texted me. Naomi, Parker said you were upset yesterday? The townhouse is just a temporary place for Cindy to stay. Don’t be so petty. I’m free this morning. Didn’t we promise to visit our old high school teacher today? Yes, we had promised. After the wedding, we were supposed to visit Mrs. Gable. I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. But I got up, washed my face, changed my clothes, and took a cab to the school anyway. Not to give him another chance. But to put a definitive period at the end of these seven years. At nine o’clock, I sat in front of Mrs. Gable. She looked at me with warm, motherly eyes. “Where is Zach? You two have been together for so long, and now you’re finally married.” She smiled, drifting into memories. “I remember when that boy worked his head off just to catch up to you academically. If he hadn’t, I would have definitely stepped in to break you two up. You must be so happy.” I managed a tight, bitter smile. Nine-thirty. Zach hadn’t arrived. Ten o’clock. My phone finally rang. I could hear the rumbling of thunder in the background. “Naomi, are you there yet?” His voice sounded panicked. “Yes.” “I’m so sorry. Cindy is terrified of thunder. There was a huge clap just now, and she’s hiding in the closet, refusing to come out. I can’t leave her.” “Just apologize to Mrs. Gable for me. We’ll go see her together next time.” I kept quiet. Through the receiver, I heard Cindy’s whimpering voice. “Zach, I’m scared…” “Don’t worry, I’m right here,” Zach murmured softly. Then he spoke back into the phone. “Naomi, don’t throw a fit. Be sensible. Cindy is in a really bad place right now, and I don’t have the energy for your drama.” The line went dead. Mrs. Gable looked at me. “Naomi, dear, what’s wrong?” The tears finally fell. “Mrs. Gable… I’m done with Zach.” I didn’t go back to my embroidery studio. I went straight to the station and bought a one-way ticket to Taos, New Mexico. While waiting for the train, I opened our family group chat. Zach had posted a video. In the video, Cindy was huddled on the sofa with a warm mug of milk. Zach was gently blow-drying her hair, his movements incredibly tender. His caption read: Taking care of my fragile little bird. Hoping the storm passes soon. Beneath it, a parade of relatives had left likes. My mother replied: Zach is such a good man. I can rest easy knowing Cindy is in your hands. Aunt Carol: Now this is what a real family looks like. I stared at the words, feeling absolutely nothing. I tapped on Zach’s profile and deleted him. Then I left the family group chat. I blocked every single relative’s number. Finally, I took out my SIM card and tossed it into the trash can. The boarding announcement echoed through the station. I picked up my suitcase and walked onto the platform without looking back. That evening at eight, after finally calming Cindy down, Zach returned to my studio. He was holding a strawberry shortcake—my favorite. “Naomi, I came to make it up to you,” he said, pushing the door open. But the studio was completely empty. Only a discarded design sketch lay on the work table. The smile on his face slowly froze.

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During my four years of college, I didn’t work a single day. If I needed dinner, I called Lester. If I wanted a pack of cigarettes, I called Lester. Even the cash for our all-night gaming marathons at the local net cafe came straight out of his pocket. On graduation day, he threw a heavy arm around my shoulder, his eyes bloodshot from cheap whiskey, and said: “Bro, if you ever can’t make it out there, come find me. I’ve got you covered for life.” Ten years later. Under a highway overpass, on a bed of flattened cardboard, he was crouching in the shadows, chewing on a dry, stale crust of sliced bread. I knelt down and held out a business card. “Weekends off. Room and board included. Six-figure salary. You in?” He looked at the name on the card, and his hand shook so hard he dropped the bread. Can you guess the first thing he said to me? 1 October 2024. The air under the southside overpass in Chicago smelled sour. The stench of stale urine mixed with the sharp burn of cheap tobacco, right next to a pile of grease-stained sleeping bags bunched against the concrete. I stood there for a long time. Long enough that Toby, standing behind me, finally tugged at my sleeve. “Drew, are you sure this is the spot? Did we get the wrong address?” I didn’t look back. Because I had already seen him. He was crouching in the corner, leaning against a massive concrete pillar. His winter coat was so caked with grime you couldn’t tell its original color. His hair was matted, his beard scraggly, and he was clutching half a plastic bottle of water. If it weren’t for his eyes—eyes that still held a stubborn, fierce spark even in the gloom—I wouldn’t have recognized him. Lester. My roommate of four years. The most arrogant, unapologetic rich kid in our entire dorm building. The guy who had clapped me on the back and promised to cover me for life. And here he was, hiding in the shadow of an overpass. In that single second, my brain went haywire, rewinding like an old film reel, pulling me all the way back to September 2010. Freshman year. 2 September 2010. The northwest corner of the Chicago campus, Dorm Building Seven. I was hauling two cheap duffel bags up to the fourth floor, panting like a pack mule. The hallway was a zoo—students hauling storage bins, parents crying, luggage scraping against the linoleum. I was entirely on my own. My mom worked the line at a textile mill back home and couldn’t take a day off. She had slipped five hundred dollars into my hand, patted my head, and said, “Stretch it if you can, sweetie. If you run short, call me.” Five hundred dollars. For a whole semester. I figured if I tightened my belt and lived on air, I’d make it. Then I pushed open the door to Room 416. And realized my math was terribly off. The bed by the window was already claimed. A guy in a black Polo was commanding two professional movers as they unpacked. It wasn’t just a couple of suitcases. It looked like an entire department store. He had a 27-inch monitor, a top-of-the-line laptop, a wireless printer. A mini-fridge—an actual compressor unit, not some plastic USB novelty. And, I still remember this vividly, a premium Nespresso machine with a milk frother. This was 2010. Most kids in the dorms were still drinking instant coffee out of paper cups. I stood in the doorway, clutching my canvas duffel bags containing three faded T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a 24-pack of instant chicken ramen. Our eyes met. He was the first to speak. “You in 416 too? Top or bottom bunk?” “Bottom.” “Cool.” He stepped aside to give me room. “Make yourself at home.” I looked at his silk pillowcases, then at my bare mattress and cheap canvas bags. Right then, I realized God was testing my pride. Fortunately, I have one major redeeming quality. I have absolutely no shame. “Hey, man. Got any Coke in that fridge?” Those were the first words I said to him. We hadn’t even been in the same room for thirty seconds. He blinked, startled, and then he laughed. He reached into the fridge and tossed me a can. An ice-cold Pepsi. In the suffocating September heat, that first gulp froze my back teeth and sweetened my throat. I can still taste it if I close my eyes. And I still remember the way he smiled when he said: “I’m Lester. Looks like we’re roommates.” Roommates. He said it so casually. As if the word didn’t need four years of history to carry its weight, or ten years to collect on the debt. I just grunted, chugging the soda until it was gone. But in my head, I was thinking: “Looks like there are six more cans in that fridge.” 3 By the end of the first week, I had Lester’s story entirely figured out. His dad, Richard, was one of the top ten building material suppliers in Chicago. Concrete, steel, lumber—if a construction site needed it, his family sold it. How rich were they? Let’s put it this way. During freshman orientation, it rained cats and dogs for three straight days. The quad turned into a swamp. Our entire dorm was marching in the mud, our cheap sneakers practically dissolving. Lester made one phone call. Half an hour later, his family’s driver showed up with four brand-new pairs of weatherproof outdoor boots. Not just for Lester. One pair for every guy in our room. Our other roommates—Toby and “Big Benny”—were practically reduced to tears. Toby held his boots like they were holy relics. “Lester, you’re a lifesaver.” Benny went further, kissing the rubber. “Lester! From now on, you’re my second father!” Me? I took the boots, slipped them on, and said, “Wrong size. Half a size too big. Next time get a 10.5.” Lester stared at me for three seconds before letting out a loud laugh. “Drew, you seriously have no boundaries, do you?” I really didn’t. Especially when it came to food. The campus dining hall cost about six to ten dollars a meal. If I ate three meals a day, that was twenty dollars. Six hundred a month. Over two thousand a semester. I had exactly five hundred. Which meant that if I ate normally, I would starve to death by mid-October. But I didn’t starve. Because every day Lester went to the dining hall, he’d buy extra dishes. And I always happened to be standing right next to him. “Drew, I bought an extra double cheeseburger from the grill line. Take it.” “Drew, I can’t finish this plate of loaded potato skins. Do me a favor and clean them out.” “Drew, they have this buffalo chicken mac and cheese today. It’s too spicy for me. Finish it.” The first month, he thought it was a coincidence. The second month, he got suspicious. By the third month, he sat down at our usual table, looked across at me holding a single plate of plain French fries, fork poised, eyes gleaming, and sighed. He picked up a chicken tender, and before it could reach his mouth, my fork snatched it mid-air. “Hold on,” Lester said, putting down his fork. “Drew, did you even buy an entrée?” “Yeah.” “Where is it?” “The fries.” “…Fries are a side, not an entrée.” “Depends on how you define ‘entrée.’ Potatoes come from the earth, and things from the earth are—” “Shut up.” He fell silent for thirty seconds, then pushed his entire tray over to me. “From now on,” Lester said, “you eat mine.” “What about you?” “I’ll go buy another one.” A warm wave washed over me, but I couldn’t let it show. I calmly chewed on a tender and mumbled, “Get a larger portion next time.” From that day on, Lester’s meal card became my lifeline. His monthly allowance was ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand, in 2010. Meanwhile, my card balance never hit double digits. Was I a parasite? Yes. But Lester never said a word. Later, Toby asked him privately, “Don’t you think Drew is leeching off you too much?” Lester said something I still remember. “If he doesn’t leech off me, he doesn’t eat. It’s not like I can’t afford it.” He paused. “Besides, he’s just sponging a meal, not my soul.” The 2010 version of Lester was a guy who wore his heart on his sleeve. He had no idea what the dark side of the world looked like. He didn’t know that money runs out, people scatter, and some tables are set just to be cleared. But that was fine. I didn’t know either. I only cared about dinner. The dining hall was about to close. I pulled out my phone and texted him: “Where are you? Going to the dining hall? My card got deactivated again.” Lester replied instantly: “Deactivated? For the seventeenth time this semester?” I wrote back: “Cheap magnetic strips. You coming out?” “Yeah,” Lester replied, then added, “Drew, you’re going to owe me for the rest of your life.” I typed back: “Next time.” Next time for sure. I said those words over two hundred times in four years. 4 If freshman year was unorganized sponging, sophomore year was a systematic operation. I kept a schedule in my head. Monday to Friday, I knew his routine by heart. On Mondays he was in a good mood, so he’d go to the taco place—90% success rate. On Wednesdays he had late class, so he ordered delivery—perfect for waiting in the room to share the spoils. On Fridays he usually went out with his rich friends—hard to crash, but he usually brought back leftovers. Weekends were the gold standard. Every two weeks, he hosted. Not for me, but for his “inner circle”—rich kids from other majors, student government heads, pretty upperclassmen. The venues were never cheap: sushi, high-end Italian, steak houses, once even a private lounge. And I was always there. Once Lester scratched his head looking at the guest list: “I know I didn’t write your name down. How do you always know?” “Intuition.” “What kind of intuition?” “A spiritual connection. When you’re hungry, I get hungry.” “Spiritual connection? You’re a human tapeworm.” He complained, but he never kicked me out. Sometimes his wealthy friends couldn’t stand me. A guy named Henderson, whose dad owned a logistics firm, joked at the table: “Lester, is your shadow here on a monthly subscription or a free trial? He’s always sponging.” The table laughed. I didn’t. Lester didn’t either. He pushed the menu to me: “Drew, order whatever you want. Get the expensive stuff. My treat.” Then he turned to Henderson, voice quiet but clear: “He’s my brother. What he eats is on my tab, not yours.” That night, I ordered a hundred-and-fifty-dollar dry-aged Tomahawk steak. After eating, I let out a satisfied belch. Lester stared at my shameless face, grinding his teeth: “Drew, could you at least “pretend” to feel bad?” For his birthday, everyone brought gifts. Henderson gave him a silver Zippo, Toby saved up for a month to buy a bottle of decent whiskey, Benny got him a pair of Jordans. When it was my turn, everyone watched. I pulled a plain white envelope from my pocket. Lester opened it. A sheet of printer paper with one line: “I.O.U. Drew owes Lester $4,300. Due date: Never.” Signed and fingerprinted. The room went quiet. Then Lester laughed—a genuine, deep belly laugh. “Drew! You are the most shameless bastard I have ever met.” “Thank you.” “But you’re also the most entertaining.” He paused. “I’m keeping this. If you ever strike it rich…” “Unlikely.” “Let me finish. If you ever strike it rich, you’re buying me dinner.” He folded the paper and slipped it into his wallet. By senior year, I noticed it was still there. Creased and faded, but tucked inside his expensive leather wallet, right next to his credit cards. Anyway, I’m rambling. The night we graduated, we drank too much. He threw his arm around my neck, slurring his words: “Drew… you’re probably never going to amount to much, are you?” “Yep.” “That’s fine. It’s okay. You’ve got me.” “Yep.” “When I take over my dad’s firm, you’ll be my assistant. I’ll pay you ten grand a month.” “Deal.” “Eight grand.” “Deal.” “Five grand.” “…What’s your game here?” “Testing your bottom line.” “Free,” I said. “Huh?” “Just feed me.” He laughed again, then passed out on the table. Looking at him, I remembered what my mom told me before I left for college. “Drew, don’t take things from people without paying them back. Remember what you owe, because sooner or later, the bill comes due.” She was a simple woman, but that stuck with me. Remember what you owe. The bill always comes. I kept track. I just didn’t expect the bill to be paid ten years later, under an overpass. During my junior year, something happened. My mom was hospitalized. Uterine fibroids. It wasn’t life-threatening, but she needed surgery. Between the procedure and the recovery, it was going to cost about twenty thousand dollars. When I got the call, I was in the library. My mom’s voice was soft, carrying that tentative tone of someone terrified of being a burden. “It’s nothing serious, sweetie. Just a small operation. Don’t worry. The factory insurance covers some of it, but… we’re still a bit short.” “How short?” “Twelve thousand.” I hung up and stood in the hallway for a long time. That month, I had sixty-three dollars on my student ID card. My bank account had four hundred and ten. Combined, it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket. When I got back to the dorm, I didn’t say a word. I just climbed onto my bunk and stared at the ceiling. Lester was playing a video game. Mid-match, he glanced up at me. “Drew, not eating dinner?” “Not hungry.” “You? Not hungry?” He probably thought the sky was falling, but he didn’t press. For the next week, I worked myself into the ground. The campus work-study jobs were already taken, so I looked off-campus. Passing out flyers for twenty bucks an hour. Unloading trucks for fifty a shift. Washing dishes in a greasy kitchen for seventy or eighty bucks a night. Classes during the day, labor at night, crashing into bed at dawn. Everyone in the room noticed. Toby was the first to speak up. “Drew, is everything okay? You’ve lost like ten pounds.” “Just dieting.” “You’re already a twig, man. Any more and you’ll disappear.” I didn’t answer. Lester didn’t ask me directly. His method was different. He watched. One night I got back at one in the morning. The dorm was pitch black. I quietly climbed up to my bunk, exhausted. And found a paper bag next to my pillow.

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The eight-year college reunion. The golden boy rolled up in a Porsche, running over everyone’s self-esteem as he bragged about his salary. When it was my turn, I peeled a prawn and popped it in my mouth. “Unemployed,” I said. “Living off my wife.” The entire table burst into roaring laughter. The golden boy swirled his cabernet. “Come on, Lewis. A man’s got to stand on his own two feet.” I nodded, reaching for another prawn. Ten minutes later, a Maybach pulled up to the curb. The second my wife pushed open the door, the room fell dead silent. The golden boy’s hand started to shake. The massive media conglomerate he’d been killing himself to climb? It belonged to her. … When the Uber pulled up to the curb outside The Obsidian Room, I knew tonight was going to be a struggle. A row of seven or eight cars was parked near the entrance—a Porsche Cayenne, a Mercedes GLC, a BMW X5—their headlights gleaming in the early summer breeze like a miniature auto show. I paid my thirty-two-dollar fare. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Hey man, plates here start at a hundred bucks a pop. You eating alone?” “College reunion.” “Ah, gotcha. Someone else is footing the bill, then.” He looked relieved. I didn’t tell him that the guy footing the bill didn’t know it yet. The moment I pushed open the door to the private dining room, a wave of noise hit me. About twenty people were seated along a massive mahogany table. The crystal chandelier lit the room with a brilliant, golden glow. The dishes hadn’t really been touched yet, but glasses were already clinking. “Lewis’s here!” The shout came from Mitch Higgins, our old class clown, who now made a living selling insurance and posting daily self-help quotes on his social feed. He’d put on about forty pounds since graduation, his face round and friendly, his eyes crinkling into slits when he smiled. He waved at me. “Over here! Saved you a seat!” I scanned the room. Sitting in the most prominent seat at the center of the table was one man. Quentin Ward. Eight years had changed him. The quiet, bookish guy who used to wear thick wire-rimmed glasses and faded hoodies was gone. Now, his hair was perfectly styled, his Armani shirt was tailored to fit, and the Patek Philippe on his wrist caught the light of the chandelier with a subtle, expensive sparkle. He was talking to Zackary Cross, his voice just loud enough for half the table to hear. “…Our department took the corporate innovation award this quarter. A two-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. When I briefed the VP, he told me, ‘Quentin, you should look into the Associate Director track next year.’” A collective murmur of admiration rippled through the surrounding classmates. I quietly slipped into the seat next to Mitch. I looked at the spread—excellent, they had giant tiger prawns. “Lewis?” Quentin finally noticed me, his lips curving into a practiced, professional smile. “You made it! Honestly, I thought you’d flake.” “The food’s here. Might as well.” I sat down and grabbed a pair of tongs to reach for a prawn. Quentin looked me up and down, his eyes lingering for a second on my plain white tee and chinos. “Dressed… casual, I see.” Translation: You look incredibly underdressed. I nodded. “It’s comfortable.” Mitch poured me some lemonade, lowering his voice. “Glad you’re here. I couldn’t take much more of Quentin’s monologue. My ears are bleeding.” “Hang in there,” I patted his shoulder. “Alright, guys!” Quentin suddenly clapped his hands, standing up. The light from the chandelier cast a dramatic glow over him, like a spotlight. “It’s been eight years since graduation. Let’s do a round of introductions! Where is everyone working, and how are we doing? Let’s start on my right. Zack, you first.” Zackary Cross, our former class president, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. He still carried that ambitious, elite posture, his cufflinks gleaming. “I’m a Product Director at Apex Tech. Just led my team to a national design award.” Applause. Next was Chad Jenkins, who had been practically invisible in college, now a regional manager at a commercial real estate firm. He stood straight, speaking quickly as if afraid of being interrupted. “Top sales in the region last year. Company hooked me up with a brand-new car.” More applause. They went down the line—investment analysts, digital marketing directors, startup partners. Each person looked toward Quentin after speaking, like students waiting for a grade. Quentin sat there, nodding patronizingly, offering a “nice” or “impressive” with an air of polite superiority. When it reached Monica Henderson, the atmosphere softened slightly. “I’m teaching high school lit. Just got my tenure.” Quentin smiled. “You always loved books, Monica. Teaching is great. So… stable.” He emphasized stable in a way that clearly meant doesn’t pay well, but at least you won’t starve. Monica pursed her lips and stayed quiet. When Mitch was called on, he stood up, patted his stomach, and grinned. “Me? Insurance. State Farm. You need coverage, call me. Alum discount, twenty percent off.” The table laughed—a genuine, relaxed laugh. Mitch had always been the guy who kept everyone grounded. Then, the spotlight fell on me. Every eye at the table turned. Quentin set his wine glass down, a smug, subtle curl appearing at the corner of his lips. “So, Lewis,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Which firm are you directing these days?” It was wrapped in friendly interest, but the bite underneath was sharp. Back in college, I was the undisputed top of our class. Every academic prize and scholarship had my name on it. Quentin spent four years in my shadow. When we graduated, he got two job offers; I got five. Everyone assumed I’d fly the highest. Yet here I was, eight years later, in a white tee and chinos, peeling prawns in a corner. I tossed a prawn shell onto my plate, wiped my fingers, and said casually: “Oh, I’m not working. Just living off my wife.” A beat of absolute silence. Then, the table erupted into laughter. Chad laughed the loudest, slapping his palm against the wood. “Our resident genius turned stay-at-home husband? Talk about a plot twist!” Zackary’s jaw twitched. He adjusted his glasses, saying nothing, but his eyes said it all: What a waste of potential. Quentin chuckled, swirling his cabernet. “Come on, Lewis. A man’s got to have a career. Relying on your wife isn’t a long-term strategy. What if one day… well, you know.” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the air: What if she leaves you? It was packaged as friendly advice, but it was pure poison. I reached for another prawn, peeling it slowly. “You’re probably right. But honestly, it’s a pretty sweet deal.” Mitch nearly choked on his lemonade. Quentin’s smile faltered for a second before he smoothly transitioned to another topic. I kept eating. The food was excellent, far better than the conversation. After the introductions, the dinner entered its second phase—casual conversation laced with subtle bragging. Quentin pulled out his phone, placing it face-up on the table—a deep purple iPhone Pro Max with a custom, crystal-encrusted case. “Picked up the case on the Champs-Élysées during a business trip last month. Three hundred bucks, but hey, details matter.” He glanced around, his eyes lingering on my phone—a two-year-old model with a cheap clear case. Chad leaned in. “Is the watch from Paris too?” “Yeah. Patek Philippe’s latest. It’s not even out in the States yet.” Quentin tilted his wrist, angling it perfectly toward Monica. She kept her eyes on her salad, ignoring him. I took a bite of some steamed broccoli. “So,” Zack chimed in. “What’s everyone driving? Just upgraded to an X5. The handling is night and day compared to my old 3-Series.” This triggered a wave of competitive sharing. “Cayenne, got it last winter.” “GLC Coupe, custom matte finish.” “My startup closed its Series A last month. The investors hooked me up with a Tesla Model S.” Everyone raised their voice just enough to ensure the whole table heard. Mitch raised his hand. “Bright pink Vespa. My daughter picked the color.” The table laughed again. Mitch genuinely didn’t care. He was perfectly content. I was working on a crab leg when Quentin turned his gaze back to me. “What about you, Lewis? What does your wife drive?” His voice carried that eager expectation of an easy target. I thought about it. What did she drive out today? Honestly, she had a few cars, and I didn’t pay much attention. “I’m not sure.” “Not sure?” Quentin’s eyebrows shot up. “She has a few. I don’t really keep track of which one she takes.” The table snickered. This time, it was derisive. Chad sneered. “So many cars you can’t keep track? Man, I’d love to meet your wife.” “Maybe she’s got two electric scooters,” Zack joked. “One for commuting, one for groceries. Hard to keep track of those.” Laughter followed. I didn’t bother correcting him. The crab was sweet and perfectly prepared. Quentin sighed, adopting a sympathetic, almost mourning tone. “Lewis, seriously, you were the smartest guy in our class. I still remember junior year when you won the department prize. The professors said you’d change the industry.” He paused, shaking his head. “To see you just… coasting on your wife’s dime. It’s a real shame.” It sounded incredibly sincere. If I hadn’t caught the smug triumph in his eyes, I might have believed him. “Yeah, a real shame,” I agreed, taking a bite of crab. “By the way, do you know if they’re bringing out the lobster tails next?” Mitch snorted, nearly dropping his fork. Monica bit her lip to hide a grin. Quentin’s face tightened, his polished composure slipping for a fraction of a second. The waiters entered with the next course. Zack cleared his throat and raised his glass. “Alright, let’s connect on LinkedIn, guys. Keep the network alive.” “Exactly, let’s share resources!” Chad pulled out his phone. They went around exchanging cards and scanning QR codes. Zack reached me. “Do you have a card, Lewis?” “Nope. Unemployed, remember?” “Right…” Zack’s smile froze, and he smoothly bypassed me to the next person. The guy to my left—some flunky of Quentin’s whose name I couldn’t recall—leaned over. “Lewis, don’t you get bored at home? What do you even do all day?” “Watch shows, play with the cat, cook dinner sometimes.” “Wow. Sounds… empty.” “It’s pretty great.” “But don’t you want to feel like your life has purpose?” I looked at him. “And you think your nine-to-five gives you purpose?” He sputtered, unable to find an answer, and turned back to his plate. Mitch nudged me, showing me his phone. It was the group chat. “Look at this.” The chat was buzzing. “The top of our class is a househusband?” “Who did he marry?” “Probably not anyone special, look at his clothes.” “What a waste.” “It’s his choice to settle,” Quentin had messaged, adding a sigh emoji. I locked my phone. Reunions. Always a playground for insecure men to measure their worth. “You’re not even mad?” Mitch whispered. “The food is fantastic. Why would I be mad?” “Your zen is terrifying.” I put a prawn on his plate. “Eat up. Stop worrying.” Mitch took a bite, mumbling, “Is your wife actually coming to pick you up? Let them see her?” “She is.” “Man, I hope she doesn’t roll up in a beat-up sedan. They’ll have a field day.” I smiled, continuing to eat, and said nothing. The boasting continued. Quentin remained the star, subtly dropping his salary, his title, his business trips, his luxury purchases, his connections. And I was the undisputed loser of the table. The former genius, now a punchline. Poetic, really. Quentin raised his glass again, his eyes locking onto mine. “Let’s split the bill evenly, guys. No need to be polite.” He raised his voice slightly, looking at me. “That work for you, Lewis? If you’re short, I can—” “Cover me?” “No, no,” he chuckled. “I just meant, if the bill is too high, you can always venmo it to your wife. Since you’re living off her.” More snickers. I wiped my hands and pulled out my phone, opening my Apple Pay. “How much is it?” “We… haven’t gotten the check yet,” Quentin said, caught off guard by my readiness. “Just getting ready,” I said, picking up a final prawn. “My wife’s card has a pretty high limit anyway.” The laughter grew louder. They thought I was joking. During the third course, my phone buzzed. Talia: “Are you there? Having fun?” I typed: “Yeah. The prawns are great, and my classmates are very… enthusiastic.” Talia: “Enthusiastic how?” Lewis: “Enthusiastically making fun of me.” Three seconds of silence. Talia: “I’m coming to pick you up.” Lewis: “No need, we’re not done yet.” Talia: “I’ll wait in the lobby.” Lewis: “It’s barely eight-thirty.” Talia: “Already in the car. See you soon.” I stared at the screen. This woman. Lewis: “Fine. But stay downstairs. I’ll come down. Don’t come up.” Talia: “Why?” Lewis: “I don’t want you to give them a heart attack.” Talia: “Dramatic.” Lewis: “You don’t know these people.” I locked my phone. I hadn’t noticed Quentin trying to peek at my screen. He couldn’t read the words, but he saw my expression. “Texting the wife, Lewis?” Quentin asked, grinning. “Yeah. She’s on her way.” “Oh, lovely!” Quentin clapped his hands, raising his voice. “Hey everyone, Lewis’s wife is coming to pick him up!” The spotlight shifted back to me. “Excellent! We get to meet her!” Chad leaned in. “What does she do, anyway?” “She’s in business,” I said. “What kind of business?” “Tech, mostly.” “Tech? A startup or something established?” “Medium-sized, I guess.” “What’s her annual revenue?” The question was incredibly blunt. Even Quentin frowned slightly, though he waited eagerly for the answer. “I don’t really keep track,” I said. Chad laughed. “You don’t even know your wife’s revenue?” “She handles the business, I handle the eating.” More laughter. Zack adjusted his glasses. “Well, if she lets you play househusband, she must be doing okay for herself.” It sounded like a compliment, but the subtext was clear: Probably a small-time business owner. Enough to keep you afloat, but nothing impressive. Quentin seized the moment. “What’s she driving tonight, Lewis? We can keep an eye out.” “I thought you guessed a scooter?” I smiled. “Just teasing,” he waved his hand. “But seriously, running a business is stressful. Don’t drain her accounts too much, man. Go easy on her.” The table erupted in polite, patronizing laughter. I shot Talia a text: “Let me know when you’re outside.” Talia: “Five minutes. Want any late-night snacks? I can grab something on the way.” Lewis: “Spicy Sichuan noodles.” Talia: “…You just had a high-end seafood dinner.” Lewis: “Different cravings.” Talia: “Fine. Extra glass noodles?” Lewis: “You know me so well.” I put the phone down, unable to hide my smile. Mitch looked at me, suspicious. “You two are really close, huh?” “We get along.” “Get along? You’ve got a massive grin on your face.” “Eat your food, Mitch.” Quentin watched me from across the table, his eyes narrowing slightly. He was always like this in college. Smug on the surface, but intensely competitive. He’d study until 3:00 AM in secret while congratulating me on my grades. But now, his eyes held something else. Satisfaction. The absolute joy of finally feeling superior to me. The contrast made him generous. “Lewis,” he said, leaning back. “If you ever want to get back into the workforce, let me know. We have an opening in marketing. I can get you a referral.” “Which company?” “Pierce Media. Heard of us?” “I have.” “Interested? I can’t start you as a director, but as a manager, with your background—” “I’m good, thanks.” “Why?” “Too much work. I prefer being lazy.” Quentin blinked, then shook his head, seemingly giving up on me as a lost cause. He turned his attention back to Zack, discussing Pierce Media’s latest massive project—”Project Aether.” “I spearheaded the whole thing. From conception to launch, six months. We just took home the campaign of the year award.” Quentin’s chin lifted, his eyes bright. Zack nodded. “I heard about Project Aether. The industry was buzzing. They said Pierce Media created a whole new analytics model that boosted engagement by three hundred percent.” “Exactly,” Quentin smiled modestly. My fork paused. Just for a fraction of a second. Then I went back to my food, saying nothing. Mitch nudged me. “Is that project actually that big of a deal?” “It is.” My phone buzzed again. Talia: “Outside.” I checked the time. 8:40 PM. “I’m gonna head out,” I told Mitch. “Already? They haven’t even brought the dessert.” “Box it for me.” I stood up to wash my hands. Quentin looked up immediately. “Leaving so soon, Lewis?” “Yeah. Wife’s here.” “Ooh,” the table hummed with mock excitement. Quentin glanced toward the window. “Let’s see what kind of ride she’s got.” I smiled, saying nothing, and walked toward the restroom. When I came out, I heard a commotion near the entrance. The atmosphere in the lobby had completely shifted.

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Christian has an emotional processing disorder. Whenever the noise of the outside world becomes too much for him to bear, he retreats into a self-imposed vow of silence for an entire day. During those twenty-four hours, no matter what happens, he will not speak a single word. So, when I stood before him holding my father’s emergency resuscitation order, begging him to use his connections to get my father into surgery… it just so happened to be one of his silent days. No matter how hard I wept, how desperately I begged, he simply sat there in his armchair, perfectly poised, looking down at me with cold, analytical eyes. He was reminding me, through his silence, that he was in his quiet space and was not to be disturbed. We had been married for six years. I had spent those years growing numb to his quirks, convincing myself that this was just Christian’s way of coping with a world he found overwhelming. But that evening, his childhood friend, Sasha, called him because her dog had been injured. And Christian broke his vow. He didn’t just answer her call; he drove through the night to take her dog to an emergency veterinary clinic. That was the moment I finally realized his silent days weren’t an uncontrollable medical condition. They were a boundary reserved entirely for me. … When Christian finally arrived at the hospital, my father had already made it through the emergency surgery and had been moved to the ICU for observation. I was keeping vigil outside the double doors, waiting for the brief visiting window to open, which was why I didn’t see him walk up. He stood a few feet away from me. Because he couldn’t stand the sharp, clinical smell of antiseptic, he pressed a hand over his nose. True to his routine, he didn’t speak, waiting for me to notice him first. I looked down at my phone. Out of habit, whenever Christian began one of his silent days, I would set an alarm on my phone to mark the exact minute his twenty-four hours would end. The timer was still running. No wonder he was silent. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh just as my elderly mother came rushing down the hall, clutching bags of clothes and food. When she saw Christian standing there, she wanted to greet him, but she hesitated, clearly intimidated by his cold demeanor. She set her bags down one by one, her movements timid, and offered him a fragile smile. “Thank you for coming, Christian. We are so sorry to trouble you… When you get old, everything starts failing. He just collapsed in the living room yesterday…” In her anxiety, she instinctively reached out to squeeze his hand to express her gratitude. But the moment Christian saw her hand coming, he took a step back, avoiding her touch. My mother froze, her hands hovering in the air. She quickly rubbed them against her coat, her voice tight with embarrassment as she tried to explain that her hands weren’t dirty. I couldn’t watch it anymore. I stepped forward, took her hand, and pulled her to my side. Just then, my phone alarm went off. The high-pitched chime cut through the quiet, sterile hallway, loud and obtrusive. Christian’s silent day was officially over. He looked at me, his lips finally parting as he spoke his first words of the day. “Dr. Adler is on his way.” My father’s condition had been critical. We had transferred him through three different hospitals, and every cardiologist who looked at his EKG had refused to take the case. They all told me our only hope was to get him to this specific hospital and secure Dr. Adler for the surgery. But Dr. Adler was impossible to reach without a personal connection. For an entire day and night, I had begged Christian. I begged him to make the call, to use his family’s influence to open the door. But the morning before, I had made the mistake of bursting into his study while he was trying to decompress. That intrusion had triggered his silent day. No matter how hard I pleaded, Christian simply ignored me. He cast me into a vacuum, a silent world where my desperation could not touch him. Fortunately, a young surgeon on duty last night had recognized me. “Aren’t you Christian’s wife?” the young doctor had asked, surprised. “Christian and Dr. Adler are old family friends. It would take one phone call to get him here.” He had looked at my father’s chart and sighed. “I can perform this surgery, but I only have about a thirty percent chance of success. If we could get Dr. Adler, those odds would jump to eighty percent.” I had watched my father’s face grow paler by the minute. Christian had declined all of my calls. In a panic, I had driven back to our house in the middle of the night to find him. When I arrived, Christian was standing by his car. Right in front of me, he answered his phone. It was Sasha. “I’m here,” he had said to her, his voice soft, fluent, and entirely present. “I’m on my way.” That was the moment the last of my hope withered away. Tears had spilled hot and fast down my cheeks. In all our years of marriage, I had never demanded anything from Christian. I had never begged. But this time, I had crawled on my knees, only to be met with his familiar, unyielding barrier. He had made it clear: he was non-verbal, and I was not to speak to him. While I spent the night pacing the hospital floors, waiting to see if my father would survive, Christian was at a twenty-four-hour animal clinic, helping Sasha nurse her dog. I realized I could no longer play the fool. I couldn’t keep telling myself that Christian cared about me in his own distant way, or that his silence was merely a sacred boundary he couldn’t control. The lie had run its course. My mother, seeing my cold shoulder toward Christian, nudged me repeatedly. She grabbed my hand and took the business card Christian was holding out—Dr. Adler’s personal contact card. “Mom, visiting hours are starting,” I said quietly. “Go in and see Dad.” She nodded, looking back at us anxiously, whispering a final plea for me not to be stubborn and to speak nicely to my husband. I watched her frail, slightly hunched shoulders disappear behind the heavy ICU doors, clad in the sterile blue visitor’s gown. Soon, the hallway cleared as other families filed in. Only Christian and I remained. He still kept his distance. I suppose I was an eyesore. I hadn’t slept, my hair was a tangled mess, and I probably smelled of sweat and hospital despair. I looked down at the elegant card. Christian’s signature on the back was sharp and fluid. He hadn’t needed to write a long letter of appeal; his name alone was enough to summon a world-class specialist whom I had spent twenty-four hours begging to see. “Thank you,” I said. It was the only thing left to say. Christian gave me a curt nod, offering a rare, brief elaboration. “I was in my silent period yesterday. You know my rules.” Then he turned and walked away. It was his version of an explanation, an apology. But it only made my chest ache with a profound, hollow sadness. “Family for Bed Three? Bed Three family?” The nurse called out from the doorway. I shoved the card into my pocket and hurried inside. The nurse gave me a long, evaluating look before she spoke. “Dr. Adler specifically called. He’ll be coming by regularly to monitor your father’s recovery.” I sat by my father’s bedside, looking at his frail body, realizing how close I had come to losing him because of my husband’s silence. The crushing weight of the past twenty-four hours settled into my bones, and my legs felt like lead. During the shift change, I heard two nurses whispering nearby. “That’s Christian’s father-in-law. Apparently, they almost lost him last night because Dr. Adler wasn’t here.” “Seriously? Aren’t Christian and Dr. Adler incredibly close? I heard Dr. Adler actually went to a pet hospital last night.” “Yeah, Christian asked him to go check on some dog.” “Wow. I guess a dog’s life is worth more than a human’s in that family…” They assumed I had already left the room. When they noticed me packing my things in the corner, their faces flushed, and they muttered a hurried apology before rushing out. They didn’t need to apologize. They hadn’t said anything untrue. My mother had heard them too. I had always kept the realities of my marriage hidden from my parents, but after this, the illusion was shattered. She reached over, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead, her eyes filled with pity. “Marriage is always hard, sweetheart. There are always things we have to swallow.” She sighed. “Without Christian, your father wouldn’t even be in a private ward like this. Just… try to bear with it.” I looked at my sleeping father and, for the first time in my life, I disagreed with her. I didn’t want to bear with it anymore. A marriage built on endurance wasn’t a marriage at all. To keep her from worrying, I remained silent. Over the next two weeks, I stayed by my father’s side as he was moved to a general ward and eventually discharged. Throughout those weeks, Christian never visited once. He simply ensured that the hospital billing account was automatically funded. When I went back to our house to grab fresh clothes, Christian wasn’t there. Our housekeeper, Martha, told me he was staying at his townhouse near the veterinary clinic, taking care of Sasha’s dog. “He said the dog is quite ill this time, and Sasha has been hysterical,” Martha said hesitantly. “Mr. Christian felt he had no choice but to stay there. He told me to tell you that if you need anything, you can ask me. You don’t need to go looking for him. He’ll contact you when he’s free.” It was a polite way of telling me to stay away. When I finally saw my parents off at the train station, my mother was still urging me to remember Christian’s good qualities. I watched the train pull away, leaving nothing but the cold wind whistling down the tracks. Christian’s kindness had always been like a rare piece of candy. But a single drop of sweetness can’t mask a lifetime of bitterness. Among the stack of medical bills and discharge papers in my bag was a folder from my lawyer. Inside was a draft of a divorce agreement. It wasn’t until three days after I returned to the house that Christian finally came home. The divorce agreement was sitting on the dining table, but he didn’t even pick it up. He leaned back in his dark mahogany chair, his face a mask of calm, and asked, “Why?” I didn’t know where to start. So I said nothing, and Christian let the silence stretch between us, his analytical gaze studying me as if to say, “What could you possibly be dissatisfied with?” “The night my father was dying, you were in your silence,” I said softly. “But you answered Sasha’s call.” “Is that what this is about?” Christian raised an eyebrow, searching my face to see if I was merely playing a game for attention. “Sasha has clinical depression. Her emotional state is highly unstable, and that dog is a certified therapy animal I helped train for her. If the dog dies, Sasha spirals. Do I really need to explain that to you?” Looking at his perfectly reasonable, perfectly cold face, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. It was always like this. Just like his silent days, which he claimed were an uncontrollable psychological need. He would shut me out completely, yet the moment someone else knocked, the rules changed. “But why did you answer her call during your silent period?” I asked, needing to hear him say it. I wanted the truth, raw and ugly. I thought he would offer some elaborate psychological justification, or perhaps make up an excuse. Instead, he smiled. It was a light, almost dismissive smile. A smile that told me the question itself was foolish. After he left the room, the meaning of that smile finally clicked. He didn’t need to explain. Sasha was simply his exception. Christian tapped his fingers against the divorce papers. “Calm down and think about this. If these papers are still on my desk in three days, I’ll sign them. If they aren’t, I will assume today never happened.” Before the three days were up, I received an urgent message from the office. I was Christian’s Chief of Staff. Because of my father’s illness, I had taken a mix of personal leave and accrued vacation. According to my HR request, I still had two days left. Katie, the associate assistant who was covering my duties, was a sweet girl I had mentored. She had called my phone eleven times in a row. On the eleventh call, I finally answered. Her voice was trembling with panic. “Zoe, I am so sorry to bother you when you’re on leave, but I don’t know what to do. Christian is in a terrible state. He threw a massive temper tantrum this morning, locked himself in his office, and won’t let anyone in. But the executive team from Aegis Tech is already in the main conference room.” Aegis Tech was our most important account for the upcoming fiscal year. Christian had been courting them for months to secure a massive semiconductor supply contract. Knowing his perfectionism, he would never let personal feelings ruin a deal of this scale. “I’ll hail a cab now,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Don’t panic. Tell me exactly what happened.” On my way to the office, Katie explained the situation. She said Christian had arrived in a normal mood and held his usual morning briefings. But while he was discussing the Aegis contract with a few junior secretaries, his face suddenly went dark. He flew into a quiet, icy rage and ordered everyone to get out. “I was in the middle of printing the final Aegis brief when it happened,” Katie whispered. “The assistants who were in there came out crying. They couldn’t even tell me what triggered him.” When my cab pulled up to the glass-and-steel high-rise, Katie was waiting in the lobby, looking like she might faint. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me into the express elevator. Two weeks away from the office had changed things. Several cubicles had been rearranged, and some departments had been shifted around. Katie noticed my confusion and squeezed my hand, whispering that she would explain later. She led me straight to the heavy double doors of Christian’s office. When I pushed the doors open, the room was silent. Christian was sitting at his desk. His forearm was bleeding, and a small utility knife lay on the mahogany surface next to him. I closed the door behind me, shutting out the curious stares of the staff outside. Christian glanced up at me, then picked up the knife again, dragging the edge lightly across his skin. I didn’t try to stop him. I simply waited until he tossed the blade into the wastebasket. I walked over to the cabinet, retrieved the first-aid kit, and began cleaning the shallow cuts with antiseptic and gauze. Christian watched me, a faint, mocking smile on his lips. “Why wasn’t he at home this morning?” he asked softly. “And why are you not at your desk when we have our most important meeting of the quarter?” He looked like his usual, immaculate self. But I knew him too well. He was unraveling. He was wearing the wrong watch for a Wednesday. His silver sleeve cuffs didn’t match his tie. The tea on his desk was chamomile instead of his usual Earl Grey, and the folders were stacked horizontally rather than vertically. Christian’s psychological condition made him crave a rigid, almost pathological sense of order. When that order was disrupted, he spiraled into self-harm to reclaim control. But his order was no longer my responsibility. “I’m on leave,” I said, tying off the bandage. I didn’t wait for his response. I picked up the reorganized Aegis folders and placed them in his hands. “The meeting materials are sorted. And my resignation letter has been submitted to HR.” Christian looked down at the files, nodded slowly, and stood up. With blood still faintly seeping through his white sleeve, he walked out of the office and into the conference room as if nothing had happened. The meeting went perfectly. By noon, the preliminary agreement was drawn up, and a celebratory lunch was scheduled. The partnership was essentially locked in. Katie’s shoulders finally dropped, and she let out a massive sigh of relief. “Zoe,” she groaned as we walked down the hall, “I used to think I could handle your job. This past week has taught me that you’re a saint. Normal humans can’t survive this.” I smiled gently. “Are you calling me a monster? I did it for six years.” “Exactly. You’re superhuman.” “Well, I’m retiring. I’m leaving the company.” Katie gasped, begging me not to go, but she also admitted she understood. On our way to the restaurant, she leaned in close and whispered, “There’s something else you should know. Sasha arrived at the company two weeks ago. Christian hasn’t given her an official title yet, but he let her completely restructure the administrative floor. Everyone is walking on eggshells. Including our department. Honestly, Zoe, with your credentials, you probably already have an offer from a competitor, right?” Before I could explain that my departure had nothing to do with Sasha or another job, we arrived at the private dining room. Following my old routine, I made sure Christian was seated comfortably before trying to slip away quietly. But before I could excuse myself, Christian spoke up, his voice cutting through the chatter. “This is Zoe, our Chief of Staff. If you have any follow-up questions regarding the supply chain logistics, she is your primary contact.” The Aegis executives smiled. Since I had worked with them on previous projects, I was forced to take a seat. The lead negotiator laughed warmly. “Zoe’s reputation in the industry is legendary. If you ever decide to leave Christian’s team, our doors are always open.” It was standard corporate flattery. But before I could offer a polite, rehearsed response, the door opened. Sasha walked in. “You have no chance of stealing her,” Sasha said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she took a seat opposite us. “Perhaps the Aegis team doesn’t know. Zoe isn’t just an employee. She’s Christian’s wife.” I sat frozen beside Christian. Our marriage had always been a secret at the firm. Everyone assumed I was simply a highly capable assistant who had climbed the ladder through sheer competence. Sasha’s words instantly reframed my entire career. In one swift stroke, she made my six years of hard work look like the result of nepotism. If I tried to transition to another company now, this rumor would follow me like a shadow. But even that didn’t matter to me anymore. After everything with my father, my perspective had shifted. I had no desire to cause a scene or defend myself in front of clients. I reached for my purse, preparing to make a quiet exit. But as I stood up, Christian’s hand clamped down on my wrist. He pulled me back down, his grip firm and unyielding, and said something that stunned the entire room. “Yes, Zoe and I have been married for six years. Aside from her outstanding professional abilities… she is equally exceptional in other areas—especially in our private life. I am highly satisfied.” The room went dead silent. The crude, suggestive remark hung in the air, leaving the Aegis executives and our colleagues staring at their plates in sheer embarrassment. Even Sasha looked shocked. I stared at Christian, trying to comprehend how a man so obsessed with propriety and control could utter something so degrading. I violently wrenched my hand out of his grip, breaking the forced link of our fingers. “Are you out of your mind, Christian?”

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I was the most hated man in the entertainment industry. Having crossed the wrong power players, I chose to pack my bags, retreat to my quiet hometown, and marry a local girl just to escape the noise. To pay off the crushing contract termination fees, my non-celebrity wife and I signed up for a wilderness survival reality show. According to the producers’ script, I was supposed to act like a whiny, insufferable diva throughout the shoot, serving as a miserable foil to Cody Pratt, the industry’s golden boy, and his heiress wife, Regina Dupont. From day one, viewers mocked my wife, Mona, calling her a clueless country bumpkin who probably couldn’t tell the difference between artisanal pour-over coffee and cheap instant Folgers. “Look at her,” one popular comment read. “I bet she’s never even held a fine wine glass in her life.” “I give it three days,” another user wagered. “That disgraced actor is going to lose his mind and divorce his trailer-trash wife.” But then, a sudden, violent storm hit. A massive mudslide washed away the only bridge out of the valley, cutting off all electricity, water, and communication with the outside world. As the storm raged, the “perfect” celebrity couples fell apart. Terrified and starving, they fought over basic rations, their carefully polished images shattering in real-time. Meanwhile, my supposedly helpless country wife quietly pulled a ferro rod from her pack, sparked a roaring fire, and dove straight into the rushing, muddy river, hauling out two massive black catfish. I fell back on my own survival instincts, scaling and gutting the fish to simmer a rich, milky broth for her. What none of us knew was that the production crew had secretly rigged the entire village with hidden cameras. Every single moment of our struggle was being broadcast to the world on a live stream. … The mudslide had sheared off the main bridge to Blackwood half an hour after the crew made a hasty excuse about retrieving extra equipment from town. They had fled, leaving the six of us stranded in the middle of nowhere. Cody Pratt’s shrill scream was the first thing to pierce the heavy curtain of rain. “I’m not doing this stupid show anymore! Tell the director to get his ass back here and pick me up!” His wife, Regina Dupont, frowned, trying to maintain her cool. “Don’t panic, Cody. I’ll call the network. They’ll send a private helicopter.” She pulled out her phone, but her face instantly fell. No signal. Beside them, the young rookie Toby began to sob, while his partner, a rising influencer named Amber, kicked a wet stone in frustration. I watched the chaos unfold, feeling a cold detachment. I turned to the woman standing quietly beside me, tugging at the edge of her wet jacket. “Mona,” I whispered. “We need higher ground.” Mona didn’t say a word. She simply took my hand in hers—her grip warm, dry, and surprisingly steady—and led me up the steep ridge toward an abandoned, half-collapsed cabin. The cabin was in terrible shape, but the main room and a drafty lean-to at the back still offered some semblance of shelter. We had barely stepped inside when Cody and his group scrambled in behind us, soaking wet and shivering. Cody’s eyes immediately locked onto the dry, spacious main room. “Zane, you and your wife take the lean-to,” Cody demanded, his voice dripping with the casual authority of a star bossing around an extra on set. “We’re taking this room.” I ran a hand through my wet hair and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Does it have your name on it? First come, first served, sweetheart.” Cody’s eyes widened, clearly shocked that a blacklisted nobody like me would dare talk back to him. Regina stepped forward, shielding him with her body. “Mr. West, let’s keep this civil. Cody is delicate, and he can’t handle the cold. Your wife, on the other hand, looks like she’s built for rough weather. Taking the lean-to shouldn’t be an issue for people like you.” The condescension in her voice made my blood boil. But before I could snap back, a firm hand pressed down on my shoulder. Mona walked past me toward the decaying lean-to. She reached into her heavy canvas backpack and pulled out a thick, military-grade waterproof tarp. With an agility that caught me off guard, she climbed up the wooden beams of the cabin, securing the tarp over the broken roof in minutes. When she jumped back down, she had transformed the drafty corner into a dry, secure haven, lining the floor with a thick layer of dry hay she’d gathered. She looked at me, her dark eyes steady. “Get inside. Keep warm.” Looking at her damp hair and the quiet determination on her face, a strange warmth bloomed in my chest. Across the cabin, Amber opened her designer duffel bag and let out a horrified shriek. “Oh my god! My protein bars and crackers are completely soaked! They’re ruined!” Cody, already complaining of stomach cramps from hunger, eyed my heavy waterproof pack. “Zane, hand over whatever food you have in there,” Cody said, trying to sound reasonable. “We need to pool our resources. It’s about teamwork.” I pulled the strap tighter around my shoulder. “Why would I give you anything?” His face flushed with rage, and he pointed a finger at Mona. “Then tell your useless wife to go catch us something! Isn’t she from the backwoods? Can’t she do something useful for once?” Mona ignored his shouting entirely. She picked up a long, straight branch from the corner, using her pocket knife to quickly shave the tip into a lethal point. Then, without a word, she walked out into the pouring rain and stood by the edge of a flooded, muddy pond near the cabin. Amber sneered from the dry doorway. “Look at her, trying to play survival expert. There’s nothing in that muddy puddle but disease.” Before the words could fully leave her mouth, the water erupted. Mona’s forearm muscles flexed, her movements a blur of terrifying precision as she drove the spear down. When she lifted the branch, two massive black catfish were pinned to the end, thrashing violently. The entire cabin went dead silent. Regina swallowed hard, reaching into her designer bag to pull out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Hey. A thousand dollars for the fish.” Mona didn’t even glance at the money. She unpinned the fish, walked straight past Regina, and handed them to me. “All for you,” she said softly. What none of us realized was that high up on the cabin’s rotting beams, a tiny, disguised lens was blinking with a faint red light. Similar hidden cameras had been placed all over the valley. This raw, unscripted struggle for survival was being broadcast to millions of viewers in high-definition. On the other side of the screen, the internet was exploding. The live stream chat was moving so fast it was a blur: “Jesus, these spoiled celebrities are absolutely pathetic the second things go sideways!” “Regina Dupont really thinks she can buy her way out of a disaster with a grand? Read the room, honey.” “Cody Pratt’s ‘gentle prince’ persona is officially dead. He sounds like a spoiled toddler. I’m so glad the mask is slipping.” “Can we talk about Zane’s wife? Mona is a literal badass! The way she speared those fish with a hand-carved stick… the absolute power.” As night fell, the temperature plummeted, and a biting wind swept through the cracks in the cabin walls. Regina sat huddled in a corner, repeatedly flicking a luxury designer lighter. Her thumb was raw and red, but every time a tiny spark appeared, the damp mountain air instantly snuffed it out. Cody was shivering violently under Regina’s blazer, his lips a pale, sickly blue. “Why won’t this stupid wood catch? Where the hell is the crew?!” Over in our dry lean-to, Mona pulled a dry piece of fatwood from the bottom of her pack. She struck the back of her knife against a ferro rod, sending a shower of hot sparks onto a nest of dry tinder. A bright, warm flame bloomed, lighting up our corner of the cabin and driving away the damp chill. I set to work, expertly scaling and gutting the catfish. I collected fresh rainwater in Mona’s aluminum mess kit and set it over the fire to boil. Before long, a rich, milky broth was bubbling away, the savory aroma drifting over to the main room. I could hear the distinct sound of swallowing from the other side of the partition. The four starving, freezing celebrities looked like wolves eyeing a fresh kill. Amber finally snapped. Clutching an empty bowl, she marched into our corner. “Zane, we’re all colleagues here,” she said, her voice carrying a fake, sweet lilt as she reached toward our boiling pot. “It’s only fair that you share some of that soup.” Before her hand could touch the rim, Mona’s foot shot out in a blur. The kick caught Amber’s wrist. The bowl flew from her hand, smashing against the wooden wall and shattering into pieces. Amber shrieked, falling backward onto the dirt floor. Mona sat by the fire, her expression cast in shadow, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Get out.” Toby ran over, his eyes red as he helped Amber to her feet. “Zane! How can you just sit there and let your wife assault people? If something happens to us out here, it’s on your head!” I took a slow, deliberate sip of the hot, savory broth. “Don’t try to lecture me on morals now, Toby. Where was this ‘colleague love’ when you guys tried to kick us out of the dry room? You’re so used to treating people like garbage in the industry that you forgot the wilderness doesn’t care about your agent or your contract.” Cody gritted his teeth, stumbling over to the edge of our space. “You’re just a washed-up, blacklisted loser, Zane! Enjoy your little moment. The second we get out of here, my wife will make sure you never work in this town again!” Regina pulled him back, her eyes narrowing into cold slits as she stared at us. “Fine. Have it your way.” By midnight, the rain had stopped, though the ground remained a swamp of thick mud and pooling water. Mona and I curled up together, our bodies sharing warmth as we drifted into a light, uneasy sleep. A few hours later, the faint sound of shifting gravel woke me. I opened my eyes. Mona’s side of the bed was empty—she must have gone to check on the perimeter. Through the dim embers of our dying fire, I saw Regina and Amber creeping into our lean-to. Amber was clutching a thick, heavy wooden club, while Regina was reaching toward our remaining fish and our matches. They were going to rob us while we slept. I grabbed a glowing, red-hot branch from the fire pit and swung it directly at Regina’s hand. “Get the hell back!” I yelled. Sparks showered the air, and Regina leaped back with a gasp. Seeing her plan fail, Amber raised the wooden club high, aiming it straight at my head. Before the blow could land, a dark shadow burst through the doorway. Mona had returned. With a low growl, she lunged forward, grabbing the thick wooden club mid-swing. With a sharp twist of her hands, the wood snapped in two with a deafening “crack”. Without pausing, she threw a heavy punch right past Regina’s ear, slamming her fist into the rotting wooden support pillar behind her. The solid wood split open with a sickening groan, dust and splinters raining down. Regina’s knees buckled, and she collapsed into the mud, trembling violently. Mona stood over them, her chest rising and falling, her eyes burning with a quiet, lethal fury. “Touch him again,” Mona whispered, “and I’ll break more than just a piece of wood.” The midnight robbery attempt had been captured perfectly by the overhead lens. On the live stream, the chat went absolute wild: “Are you kidding me?! Attempted robbery in the middle of the night? Regina Dupont is literally a criminal!” “Amber’s PR team must be sweating blood right now. She tried to hit a guy with a club! This is insane!” “The way Mona broke that club with her bare hands… and that punch! I am officially in love with this woman.” By morning, the quiet of the forest was broken by Toby’s frantic shouting. “Look! Over there, on the opposite ridge!” Through the mist, we could see the tops of several pine trees had been sheared off—the unmistakable markings of a helicopter’s low approach. Regina’s face went pale. “The rescue team came… but they didn’t see us.” Cody broke down, burying his face in his hands. “What are we going to do? Are we going to die out here?” Regina took a deep breath, forcing herself to regain her composure. “This is real survival now. If we want to make it out, we have to work as a unit.” She turned to look at Mona and me, her expression hardening. “Hand over your supplies and your tools. I will manage the distribution.” I laughed, the sound dry and bitter. “Are you out of your mind? Who put you in charge?” Regina sneered. “There are four of us and two of you. If you go off on your own and get hurt, don’t expect us to help.” I took Mona’s hand, feeling the warm strength of her fingers. “I’d rather take my chances with the wolves than travel with parasites.” Watching us walk away, the viewers online rallied behind us, their anger filling the feed: “Regina Dupont makes me sick. She can’t even start a fire, but she wants to ‘distribute’ someone else’s hard-earned gear? The delusion is real.” “Zane handled that perfectly. Don’t give those vultures a single match!” After a quick breakfast of leftover fish, Mona went into the woods to scout. When she returned, she brought back a sliver of hope. There was an old, overgrown hunting trail on the northern ridge. Because of the elevation, the mudslide hadn’t touched it. If we followed it, we could clear the peak and reach an area with cell reception. The news was a lifeline for the other four. Cody immediately assumed his usual arrogant tone. “Since your wife found the path, she can lead the way and clear the brush. She’s got the muscle for it anyway.” Using her as a human shield and calling it leadership. I was about to refuse, but Mona gently squeezed my palm. Her eyes met mine, deep and reassuring. “Let’s go,” she said. I knew why she was doing it. She didn’t want me trapped out here any longer without clean drinking water and medical supplies. The climb was brutal. The trail was overgrown with thick, thorny briars and slippery mud. Mona hacked away at the brush with her knife, clearing a path yard by yard, while I kept close behind her. Cody and the others lagged far behind, complaining with every step. Halfway up, we reached a steep, narrow ledge beneath a slope of loose shale and boulders. Mona found her footing on a stable rock and turned to reach down to pull me up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Regina standing further down the slope. Her eyes were fixed on a massive, loose boulder resting right above our path. With a cruel, deliberate motion, she raised her foot and kicked the support stone beneath the boulder. The heavy rock shifted, triggering a sudden rockslide. A sharp, heavy stone broke free from the mass, hurtling straight toward Mona’s exposed back. “Watch out!” I screamed, my voice cracking with pure terror. Mona spun around, her pupils contracting. If she dodged, the rock would hit me instead. Without a second thought, she threw herself forward, raising her forearms to shield me from the impact. A sickening, heavy “thud” echoed through the trees. The stone struck her forearm with brutal force before bouncing off into the ravine below. Blood instantly soaked through her torn sleeve. She let out a low groan, her body swaying as she fought to keep her balance. The entire horrifying sequence was broadcast live to millions of screens. The chat erupted in absolute fury: “Oh my god! Regina did that on purpose! She literally kicked that rock right at them! That’s attempted murder!” “I saw it clear as day. She aimed it! Mona took the hit to save Zane… oh god, her arm might be broken.” I scrambled up the muddy slope like a madman, wrapping my arms around Mona. The gash on her arm was deep, the flesh torn open to the bone, blood pouring down her wrist. “Are you insane?!” I screamed, turning to Regina with tears stinging my eyes. Regina put on a face of mock horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see that loose stone there.” Seeing the faint, cruel smirk she couldn’t quite hide, something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her expensive hiking shirt. “You did that on purpose, you crazy bitch!” Cody yelled, rushing forward to shove me off. “Get off her! She said it was an accident!” My arm swung back and I delivered a brutal, open-handed slap across his face. “Crack!” The force of the blow spun his head around, his cheek immediately swelling into a bright red welt. “You… you slapped me?!” he shrieked, clutching his face in disbelief. On the live feed, the viewers cheered: “That slap was so satisfying! Cody is still trying to play the victim after his wife literally tried to murder someone!” Regina finally dropped her mask, her eyes twisting into something dark and ugly. “Zane, you really don’t know when to back down, do you?” she spat. “Your wife has one good arm left. You’re both dead weight. Do you really think you’re walking off this mountain alive?” Amber and Toby closed in behind her, both of them holding thick wooden branches. Four against two. And Mona was severely injured. The balance of power had shifted instantly. Mona gently pushed me behind her, her uninjured hand gripping her knife tightly as she stood between me and the group. But before anyone could move, a sudden, heavy scent filled the air—the metallic, musky smell of a wild predator. Mona’s face drained of color. She looked down at the soft mud in front of us. There, clearly printed, were massive, heavy paw prints, and on a nearby pine tree, three deep, fresh claw marks. Seeing those terrifying signs, the chat on the live stream shifted from anger to sheer panic: “Where is the crew?! Call the police! This is getting out of hand, someone is going to die!” “Wait… look at those tracks. Is that… a bear?” “A bear?! The producers said there were no large predators in these mountains! Mona is hurt, they can’t run!” Mona lowered her voice, her grip on my wrist tightening. “We have a problem. Run.” “Roar—!” A deafening, bone-rattling roar shattered the quiet of the forest. The thick brush ahead parted, and a massive black bear lunged into the clearing. Standing on its hind legs, it easily towered over six feet, its small, red-rimmed eyes locking onto us. Cody let out a pathetic shriek, his legs giving out as he collapsed into the mud. Regina’s face went white, but her survival instinct was cold and fast. She grabbed Cody by his jacket, dragging him up toward a high rocky ledge nearby. Toby tripped, falling backward into a muddy hollow, sobbing hysterically. The bear, agitated by Toby’s screams, turned its massive head toward him, preparing to charge. In that split second of pure chaos, Regina and Amber locked eyes. Between them, they held a thick nylon climbing rope. As Mona tried to pull me back into the tree line, Regina threw the coiled rope, catching Mona’s ankle, and pulled with all her might. Mona tripped, falling heavily onto the wet earth. Amber scrambled forward, wrapping the other end of the rope around a thick pine trunk and tying it off with a tight, complex knot. “Sorry, sweetie!” Amber yelled, her face twisted in fear. “Someone has to stay behind to keep it busy!” Without looking back, she and Regina scrambled up the high ledge. On the live stream, the chat was screaming: “Are they insane?! They just tied her up as bait!” “This is murder! Actual murder on live television! Somebody do something!” “The knot is too tight! Mona can’t get free!” The bear, distracted by the sudden movement, turned away from Toby and began lumbering toward Mona. Mona struggled against the rope, but her injured arm made it impossible to pull herself up. She looked at the approaching beast, then turned her head to look at me. In those quiet, usually silent eyes, I saw a sudden, terrifying resolve. With her one good arm, she gathered all her strength and shoved me away from her. “Run!” she screamed. “Don’t look back! Just live!” I stumbled backward, scraping my hands raw against the jagged rocks. I looked up to see the bear lunging over Mona, its massive paw raised high, ready to bring it down on her. In that second, my heart stopped. Every memory of our short marriage flashed through my mind: her building the tarp roof over my head, her taking the blow meant for my back. I had married her for convenience, looking for a quiet life to fade away in. But looking at her now, my heart was breaking. She didn’t know how to say sweet, romantic things, but she was willing to die for me. “No!” A primal scream tore from my throat. My fear evaporated, replaced by a reckless, burning fury. I didn’t run. I snatched a sharp, heavy rock from the ground and charged the beast. If Mona was going to die here, I was going to die with her. The viewers online wept as they watched me run toward certain death: “Oh my god, Zane! No! This is too painful to watch!” On the ledge above, Cody watched with a cruel sneer on his face. “Serves them right! That’s what you get for crossing us. They won’t even have bodies left to bury.” Regina’s voice was cold and detached. “Once the bear is done and leaves, we go down and take their packs. I want that waterproof jacket.” “I get the boots,” Amber added eagerly. They were already dividing up our belongings. I threw myself over Mona’s body, wrapping my arms around her head, waiting for the claws to tear through my flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut. But the pain never came. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The massive, clawed paw was hovering barely three inches from my face. Then, the bear slowly lowered its paws, grabbed its own neck, and with a hard tug, pulled its entire head off.

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The day my mother was rushed into the intensive care unit, Jeff didn’t lend me a single dime. Instead, he said: “My money is tied up in venture capital, Renee. I’m not throwing it into a bottomless pit.” “I sent you those links for low-interest personal loans. Figure it out.” I was crouching in the hospital stairwell, clutching the unpaid bill, when I heard him speaking on the phone near the window at the end of the hall. “I just wired that million-dollar seed funding to your account.” “Don’t worry if you lose it. Consider it a learning experience.” He was talking to Piper, the fresh graduate in his company’s leadership rotation program. I squeezed the hospital bill so hard my fingernails cut into my palm. Jeff turned around and saw me standing there. I was quiet, not crying, not begging him again. He nodded, looking satisfied. “Good. Stop acting like a child who needs a hand every time something goes wrong.” “Learning to be independent is your responsibility to yourself.” “Okay,” I whispered. He didn’t spare me another glance before walking away. At that moment, I realized something. When you finally give up on someone, you don’t cry or scream. You don’t even have the energy to ask why. I reached into my bag and pulled out the divorce papers I had drafted weeks ago. Stroke by stroke, I signed my name. From then on, he was him, and I was me. … When Jeff got home, it was almost one in the morning. I sat in the living room. In front of me were the unpaid medical bills, the critical condition notice, and the signed divorce papers. He walked in, saw me, and frowned. “Why are you still up?” I looked up at him. “My mother is still in the ICU.” He hung up his coat and went to the bar to pour a glass of water. “I know.” His voice was as flat as a weather forecast. I stared at the glass in his hand, my mind slipping back to the hospital corridor that afternoon. I had begged him: “Jeff, fifty thousand dollars. Just to save her life.” And he had replied: “Renee, you have to learn to accept reality.” Then he turned around and gave Piper a million dollars. I thought I was numb, but seeing him walk in as if nothing had happened made something raw and heavy slam against my ribs. Jeff finished his water, his gaze landing on the table. “What are these?” “Divorce papers.” He froze. A few seconds later, he scoffed, as if I’d told a ridiculous joke. “Renee, what are you throwing a tantrum about now?” I pushed the documents forward. “I’ve already signed them.” He didn’t touch them. He just stared at the words, his eyes hardening. “Because I didn’t lend you the money?” “No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Because today I realized you aren’t short on cash, and you aren’t incapable of helping people. You just won’t help me.” Jeff’s face darkened. “Piper’s project is a corporate investment, not a personal favor.” “I saw the agreement, Jeff.” I looked him in the eye. “A transfer from your personal account, a personal guarantee, and you’re absorbing any losses. You call that a corporate investment?” A flash of irritation crossed his face. “You went through my things?” I let out a soft, dry laugh. His first instinct wasn’t to explain; it was to blame me for finding out. He set the glass down with a heavy thud. “You’re emotional right now, Renee. I’m not doing this with you. I get that you’re stressed about your mom, but you can’t take your frustration out on me.” I looked at him. “She’s the woman you called ‘Mom’ for six years.” Jeff looked away. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just don’t think it’s smart to throw money into a black hole with no return.” He must have realized how cruel that sounded, because he quickly added, “I can help find specialists, look for resources. But the money… you have to find another way.” My stomach churned. I stood up, slipped the divorce papers back into the envelope, and zipped it shut. “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Our attorney’s office.” Jeff stared at me. “Renee, if you leave me, how are you going to pay for your mother’s treatment?” The question felt like a physical blow. He knew exactly what terrified me. He knew I was cornered, and he was using my mother’s life to bend me to his will. I met his gaze. “I’ll figure it out myself.” My defiance stung him. His expression grew colder. “Then you’d better not come crawling back begging.” I didn’t reply. I went straight to the bedroom. Before the door clicked shut, I heard his phone ring in the living room, his voice instantly dropping to a softer register. “Piper? I looked over the pitch deck… Don’t worry, I’ll be right there beside you for the presentation tomorrow.” I leaned against the closed door and slid down to the floor. A sharp, dull ache bloomed in my lower abdomen. I had been so consumed by my mother’s crisis that I had missed my follow-up appointment. I opened my phone. The notification from the clinic was still there: “Ms. Ward, you are seven weeks pregnant. Please schedule your prenatal check-up.” I stared at the screen, then shut it off, letting the darkness swallow the text. The next day, Jeff didn’t show up. I waited at the attorney’s office for two hours. He didn’t answer my calls. It wasn’t until eleven-thirty that a text popped up. “Piper’s pitch is running late. I can’t leave.” Followed by: “If you’re serious about this, file for divorce through court.” I stood on the sidewalk outside the office, the wind biting my face, making my eyes sting. I didn’t reply. I went straight back to the hospital. The doctor met me with a grim face. My mother’s condition was deteriorating because the deposit hadn’t been cleared, forcing them to use basic alternative therapies. “You need to make the payment as soon as possible, Ms. Ward. The longer we wait, the higher the risk.” I nodded numbly. I had put my pre-marital studio condo up for a fire sale and maxed out my credit cards. The real estate agent hesitated when I gave him my listing price. “Renee, this is ridiculously low.” “Can we close today?” “We can, but are you absolutely sure you want to take this loss?” “Yes. Do it.” I hung up and collapsed in the hospital stairwell, cold sweat plastering my hair to my forehead. My phone vibrated with an Instagram notification. Piper had posted. In the photo, she stood on a modern stage in a sharp white suit. Jeff was sitting in the front row, looking up at her with a warmth and patience I hadn’t seen in years. Her caption read: “Having someone cover your back for your first venture… so this is what it feels like to be chosen.” A comment below read: “Mr. Ward is so supportive!” Piper replied: “He just says he doesn’t want to see me fall.” I watched those words, my fingers turning to ice. That afternoon, Jeff came to the hospital. He looked immaculate in his tailored suit, holding a manila folder. “I had my assistant gather some personal loan options. A few of these offer quick approvals. You can use them to bridge the gap.” I stared at the papers and didn’t move. He forced them into my hands. “It’s up to you. You need to make a decision.” He turned and walked away. I watched his retreating back, then systematically tore the papers into shreds and threw them in the trash. Minutes later, a nurse ran out. “Ms. Ward, your mother’s blood pressure is crashing. We need you to sign some authorization forms immediately.” My knees buckled. I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. The sharp pain in my abdomen flared up again, more violent than the night before. My mother was in surgery for four hours. When the doctor finally emerged, his mask was still hanging from one ear. “We stabilized her for now. But you cannot let her treatment costs lapse again.” I nodded, my throat too dry to form words. The buyer for my condo signed the contract that evening. Because of the low price, they didn’t hesitate. The second the escrow deposit cleared, I rushed to the billing window. The clerk looked at me, sympathy in her eyes. “Are you here alone?” “Yes.” “Where is your husband?” I couldn’t answer. A hot wave of shame washed over me. I had a husband, yet I was entirely alone. Later that night, I went back to our house to gather my documents. As soon as I pushed the door open, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room. Piper was sitting on our couch, a celebration cake on the coffee table. Jeff was slicing it for her. When she saw me, she quickly stood up. “Renee, you’re back!” she said, her voice dripping with sweet deference. Around her neck gleamed a diamond necklace. I recognized it instantly. On my birthday last month, I had paused in front of the jewelry case at the department store. Jeff had scoffed, “The markup on those things is ridiculous. It’s not practical for you.” Now, it sat against Piper’s collarbone. Jeff frowned. “What are you doing here?” I looked around. “This is my home.” Piper’s smile stiffened. Jeff put down the cake knife. “Piper’s presentation was a massive success. We came back to grab some files and celebrate. Just a little victory dinner.” “Just a little victory dinner.” My mother was hooked up to machines in a sterile ICU, and I had just sold my apartment at a loss to keep her alive, while my husband was in our home, celebrating another woman. Piper lowered her head, her voice soft. “Renee, please don’t misunderstand. Jeff was just worried I’d be nervous about my first funding round, so he wanted to encourage me.” She touched the necklace. “This was just a milestone gift for the team, really.” I walked over and looked at the cake. Written in delicate frosting was: “To Piper’s bright future. The best is yet to come.” It was Jeff’s handwriting. He used to tell me that birthdays didn’t need cakes, that arbitrary milestones didn’t require expensive gestures. I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I went into the bedroom, opened the drawer, and packed my passport and marriage certificate. Jeff followed me inside. “Are you going to give me the silent treatment now?” I packed my bag. “Move.” He blocked the doorway. “Renee, you’re being completely unreasonable. Piper is younger than you, she’s trying to build a life in this city alone. What’s wrong with me offering some professional guidance?” I looked up at him. “My mother is also alone in the ICU. Have you offered her any guidance?” He choked on his words, his face tightening. “Your mother’s situation is different.” “How is it different?” “Piper has a future.” The bedroom fell completely silent. Even Jeff seemed shocked by his own words. But he didn’t apologize. He just looked away and mumbled, “I mean… an investment needs to make financial sense.” I stared at him, feeling as if someone had hollowed out my chest. My mother had no future, so she wasn’t worth the investment. I had no future, so I wasn’t worthy. I grabbed my bag and brushed past him. In the living room, Piper was holding a fork, looking hesitant. She summoned her courage and said softly, “Renee, honestly, women need to be independent. You can’t rely on a man for everything.” I stopped. Jeff stood behind me, saying nothing to correct her. I looked at her and smiled. “Did he teach you that line?” Her cheeks flushed. I nodded. “Keep it in mind. The day he decides you no longer offer a return on investment, you’ll hear those exact words.” Her smile vanished. Jeff’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Renee, that’s enough.” I didn’t look back. As I walked down the stairs, a sharp, heavy cramp seized my pelvis. I leaned against the elevator wall, breathing through the pain, my palms slick with sweat. My phone rang. It was the hospital. “Ms. Ward, your mother’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. You need to come back immediately.” The world spun. I nearly fell to my knees. My mother’s second critical episode happened at 9:17 PM. When the nurse ran out to find me, I was pleading with the billing clerk for another thirty minutes. “Renee, her pressure is bottoming out! The doctor needs you to sign the authorization now!” The clerk pushed my card back. “Declined. Insufficient funds.” My legs turned to water. I gripped the counter, pulled out my phone, and called Jeff. First call, no answer. Second call, rejected. On the third attempt, he finally picked up. The background noise was loud, bustling. I sobbed into the receiver. “Jeff, she’s back in the operating room. The doctor said we need to clear the past-due balance now or they can’t administer the next round of drugs. Please, just lend me thirty thousand. I’ll pay you back, I swear.” There was a brief pause. When he spoke, his voice was chillingly rational. “Renee, we’ve discussed this. You can’t just throw money into a medical emergency without a plan.” I froze. “She is my mother. She is dying right now.” “I know,” he said, his tone laced with impatience. “But you’re an adult. You can’t expect someone else to bail you out every time a crisis hits. Your family’s medical issues are a personal risk, not my financial obligation.” My hand shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. “Jeff, you called her Mom for six years.” “That doesn’t mean I am obligated to fund an uncontrollable medical outcome.” He sighed, as if he were a patient teacher explaining a simple concept to a slow child. “Renee, your issue is that you refuse to grow up. When things get hard, you just cry and beg, shifting all the pressure onto me. I gave you the loan options. I told you to sell your condo, borrow, or look for public aid.” The words died in my throat. In the operating room, doctors were fighting to keep my mother alive. And on the other end of the line, my husband was lecturing me on self-reliance. I closed my eyes. A tear fell onto the unpaid bill, blurring the ink. “If it were Piper lying in there… would you say the same?” Silence fell over the line. But before he could answer, I heard a soft, whimpering voice in the background. “Jeff, my stomach… it still hurts so much…” Jeff’s voice immediately dropped, thick with concern. “Don’t worry, I’m taking you to the ER right now.” The blood drained from my face. “Jeff, you’re taking her to the hospital?” He paused, his tone defensive. “Piper had a sudden flare-up after her pitch. I’m getting her checked out. She’s a young girl with no family in this city. It’s my responsibility as her mentor to look after her.” I let out a broken laugh. “My mother has no one else. I have no one else.” “Renee, stop using emotional blackmail,” he snapped. “It’s just acute gastritis. Once she’s settled, I’ll come over. Deal with it yourself for now.” “Deal with it yourself.” The words echoed in my head, and then, a strange, ringing silence took over. The nurse burst out of the double doors. “Ms. Ward, can we clear the payment? The surgeon is waiting!” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. On the line, Jeff was still talking: “Just calm down. Stop acting like the sky is falling every time there’s a hurdle. Adults solve problems; they don’t just beg.” I hung up. I clutched the phone to my chest and sank onto the cold linoleum floor. Suddenly, a horrific, tearing pain sliced through my lower abdomen. I looked down. A dark red stain was blooming through my jeans. I tried to stand up to call for help, but the operating room doors swung open first. The surgeon pulled off his mask, his shoulders slumped. “Ms. Ward… we did everything we could. Her heart stopped, and she didn’t respond to resuscitation. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I stood there, frozen. The hospital bills slipped from my fingers, scattering like dead leaves. When they wheeled my mother out, her face was covered by a white sheet. I threw myself forward to call her name, but my throat was filled with broken glass. I couldn’t make a sound. A nurse caught me. “Ma’am, you’re extremely pale.” She looked down. The blood was pooling around my shoes. Her eyes widened. “Are you pregnant?” I wanted to nod, but the world dissolved into blackness, and I fell. When I was rushed into emergency, my phone kept buzzing. Jeff’s name flashed on the screen over and over. I had no strength to answer. The nurse held my phone, looking at me with concern. “Should I call your emergency contact?” I stared at his name. “Husband.” What a joke. I shook my head. “No. There is no one. I’ll sign the consent forms myself.” The bright lights of the operating room flared. As I lay on the cold table, I heard the doctor’s quiet voice: “There’s significant hemorrhaging. We’ve lost the fetal heartbeat.” I closed my eyes. That night, I lost my mother. And I lost my child. Jeff didn’t arrive until two hours later. Piper’s gastritis had been treated, her IV completed. He had finally remembered me, bringing a container of hot soup as he strolled into the emergency ward. But as he pushed open the clinic doors, he overheard the nurses changing shifts. “The mother of that patient in the ICU didn’t make it. They just took her to the morgue. And the daughter just had to undergo an emergency D&C all by herself. Poor thing, she didn’t have a single person with her.” The soup container slipped from Jeff’s hand, crashing to the floor.

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On the day of my doctoral graduation, I stood backstage in the grand university auditorium, clutching my velvet tam and smoothing the heavy folds of my academic gown. My heart hammered with anticipation as I waited for my parents to find their seats. To be there for my graduation, my sixty-year-old parents had taken a grueling, twenty-four-hour Greyhound bus ride from our tiny Midwestern town. Before leaving, they had proudly handed out butterscotch candies to everyone in our small community, beaming as they told the neighbors: “Our girl is getting her PhD today. The university even reserved special seats up front for the parents.” But as the opening procession began, I still couldn’t find them in the crowd. My calls to my mother’s phone went straight to voicemail, time after time. Half an hour later, a photo finally came through from her. In the picture, the two elderly folks were standing outside the iron security gates of the auditorium under the blazing afternoon sun. Their hair looked bleached white by the harsh light. At their feet sat several heavy, worn canvas bags packed with homemade preserves and local produce they had carried all the way from back home. The security guard blocking their path had a look of utter annoyance: “No invitation, no entry.” I ran out like crazy, ignoring the stares of my peers, only to find that the VIP seats reserved for my parents were occupied by Serena, the daughter of my boyfriend’s late academic mentor. My boyfriend, Connor, was gently pouring tea for Serena and her mother, his expression softer and more tender than I had ever seen it. I stood there, my entire body trembling. To pay for my tuition, my father had sold his only tractor and the small plot of land we owned. My mother had spent ten years hauling heavy bags of dry cement mix on dusty construction sites. They had traveled over a thousand miles to get here, and they weren’t even allowed a place to sit. Clutching my phone, my eyes burning with tears, I whispered into the receiver: “Dad, Mom. The ceremony is over. Let’s go home.” …… There was too much static on the line; they didn’t hear what I said before the call cut off. My parents stood outside the auditorium, separated from the bustling warmth of the crowd by a thick, seamless pane of glass. They couldn’t hear the speeches or the applause inside; they could only crane their necks, standing on their tiptoes to catch a fleeting glimpse of the stage. My mother was wearing a brand-new dress today—one she had bought at a local outlet mall for eighty dollars. Usually, she wouldn’t even spend ten dollars on herself, but she had tried this dress on in front of our cracked mirror a dozen times. “My daughter is getting her doctorate,” she had said, smoothing out the cheap polyester. “I can’t look like a mess.” But now she couldn’t even cross the threshold. The security guard stood in front of the doors like a brick wall. No matter how much she tried to explain, he kept repeating the same flat, bureaucratic line. “Your names aren’t on the list.” My mother looked entirely lost. She rubbed her dry, calloused hands against her skirt and asked nervously, “Is there some mistake? My daughter is graduating today. Her name is Elena. Elena Ross.” The guard didn’t even look up. “If it’s not on the list, it’s not on the list.” My father gently pulled my mother back. “Forget it, Martha. Let’s not make trouble for the kid.” As he spoke, he tried to hide the bulky canvas sacks at his feet with his worn jeans. The bags were filled with homemade cured ham and jarred peaches—things they had hauled all the way from our small hometown, intending to give them to my advisors and peers. My throat tightened, a bitter wave of tears threatening to spill over. That was when Connor finally hurried over. Without a word, I shoved my phone into his hands. “See for yourself.” Connor scanned the screen, his eyebrows knitting together. After a tense few seconds, he looked up, his voice dropping into a defensive hush. “Serena’s late father was a senior professor here. The department made a last-minute adjustment to the VIP parent seats.” I stared at him, a hollow, absurd laugh bubbling in my chest. And? So my parents deserved to be thrown out like garbage? Connor seemed to realize how callous it sounded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box containing a delicate diamond necklace. It was the graduation gift he had promised me weeks ago. He stepped behind me, gently draping it around my neck. His voice softened. “Don’t be upset, Elena. It’s just a seat. After the ceremony, I’ll take your parents out for a nice dinner.” “They won’t mind.” I let out a cold, quiet laugh. What gave him the right to assume they wouldn’t mind? Just then, a soft voice interrupted us. “Excuse me.” Serena walked over, a VIP pass swinging gently against her cream-colored blouse. With a sweet, apologetic smile, she looked at my mother. “If you’d like, you can take my pass, ma’am.” My mother waved her hands frantically. “Oh, no, no, sweetheart. We couldn’t.” Serena pulled the pass back, her smile taking on a wistful edge. “Right, it’s probably too late anyway. The ceremony has already started.” “But it’s okay. When I graduate next year, you and your husband can have my front-row seats.” The air in the hallway turned freezing. I stared at her, my fingers curling into tight fists. She hadn’t said a single outright insult, yet every word was a calculated, subtle twist of the knife, reminding my parents exactly where they belonged in this hierarchy. The eager smile on my mother’s face froze. Even my father fell utterly silent. Suddenly, my father doubled over, his hand pressing hard against his lower back. His face drained of color in an instant. “Dad!” I cried, lunging forward. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead, his legs trembling so violently he could barely stand. Half an hour later, we were in the hospital emergency room. The doctor diagnosed it as a severe flare-up of an old spinal injury, requiring immediate hospitalization for observation. I sat by his bedside, my hands clammy and shaking. Connor finally arrived, but the moment he sat down, his phone buzzed. The voice on the other end was frantic. I watched his expression shift immediately. “Serena’s gone? What do you mean?” I froze, staring at him. “And? What does that have to do with you?” Connor hesitated, refusing to meet my eyes. “She’s in a really fragile state right now, Elena. I need to go find her.” I looked at him in sheer disbelief. “My father is lying in a hospital bed, Connor.” “Today was my graduation. And it’s my father’s first day in the ER.” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but he stood up anyway. “I’ll be right back.” As the heavy hospital door clicked shut behind him, a profound, biting cold seeped into my bones, making me shiver. That evening, my mother pulled a small jar of home-roasted pecans from one of the canvas bags and held it out to me with trembling hands. “Take this to Serena, Elena. That poor girl has had it rough, losing her father so young…” I stood up abruptly, tears finally spilling over. “Mom! She has it rough? What about you and Dad?” My mother flinched, startled by my sudden outburst. She hurriedly tried to wipe my tears away with her rough palms. “I didn’t mean it like that, sweetie…” But the words choked in my throat. I couldn’t say another word. Just then, the doctor stepped into the room, his expression grave. “Could the family step out for a moment? We have the test results back.” “It’s more complicated than we initially thought.” My body went rigid. My heart plunged into a cold abyss. I followed him out into the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway. “Your father’s lumbar spine has severe chronic damage. It looks like he’s been working through intense pain for years without proper treatment. If we delay surgery any longer, he could lose his mobility entirely.” My ears buzzed. The doctor’s voice became a dull, distant hum. All I could think of was my father always laughing off his pain when I was a kid, claiming he was built tough. Only now did I realize he was just terrified of the medical bills. By the time I stepped out of the hospital, it was one in the morning. I pulled out my phone and dialed Connor’s number. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was noisy, and I could hear a woman’s soft laughter in the distance. “Where are you?” I asked, gripping the phone. Connor paused. “The hotel Serena and her mother booked had a plumbing issue. I’m helping them sort it out.” I closed my eyes, a suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. “My dad’s scans came back. The doctor says it’s extremely serious.” The line went silent for a beat. When Connor spoke again, his tone was noticeably softer, laced with worry. “Okay, don’t panic. I’m on my way.” I muttered a quiet response and hung up, sitting down on the cold plastic chairs outside the ward to wait. Three hours passed. The sky began to pale into a dull gray. The corridor remained entirely empty, save for me. The night nurse came by to check on a patient and stopped when she saw me still sitting there. “Have you been up all night?” I forced a tight, empty smile and said nothing. At seven in the morning, a text from Connor finally lit up my screen. [Just finished up here.] [Serena’s mom had a panic attack.] [I’ll head over to the hospital in a bit.] I stared at the screen and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Last night he said he was on his way. It turned out “on his way” meant seven hours later. When my father woke up, his first words were, “Where’s Connor?” My throat burned. “Something came up at the firm.” My father nodded, asking no further questions, but I saw him glance wistfully toward the hospital room door several times. Around noon, I went down to the billing office to settle some of the initial fees. When I got back, the bed was empty. Panic surged through me. “Where’s Dad?” My mother’s eyes were red and frantic. “He said he wanted some fresh air. I turned my back for one second, and he was gone.” I ran out of the ward like a madwoman, checking every floor, every corridor, until I finally found him near the hospital’s back exit. He was slumped on the concrete floor, his face pale and covered in sweat. Next to him were several discarded plastic bottles he had tried to gather to recycle for change, hoping to offset his medical bills. In that moment, it felt as though someone had driven a dull blade straight through my heart. I threw myself onto the ground, wrapping my arms around him as my tears flowed unchecked. “Dad, what are you doing? Please, stop!” My father looked startled, shrinking back like a child who had been caught doing something wrong. “I just wanted to stretch my legs, sweetie. I’m fine, really. I’m fine.” I kept my head down, my tears splashing hot against his calloused hands. I couldn’t utter a single word. For the first time in my life, I felt a deep, burning self-loathing for my own indecisiveness, and for my terrible judgment in men. That afternoon, the university had scheduled a campus tour on an open-air shuttle. I had reserved two family tickets weeks ago, wanting to show my parents the campus where I had spent seven years of my life. But when we arrived at the parking lot, the coordinator told us the shuttle had already departed. I stood there, stunned. “Departed? But our reservation was for now.” The coordinator nodded apologetically. “Connor’s office arranged it. He said Miss Serena and her mother should take that slot.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. I had applied for those shuttle passes half a month in advance. My father had talked about nothing else—he wanted so badly to see my lab, to see the classrooms where I had studied every day. And now, their seats had been handed over to someone else yet again. The tears came silent and fast, and I couldn’t stop them. We went back to the hospital. That night, my mother was scrolling through her phone when she hesitantly held the screen out to me. “Elena, is this… is this that girl?” I looked down. It was a screenshot of Serena’s social media page, which had already gone viral on the university’s local forum. In the photo, Serena and her mother were sitting in the front row of the campus shuttle, smiling brightly under the golden hour sun. The caption read: [The first time someone has shown my mother and me what the world looks like outside our bubble.] The comments section was flooded with envious praise, everyone pointing out how incredibly thoughtful and loyal Connor was to his late mentor’s family. I looked at the picture, finding it almost comical. Later that evening, when the nurse came in to change my father’s IV, she sighed with quiet admiration. “Connor is so incredibly kind to Miss Serena. He’s been looking after them for years. I heard he even paid for her entire undergraduate tuition.” My hand paused in the middle of peeling an apple. “For years?” The nurse nodded. “Ever since Professor Harris passed away. Everyone at the university knows. Connor is a truly honorable man.” I said nothing. I just kept my eyes on the apple, the sharp paring knife coming dangerously close to slicing my thumb. The next morning, two representatives from the university’s public relations department walked into the hospital room. “Dr. Ross, the university is putting together a featured profile on this year’s outstanding doctoral graduates.” “We’d love to interview your parents as part of the piece.” I stared at them, a sudden warmth blooming in my chest. This was, perhaps, the first piece of good news in days. My parents were visibly ecstatic. My mother kept slipping into the bathroom to fix her hair, smoothing down her collar. She kept asking me, “Does this look okay, Elena? I don’t want to embarrass you on camera.” I smiled, shaking my head. “You look beautiful, Mom. You could never embarrass me.” Her face lit up with a pure, beaming smile. But thirty minutes before the camera crew was scheduled to arrive, one of the PR coordinators received a phone call. His expression quickly crumbled into awkward embarrassment. “Dr. Ross… we might have to reschedule the interview.” A cold weight dropped in my stomach. “What do you mean?” The coordinator stammered, avoiding my gaze. “The administration decided to interview Serena and her mother instead.” The hospital room fell dead silent. The proud smile on my mother’s face slowly withered away. “But… I thought you were here for Elena?” The coordinator looked down at his clipboard. “Professor Harris was a legacy at this institution. The university feels highlighting his family has a stronger commemorative value for the alumni.” My fingers tightened around my phone. I walked out of the room and called Connor. “Did you arrange this?” I demanded the moment he picked up. There was a heavy pause on the other end. “It’s only been two years since Professor Harris passed, Elena. The university wanted to use this opportunity to honor his memory.” “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a quick interview.” There it was again. “Just an interview. Just a seat. Just a minor detail.” As if as long as I was the one swallowing the disappointment, everything could be neatly swept under the rug. The very last thread of hope I held for him snapped cleanly in two. That afternoon, the university’s promotional video aired online. On screen, Serena’s eyes welled with tears as she spoke of her father, of her own struggles, and of her mother’s hardships. The comment section was a sea of sympathy and admiration. Everyone lauded her strength. No one knew that the people who were supposed to be sitting in front of those cameras were my parents, sitting quietly in a sterile hospital room instead. That evening, as I went to fill the electric kettle with hot water, I heard muffled, choked sobbing coming from the public restroom at the end of the hall. I paused, then gently pushed the heavy door open. My father was standing in the furthest stall, his back to me, his shoulders trembling violently. The screen of his phone was still glowing in the dark, playing Serena’s interview on loop. My eyes burned with fierce, hot tears. Through my entire childhood, my father had never cried. Not when he broke his leg, not when our crops failed and we went into massive debt. But now, he was hiding in a dirty hospital bathroom, weeping because the recognition his daughter had earned through years of blood and sweat had been packaged and handed to someone else. I turned and walked away, unable to look a second longer. When I got back to the ward, my mother was quietly packing. The boxes of cured ham and jars of peaches were being tucked back into the worn canvas sacks, one by one. She kept her head down, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were neatly folding away a dream that had already died. The air in the room felt impossibly thin. Just then, the door pushed open and Connor walked in, carrying a small, elegant jewelry box. “Elena, I wanted to give you your proper graduation gift.” He popped the lid open, revealing a brilliant diamond ring. Before I could speak, Serena, who had slipped in right behind him, let out a soft laugh. “Oh, you finally decided to show her, Connor?” Connor frowned, his voice dropping. “Serena, don’t.” Serena blinked innocently. “I’m just teasing! But seriously, when you brought it over last month to check the size, you let me try it on. It’s even prettier on Elena.” The room went entirely still. I looked at the glittering ring, feeling my heart sink to the very bottom of my chest. Connor’s face flushed. “That was only because you two have similar hand sizes.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. That night, for the first time in seven years, I didn’t argue with him. I simply sat by my parents’ bedsides, watching them sleep, while a single question looped in my mind: “Did I ever truly come first to him? Or was I just an afterthought from the very beginning?” The graduation celebration was scheduled three days later. Connor had organized the entire event himself. “This is the real celebration you deserve,” he had told me, his eyes filled with a sincere, almost desperate guilt. “Everyone will know that Elena Ross is the most brilliant PhD graduate this year.” For a split second, looking into his eyes, I almost believed him. At six in the evening, the banquet hall was filled with guests. My father had put on his only crisp button-down shirt, and my mother had carefully pinned her hair back. Smiling, they looked genuinely happy for the first time all week. But as the dinner began and the massive projector screen lit up, it wasn’t my face that appeared. It was Serena’s. A slideshow of her life—from elementary school to college, her accomplishments, her memories—flooded the screen. Soft, dramatic music swelled through the speakers, and the master of ceremonies spoke into the microphone with rehearsed solemnity: “Tonight, we also take a moment to honor the legacy of Professor Harris and his family’s invaluable contribution to our community.” A thunderous round of applause erupted. Everyone in the room clapped warmly. My parents sat in their far corner, the tentative smiles slowly fading from their faces. I turned to look at Connor. He looked genuinely caught off guard, but he quickly leaned in to whisper, “The department must have requested this at the last minute to honor Professor Harris. Don’t let it ruin your night, okay?” I was so tired of hearing those words. When the presentation ended, Serena walked up to the stage, holding a small velvet box of her own. “Connor,” she said into the microphone, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “This is for you.” She opened the box to reveal a classic silver men’s band. “Thank you for taking care of my mother and me all these years.” The crowd began to hoot and cheer. Someone at a front table laughed and shouted, “Looks like a proposal!” Serena flushed a delicate pink. Connor accepted the ring, offering a polite smile, but he didn’t correct them. I felt a profound, exhausting numbness wash over me. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. When the photography session began, my parents stepped forward, hoping to get a photo with me. But a coordinator quickly held up a hand, blocking them. “Families, please wait a moment. We need to clear the stage for the VIP guests first.” The next second, Serena and her mother were ushered to the very front, right next to Connor and me. My mother quickly pulled my father back, offering a timid, reassuring smile. “It’s fine, sweetie. We can wait.” But their turn never came. I looked down at my phone, slipped out of the room for a brief moment, and booked three train tickets back to our hometown for tomorrow morning. In that moment, I finally understood: continuing to give someone chances is simply giving them permission to break you over and over again. Near the end of the banquet, I went to find my parents, but they were nowhere in the main hall. I finally found them in the back kitchen. My father was helping the catering staff stack heavy folding tables, sweat pouring down his temples. Nearby, a kitchen manager barked, “Hey, buddy, help us clear those trays over there too.” I froze in the doorway. “Dad.” He turned around, wiping his brow, a sheepish smile on his face. “Oh, Elena. They were short-handed, so I figured I’d lend a hand.” But I knew the truth. He felt out of place at the lavish dinner. He didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and he was terrified of embarrassing me. My throat burned so intensely I couldn’t speak. In the quiet hours of the morning, I packed our bags and led my parents out of the hotel. No goodbyes. No looking back. Meanwhile, on the other side of the empty banquet hall, Connor finally finished greeting the last of the guests. He scanned the room, searching for my face. All that remained at our table was a half-empty glass of water and an empty chair. Frowning, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number he knew by heart. It went straight to a generic recording. An unfamiliar prickle of anxiety hit him. He grabbed his coat, striding toward the exit while typing a message. [Stop playing games, Elena. Your parents aren’t in good health. Where are you guys?] The moment he hit send, a stark red exclamation mark bloomed next to the text. Connor stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the screen, his breath catching. A second later, his assistant ran into the lobby, panting. “Sir… Elena sold her share of the townhouse. All her things are gone. She left this on the kitchen counter.” Connor’s chest tightened painfully.

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