At the family’s annual Memorial Day dinner, Chase Reynold told me he was finally going to introduce me to his parents. I spent three months preparing for that night. Then, I spent an hour waiting in his car outside his family’s estate. When I was finally let inside, the first thing I saw was his mother warmly clutching the hand of a girl in a stunning emerald silk dress. She smiled brightly at the gathered guests. “Everyone, this is Caroline Belmont. Chase’s fiancée. They’ve officially set the wedding date for Labor Day.” I looked at Chase. He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eye. Throughout the dinner, he and Caroline stood side-by-side, basking in everyone’s toasts and blessings. Meanwhile, the housekeeper ushered me in through the side entrance and placed me at a tiny table in the far corner. There wasn’t even a plate set for me. Halfway through the night, my phone buzzed. A text from Chase: “Wait for me. I’ll fix this.” I replied with three words: “Congratulations to you.” … The car pulled up to the curb outside the Reynold estate, and Chase unbuckled his seatbelt. “Give me five minutes,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ll go in first and talk to my mom.” Five minutes passed. He texted: “Almost ready.” Ten minutes. “Just a second.” Forty minutes. “Just wait a little longer.” I didn’t reply. Through the tinted window, I watched Mrs. Reynold personally step out to greet a girl wearing an elegant silk designer dress. The moment the girl stepped out of her town car, she slid her hand familiarly into the crook of Chase’s arm. He didn’t pull away. The three of them laughed, sharing some private joke, and walked inside. The heavy mahogany doors shut in my face. My screen stayed lit, frozen on his last text: “Just wait a little longer.” Another twenty minutes crawled by before the butler tapped on my window. “You’re Maeve Mercer, correct? Mrs. Reynold wants you inside to help out. The kitchen is short-handed.” “How does Mrs. Reynold know my name?” “Mr. Chase mentioned you. He said you were just sitting out here anyway.” I followed him through the service entrance and into the bustling kitchen. The head chef handed me a stack of plates and pointed toward the back of the dining hall. “We’re short a setting at the corner table. Put these down, then come back and help run food.” Carrying the heavy ceramic, I walked down the dimly lit corridor. I caught my reflection in a gilded mirror. In my simple pastel dress, standing in the shadows of this grand house, I looked entirely out of place. Waves of laughter drifted from the main dining room. I set the plates down at the lonely corner table and looked up. Mrs. Reynold was standing at the head table, holding Caroline’s hand. “Since we’re all here celebrating,” she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd, “I want to share some wonderful news. Caroline and Chase are officially getting married this fall.” The room erupted in applause. Someone yelled, “Give her a kiss!” Caroline tilted her head back, kissing Chase on the cheek. A soft smile played on his lips. He didn’t flinch. I stood in my dark corner, waiting for him to look at me. He never did. I quietly laid the silver down and slipped out the side door. Out in the courtyard, Mrs. Reynold intercepted me. She stood on the stone steps, looking down, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “So, you’re Maeve,” she said, her voice smooth and cold. “Chase has mentioned you. He told me you’re a sensible girl. That you wouldn’t make a scene.” She smiled, stepping down to pat the back of my hand. “You saw how things are tonight. Caroline is the only daughter-in-law this family will accept. Chase is too soft-hearted to tell you himself, so I’m doing it for him. You should leave now, Maeve. And please, don’t come back.” She turned and walked back into the warmth of the house. As I walked past the iron gates, my phone buzzed. “Wait for me. I’ll fix this.” I typed: “Congratulations to you.” Then I booked an Uber. As the car rounded the corner of the tree-lined street, I looked back at the second-story window of the Reynold mansion. Caroline was standing there, a champagne flute in hand. She raised her glass slightly in my direction. A moment later, an unknown number sent a photo to my phone. It was a picture of Chase and Caroline. She was leaning against his shoulder, and he was smiling warmly at the camera. Below it, a single line of text: “He told me you were just his assistant.” I stared at the photo for a long time before flipping the phone face down on my lap. Suddenly, my mother’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me of the night she died, her frail hand gripping mine. “Maeve, never love a man who makes you wait.” “Your father made me wait for ten years, only to leave with another woman in the end. I don’t want that life for you.” I had squeezed her hand and promised I wouldn’t. Yet here I was, in the back of a rideshare, with absolutely no idea where I was going. When I got back to my apartment, I opened the closet. Hanging there was the first dress Chase had ever bought me. I had kept it for three years, never having the heart to throw it away. I folded it carefully and put it in a donation bag. Then I opened my jewelry box and pulled out a pair of pearl earrings. He had bought them with his very first bonus, promising he’d buy me a new piece for every anniversary. Now, three anniversaries had passed, and this remained the only gift I had ever received. Three days later, Chase showed up at my door. He brought a box of crab cakes from our favorite harbor bistro. He set the box on the coffee table and sat across from me. “My mom made that announcement on the fly,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I had no idea she was going to do that.” “But your mother told me you were just too cowardly to say it yourself, so she did it for you. Was that on the fly, too?” He froze. “My mom talked to you?” I nodded, looking him dead in the eye. “She told me to find a nice guy and move on with my life. So, Chase, how much longer am I supposed to wait?” He fell silent for a long moment. “Just give me a little more time.” “How long? Is another three years enough?” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “Caroline’s family is too deeply tied to our business right now. I can’t just cut ties overnight. Just wait for me a little longer, Maeve.” In the end, I said nothing. The next day, he asked me to accompany him to a dinner party, acting as if nothing had happened. He said it was to entertain an important client. After all, it was work. I didn’t bring up the previous night. But when I stepped into the private dining room, I saw Caroline sitting right next to his seat. He introduced me to the clients: “This is Maeve Mercer from our creative department. She handles our copy.” Throughout the dinner, Caroline piled food onto Chase’s plate and poured his wine. Chase, naturally, peeled his shrimp and placed them on her plate. Their movements were so fluid, so practiced, they looked like they had done it a thousand times. Then, as if suddenly remembering I was there, he turned to me. “Maeve, make sure you take notes on today’s key points. Email them to the department heads when we get back.” I pulled out my phone and opened my notes app. Caroline smiled sweetly. “Miss Mercer is so dedicated. She never stops working, even at dinner.” Chase chuckled. “That’s just how she is. Always professional.” From start to finish, he never once referred to me as his girlfriend. When the dinner ended, Caroline stood up, and Chase helped her into her coat. Then he turned to me. “Maeve, go bring the car around. I’ll walk Caroline to the lobby.” I brought the car to the front entrance. He and Caroline were standing on the steps. She was holding onto his sleeve, smiling up at him. A passing colleague smiled and said, “You and your wife look wonderful, Mr. Reynold.” Chase just smiled back, accepting the compliment. Only after Caroline’s town car pulled away did he get into my car. I gripped the steering wheel, leaving the engine idle. “Why didn’t you tell them I’m your girlfriend?” “It wasn’t the right setting, Maeve. Caroline’s father was there.” “So I’m just your assistant again.” “It was just for tonight.” I turned to look at him. “Chase, I’ve spent three years by your side. I went from being your girlfriend to a waitress, and now to your secretary. What’s next?” He frowned, offering no answer. We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. When I pulled up to his apartment building, he grabbed my hand before opening the door. “Maeve, you have to know that you’re the only one in my heart. She’s just a name on a piece of paper.” I told him to get out, and I drove away. In the rearview mirror, I saw him standing under the streetlamp, making no move to follow me. My mind drifted back to our first winter together. He had stood outside my dorm room in a freezing blizzard, holding a cup of hot cocoa, waiting for me despite a high fever. The Chase from back then would never have made me wait forty minutes. He would never have let me enter through a side door. And he certainly wouldn’t have asked me to pretend I was just a coworker. When had he changed? I couldn’t even remember. That weekend, I went to the mall alone. On the fourth floor, near the balcony of a French restaurant, I saw them. They had ordered a couple’s dessert. She scooped up a spoonful and held it to his mouth. He leaned in, took the bite, and laughed as he gently wiped a smudge of cream from her lip. I stood behind the railing, remembering how he had told me he had to work overtime this weekend. So this was what overtime looked like. I didn’t confront them. I turned around and took the escalator down. As each step sank lower, my heart went with it. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to love someone openly. He just didn’t want to love me that way. That evening, I went to a dinner with some of our mutual friends. I brought up her name casually. “Do you guys know Caroline Belmont?” The table went dead silent. No one met my eye. Looking around at their faces, a cold realization washed over me. They all knew. Every single one of them knew he had a fiancée. One friend, oblivious to the tension, shrugged. “Yeah, of course. She’s Chase’s fiancée.” Another chimed in, trying to soften the blow. “But Chase told us you were his real girlfriend, Maeve. He said his hands were tied by his family. Honestly, we all thought it was kind of romantic.” “Romantic?” I whispered. “I mean, his family set him up with an heiress, but he still chose to spend his time making you happy. It’s rare for a guy in his position.” I clenched my fists, my blood turning to ice. “He has a fiancée, and he hid it from me while calling me his girlfriend. That’s not romantic. That’s lying.” Across the table, someone let out a soft sneer. “Look, Caroline doesn’t even mind that you’re around. What is there to fight about?” “Exactly, Maeve. You have to realize they were together first. You’re technically the other woman here. To put it bluntly, you’re the mistress…” The word hung in the air, and the table went silent again. But I could still see the smug, pitying looks on their faces. “Come on, Maeve, don’t overthink it.” I couldn’t hear the rest of their words. When I finally snapped out of it, I was already standing outside the restaurant in the chilly night air. I deleted every single one of those contacts from my phone. The next day was the anniversary of my mother’s passing. I took the day off. I bought a bunch of calla lilies—her favorite—and drove to the cemetery upstate. But when I reached her headstone, a bouquet was already sitting there. Calla lilies. Fresh, with the morning dew still clinging to the petals. There was a card tucked into the wrapping. I opened it. It was signed by Caroline. “To Maeve’s Mother,” “I heard you despised women who ruined families. Rest assured, I will do my best to guide Maeve back to the right path.” My mother had spent her whole life hating the “other woman.” The year my father left us, she had held me in the kitchen, crying silently all through the night. The next morning, she wiped her tears and told me, “Maeve, live your life with dignity. Never lose your spine.” She never forgave my father, not even on her deathbed. And now, someone was using her deepest trauma to humiliate her daughter right at her grave. “Mom,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “I’m not the mistress. They lied to me. For three years, they lied to me.” That night, I confronted Chase. “How did she know where my mother’s grave is?” “I was tied up with work that day,” he said, his voice laced with exhaustion. “She offered to go pay her respects for me.” “You let her go to my mother’s grave? Under what title?” His eyes flashed with a hint of helplessness. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.” “You didn’t think it was a big deal to send your fiancée to my mother’s grave?” “She wrote that she was your fiancée, Chase. How do you think my mother feels looking down on this?” He let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture I knew too well. He only did it when his patience was entirely gone. “Maeve, every conversation we have lately is about her. Can we just drop it?” His tone was heavy, dripping with annoyance. I looked at him, suddenly seeing a complete stranger. I clenched my hands into tight fists, my voice raspy and broken. “I am giving you one last month.” “Either you tell the world about us, or I’m gone.” He saw the redness in my eyes and hesitated before finally nodding. “Okay.” For the next month, he acted like we were back in our honeymoon phase. He would even leave his phone face-up on the counter, saying, “See? Nothing to hide.” Until the afternoon I left work early, wanting to surprise him at his office so we could grab dinner. I saw his car idling by the curb. Caroline was just stepping out of the passenger seat. He reached out, gently wiping away a tear from her cheek, before pulling her into a warm, tender embrace. I stood across the street, watching his hand gently patting her back. When he came home that evening, he brought a bunch of fresh roses. “Work ended early, so I came straight home to be with you.” I didn’t take the flowers. “I went by your office this afternoon. I saw you holding Caroline.” “She was having a rough day,” he said quickly. “I was just comforting her.” “Does comfort require holding her like that?” “Maeve, I am trying my best to sort things out between us.” “You’ve been sorting things out for three years, Chase. Where are the results?” He snapped. He threw the bouquet onto the floor, the petals scattering across the hardwood. “Are you seriously going to pick a fight now? Do you think my life is easy? I’m running myself ragged trying to please everyone! Do you have any idea the pressure I’m under?” “So I’m just supposed to keep waiting?” “You want an answer right now, don’t you?” I nodded slowly. His eyes darkened, his chest heaving. “Fine. You want the truth? I can’t give you what you want.” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Even he seemed stunned by his own words. “Maeve, I didn’t mean it like that…” That night, I moved my things into the guest bedroom. He didn’t try to stop me. Lying in the dark, I remembered the first time he brought me to his apartment three years ago. Back then, I believed that if I just waited long enough, my turn would come. Now I finally understood. Some lines aren’t meant to be waited in. And my name was never on the list. Before my mother died, she left me the keys to her old cottage upstate. It was the only thing she had left me. My ultimate safety net. Three years ago, I had given those keys to Chase, asking him to keep them safe for me. I texted him, asking for them back. It took hours for him to call me. “I did something with them, Maeve. Please don’t be mad.” “What did you do?” “Caroline mentioned she loved the location of the cottage. She wanted to turn it into an art studio. I gave her the keys so she could check it out.” “How dare you give her the keys to my mother’s house?” “She was just looking. If it works for her, she wants to buy it. She’s offering a really high price.” Without another word, I hung up and dialed Caroline. “Give me back my keys.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh over the line. “Why the rush, Maeve? I’m just looking around. Chase said it was just sitting empty anyway, so we might as well put it to use.” “That is my house, not his.” “Well, you gave him the keys. In legal terms, that’s authorization. But don’t worry, I have no real interest in your little shack. Chase and I are actually up here right now. You can come get them yourself.” She hung up. I caught the last regional bus upstate that night. When I arrived at the cottage, the front door was wide open, light spilling out into the dark yard. I walked inside, and my breath caught. The place was a disaster. Walls had been knocked down, floorboards pried open, and the vintage furniture my mother loved was piled haphazardly in the muddy yard. The old botanical prints my mother had framed on the walls were torn in half, hanging limply from the plaster. On the windowsill, the potted gardenia—the one my mother had cherished, the one she begged me to keep alive—lay shattered on the floor, its soil scattered everywhere. I knelt down, picking up the broken shards of clay one by one, my fingers trembling. Caroline stood in the middle of the ruined living room, Chase right beside her. “Why did you wreck my house?” Caroline took a step closer to Chase, leaning into his side. “Oh, Maeve, the place was practically falling apart. Chase and I talked about it, and we decided to help you renovate.” She smiled, her eyes cold. “Besides, is the title even under your name? Your mother passed away, but you haven’t even transferred the deed yet, have you?” She looked down, stepping on a fallen gardenia leaf and grinding it into the dirt. “Your mother’s precious plants are just like you—pretty to look at, but ultimately useless.” A white-hot rage flared in my chest. Before I could even think, I lunged forward and slapped her across the face. She gasped, stumbling back into Chase’s arms, tears instantly welling in her eyes. Seeing this, Chase shoved me away. Hard. I lost my footing, falling backward onto the rough concrete porch outside. My hands scraped against the gravel, blood oozing from my palms. My knees burned as the fabric of my jeans tore. He stood over me, shielding Caroline, his expression icy. “Have you lost your mind?” Caroline sobbed against his shoulder. “Why did you put your hands on her?” Chase snapped, his voice booming. “If you have a problem, take it out on me!” I sat on the cold concrete, looking up at him. The pain in my hands and knees was sharp, making me shiver. But as I watched him stand protectively in front of Caroline, the pain suddenly vanished. I pulled myself up. I gave him one last look, turned around, and walked into the night. I bought a one-way train ticket to a quiet coastal town in South Carolina. As the train pulled out of the station, the sky was just beginning to pale. I leaned my head against the cool glass window and closed my eyes. All I could hear was my mother’s voice, over and over again. “Never love a man who makes you wait.” The next day, when Chase arrived at my apartment, the door was wide open. A cleaning lady was sweeping the floor. He blinked in confusion. “Where is the tenant?” “She moved out. Handed in her keys yesterday.” He stood in the doorway, staring at the empty rooms. On the kitchen island sat a cardboard box. Inside were almost all the gifts he had ever given me. As he reached for it, he noticed a small slip of paper taped to the side. On it, there were only three words: “Congratulations to you.” His fingers gripped the paper, and his hand began to shake.

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My mother was a “butterfly baby.” The slightest touch could tear her skin, leaving painful blisters and weeping sores. To protect her, my father lined our entire house in expensive silk. Nothing sharp was allowed inside. I loved painting, but brushes were banned. I loved music, but violins were forbidden. Every dream I ever had was snuffed out before it could even begin, all because of my mother’s illness. My father always looked at me with that tired, pleading expression. “Your mother is sick, Mia. You have to be patient with her.” But back then, I was only four years old. I remember the day I came home from school. The moment I walked through the door, my mother slapped me across the face. Hard. For no reason at all. Before I could even cry, everyone rushed to her side. My father pointed an accusing finger at my face. “Look what you did to your mother’s hand! Why are you always so selfish?” He slapped my other cheek, then scooped up my mother—whose fingers were already bleeding—and ran out of the house to the hospital. I was thrown against the coffee table. Suddenly, my own skin began to split, weeping blood just like hers. And in that terrifying moment, the doctor’s words from my physical exam the previous year finally clicked: “She carries the genetic markers for EB. It could activate at any time.” My vision began to fade. Blood pooled on the floor around me. … “Mia! What did you do to upset your mother this time?!” My father came rushing down the stairs, catching the tail end of my mother’s hand swinging down to strike me again. He didn’t care about the red, swollen mark burning on my cheek. There was no questioning, no benefit of the doubt—only accusation, disappointment, and pure exhaustion in his eyes. He shoved me aside roughly to get to her. Holding her hand with delicate care, he stared at the tiny tears forming in her fragile skin, his eyes wide with a desperate, all-consuming devotion. Then he turned back to me, his gaze freezing cold. He grabbed a ceramic mug from the counter and hurled it at my feet. It shattered, pieces flying. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he roared. “Do not upset your mother! Does it just go in one ear and out the other?” “Her condition is fragile! Look at her hand—it’s tearing! Is your face made of stone or something?” I lay on the floor, a strange, agonizing pain blooming deep inside my bones. It was a sensation I had never felt before, accompanied by a faint, horrifying crackling sound beneath my skin. I stared at him, my eyes wide with disbelief. I was the one who had just been struck. My mother clung to his chest, her eyes locked onto me. There was a dark, unreadable intensity in her gaze. “She screamed at me the minute she walked in!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “Tom, I don’t want her here! Send her away! Just get her out of my sight!” She dissolved into hysterical screams, hurling venomous words at me. The sheer hatred in her eyes made it feel as though we weren’t mother and daughter at all, but mortal enemies. I lay on the cold floor. Even though she had never given me a single warm look in my entire life, my heart felt like it was physically bleeding. My father looked at her bleeding palms, watching her lose control, and shook his head at me in utter disgust. “I am so disappointed in you, Mia.” But when he looked back down at her, his voice instantly softened into a gentle whisper. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll send her away tonight. I promise you’ll never have to look at her again.” He lifted her gently in his arms and hurried out the door. My grandparents followed close behind, passing by me without casting a single glance in my direction. And my mother, looking over his shoulder at me, seemed to let out a long, quiet sigh of relief. I lay collapsed on the floor, the pain rising like a tidal wave, freezing my limbs. “Dad… Dad…” I reached out a trembling hand toward the empty doorway, my voice barely a cracked whisper. As I raised my arm, I finally realized where that strange, cracking sound was coming from. I watched in horror as the skin on my hand split open, raw and red. Terror surged through my veins. The skin on my back, where I had slammed hard against the floor, was already soaked through with warm, wet blood. The metallic smell of blood filled my nose. I dragged my heavy body toward the front door, crying out with what little strength I had left. “Help… please… someone help me…” Tears spilled over my cheeks, and the moment the salt touched my fragile skin, it split open instantly. I left a thick, smeared trail of red behind me as I crawled. But just a few feet from the door, my body gave up. As I lay there in the quiet, my mind drifted back through the years, playing memories of this house like a broken reel. For as long as I could remember, I knew my mother was different. Not just because of her fragile skin, but because… Other mothers loved their children. Mine hated me. She saw me as a threat, a stain on her perfect world. When I was six, I showed an incredible talent for painting. The dean of a prestigious art academy had even offered to take me on as his personal student. I had run home, clutching the professional brushes he had gifted me, only for my mother to snatch them and throw them to the floor. “What are you trying to do?!” she had screamed, backing away. “Are you trying to kill me? If I die, then everyone will look at you, is that what you want?!” The stiff bristles had grazed her hand, leaving tiny red scratches. I had stood there, frozen in fear, as my father rushed home to bandage her. He looked down at me and sighed. “Mia, your mother can’t have things like this in the house. No more painting. It ends today.” My eyes had filled with tears, but my tears never mattered. And just like that, my talent was buried when I was only six years old. The sudden buzzing of my phone on the table pulled me back from the edge of consciousness. I tried to crawl toward it, but my body felt glued to the floor by my own drying blood. The caller didn’t have much patience. After five short rings, the line went dead. I let my head fall back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. The tears wouldn’t stop. My mind kept drifting. I was ten when a music teacher at an after-school program discovered I had a perfect ear. While other kids struggled to read sheet music, I could recreate any melody after hearing it just once. Desperate for a scrap of approval, I had run to my father. “I want to learn the piano. I know Mom can’t touch anything sharp or heavy, but we can put it in my room, okay?” My father hesitated, looking like he might actually say yes. But then, my mother’s voice shrieked from the top of the stairs. “Absolutely not!” I looked up, terrified by the sheer venom on her face. She stared down at me, suddenly hitting herself, muttering things under her breath that I couldn’t make out. Her fragile skin quickly bruised and split under her own blows, oozing blood. For the second time in my life, I was paralyzed with fear. My father rushed up the stairs, grabbing her wrists to stop her from hurting herself. “Okay, okay! No piano! She won’t learn!” I turned around and caught the faint, triumphant smirk spreading across my mother’s face. My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit. After my father finished bandaging her, I went back to my room. I sat by the window, staring at an old photograph of my mother from before I was born. She looked so different then. Suddenly, the door was kicked open, slamming hard against the wall. My heart leaped into my throat. “Why do you want to learn the piano?” she whispered, her face twisted in a way that made my skin crawl. She grabbed my shoulders, her sharp fingernails digging deep into my skin. The pain was sharp and blinding. “If you play the piano, you think everyone will love you more than me, don’t you?!” At ten years old, I didn’t understand what she meant. I only knew that I loved music, that my shoulders ached, and that I would never be allowed to play. When I didn’t answer, she pulled her hands back, her fingers trembling as if she were trying to hold herself back. “You are not allowed to learn,” she spat. “In this house, I come first. Always. If you don’t like it, you can pack your things and get out. Do you hear me?” I nodded numbly, my knees shaking. She sneered and walked out. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air as the tears finally spilled over. My second dream was dead. The landline answering machine on the wall beeped, snapping me back to the cold reality of the floor. My father’s tired, disappointed voice filled the quiet room. “Mia, I want you to use tonight to think about what you’ve done. Your mother is in the ER. The doctors almost couldn’t save her hand. I’ve told you a thousand times not to upset her, but it’s like you don’t care at all.” “She went through hell giving birth to you, and her condition has only gotten worse because of it. You should be grateful. Instead, you constantly pick fights with her. And screaming at her today? I am truly disappointed in you, Mia.” The machine beeped again, ending the call. I wanted so badly to call him back. I wanted to beg him to come home and look at the girl lying in a pool of her own blood. But I couldn’t move. My eyes grew heavy, the light fading. I breathed slowly, each breath feeling like heavy stones pressing down on my chest. “I didn’t scream at her, Dad. I didn’t do anything… but you never believed me.” A final tear slipped from the corner of my eye. When I was thirteen, my mother did something completely unexpected: she volunteered to attend my parent-teacher conference. But halfway through, as we sat in the classroom, she suddenly snapped. She stood up and began screaming at my teacher. “Did she pay you off? How could a stupid, mediocre girl like her get the third-highest grade in the class?!” “She cheated, didn’t she? I knew it!” She dragged me out of my seat, pulling me into the hallway, and slapped me hard. “You liar! You cheat! I’ll teach you some respect!” Teachers, parents, and students all stared in horror. My teacher tried to intervene, but the second she touched my mother’s arm, she gasped in shock. “Oh my god! Your skin!” My classmates looked at us like we were monsters. Eventually, my father arrived, scooping up my bleeding, exhausted mother to rush her to the hospital. He left me standing there alone in the hallway, forced to endure the whispers and dirty looks of everyone around me. From that day on, I didn’t have a single friend. Wherever I went, the whispers followed. “Look, it’s the freak girl. Where’s your psycho mom? Tell her to show us her melting skin again! Haha!” Teenagers could be incredibly cruel. And so, I became quieter, shrinking into the background, trying to disappear. The memory faded. The ceiling light grew dimmer and dimmer. As the answering machine beeped one last time, my eyes closed, and I slid into the quiet, heavy dark. People always say that there is nothing after death. No soul, no consciousness. Just empty nothingness. But I wanted to scream at them. “You’re wrong. There is a soul.” I was floating in the air, looking down at my own body lying in a pool of blood. I looked so small, so fragile, like a leaf that a strong gust of wind could blow away. It was pathetic. My chest tightened. I tried to drift closer to my body, but a sudden, violent pull yanked my consciousness away. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a hospital room. My mother’s hands were freshly bandaged. She sat on the bed, her head bowed. My father stood by the window, staring at his phone after another unanswered call, his brow furrowed. My grandmother stood nearby. “The girl still isn’t answering?” My father gruted, a strange wave of anxiety washing over him. He moved toward the door, but my grandmother stopped him. “She did the exact same thing in middle school. Running away for attention. She’s so incredibly selfish.” My father paused, nodding slowly as if convincing himself. He stepped back into the room. I watched them, a bitter taste in my mouth. “Dad, I’m never going to answer your calls again. If you knew, would you actually care?” My mother spoke up, her voice eerily calm. “Tom, when are you sending her away?” My father hesitated. “Rose…” “You don’t want to do it, do you?” She sat up straight, her face twisting. “I said get her out of here! I don’t want to see her!” My grandmother and father jumped, rushing to soothe her. “Okay, okay! I’ll arrange it right now. We’ll send her to a school in Chicago, okay? Immediately!” “Calm down, sweetheart. Your bandages are going to tear.” My mother took deep, ragged breaths, her eyes wide and hostile. When I was little, I never understood why she hated me so much. Only as I grew older did I realize she hated how much attention my father and grandparents paid to me. She hated my very existence. In this house, she had to be the only princess. I looked down at my translucent hands. I wanted to scream, “You got what you wanted! I’m gone! Are you happy now?” But no sound came out. The door opened, and the doctor walked in, looking over a clipboard with a grim expression. The mood in the room instantly plummeted. My father stepped forward. “Is everything alright?” “Her immune system is weakening,” the doctor said quietly. “Her skin condition is only going to get more severe. I strongly advise you to avoid any further stress. Every hard surface in your home needs to be padded or replaced.” My father’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I understand.” But that prognosis only solidified his decision to send me away. The moment the doctor left, he called his assistant, Franklin. “Find a boarding school in Chicago. I don’t care how much it costs. Get Mia’s transcripts and transfer papers processed immediately.” He hung up and looked at my quiet mother, gently taking her into his arms. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s going to be okay. I’m sending her away. You’ll never have to see her again.” My mother blinked, giving a faint, quiet nod. A cold, familiar ache spread through my chest. “You won’t have to fight for his love anymore, Mom. You won. I’m out of your way.” That night, my grandparents stayed in the adjoining room. My father turned off the main lights and sat beside my mother’s bed. The only light in the dark room came from the pale glow of his phone. I had tried to leave the hospital, but every time I got more than thirty feet away from them, an invisible force snapped me back. I sighed, letting out a dry, hollow laugh. If my mother knew my ghost was haunting them, she would probably hate me even more. My father stared at the screen, looking at the list of missed calls to my number. A sudden, irrational panic seemed to grip him. He opened our chat history. [Mia, your mother’s condition is getting worse. I’ve decided to send you to a boarding school in Chicago. Pack your bags tonight. Franklin will pick you up first thing in the morning.] [Try to be mature about this.] I stood beside him, my throat tight. “Be mature.” I had heard those words my entire life. To my father, my mother was the center of the universe. Even if he found out I was dead, he would probably just sigh and move on. Maybe he’d even be relieved that the source of his wife’s misery was finally gone. My father stared at the phone. Five minutes passed, and when there was still no reply, he let out a frustrated breath. His brow furrowed. Growing increasingly uneasy, he dialed Franklin again. “Go to the house now. Check on…” Before he could finish the sentence, my mother sat up in bed, gasping in terror. Startled, my father accidentally hit the end call button. On the other end, Franklin looked at his phone, confused by the abrupt disconnect, assuming his boss had dialed by mistake. “Mia!” my mother shrieked, her eyes wild with panic. My father quickly turned on the lamp, pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Mia is gone. I sent her away.” My mother slowly calmed down. “Don’t let her come back. I don’t want to see her.” “I won’t,” my father promised. “I won’t let her set foot in New York again.” I looked down, my translucent body curling in on itself. For seventeen years, my father had believed everything she said without question. When I was four, she claimed I had tried to poke her with a cake fork. From then on, I was never allowed to have a birthday party. When I was eight, she complained that my hair was too thick and coarse and might scratch her. My father cut my hair into a boy’s buzz cut and never let me grow it out. The memories flashed through my mind, cold and biting. The next morning, my father returned to the room with her prescription medication. Just as he pushed the door open, his phone rang. Seeing Franklin’s name on the screen, he frowned. “Franklin? Did you pick up Mia? Once she’s settled in Chicago, I want you to…” “Sir!” Franklin’s voice was shaking, high and terrified. My father’s heart skipped a beat. His grip on the phone tightened. “What is it?” “You… you need to come home right now,” Franklin choked out, his voice cracking with horror. “Mia… she’s dead. She’s dead on the living room floor.”

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It’s been two years since the divorce, and my six-year-old daughter and I are doing just fine. But when my ex-wife saw me with another woman at the mall, her face twisted in an instant. Before I could even open my mouth, Zoe set down her ice cream cone and let out a soft sigh. “Mom, when you walked out on Daddy and me, you didn’t seem to care this much.” The entire floor went dead silent. Everyone turned to look. My daughter is the real force to be reckoned with in this family. 1 My name is Ryan. I’m thirty-two, a mid-level manager at a tech firm, and I’ve been raising my six-year-old daughter, Zoe, on my own. Two years. That’s how long it’s been since the divorce. Life isn’t great, but it isn’t terrible either. It just is. The only real change is that I’ve learned how to tie hair into pigtails. Even if they’re always crooked. It was the weekend, and a friend had set me up with Claire. She’s an editor at a publishing house polished, kind-eyed, with a voice like warm honey. This was our second date. Our first date had gone well, but I hadn’t mentioned Zoe yet. Today, I had no choice. Zoe’s weekend art class was canceled, my parents were busy, and I had to bring her along. I’d braced myself for an incredibly awkward afternoon. Instead, the moment we met outside the mall, Zoe took Claire’s hand as if they’d known each other forever. “Claire, do you like strawberry ice cream or mango?” Claire crouched down, her eyes crinkling into warm crescents. “I love strawberry. What about you, Zoe?” “Me too!” Ten minutes later, they were walking hand-in-hand through the kids’ clothing section, each holding a strawberry cone. I was relegated to the back, carrying the bags. A glorified pack mule. But honestly, watching Zoe hold Claire’s hand so naturally made something tight in my chest finally loosen. Ever since Lauren left, Zoe had refused to get close to any woman. If her kindergarten teacher stepped a little too close, Zoe would take a subtle step back. This was a first. Zoe dragged Claire into a boutique to try on a floral dress. Claire helped her find the right size, their voices mingling in happy, quiet chatter. I leaned against the storefront, scrolling through my phone, thinking about how smoothly things were going “Ryan?” A voice called out from behind me. Every hair on my arms stood on end. Not out of fear. Out of pure, chilling familiarity. That voice used to wake me up, call me to dinner, and tell me I was ruining her life. I turned around. Lauren was standing three paces away. Her makeup was flawless, wearing a designer dress, the gold chain of her Chanel bag gleaming under the mall’s bright lights. She looked better than she had when we divorced. Sleeker. More expensive. Her gaze swept from my face, down to the shopping bags in my hands, and finally toward the boutique. Then, she froze. She saw Claire. Claire was kneeling on the floor, tying the bow on the back of Zoe’s new dress. They were laughing together. Lauren’s mouth tightened into a hard, flat line. “Who is she?” her voice hissed. I took a slow breath. “Lauren. What are you doing here?” “I asked you a question. Who is she?” Lauren’s voice rose, drawing a glance from a passing couple. “A friend,” I said, keeping my voice as level as possible. “A friend?” Lauren let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Unbelievable, Ryan. We get divorced, and suddenly you’re playing the field ” “Lauren,” I cut her off. “We’ve been divorced for two years.” “I don’t care if it’s been ten! Zoe is still my daughter! And you have some random woman playing house with her ” Her voice was getting louder. If she didn’t calm down, we were going to be the main attraction for the entire floor. I was trying to figure out how to pull her aside when a small voice drifted out from the store. “Mom?” Lauren and I both went rigid. Zoe stood at the entrance of the boutique, wearing the floral dress she’d just tried on. A six-year-old girl with crooked pigtails my morning’s clumsy work clutching a half-eaten ice cream cone. She tilted her head, looking at Lauren. She didn’t look surprised, and she didn’t look scared. Just incredibly calm. Lauren’s demeanor shifted instantly. She bent down, her voice dropping into a sweet, melodic coo. “Oh, sweetie… Mommy’s here ” She reached out to stroke Zoe’s hair. Zoe took a half-step back. “Mom, why are you here?” Lauren’s hand hovered in the empty air. Zoe blinked. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want Daddy and me anymore?” My breath caught. The air around us seemed to freeze. A young couple browsing nearby stopped mid-sentence. The cashier behind the boutique counter peered over. Even a guy waiting in line at the coffee shop next door turned around. Lauren’s face flushed red, then drained to a ghostly white. “Zoe, sweetie, that’s not Mommy was just ” “But that’s what you said when you left,” Zoe said, her voice perfectly clear, carrying easily to everyone within a ten-foot radius. “You dragged that big suitcase out the door, and you told Daddy, ‘I can’t spend another day in this house. You keep the kid.’” Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. It was so quiet I could hear the whir of the blender from the coffee shop next door. Lauren’s lips trembled, but no words came out. Zoe turned back to look at Claire inside the shop and waved her over. “Claire, can you come out for a second?” Claire walked out, looking utterly lost and uncomfortable. Zoe took Claire’s hand, looking back at Lauren. “Don’t worry, Mom. Claire is really nice to me. She even helped me pick out this dress.” Inside, my mind was racing. “Zoe, are you trying to put out the fire or throw gasoline on it?” Lauren’s composure shattered completely. The whispers started. The looks from bystanders felt like tiny needles. “Can you believe her? Abandons her kid and then gets mad when the ex moves on…” someone murmured nearby. Lauren gripped the strap of her purse so hard her knuckles turned white. She glared at me, then spun on her heel and walked away. The sharp click of her heels on the marble floor was fast and frantic. A hasty retreat. I stood there, unable to move. Claire looked at me, then at Zoe, and whispered tentatively, “Was that…?” “My ex-wife,” I said. Claire’s mouth parted slightly. She looked like she had just swallowed something incredibly bitter. Zoe tugged on Claire’s hand, steering her forward. “Come on, Claire. I still want to get those white sneakers.” Claire let herself be pulled away. I stood behind them, watching my daughter skip down the hallway. Six. She was only six years old. She had just completely dismantled her mother in public, and now she was calmly shopping for shoes. I took three deep breaths. “Did this kid work as a prosecutor in her past life?” 2 The next afternoon, I was in the kitchen making lunch. Zoe was in the living room watching cartoons, the volume turned up high enough that the house echoed with the Paw Patrol theme song. I was cracking an egg into some ramen when the doorbell rang. I went to open it. Lauren stood on the porch. No makeup today. She was wearing a casual gray hoodie, her hair thrown into a messy ponytail. She looked like a completely different person from the high-maintenance woman at the mall yesterday. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I came to see Zoe.” My instinct was to close the door. But she was here to see our daughter, and I couldn’t bar her from doing that. Lauren kicked off her sneakers and walked in, sitting on the living room sofa. Zoe glanced over from the TV. “Hi, Mom.” “Hi, sweetie ” “You’re back again today,” Zoe said, putting a heavy emphasis on “again”. Lauren’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Mommy missed you.” “Oh.” Zoe turned back to her cartoons. Lauren sat on the sofa, her eyes scanning the room, before settling on her real target. “Ryan, come here. We need to talk.” I turned off the stove and walked into the living room. “That woman yesterday ” “Claire.” “Fine, Claire,” Lauren said, crossing her arms. “How long have you been seeing her?” “None of your business.” “How is it not my business? Zoe is calling her ‘Claire’ like they’re best friends you’re letting our daughter hang out with a stranger?” “Lauren,” I said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “We are divorced. Who I see is my choice.” “Can you think about our daughter for once? Zoe is only six, and you’re parading all these women in front of her ” “All these women? There’s only been Claire.” “Even one is too many!” She stood up, her voice rising. “Ryan, listen to me. I don’t care who you see, but you will not mess up Zoe ” I opened my mouth to shoot back. But someone beat me to it. “Mom.” Zoe had muted the TV. She was holding a bowl of instant ramen I hadn’t even finished cooking, and she’d already raided the pantry. “Are you really here to see me?” Lauren’s voice instantly softened into maternal sweetness. “Of course, sweetie. Mommy missed you so much ” “When was the last time you came to see me?” Zoe asked, tilting her head. “I don’t really remember. Daddy, when was the last time Mom visited?” Me: “…About six months ago.” “Oh,” Zoe said. Her tone was entirely flat. Like she was just confirming the answer to a math problem. A crack appeared in Lauren’s polished facade. “Sweetie, Mommy has been so busy with work ” “Daddy is busy too,” Zoe said, slurping a noodle. “But Daddy picks me up from school every single day. Even when it rains, even when it’s windy. One time he had a fever of 101, and he still came.” She said it casually, like she was telling a story about someone else. But every word was a direct hit. Lauren couldn’t hold it together anymore. Her eyes welled with tears. “Zoe, Mommy knows she hasn’t been perfect ” “Mom, don’t cry.” Zoe set her bowl down, pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table, and handed it to her. “I’m not mad at you.” She paused. “But you shouldn’t be mad at Daddy for dating, either.” There it was. The double-tap. My daughter’s verbal hits always came in pairs. “Daddy needs someone to keep him company too,” Zoe said in a highly reasonable, matter-of-fact tone. “After you left, Daddy had to work and take care of me all by himself. Why shouldn’t he have someone to help him?” Lauren’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Like a goldfish. I leaned against the doorframe, my mind blank except for one recurring thought: “My daughter is six. Six.” Her logical reasoning was tighter than any product manager I’d ever worked with. Lauren sat there for a few more minutes, silent. Finally, she got up, grabbed her purse, and left. Her exit today was much slower than yesterday’s. Without her high heels, her footsteps were quiet, as if the energy had been entirely drained from her body. The door clicked shut. I looked at Zoe. Zoe curled back up on the sofa and picked up her ramen bowl. “Daddy, the noodles sat too long. They’re soggy.” “…When did you learn how to make instant ramen?” “Last winter, when you had to work late until eleven.” My chest tightened with a sudden, sharp ache. But Zoe didn’t give me time to wallow. “Daddy, do you want to add an egg? There are three left in the fridge.” “…Sure.” “Go cook it then. I’m almost done with this bowl.” As I turned back into the kitchen, I wondered. “Was this kid a debate champion in a past life?” No, even debate champions weren’t this devastating. “Maybe she was a cognitive behavioral therapist.” 3 Lauren stayed quiet for a couple of days. I thought she had finally accepted reality. Then my mother called. “Ryan, what on earth are you doing?” I almost fell out of my office chair. “Mom, what are you talking about?” “Lauren called me. She said you’re seeing some loose, sketchy woman and dragging Zoe around her ” “Loose and sketchy?!” Claire graduated from NYU, had a stable, respectable job at a publishing house, and was about as wholesome as they come. “Mom, let me explain ” “Don’t bother. I’m coming over this afternoon.” She hung up. I stared at the black screen of my phone. Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You brought in backup, but you forgot who my mother is. My mother is a woman of logic. She stands with whoever has the stronger argument. But right now, she’d only heard Lauren’s side, so naturally, she thought her son was being an idiot. At three in the afternoon, my mother arrived carrying a bag of fresh peaches. Lauren was right behind her. The moment she walked in, my mother gave me the classic “I’m-so-disappointed-in-you” look. “Ryan, sit down.” I sat. Lauren sat too, her expression a picture of pure, victimized innocence. “Mom, look at him. It’s only been two years ” My mother sighed. “Ryan, you and Lauren shared a life for years ” “Grandma!” A little pink blur burst out of the bedroom. Zoe launched herself into my mother’s arms like a heat-seeking missile. My mother caught her, her stern face instantly melting into a bright smile. “Oh, my sweet Zoe ” Zoe snuggled against her chest, then looked up at Lauren, and then back at my mother. “Grandma, did you come to help Mom yell at Daddy?” My mother was caught off guard. “Uh… Grandma just came to check on things ” “Mom didn’t want Daddy anymore, and now Daddy wants to find someone to help take care of me,” Zoe said, her voice sounding like she was reciting a textbook. “Is that a bad thing?” My mother’s mouth twitched. Before she could answer, Zoe launched her second missile. “Grandma, didn’t you always say Daddy should find someone new? Last month you even tried to set him up with Mrs. Gable from next door.”

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The childhood friend I grew up with is the final boss of this survival horror game. And he just fell in love with a female player. He spends his days parading her in front of me, his voice practically dripping with pride. “Kendra is brilliant,” he’d say. “She actually beat me at chess. Not like you, Hazel. You’re so slow you can’t even grasp the basic rules.” “Kendra is striking. She’s a creature of ice and glass. Not like you, always sick. Always breaking.” I have this strange, incurable affliction. A glitch in my code, perhaps. When the flare-ups happen, the only thing that stabilizes my core temperature is Valerian’s embrace. He never explicitly refused me, but the deep furrow between his brows always betrayed his annoyance. “Next time you have an episode, figure it out yourself,” he told me yesterday, his tone clipped. “I have someone I care about now. It’s not appropriate for me to be your medicine anymore.” I just nodded and said okay. When the next attack hit, I bit my lip until it bled, refusing to seek him out. Right before I blacked out, I collapsed into a pair of arms. It wasn’t Valerian. It was his older brother. Later, Valerian cornered me against a wall, his voice rough and tight as he demanded to know why I hadn’t come to him for the pain. I looked up at him, a genuine smile reaching the corners of my eyes. “No need to bother you anymore,” I said softly. “I found a new cure.” 01 Valerian is the apex predator of “The Abyss”, the game’s most notorious boss. Because of his devastatingly handsome face and lean, sculpted build, female players constantly enter his dungeon just to catch a glimpse of him. When he draws his bow, the sheer lethal grace of the movement is so mesmerizing that some players forget to run. They just stare, wide-eyed, right until the arrow pierces their chest. But Valerian is utterly devoid of romance. One loose string, one lost life. That’s his rule. Everyone in the forums agreed that his heart was made of obsidian. He would never look twice at anyone. Until now. A player named Kendra logged in. She didn’t fawn over him or play the helpless maiden like the girls before her. She kept her chin high, her expression glacial, and challenged him directly. She announced, in front of the entire server, that if Valerian lost to her three times, he would have to marry her. And if she lost? The girl offered a chilling, beautiful smile. “If I lose, my head is yours.” Standing under the blooming canopy of the digital cherry blossoms, she radiated pure, unadulterated pride. Valerian slowly lowered his crossbow. For the first time in the history of the game, he didn’t immediately kill an intruder. Instead, a spark of dark amusement flickered in his eyes, and he murmured, “Deal.” 02 I happened to be walking by when this cinematic moment occurred. I was carrying a woven basket on my back, my face ghostly pale as I drifted like a specter toward the Verdant Slopes to forage for herbs. Valerian stepped into my path, blocking my way. “Hazel,” he said smoothly. “Stay and be our witness. Let’s see how many rounds she survives.” I shook my head, shifting the strap of my basket. “I can’t. I need to gather medicine.” Valerian’s eyelids fluttered lazily. He smiled, a soft, dangerous curve of his lips. “If you refuse, I won’t help you the next time your illness flares up.” I froze. My condition is terrifying. When it hits, it feels like my blood turns to liquid nitrogen, followed by the sensation of being roasted alive from the inside out. For years, I’ve harvested herbs, brewing countless bitter concoctions, but nothing cures it. The only thing that eases the agony is the ambient aura of Valerian’s embrace. Terrified that he would actually leave me to burn and freeze, I nodded frantically. “Okay, okay. I’ll be your witness.” The female player shot me a sideways glance. Her scrutinizing eyes darted between Valerian and me. She let out a scoff. “I heard the Phantom Archer had a clingy little sidekick. A childhood friend who sticks to him like glue and refuses to take a hint,” she sneered. “That’s you, isn’t it?” I shook my head, my face entirely serious. “You have the wrong person. I’m way too busy trying not to die from my illness to follow him around.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Right. Sure you are.” If she didn’t believe me, that was fine. I didn’t have the energy to argue. 03 If she had said that six months ago, she would have been right. I was incredibly attached to Valerian back then. In the lore of this world, he is an ancient Forest Guardian. I am a flora-born sprite, materialized from a medicinal root. He used to be kind to me. Whenever I had an episode, he would hold me. Breathing in the crisp, pine-and-rainwater scent of him would anchor my fraying mind, and the agonizing pain would slowly melt away. In my naive, sheltered way, I fell for him. I gathered every ounce of my courage and confessed my feelings to him. Three times. And three times, I was met with cold rejection. The first time, he frowned, looking almost pitying. “Hazel, don’t be ridiculous. You’re like a little sister to me.” The second time, his tone turned mocking. “If I were to choose a partner, she would have to be sharp, brilliant. Why would I ever choose you?” The third time, he just looked exasperated. “Do you still not get it? You are inadequate in every single way. We simply don’t match.” When someone spells it out for you that clearly, you’d have to be a fool not to understand. Especially when he looked at me, and I could see the unfiltered disdain in his eyes. My heart felt like it had been soaked in acid, but I forced my lips into a smile. “Okay. I won’t bring it up again.” From that day on, I stopped following him. I locked myself in the apothecary, burying my nose in medical compendiums, praying for the day I could cure myself and never have to rely on him again. Over the past six months, I’ve only seen him twice. Both times were emergencies when the pain pushed me to the brink of blacking out. Before he stopped me today, I hadn’t laid eyes on him in three months. So… a clingy little sidekick? I absolutely reject the label. 04 Their first trial was chess. By dusk, the paper lanterns of the parlor glowed amber, illuminating the elegant bamboo silhouettes against the windowpanes. The devastatingly handsome Boss and the icy female player sat opposite each other. The room was cloaked in silence, broken only by the sharp, decisive “clack” of pieces hitting the board. I know nothing about chess. So I just stood there like an idiot, the heavy basket digging into my shoulders, pouring their tea and keeping the incense lit. Bored out of my mind, I activated my HUD and watched the golden text of Kendra’s livestream chat scroll across my vision: [Ugh, the sidekick is so pathetic. She’s literally a prop in their flirtation.] [Why feel sorry for her? Anyone who plays this game knows she’s obsessed with the Phantom Archer.] [Exactly! She’s so annoying. Like gum on the bottom of a shoe.] [Hey, that’s not fair. Valerian literally forced her to stay. She tried to leave.] [Oh, please. She only played hard to get so he’d insist. It’s pathetic. Not like our girl Kendra, putting her life on the line for love!] I blinked. The sidekick… they meant me. I quickly realized these were Kendra’s fans streaming into the server chat. “Checkmate.” Kendra’s clear, ringing voice shattered the quiet. She smiled triumphantly at Valerian. “Tell me, what’s our next game?” The chat exploded. [AHHH! KENDRA IS A QUEEN!] [As expected from a national chess runner-up! Genius!] [Look at Valerian’s face. He’s looking at her with actual respect. Omg, the softness in his eyes!] [He is totally falling for her!] I glanced at Valerian. It was true. The corner of his mouth was lifted in a rare, genuine smile. “Excellent strategy,” he praised. “As for the next round… the choice is yours again.” The chat lost its collective mind. [He’s smiling so softly! I’m screaming!] [He let her pick the first round, knowing she’s a chess master. Now he’s letting her pick the second? If this isn’t him throwing the game for love, what is?] [He’s completely whipped!] They had a point. Valerian hated my slowness. He explicitly said he liked brilliant women. Kendra was exactly his type. I pressed a hand against my chest. A thin, papery ache fluttered somewhere behind my ribs. But thankfully, the pain was like morning mist—thin, fleeting, and incapable of blinding me. Over the past six months, my feelings for him really had faded. I felt a profound sense of relief. Kendra tapped her chin, pretending to think deeply before saying, “I want to challenge you in archery.” The choice sent a shockwave through the room. The chat paused, then erupted in chaotic praise: [She’s so brave! Literally everyone knows Valerian’s AI is programmed for flawless marksmanship!] [Wait, does Kendra even know how to shoot?] [If she doesn’t, why would she pick it? What is she thinking?] Valerian began gathering the chess pieces, dropping them into the wooden box. Hearing her choice, his hands paused. He raised an eyebrow, his lazy arrogance returning. “Are you sure?” The girl stared boldly into his eyes. The evening breeze caught her hair, making her look effortlessly ethereal. She smiled, sweet and daring. “I picked your absolute best skill. You’ll go easy on me, won’t you?” She had a beautiful smile. The chat was frantic: [Omg, she knows exactly what she’s doing!] [I get it now. Her main skill is swordplay, but even with a sword, she might not beat his Boss stats. If she goes too hard, his aggro will trigger. But archery? She’s showing him her vulnerability. She’s throwing herself at his mercy, betting that he’s already too soft on her to kill her.] [Holy shit, Kendra is a mastermind. She’s literally betting her life on his feelings for her!] But what if Valerian didn’t feel merciful? I stared at her, dumbfounded. Betting your actual life on a man’s momentary affection? I thought she was a genius. Turns out, she was an even bigger idiot than I was. 05 When I finally stepped outside, a fine, misty rain was falling, immediately dampening my clothes. A young man in a violet tunic stepped around the corner, holding an oiled paper umbrella. When he saw me, his eyes widened slightly before he jogged over. “What a coincidence, Hazel. Your constitution is delicate, and this rain won’t help. I happen to have an extra umbrella. Why don’t you borrow it?” I looked up at him. A faint blush crept up his neck. Before I could answer, Valerian strolled out of the parlor, seamlessly inserting himself between us. He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “A coincidence? Or did you stalk her here and wait in the damp for two hours?” Valerian sneered. “Just happened to have an extra umbrella? Or did you see the clouds and run to the market specifically to buy one?” The boy in violet froze, his blush turning into a fiery, mortified crimson. He stammered, unable to form a word. Valerian’s voice dripped with condescension. “If you’re going to court her, at least do your research. She’s flora-born. She thrives in the rain. And you offer her an umbrella?” The sheer cruelty in his tone made the young man look as though he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. But Valerian wasn’t finished. “How much does a cheap paper umbrella cost? And notice he didn’t say “give”, he said “borrow”. That way, you have to meet him again to return it. My Hazel might be too thick to see through your desperate little tactics, but do you really think I don’t?” The air went dead. The wind stopped. Even the ambient noise of the game seemed to mute itself. The boy in violet turned on his heel, looking like he was about to flee. “Wait!” I called out. I recognized him. His name was Ash. I was always bumping into him in the most unexpected places. Over the past year, he had offered me countless gifts: a glowing koi lantern, a swallow kite, an expensive inkstone, a jade hairpin… I had never accepted a single one. But today, I curved my lips into a warm smile and reached out my hand. “The medicine I’ve been taking lately reacts terribly to the cold damp. Your timing is absolutely perfect. Thank you, Ash.” The boy stared at me, dumbstruck, before stuttering out, “Y-you’re welcome.” Valerian’s face darkened like a thundercloud. He spun around and stormed off without a word. I didn’t chase him. I wasn’t trying to make him angry, and I wasn’t lying, either. My current prescription strictly forbade me from getting chilled. It had been so long since Valerian bothered to check on me; he knew absolutely nothing about my current state. 06 The archery match took place the next morning. This was Valerian’s domain. He never missed. Even if he fired blindfolded, his stats would crush Kendra’s. Mounted on his white stallion, the lazy arrogance was gone. He looked lethal. Alive. He drew the bowstring back, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto the target. Three arrows rested on the string. When he let go, all three would fly simultaneously. If they all hit the bullseye, Kendra would lose her life. Kendra stared up at him, her lips pressed into a tight, trembling line. The pride from yesterday was gone, replaced by a gaze brimming with raw, desperate pleading. The live chat was a mess of anxiety: [Oh god, putting your life in someone else’s hands is so stupid.] [Shut up! She’s fighting for love! You wouldn’t understand!] [I’m literally shaking. Is she going to get a Game Over right here?] “Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!” The arrows tore through the air. Under the terrified gaze of the entire server, two arrows buried themselves dead center in the bullseye. But the third arrow didn’t even clip the edge of the wood. It sailed wildly into the dirt. He missed. Kendra’s face erupted in joyous relief. Tears spilled over her lashes as she sprinted toward Valerian’s horse, playfully slapping his thigh. “I knew it! I knew you couldn’t bear to kill me!” Valerian offered a lazy, indulgent smile. But his eyes slid right past her, locking onto me across the field. It was a heavy, loaded look. I didn’t know what he wanted. Probably just to show off. The great, untouchable Boss had finally found a girl worthy of his mercy. The chat was celebrating: [WHAT?! THE SYSTEM’S BEST ARCHER MISSED?!] [Lmao, as if Valerian could ever miss by accident. He threw the match!] [He couldn’t do it! He loves her too much!] [So sweet!!] [Look at his childhood friend though. Her face is completely gray. She looks like she’s going to pass out.] [She’s probably choking on her own jealousy. Imagine pining for a guy for centuries only for Kendra to steal him in a week. Sucks to be her.] I “was” going to pass out. But it wasn’t from jealousy. My fingers and toes were turning to ice, while a blazing inferno ignited in my stomach. The affliction was back. 07 I didn’t have the energy to watch their soap opera anymore. I turned and bolted from the training grounds, running blindly toward my apothecary. The summer heat was suffocating. Cicadas screamed in the trees, and black spots danced across my vision. I heard hoofbeats behind me. “Get on the horse,” Valerian commanded. He reached down to pull me up. I flinched and stepped back. Instead of getting angry, he laughed. “What’s wrong? You look terrible. Did seeing me with her upset you?” I didn’t have the breath to reply. I just kept walking. He kept the horse at a slow walk beside me, his voice oozing with smug satisfaction. “Kendra really is a brilliant girl. She suits me perfectly.” “Her mind is sharp. She actually beat me at chess. Not like you, Hazel. You can’t even follow the rules.” “She is striking. A creature of ice. Not like you, always so fragile, always breaking…” His voice droned on, making the ringing in my ears worse. The weakness in my limbs was profound. Cold sweat beaded across my forehead. His voice seemed to drift in from a great distance. “But I’ve thought about it. Even though you don’t compare to her, in my heart, you…” “Congratulations!” I interrupted, my voice cracking. “What did you say?” His tone shifted sharply. I stopped walking and forced myself to look at him, my vision swimming. “I said, congratulations! After all this time, you finally found the one! I wish you both a century of happiness, perfect harmony, and a house full of kids!” Valerian’s eyes darkened instantly. “Do you actually mean that?” I nodded, clutching my chest. “Every word.” He let out a cold, sharp laugh. For some reason, it sounded almost bitter. “Good. Excellent. She and I will be very happy together…” The world tilted. The ice and fire collided inside me, ripping a silent scream from my throat. I couldn’t form another syllable. Through the haze, I felt Valerian leap from his horse. His arms wrapped tightly around me, his voice suddenly laced with raw panic. “Hazel? What’s happening? Is it the illness?!”

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The company sent me to secure a three-hundred-million-dollar investment deal. Our finance director quietly downgraded my first-class roomette to an unreserved coach ticket. I didn’t say a word. I spent twenty-two hours standing in the rattling vestibules and sitting on the floor of the lounge car. When I finally stood before the foreign investors, I was a crumpled, exhausted mess. The look in their eyes told me everything. To them, I was a joke. At the post-trip board meeting, the Chairman paced the room, radiating unearned confidence. “So, what did the Germans say? Did we sign?” I calmly reached into my jacket, pulled out that battered, overnight coach ticket, and slid it across the mahogany table. “They said if a company is too cheap to treat its lead negotiator like a human being, they’d have to be insane to trust them with three hundred million dollars.” The room went dead silent. 01 The conference room’s air conditioning was cranked to its absolute limit, sending a sharp chill across my bare arms. At the head of the long table sat Charles Henderson. Despite his age, he carried himself with the theatrical energy of a man who believed his own myth. “Three billion dollars, everyone. Three billion!” He slammed his palm onto the wood, making the ceramic coffee mugs rattle. “Dieter Hoffmann is flying in from Germany. His first stop in the States is our office. Whichever department lands this new energy battery project will be written into this company’s history books.” Every eye in the room shifted to me. My name is Luke Barlow. I am the head of product development, and I have lived and breathed this project for three years. It started as a scribbled note on a napkin, evolved through countless sleepless nights of feasibility testing, and finally became a reality when I managed to get a response from Hoffmann’s personal assistant. Charles looked at me, his eyes gleaming with calculated expectation. “Luke, get your materials together. You’re heading to New York the day after tomorrow.” “I’ll be ready, Charles,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “We need this win, Luke. No excuses.” “Understood.” The double doors of the conference room swung open, and Courtney, our Chief Financial Officer, sauntered in. The sharp, cloying scent of her designer perfume hit the room before she did. She was Charles’s niece, a high-society transplant who had been parachuted into the executive suite. She dropped a leather-bound folder in front of Charles, offering him a sweet, practiced smile. “Uncle Charles, I’ve personally reviewed the travel requisitions for the trip. Everything is locked in.” Charles nodded warmly, signing the papers without a second glance. As Courtney walked past my chair, her pace slowed. She spoke just loudly enough for the surrounding directors to hear. “Luke is practically carrying this entire firm on his back. A three-billion-dollar deal—must be nice to fly around on the company dime. Unlike those of us in accounting, who have to stress over every single line item. I guess we just don’t have that big-picture vision.” I kept my eyes on my tablet and ignored her. After the meeting adjourned, I went down to the finance department to collect my travel packet. Courtney sat at her desk, admiring her freshly manicured red nails. She reached into a stack of envelopes, pinched a thin slip of paper between two fingers, and slid it toward me. “Have a safe trip, Luke,” she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence. I picked up the ticket. My chest tightened as I read the print. I had requested a standard business-class ticket. What I held in my hand was an unreserved, multi-stop coach ticket on an overnight train. Travel time: twenty-two hours. Seat assignment: “None. Standby status.” My hands didn’t shake. I kept my face entirely blank. Amy, a young admin assistant who had just walked into the office, glanced at the paper in my hand and gasped. “Oh my god, Luke. Why is that a standby coach ticket? I personally approved your roomette request! Let me go talk to her—” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. I folded the thin slip of paper with meticulous care, slid it into the interior pocket of my suit jacket, and pressed it flat against my chest. Turning to the bewildered staff behind me, I offered a polite nod. “We have a lot of data to compile before the morning. I’ll be in my office.” I could feel Courtney’s smug, triumphant gaze burning into my back. She probably expected me to storm into Charles’s office, or make a scene in the hallway. She thought this was her victory lap. I lightly pressed the pocket over my heart. The sharp edge of the folded paper bit into my skin. No. This was just the beginning. I locked my office door. There was no anger, no theatrical pacing. I opened my laptop and began organizing three years’ worth of proprietary schematics, client emails, and confidential meeting minutes. I encrypted every file, sorted them into clean directories, and initiated a dual backup. One copy went onto my encrypted external drive. The other was uploaded to a secure, anonymous cloud server. Once the progress bars hit one hundred percent, I drafted a brief email to Dieter Hoffmann’s executive assistant. “Dear Linda,” “Due to a minor, unforeseen logistical adjustment, I may not present myself in the most pristine physical state when I meet with Mr. Hoffmann tomorrow. However, I assure you that my mind and our project blueprints remain flawless.” “I look forward to our meeting.” I didn’t offer details. I didn’t complain. When dealing with a high-caliber investor like Hoffmann, complainers look weak. I wanted him to see the reality for himself. Next, I packed my bag. One spare, freshly pressed charcoal suit. Two white shirts. A high-capacity power bank. A small vial of peppermint oil to keep me awake. I was going to survive these twenty-two hours, and I was going to do it on my feet. Outside my window, the Chicago skyline began to dim, replaced by the cold, neon glow of office buildings—a massive, silent grid. I stood there, looking down at the crawling headlights of the city. Charles had once been my mentor. He was the one who pulled me out of the entry-level bullpen because he liked my focus. But somewhere along the line, that focus had become a threat, and a sycophantic smile from his niece had become more valuable than three years of my life. My phone buzzed. It was Greg, another vice president who had spent the last two years trying to undermine my department. “Luke! Just wanted to wish you luck. Courtney mentioned she cleared your travel. We’re all rooting for you back here. Don’t drop the ball!” The malice in his tone was thinly veiled. “Don’t worry, Greg,” I said softly. “The ball won’t be dropped on my end.” I hung up, pulled the blinds shut, and let the darkness take over the room. Through the fabric of my jacket, I could still feel the outline of that train ticket. It felt like ice. And like fire. 02 Union Station was a chaotic, churning sea of humanity. Clutching my single roller bag, I merged into the crowd pushing toward the boarding gates. When the light flashed green, the crowd surged forward like water breaching a dam. On an overnight train, the vestibules between the cars are always the worst. They smell of cheap microwave meals, industrial disinfectant, and the damp, stale sweat of travelers who have been running for too long. That was where I spent my night. To my left was a cold, stainless-steel waste bin; to my right, the heavy door of a shared restroom that slammed open and shut every few minutes. At one point, a passenger rushing to the restroom slammed his elbow hard into my lower back. He mumbled a half-hearted apology without stopping. I simply shook my head, braced my shoulder against the vibrating steel wall of the train car, and held my ground. As the train jolted into motion, the carriage swayed violently. I grabbed a handrail to keep from falling. A standby ticket meant that for the next twenty-two hours, I had no right to a single square foot of personal space. I pulled out my phone. The screen illuminated the dark, cramped corner of the vestibule. Greg had posted a photo in the company group chat. It was a picture of his team laughing over expensive dry-aged steaks. The caption read: “Sending positive vibes to Luke in the field! We’ve got the home front covered!” Courtney had liked it. Charles had liked it too. I locked my phone and slid it away. The dim overhead lights of the train cast a sickly, yellow glow over the passengers. A young mother nearby was trying to soothe a crying infant, her forehead glistening with sweat. A construction worker in muddy boots leaned heavily against the exit doors, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in a restless sleep. Looking at them, I saw myself. We were all just people trying to survive a system that didn’t care if we made it to the next stop. The only difference was that they had no choice, whereas I had been put here by design. My knees began to throb, a dull ache spreading down my calves. I opened my laptop, balanced it against the vibrating metal wall, and began reviewing my presentation slides one last time. Every metric, every projection, had to be bulletproof. Passersby stared at me—a man in a tailored suit, working on a high-end laptop in a smelly train vestibule. The absurdity of the image wasn’t lost on me. By 3:00 AM, the train was quiet, save for the low rumble of the tracks. People were curled up on the floors of the aisles, sleeping on coats and bags. I had nowhere to sit, let alone lie down. Exhaustion settled heavily on my chest, threatening to pull me under. I unscrewed the peppermint oil and rubbed a drop onto my temples. The sharp, icy burn forced my eyes open. I checked social media. Courtney had posted an update from an upscale sushi restaurant. “Work hard, play harder,” she had written under a photo of a flawless plate of sashimi. I scrolled past it without a flicker of emotion. At 4:30 AM, the train made a brief stop at a rural station. A group of loud, rowdy passengers boarded, smelling of cheap beer. One of them stumbled against me, spilling a cold splash of lager down my trousers. “Watch it, man,” he muttered, barely looking at me. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply took out a tissue and wiped the fabric dry. An argument would have wasted energy. My anger was far too valuable to waste on a stranger. As dawn finally broke, I managed to find an empty seat in the dining car. The attendant approached, informing me that the tables were reserved for paying customers. I ordered a ten-dollar drip coffee. The bitter, scalding liquid hit my empty stomach, causing it to cramp, but the warmth was worth it. Outside, the dark outline of the Appalachian Mountains slowly gave way to a soft, grey morning light. Twenty-two hours. It felt like a lifetime. By the time the conductor announced our arrival at Penn Station, my legs felt like concrete pillars—numb, heavy, and barely responsive. I dragged myself up the escalator and stepped out into the humid, sweltering heat of Manhattan. I didn’t head to my hotel. Instead, I went straight into a public restroom in a nearby office building. I stripped off my stained, travel-worn clothes and changed into the fresh suit and crisp white shirt I had packed. Staring into the mirror, I barely recognized the man looking back. My eyes were bloodshot, deep dark circles bruised my skin, and a thick layer of stubble lined my jaw. I splashed freezing water onto my face until my mind cleared, then reached into my pocket and checked the folded standby ticket. Perfect. My most important asset was intact. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the skyscraper in Hudson Yards. I walked into the towering glass lobby, my worn leather shoes squeaking softly on the polished white marble. The receptionist looked at my haggard face, her professional smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she recovered. “Welcome, sir. Do you have an appointment?” “Luke Barlow. I have a nine o’clock with Mr. Hoffmann.” She checked her screen, then stood up. “Right this way, Mr. Barlow. He’s expecting you.” As I followed her toward the elevator, my feet felt like they were sinking into the carpet. I knew I looked terrible. No matter how clean my spare suit was, you can’t wash away twenty-two hours of sleepless exhaustion. But that was exactly what Courtney wanted. And it was exactly what I needed. 03 Dieter Hoffmann’s corner office occupied the entire top floor, offering a panoramic view of the Hudson River. A tall German man in his early sixties stood up from behind a massive slate desk and extended his hand. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal three-piece suit, and his eyes were as sharp as scalping knives. “Mr. Barlow. Welcome,” he said, his English accented but precise. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Hoffmann,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and dry. In that brief moment, I felt his gaze linger on me. He took in my bloodshot eyes, the slight shadow on my jaw, and the subtle creases in my collar that a quick restroom change couldn’t fix. His brow twitched—a barely perceptible flicker of disapproval. His assistant, Linda, a sharp-featured woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, offered me a cup of espresso. “Thank you, Linda,” I said, taking a sip. The meeting began. I opened my laptop and projected our slide deck onto the massive LED screen on the wall. “Mr. Hoffmann, this is our comprehensive blueprint for the next-generation solid-state battery. Our proprietary graphene composite tech allows us to increase energy density by thirty percent while reducing thermal runaway risks by…” I forced my aching muscles to lock into place, pouring every remaining ounce of my energy into the delivery. My voice was raspy from the train, but I made sure every word was clean, deliberate, and undeniable. I walked him through the chemical architecture, the supply chain logistics, and the five-year scaling plan. This project was my life’s work. I didn’t need to look at the slides; every data point was carved into my brain. Hoffmann sat in complete silence, occasionally tapping a heavy platinum pen against his desk in a slow, rhythmic beat. His eyes darted between the screen and my face, analyzing me like a chess player studying an opponent’s opening move. After ninety minutes, I concluded the presentation. My throat felt like sandpaper. “That concludes my overview, Mr. Hoffmann.” He didn’t speak immediately. The silence in the room stretched until the rhythmic “tap, tap, tap” of his pen became deafening. Finally, he set the pen down. “Mr. Barlow, your technical execution is exemplary. It is perhaps the most detailed and ambitious proposal my team has reviewed this year.” I felt a slight release of tension in my shoulders. “However,” Hoffmann continued, his tone shifting, “a leader capable of designing such an elegant system usually values his own presentation. Why have you arrived at a billion-dollar negotiation looking like you spent the night on a park bench?” He didn’t use the word “unprofessional” or “disheveled”, but the implication was clear. It was a direct, clinical observation. I looked him dead in the eye. I didn’t make excuses. I didn’t mention Courtney, the standby ticket, or the twenty-two hours in the train vestibule. “Because no logistical failure is a valid reason to miss a meeting with you,” I said calmly. Linda quietly stepped forward and handed me a warm, damp towel. “For your face, Mr. Barlow.” “Thank you, Linda.” I wiped my face, the heat briefly bringing some color back to my skin. Hoffmann watched me for a long moment, his face unreadable. “I have the files, Mr. Barlow. My board will require seventy-two hours to complete our evaluation. We will contact you then.” “I look forward to hearing from you.” I knew this was my cue to leave. “Linda, please show Mr. Barlow out.” I stood up, gave him a polite nod, and walked out of the room with my back completely straight. It wasn’t until I stepped out of the air-conditioned tower and into the blistering midtown heat that the adrenaline wore off. My shirt was instantly soaked in cold sweat. Hoffmann’s gaze had felt like a scalpel, peeling back my skin to see what was underneath. He had seen the fatigue, and he knew there was a story behind it. His silence was heavier than any direct rejection. I took a cab to a cheap motel near the Queensboro Bridge, collapsed onto the thin mattress, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When my phone’s vibration finally woke me, it was late afternoon the following day. It was Charles. “Luke! Talk to me! What did Hoffmann say? Do we have a signed letter of intent?” His voice was loud, impatient, and demanding. I sat up, my throat still dry. “Charles, they’re evaluating the proposal. We’ll have an answer in three days.” The line went quiet, and when Charles spoke again, his voice had dropped ten degrees. “Three days? Luke, what the hell did you do over there? This is a critical transition phase for this company. You were supposed to lock this down. Did you screw up the presentation?” I could picture his face—the veins on his neck bulging, his mouth twisted in irritation. “I gave him the best pitch possible,” I said. “I don’t care about ‘best,’ Luke! I care about results! Do you understand what we spent to get you to New York?” Charles barked. “If we don’t have a signed agreement in seventy-two hours, don’t bother coming back to Chicago.” The call cut out. I stared at the screen, a cold smile forming on my lips. “What we spent.” A three-hundred-dollar standby ticket. That was his definition of a massive investment. My phone rang again. It was Greg. “Hey, Luke, buddy. Don’t let Charles get to you. He’s just stressed. Take some time to relax, okay? Oh, by the way, Courtney wanted me to check in and see if you needed any… administrative support from Chicago.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Tell Courtney I received her support,” I said. “It was incredibly effective.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. The storm was coming. But I had already built my shelter, and I was holding the blade. 04 The three-day wait in New York was excruciating. No calls from Hoffmann. No emails from Linda. Even the Chicago office went entirely silent, as if they had already written me off. That kind of limbo is far worse than a clean break. I stayed in that run-down motel, staring out at the grey brick wall of the adjacent building. On the afternoon of the third day, my phone finally rang. It was Linda. “Mr. Barlow,” she said, her tone perfectly even. “I am calling to inform you that Mr. Hoffmann has decided not to proceed with another round of negotiations. Your proposal will be kept on file.” My hand tightened around the receiver until my knuckles turned white. “May I ask for the reasoning behind the decision?” “It is a firm policy decision, Mr. Barlow. I am not at liberty to discuss further. Safe travels back to Chicago.” The line went dead. No explanation. No appeal. Just a cold, final door slamming shut. I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the hum of the cheap window AC unit. I had lost. And I had lost because of a train ticket, a spoiled niece, and a CEO who looked the other way. I lay back on the bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, sleep completely out of reach. By sunrise, I had made my decision. I wasn’t going back to Chicago with my tail between my legs. If I was going down, I was going to find out exactly who pushed me. I called Amy in the Chicago office. She was young, naive, and still trusted me. “Amy, can you do me a quick favor? Check the corporate travel logs and see where the German delegation is staying while they’re in town.” “Sure, Luke. Give me a second… looks like they’re booked at the St. Regis in Midtown.” “Thanks, Amy.” I checked out of the motel, took a cab to Manhattan, and used the very last of my credit card limit to book a basic room at the St. Regis. I wasn’t there to sleep; I was there for an opportunity. Dressed in my best suit, I sat in the hotel’s lobby bar from 8:00 AM until nightfall, ordering the cheapest black coffee on the menu to justify my presence. It was a desperate play. But it was the only play I had left. The first day passed with nothing. The second day was the same. My credit card was nearly maxed out, and my hope was fading fast. Then, at 10:00 PM on the second night, just as I was about to call it quits, I saw Linda walk through the heavy glass doors, followed by a tired-looking Dieter Hoffmann.

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When the police showed up at my door, I was running the final test on my latest lines of code. Three officers stood on my threshold—two women, one man—their expressions carved from stone. “We received a report of child abuse at this address.” I blinked, sliding one ear of my headphones back. “I don’t have children.” “We need to take a look around.” They swept through my four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment. The living area, the bedroom nook, the bathroom, the tiny balcony. No child. No pets. Not even a second pair of slippers. The male officer looked at me. “Are you certain no child has been staying here?” “Positive,” I said. “I’m single, I live alone, and I can barely keep a succulent alive.” He frowned. I suddenly remembered something and asked, “How many times does this make?” “What?” “The reports,” I said. “This month, how many times has this happened?” 1 The male officer’s frown deepened, but it was the young female officer beside him who spoke up. “Fiona, right? We’re responding to a citizen’s report. We need you to cooperate.” Her tone carried a sharp edge of impatience, as if my question was entirely out of line. I nodded, stepping back to cede the space. “I am cooperating. Please, look around. If you need me to open a cabinet or move something, just say the word.” My attitude was as accommodating as possible. I knew better than to argue. This was the third time this month. The first time was at eleven on a Tuesday night. Someone had reported hearing a child screaming in my apartment. I had my noise-canceling headphones on, racing to meet a project deadline; let alone a child crying, I wouldn’t have heard a thunderstorm outside. They did a quick sweep, apologized politely, and left. The second time was last Thursday afternoon. The accusation had escalated to child imprisonment. That search was far more invasive; they made me open my closets and check under the bed. The result, of course, was the same. My apartment was cleaner than my conscience. Now, child abuse. The allegations were growing heavier with each call. And I already had a very good idea of who was behind them. The male officer—let’s call him Detective Garrett—seemed to have more miles on him. He moved slowly through my apartment, his eyes taking in every detail. His gaze drifted over my bookshelves, heavy with texts on system architecture and programming algorithms. Then over to my desk, where three monitors glowed with dense, nested lines of code. Finally, he looked out at the balcony. I’d turned the balcony into a small reading nook: a single beanbag chair and a low side table. On the table sat a ceramic ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts. “Do you work from home?” Garrett asked. “Yes. I’m a freelance game developer.” “You live alone? Rarely go out?” “Mostly just for groceries, or when I need a walk to clear my head.” He nodded, taking another look at the room, which was tidy to the point of obsession. “Can you tell me who filed the report?” I finally asked. Garrett looked at me, silent. The young officer spoke up again. “We can’t disclose that. We’re legally obligated to protect the caller’s anonymity.” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Right. I understand.” Of course I understood. But the anger inside me was starting to claw at my ribs. The calls were anonymous, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. This was a high-end building. The residents were generally professional and kept to themselves. Everyone maintained a polite, unspoken agreement to mind their own business. Everyone except him. My neighbor across the hall, Connor. A handsome single father with a five-year-old daughter named Mia. The same man who, on my second week here, had knocked on my door holding a warm bowl of homemade soup and a dazzling smile. “Are we done here?” I asked. “If so, I’d like to get back to work. I have a client waiting on this build.” Garrett exchanged a look with his colleague. “We’re done for today. Sorry for the disruption, Fiona. But we do advise you to remain mindful. Multiple reports usually mean there’s some kind of smoke.” The young officer’s words felt like a deliberate needle. “Some kind of smoke?” The anger I’d been suppressing flared white-hot. “Officer,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, “are you suggesting that despite three empty searches, I’m still a suspect in abusing a child who doesn’t exist?” “That’s not what I meant,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realized she’d crossed a line. “Then what did you mean? You show up at my door, disrupt my work, and violate my privacy. My time is money, and my reputation isn’t a playground. Or is a single woman living alone simply an easy target for suspicion?” The young officer’s face turned bright red under my gaze. Garrett stepped in to smooth things over. “Fiona, let’s take a breath. We understand your frustration, but we have a duty to investigate. We’ll look into the origin of these calls. If we establish that this is a case of malicious harassment, we will take appropriate legal action.” He handed me a business card. “If anything else comes up, or if you remember any details, call me directly.” I took the card. “Detective Shane Garrett”, followed by a direct phone number. “Thank you.” I escorted them to the door. The moment it clicked shut, the adrenaline drained, leaving me hollow. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, listening to their retreating footsteps. Then, through the peephole, I caught the briefest flicker of a shadow disappearing behind the door across the hall. I sat back down at my computer, but the code on the screen had turned into an illegible blur. My chest felt tight, like it was stuffed with wet cotton. I picked up my phone, opened an online retail app, and typed into the search bar, letter by letter: “Miniature, high-definition, night-vision camera.” And then: “High-sensitivity directional microphone.” If reason couldn’t reach him, I’d have to speak a language he understood. Three times this month. I swore to myself, it would be the absolute last. 2 My new neighbor, Connor, had moved in three months ago. The move-in day had been loud. Even with my headphones on, I could hear the heavy thuds in the hallway and the high-pitched giggles of his daughter, Mia. Out of basic neighborly courtesy, I opened my door to check. He was standing in the corridor, directing the movers. He wore a crisp white linen shirt, his hair styled in a neat crop, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked flustered, but still effortlessly handsome. When he saw me, he paused, then offered a warm, apologetic smile. “Hey, neighbor. I’m Connor, just moving in. Did we wake you? I’m so sorry about the racket.” His voice was smooth and gentle, like a warm breeze. “It’s fine,” I said, preparing to close the door. “Wait,” he called out. “I didn’t catch your name.” “Fiona.” I gave him my name, figuring that was the absolute limit of my social obligation. I had no idea it was only the prologue. From that day on, my doorbell rang almost daily. “Fiona, sorry to bother you, but our Wi-Fi went down. Could you take a look? My daughter needs it for her online preschool.” “Fiona, my hallway lightbulb burned out. Do you have a spare ladder?” “Fiona, I made some pork rib soup. I brought over a bowl for you. A single girl shouldn’t rely on takeout all the time.” At first, trying to be a decent neighbor, I helped him out. Fixing his router or lending a tool took only a few minutes. But gradually, the boundaries started to blur. He began using these favors as an excuse to linger in my apartment. “Your place is so immaculate,” he’d say, trying to step past the entryway. “Unlike mine. Mia leaves her toys everywhere.” Then came the prying questions. “Fiona, a successful woman like you… how are you still single? Your standards must be sky-high.” The breaking point was the text messages. He started texting me at all hours. Sometimes it was late at night—complaints about how exhausting it was to be a single father, always accompanied by a post-workout selfie. Other times, right when I was in the zone coding, he’d send unsolicited short videos or memes. I am someone who hoards her solitude. I need large, uninterrupted blocks of time to think. Connor’s presence was like a persistent car alarm outside my window, shattering my focus. So, I started drawing lines. “Sorry, I’m working.” “I don’t really know much about appliances. You should call a professional.” “Thanks, but I don’t eat soup.” My rejections were polite but blunt. I figured any reasonable adult would recognize the cold shoulder and back off. I was wrong. With every polite refusal, Connor’s demeanor shifted. The warmth in his eyes hardened into something sullen and resentful. Soon after, the building’s leasing office called me. They claimed they’d received complaints about my mechanical keyboard. Apparently, my late-night typing was keeping my neighbors awake. For the record, my keyboard uses silent red switches. Then came the first police visit. After the officers left that night, I went out to throw away the trash and ran into Connor and Mia coming back from the elevator. He avoided my eyes, a tight, artificial smile plastered on his face. “Fiona, what a coincidence.” But Mia, cradled in his arms, pointed a finger at me and piped up. “Daddy, that’s the lady. The one with the crying in her apartment.” In that single second, the puzzle pieces clicked together. Connor’s stiff smile looked suddenly grotesque. He had stopped knocking on my door. Instead, he had found a far more insidious way to force his way into my life. He wanted to break me. I closed the shopping app on my phone, a wave of nausea washing over me. I walked over to the window and lit a cigarette. Down in the courtyard, Connor was watching Mia ride her scooter. He wore a casual t-shirt, laughing and wiping sweat from her forehead. Passersby smiled warmly at them, offering looks of quiet admiration. What a devoted father. Strong, optimistic, doing it all on his own. Who would suspect the rot festering beneath that handsome veneer? I took a long drag of my cigarette, letting the nicotine settle the static in my head. I wasn’t going to pack up and move. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I run like a stray dog? Besides, with a man this obsessive, a new zip code wouldn’t protect me. He’d find a way to trace me. Running solved nothing. When dealing with a lunatic, you can’t rely on sanity. You either have to out-crazy them, or out-calculate them. I chose the latter. I stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. I sat back down at my desk and opened a fresh document. I titled it: “The Counterattack.” 3 The delivery arrived the very next morning. Four pinhole cameras, two button-sized microphones, and a high-capacity external hard drive. I spent the afternoon setting up the network. I’d taken a minor in cybersecurity during college, so handling the hardware and routing the feeds was second nature to me. I installed the first camera directly inside my door’s peephole. From the outside, it was completely undetectable. From the inside, a micro-thin data cable ran along the frame, feeding a live view of the hallway straight to my desktop. The second camera went onto my living room window frame, disguised as an ordinary mounting screw. Its wide-angle lens captured the entire courtyard and the main entrance of our building. The third and fourth cameras were placed on opposite ends of my balcony. One pointed at my AC condenser, and the other faced Connor’s balcony. Our balconies were barely three feet apart. There was a metal divider, but a grown man could easily vault over it if he wanted to. I had to prepare for the possibility of him doing something desperate. The microphones required a bit more finesse. I mounted the first one at the very top of my door frame, near the ventilation intake. The second one was trickier. Late that night, when the building was silent, I used an extendable rod to slide it behind the metal grates of Connor’s balcony AC unit. It was perfectly concealed, and close enough to his sliding door that if he left the window cracked, I’d hear everything. I knew this was a massive invasion of privacy. But honestly, to hell with his privacy. When someone uses systemic lies to dismantle your life, playing by the rules of polite society is a fool’s errand. I wasn’t doing this to cause harm. I was doing this to survive, to build a fortress of evidence. Every feed was routed to an old, dedicated PC in my study, recording 24/7. The data auto-saved to an encrypted external drive. Once the system was live, I felt like a hunter who had finished setting her traps. Now, all I had to do was wait for the prey to take a step. I forced myself back into my routine. Coding, debugging, testing. The only difference was that I spent an hour every evening reviewing the previous day’s footage at double speed. For a few days, it was quiet. No police. No texts. Even when we crossed paths in the hallway, Connor kept his head down and brushed past me as if I were a stranger. For a brief, fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d overreacted. Maybe he’d given up? Then I watched the footage from Friday night. I’d stayed up late trying to squash a stubborn bug in my code. The timestamp on the recording read 2:14 AM. My front door didn’t open, but a shadow crossed the frame. Slowly, silently, a black trash bag was slid through the narrow gap beneath my door’s heavy seal. Then, the shadow vanished. I stood up from my chair and walked to the entryway. There it was. A small, black plastic bag sitting on my welcome mat. I put on a pair of latex gloves and carefully opened it. Inside was a wet slurry of rotting food scraps and potato peels. The stench was immediate and foul. Instead of getting angry, I smiled. “Finally.” The mask was coming off. I took high-res photos of the bag, stored them, and threw the trash into the hallway chute. Back at my computer, I clipped the video segment and saved it under a new folder: “Exhibit 1: Midnight Delivery.” I knew this was just the appetizer. The real feast was on its way. 4 Over the next week, Connor’s petty campaign escalated into something almost theatrical. On Monday, he coated my doorknob in industrial superglue. If I hadn’t made it a habit to check the hallway camera before leaving, my hand would have been fused to the brass. “Exhibit 2: Sticky Note.” On Wednesday, an empty cardboard delivery box I’d left outside my door to take down later was defaced. Someone had drawn a giant turtle across the front in black Sharpie, with the word “COWARD” written in block letters. “Exhibit 3: Masterpiece.” By Friday—today—it got worse. While I was downstairs picking up a food delivery, he used red spray paint to deface my door. A single, dripping word: “DIE”. The peephole camera captured the entire performance. He wore a black hoodie and a surgical mask, thinking he was anonymous. But he’d forgotten about the wide-angle lens. The feed showed him slipping out of his own apartment, painting the door, and then retreating back into his unit, looking around like a thief in the night. Watching his frantic, self-satisfied little scurrying on screen, I didn’t feel rage. Only pity. How hollow does a thirty-something man’s life have to be for him to dedicate this much energy to schoolyard vandalism? I didn’t scrub the paint off. In a way, I liked it. It was a badge of honor, a testament to his unraveling. I saved the clip as “Exhibit 4: Death Threat.” I was perfectly calm. I coded, I reviewed my feeds, I compiled my evidence. I felt a strange, quiet thrill. I was waiting to see what his next move would be. All I had to do was sit back, watch the show, and hit record. It was a beautiful feeling.

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A system glitch. That’s the only explanation for how I, a ruthless, take-no-prisoners protagonist from a revenge-thriller universe, ended up trapped in the body of a pathetic, doormat heroine in a tearjerker family drama. It happened right after the childhood-sweetheart-turned-golden-boy told me, with a face like ice, to give up my graduation dress to the family’s “fake” daughter. I couldn’t hold it in. Right then and there, I broke character. “If it kills you so much to see her wronged, why don’t you buy her one?” “You haven’t spent a single dime, yet here you are, banging the gavel like a judge.” “Outsourcing your grand romantic gestures—you’ve really got this whole deep-devotion thing figured out, haven’t you?” 01 The entire room froze in stunned silence. No one could have anticipated this. The biological daughter, who just yesterday had been shrinking into herself, desperately swallowing her pride to please this family, had suddenly snapped. I looked down at the faded t-shirt and cheap denim I was wearing. Then, I glanced at the mirror, taking in the hunched, cowering posture born from years of systemic submission. The original host of this body was the true, biological daughter of the Crawford family. Yet, she had to walk on eggshells just to buy a hair tie. Meanwhile, the adopted daughter—the golden child they had raised before finding her—had a walk-in closet bursting with this season’s haute couture. And yet, she absolutely had to steal this one specific dress. It was pathetic. Utterly, suffocatingly pathetic. “Valerie, how… how could you say such a thing?” my father stammered, his eyes wide with shock. I whipped my head toward him. “Then what should I say? Should I bite my lip, dig my nails into my palms, and whisper, ‘I understand’? And then show up to the senior formal in my jeans so my classmates can laugh me out of the room?” My mother’s face went from paper-white to a furious red. “It’s just a piece of fabric! What is the harm in letting Natalie wear it?” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You said it yourself—it’s just a piece of fabric. So what’s the harm in letting me wear it?” I gestured wildly to the opulent room around us. “Look at yourselves. You’re worth hundreds of millions, and you have your two daughters fighting like dogs over a thousand-dollar dress. Does that sound right to you?” “And if you were only going to buy two dresses, why did you buy one in pink and one in blue? Were you terrified we wouldn’t have something to fight over? Doesn’t anyone with two daughters know you have to buy the exact same thing to avoid this?” My mother puffed up her chest, indignantly. “How were we supposed to know that!” “If you don’t know, then learn! You spend all day scrolling through TikTok laughing at mindless drama, but you don’t have basic common sense? What, just because being a parent doesn’t require a license, you think you can just drive blindfolded and wreck people’s lives?” My older brother, Connor, slammed his hand on the mahogany table and shot to his feet. “Watch how you speak to Mom and Dad!” “You’re being incredibly selfish!” he barked. “If Natalie’s dress hadn’t been ruined, she wouldn’t have even asked for yours.” “Ruined? Three loose threads count as ruined now? By that metric, the thrift-store garbage I grew up wearing was straight-up post-apocalyptic survival gear.” Standing off to the side, Natalie twisted her fingers together, looking like a wounded fawn. “Valerie, please don’t be mad at Mom, Dad, or Connor. It was my fault. I said if we bought two colors, we could swap… Mom, Dad, Connor, blame me. I was being thoughtless. Let’s just go, we’re going to be late—” Smack! I shook out my stinging palm and looked at her coldly. “You’re right. You were being thoughtless. Did you hear that?” “If you hadn’t pulled this pathetic little stunt, we would have been out the door twenty minutes ago!” “Valerie, please don’t be angry. I just thought you looked so much prettier in the blue…” Natalie covered her cheek, tears welling up, hovering perfectly on her lower lashes without falling. “Since you like the pink one so much, I’ll give it back to you.” “I know everything in this house was supposed to be yours. No matter how hard I try, I’m just an outsider. I can never make everyone happy. I should just leave the Crawfords and go back to my real home. I… I miss my real mom and dad.” Smack! I backhanded her right on the other cheek. “Thanks for reminding me! You’ve threatened to go back to the trailer park eight hundred times. So go! You’ve been playing the ‘adopted outsider’ card for five years. The stray dogs in your old neighborhood wouldn’t even recognize you anymore. Your biological parents have been dead for years, and you haven’t visited their graves once. Don’t stand here and play the filial orphan! Drop the fragile act before I slap you into a spinning top.” Beside her, Declan Mercer’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He stepped forward, fists clenched. I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “What are you looking at? The stage has collapsed, are you still trying to get into character?” “She’s still your sister, how could you lay your hands on her—” Smack! Another sharp slap echoed in the room. “I won’t just hit her, I’ll hit you too!” I spat. “You think your hands are clean? If you hadn’t been fanning the flames, standing there whispering about how good she looked in the pink, would she have thrown a tantrum for it?” “You get a real rush out of watching the two of us fight over your table scraps of affection, don’t you?” My brother Connor opened his mouth, ready to play the white knight. But he saw my hand raise again, and he clamped his jaw shut, swallowing his words. I rounded on him. “What are you looking at! Stand up and you’re shorter than a tombstone. Lie down and you look like a feeding trough. I’ve seen overnight maxi-pads with more length and definitely more spine than you.” “You—!” “You what?! You should be on your knees thanking God you share my bone structure, because your personality is garbage.” “…You… you are completely unreasonable!” Declan touched his cheek, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. I stared him down. “Then leave! Don’t you have your own house? You’re here every other day.” “You don’t contribute a cent to this family, but you love standing around dictating our lives.” “Who made you the moral arbiter of this house? God hasn’t retired yet, so stop auditioning for the job.” “God! I hate pretentious pricks!” 02 After my indiscriminate artillery fire, I got exactly what I wanted. I wore the pink dress to the senior formal. Truth be told, I didn’t even like the color pink that much. But Natalie said she liked it. Which meant she absolutely wasn’t going to get it. That’s right. In my original universe, I wasn’t some flawless, morally pure protagonist. I was sharp-tongued, selfish, and a little bit wicked. Bottom line: I am not obligated to be anybody’s doormat. Snapping back to the present, I spotted Natalie in the center of the ballroom, clinging to Declan’s arm, looking utterly tragic. She had somehow dug up a vintage, oversized dress from nowhere. The ill-fitting, baggy cut made her look incredibly fragile, like a delicate flower battered by a storm. If we were following the original plotline, she had already done her rounds, crying to our classmates and playing the victim. Right on cue, just as I picked up a flute of champagne, a swarm of Natalie’s loyal lackeys marched over, cornering me aggressively against the wall. “Valerie Crawford, you actually have the nerve to show your face? You stole Natalie’s dress and forced her to wear that awful old thing. Do you have no shame?” “Exactly. And I heard you hit her? If Natalie wasn’t so kind and forgiving, allowing you back into this family, you’d still be feeding pigs out in the sticks!” The surrounding students began to point and whisper. Countless stares laced with contempt locked onto me. Declan and Natalie slowly approached, parting the crowd like royalty. Natalie’s eyes were red. She grabbed her lead lackey’s arm, her voice so weak and trembling it was barely a whisper. “Please, stop. It was my fault for being thoughtless. Valerie loved the dress, it’s only right I let her have it. Please don’t fight with my sister over me…” The manipulation was so thick I could practically choke on it. I pinched the bridge of my nose. In the original book, this was the exact moment the original host would turn pale, dig her nails into her palms, and run away in tears under the crushing weight of their judgmental stares. But I am not the original host. 03 I turned my gaze to Lackey A, who was leading the charge. “Natalie told you that she allowed me back into the family? Out of the goodness of her heart?” The girl stood her ground, arrogant. “Isn’t that the truth? You’re just an illegitimate charity case. The whole school knows you’re the fake daughter!” Hold on a second. The original host was brought back to the Crawford family in middle school. How on earth had this ridiculous rumor survived for four or five years? Did I miss something in the prologue? Or is the system broken and rewriting the plot on the fly? The system, glitching and stuttering like a busted PowerPoint presentation, finally responded in my head: [N-no, not a rewrite. The doormat protagonist staying silent for years is… is standard operational procedure.] Me: [Why the hell would anyone write it like that?] [Three hundred chapters of suffocating misunderstandings, followed by the family groveling in regret. It builds suspense. It… it sells really well.] Ah. I see. I steadied my breathing, gave a tight smile, and curled my index finger, motioning the girl closer. Lackey A eyed me warily. But her teenage curiosity won out, and she leaned in. I lowered my voice. “She lied to you.” “Impossible! I don’t believe you!” she snapped back. “I have the DNA reports confirming my relationship with my parents. She is the fake daughter. The kind with absolutely zero Crawford blood in her veins.” The girl’s face shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing her eyes. I took my time, letting the words drip slowly. “Also, I happen to know that the surplus inventory sitting in your father’s factory relies entirely on Crawford Industries’ purchasing order next quarter to stay afloat.” “It doesn’t matter if you believe me right now. But you’re in an awful rush to offend me when you don’t even have your facts straight. What if I am telling the truth? How exactly are you going to explain your family’s bankruptcy to your father tomorrow?” I smiled sweetly, then turned to Lackey B and curled my finger again. Having just watched Lackey A’s face drain of all color, Lackey B swallowed hard. Trembling, she leaned in. My lips curled up. “And you. I heard your family just submitted a massive partnership proposal to the Crawfords last week?” “Is that true?” She gasped, staring at me in horror. “How do you know that?” I didn’t answer. I just gave her a deep, knowing smile. How did I know? I made it up, obviously. In these types of melodramas, side characters in the city don’t exist unless their families are financially dependent on the main family’s corporation. Within three minutes, the aggressive pack of wolves that had cornered me was thoroughly defanged. I had hit every single one of their weak spots. They didn’t even dare to ask for confirmation. Their faces were uniformly ashen. Natalie hurried over, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Please, whatever you do, don’t argue with my sister for my sake. If she insulted you, please don’t be angry with her. She’s just… rough around the edges.” But the girls acted like they couldn’t even hear her. Their eyes darted nervously, and they instinctively took two large steps back, creating a physical distance between themselves and Natalie. Natalie, who had been waiting for the grand spectacle of my public humiliation, suddenly found herself standing alone in an empty circle. She looked completely, utterly bewildered. 04 When we got home that night, Natalie cried in the living room for two solid hours. Which meant my mother lectured me for two solid hours. She berated me for speaking out of turn at the formal. For threatening my classmates. And worst of all, for exposing the truth about Natalie’s adoption. My father sat in his armchair, silent. My brother Connor pointed a finger at me. “You went way too far! You completely destroyed Natalie’s social circle today. How is she supposed to face anyone at school now?” I let out a cold laugh. “Face anyone? When she was spreading rumors about me, did she ever stop to think about how I would face anyone?” The original host had endured that slander for nearly five years. Talk about an absurd tolerance for pain. I rolled my eyes. “Besides, college applications are already locked in. Once September rolls around, everyone’s going their separate ways. Does she really think she’s the gravitational center of the universe? That people are just going to orbit her forever?” Natalie lifted her tear-streaked face. “B-but I’m staying in the city to attend Atherton University!” I shot her a look of pure disgust. “And everyone else is leaving! I’m leaving! Who is forcing you to stay?” Declan, seemingly materializing out of thin air, frowned deeply. “Valerie, the three of us agreed we were all going to apply to Atherton. Where else are you going?” I rubbed my temples, completely out of patience. “Bro, why are you literally everywhere?” The system panicked: [Because he’s the male lead!] I ignored it. “Do you know what time it is? Why haven’t you gone home? Go home, kid. Seriously, just go home.” I took a deep breath and looked directly at my parents. “And let me clarify something right now. I never, not for a single second, planned on going to Atherton with these two.” Declan’s expression shattered. Because I had derailed the plot so drastically, his face cycled through the male lead’s classic micro-expressions of disbelief, shock, and profound hurt at triple speed. The system’s glitchy voice was screaming like a fire alarm in my head: [Ahhh, Host! You said it too early! Too early! You’ve completely shattered the narrative arc! This is going to spawn new settings and fatal bugs!] Me: [I’m sorry, I literally couldn’t hold it in.] My mother’s posture went rigid. “Absolutely not! You will attend Atherton! The three of you staying local means you can look out for each other.” I laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “I scored a 1540 on my SATs. She scored an 1100. Am I out of my mind? Why would I stay at a mediocre local college just to ‘look out’ for her?” Hearing this, Natalie sobbed harder, tears and snot running down her face. “Valerie, I know you hate me… but Mom and Dad arranged this for us…” “Well, at least you’re self-aware enough to know I hate you.” She choked on a sob. I turned my fire back to the two architects of this nightmare. “Why would you arrange that? With my scores, do I look like I need you to arrange my future? You’re actively trying to sabotage my life!” “If you’re going to play favorites, at least use a little logic. Make it make sense!” I was genuinely baffled. The system chimed in weakly: [The original host was only found in middle school. The fake daughter is manipulative and good at acting. The parents raised her for eighteen years, and terrified that the adopted daughter would feel insecure, they overcompensated by neglecting the biological one.] Me: […] Right on cue, my questioning triggered a primal switch in my mother. She became instantly hysterical. “How dare you look down on Atherton! You only scored thirty points higher than their cut-off last year anyway! Natalie only got in because the arts program had a lower threshold!” “Exactly!” I shot back. “Atherton is fine. But I don’t want to go because you people are in this city, and she is going to be on that campus! Do you understand now?” “Why are you always so selfish?! Getting into Atherton was a miracle for Natalie. As her older sister, making a small sacrifice for the greater good of this family is the least you could do!” “Greater good?” I scoffed. “Since when does her academic failure constitute the ‘greater good’ of the Crawford family?” “What, did she build a nuclear submarine for the country? Did she ring the bell at the Stock Exchange for Crawford Industries?” “Her ‘miracle’ acceptance is the absolute ceiling of her intelligence. It shouldn’t be the ceiling of my future.” “Get it through your heads.” “She’s eighteen years old, and you still refuse to cut the cord. Fine! Let her be your precious daughter! Why the hell did you even bother bringing me back?” My mother’s finger trembled as she pointed at the door. “Fine! Get out! Get out of my house right now!” “I will pretend I never gave birth to you!” Hearing those words, I pressed my hands together in a posture of deep prayer and bowed. “Oh, my sweet mother!” “Those are the words I’ve been waiting for!” Before anyone could react, I snatched up the original host’s little pink backpack and bolted out the front door. Just as I reached the main gate, my father chased after me. With a complicated expression, he shoved a credit card into my hand and lowered his voice. “Valerie, your mother is just speaking out of anger. There’s a thousand dollars on this card. Find a place to stay for a few days. Be a good girl. Come back when she’s cooled off.” In the original host’s memories, this was how it always played out. Every time she was abused or wronged, he would swoop in. Hand her some cash. Say a few soft words. And the original host would clutch onto it like a lifeline, convincing herself that at least her father loved her. I looked at the plastic card in my hand and let out a soft, mocking scoff. … Back inside the house, after I left, Natalie’s pitiful voice drifted through the foyer. “How is Valerie going to survive out there all alone… Declan, please go find her. Tell her to come back.” “You did nothing wrong, Nat,” Declan said, stopping her. The young man stared out the door where I had vanished, his voice thick with frustration. “Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, please don’t be upset. She’s just been spoiled.” Natalie wept beautifully. “It’s all my fault. I’ll go beg her. If it comes down to it… I’ll just leave the house.” “But Mom, Dad, please don’t worry. When you’re older, if Valerie refuses to take care of you, I promise I will always be here to support you.” Natalie was the picture of tragic devotion. Her earnest, tear-soaked promise brought both parents to tears. Mrs. Crawford wiped her eyes. “I raised you for eighteen years. You’ve been my real daughter for a long time. How could I ever let you suffer out there? In my heart, no one comes before you. Not even Valerie!” “Mom!” Natalie cried out, throwing her arms around the woman. Mr. Crawford rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “If Valerie had even half of your empathy, this house wouldn’t be a war zone. Let her stay out there for a few days! It’s been too long since we’ve had the peace and quiet of our family of three.” Connor gritted his teeth. “Exactly! Let her leave! Don’t give her another dime. Let’s see how long she lasts without the Crawford name!” “She’s gotten used to the luxury of being a rich kid. Give it a few days. When she’s broke and starving, she’ll come crawling back on her knees begging us to let her in!” 05 In my original universe, my boss-babe revenge plot was at 99% completion. If the system hadn’t glitched out, I wouldn’t have been shoved into this literary garbage fire. A psychotic brother. A toxic, biased mother. A manipulative, green-tea antagonist. And a spineless original host. Getting hit with a bug was already annoying enough! And the first thing I had to deal with when I opened my eyes was that absolute moron of a childhood sweetheart. It was infuriating. Initially, I had hesitated about flipping the table so early in the story. But I had no choice. According to the original plot, tonight was the night Natalie secretly logged into the state college portal and altered Valerie’s university preferences. Applying to her dream school was the first, and only, time the original host had ever stood up for herself and made a decision for her own life since returning to the Crawfords. But when her parents discovered the sabotage later, instead of punishing Natalie, they coldly told Valerie to “be the bigger person” and to “understand their difficult position as parents.” That was the exact moment the original host finally realized her parents would never, ever love her. Devastated and completely broken, she tore up her acceptance letter and threw herself off a highway overpass. If I hadn’t gone scorched earth the second I arrived, deliberately provoking the parents until I got myself kicked out of the house… considering my lack of synchronization with this new body, I might have just fast-tracked myself to the protagonist’s suicide! Besides, before I started my rampage, I had discreetly checked my System Inventory. And I made a staggering discovery. 06 I found out the system bug wasn’t just affecting the characters. When I glitched over, the system accidentally brought my entire financial portfolio from my previous universe with me, entirely intact. The city in this novel was framed as an economic powerhouse. But a quick search showed its annual GDP was only around 90 billion dollars. Meanwhile, my bank account had exactly 100 billion dollars sitting in it. Buying out Crawford Industries would be easier than buying a pack of gum. Pfft. Crawling back and begging them? Not in this lifetime. The System stammered: [H-host… you might have misunderstood something.] I raised an eyebrow. [Misunderstood what?] [The exchange rate between the two universes. It’s… vastly different.] My heart skipped a beat. A profound sense of dread washed over me. [Wait, explain yourself! What do you mean exchange rate?] I demanded. [How much of a difference are we talking about?] 07 System: [Roughly… 100,000,000 to 1.] [A HUNDRED MILLION TO ONE?!] I literally screamed out loud in the street. Cold, hard math spun wildly in my brain. The color drained from my face. Trembling, I did the calculation over and over in my head. 100 billion… divided by 100 million… One… One thousand dollars?!

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When the diagnosis came back as terminal leukemia, my dad and I scrambled, begging anyone we knew for a loan. But my mother, her mind warped by a lifetime of reading dark billionaire romance novels, was absolutely convinced she was the tragic heroine in a grand, twisted love story. She was certain my dad was actually a billionaire in disguise, pretending to be broke. “What’s the rush?” she’d tell me, her voice airy and detached. “Your father is a secret heir to billions. He’s just putting me through this angst to punish me. Once he realizes he’s about to lose me, he’ll regret everything. He’ll drop the act, pay for the treatment, and save me.” I stood there, frozen. To afford her chemotherapy and prep for a potential bone marrow transplant, we had sold everything we owned. My dad was working three jobs a day, his hands permanently stained with grease and concrete. A secret billionaire? It was a sick joke. I spent an entire week crying, begging, and screaming at her until she finally agreed to the surgery. I thought she had finally woken up from her delusions. But on the morning of the operation, she vanished. “The patient left a note and disappeared,” the doctor said over the phone. “Her condition is critical. If she doesn’t get this transplant today, she’s not going to make it.” 1. The doctor’s call left me paralyzed in the hospital lobby. To raise enough for her down payment, I had skipped my own high school graduation party. While my classmates were planning beach trips and dorm decor, I was working double shifts. Busboy at a diner by day, dishwasher at a greasy night-market stall by night. My dad had stripped our lives bare. He sold his wedding ring, our old station wagon, and every piece of furniture that wasn’t falling apart. Working three jobs, he had withered into a fragile, hollowed-out old man before my eyes. We had bled ourselves dry to scrape together the deposit, and by some miracle, a matching donor had been found. And she ran? I bolted out of the hospital like a madwoman, my chest burning as I searched the surrounding streets. Finally, I found her in a small pocket park behind the clinic. She was sitting on a wooden bench, wearing her oversized hospital gown, staring into the wind with tears streaming down her face. “Mom, have you lost your mind?” I sprinted over and grabbed her arm. “The doctor said if you don’t do this transplant today, you’re going to die! What are you doing out here?” Months of exhaustion, fear, and suppressed rage boiled over. I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. She jolted slightly as I pulled her, turning her head to look at me. To my horror, she was smiling. It was a soft, patronizing smile, the kind a mother gives a child who doesn’t understand how the world works. “Becca,” she murmured. “Did your father send you to find me?” “No! I found you because the hospital called me panicking!” I tugged her arm. It was so thin, my fingers easily wrapped around her wrist. “Mom, please. Just come back inside. We have to go.” She shook her head, pulling away. “You don’t understand, Becca. This is his test.” “What test?” “It’s how these stories always go,” she said, her eyes shining with a frightening clarity. “The male lead makes the heroine suffer first. He pushes her to the absolute brink, and only when she’s on her deathbed does he finally show up. He’ll throw millions at the doctors, fall to his knees, and beg for her forgiveness.” I stared at her, the air leaving my lungs. Every word she spoke was English, but it felt like an alien tongue. “Mom, Dad works construction. He drives an Uber all night. He is not a billionaire.” Instead of answering, she broke into a violent, hacking cough that shook her fragile frame. She pulled a piece of crumpled tissue to her mouth. When she pulled it away, it was stained with bright, metallic-smelling blood. My heart cracked. The anger drained out of me, replaced by a desperate, aching pity. “Mom, please,” I begged, my voice cracking as I sank to my knees before her. “Just come back with me. If we miss this donor window, we can’t afford to find another one. Do you know how much a match costs? Twenty thousand dollars just for the procurement and prep. We don’t have it. We literally have nothing left.” But my mother shoved my hands away. She gasped for air, her face pale, but her eyes burned with an almost religious fervor. “What do you know? You’re just a kid! This is all part of his game!” I was numb. “What game?” “He’s trying to break me! To make me crawl back to him!” She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “He isn’t broke, Becca. He’s the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire. He’s just hiding it to punish me!” 2. I felt a wave of absolute defeat wash over me, heavy and cold. “Mom, Dad drives Uber at night,” I whispered. “Do you know what that’s like? He carries dozens of people in his car. Men, women. When they get out, their perfume lingers. That’s why he smells like that.” “He’s never home because he’s working three jobs. He doesn’t want to be away. He’s trying to keep you alive.” My words didn’t touch her. There was no realization, no guilt. Instead, her eyes flared with a desperate, triumphant spark. “Oh? And the perfume? How do you explain that? Go ahead, defend him!” I opened my mouth, but the sheer exhaustion of the last six months stopped me. “People get in and out of his car all day,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Last week, his car smelled like takeout. Mom, please.” I tried to pull her up, but she clung to the armrest of the park bench with terrifying strength. Our struggle began to draw a crowd. Passersby slowed down, staring. “What is wrong with that girl? Yelling at her sick mother like that.” “I know, the poor woman looks like she has one foot in the grave.” Sensing the audience, my mother immediately leaned into her role. She slumped back against the bench, dabbing at her eyes, projecting her voice just enough for the onlookers to hear. “Don’t blame my daughter, everyone. It’s my husband. He’s the one doing this.” She sniffled, looking up with a perfectly practiced expression of tragic endurance. “I’m dying of cancer, and he’s still playing his little game, pretending we’re destitute. It’s a sham marriage. He’s trying to kill me.” The crowd gasped. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. “My God, what a monster.” “He’s literally letting his wife die to save a buck.” Listening to their outrage, my mother wept harder, but as she lowered her head, I saw the fleeting, smug curl of her lips. She was enjoying this. She had fully cast herself as the martyr of a tragic romance, basking in the sympathy of strangers and the twisted thrill of being “abused” by her fictional billionaire husband. A cold dread settled in my stomach. “Cynthia!” A voice cracked through the park like a gunshot. My dad pushed his way through the crowd. He was wearing his faded, plaster-stained work pants and a frayed t-shirt. His hair was dusty and graying, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. When he was young, my dad had been incredibly handsome—sharp jaw, striking eyes. It was the sole reason my mother had fallen for him so hard, and why she was now so stubbornly convinced he was a hidden prince. But the crushing weight of reality had bent his spine and carved deep lines into his face. He looked ten years older than his forty-five years. He was dripping with sweat, having run all the way from the job site. He had clearly heard her dramatic monologue. He was shaking with rage. “Are you out of your mind? Get back to the hospital right now!” He reached for her arm, but she shrieked and recoiled as if he were a monster. “Stop acting, Tom! I know the truth!” She pointed a trembling finger at him, her face a mask of tragic betrayal. “You’re doing this because of Jane! You’re punishing me because I broke the two of you up in college!” “I’m dying, Tom! And you still won’t drop the act?” She looked at me, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “And you… you brainwashed our daughter to lie for you, to help you torture me!” My dad closed his eyes, taking a long, ragged breath. “Cynthia, for the last time. I am a normal guy. We were barely middle class on our best days.” “We are completely broke because of your medical bills!” “And Jane? That was twenty years ago! I don’t even remember what she looks like!” My mother stood up abruptly, her eyes wild. “You’re lying!” she shrieked. “You even named our daughter after her! Her middle name is Jane!” 3. I felt a ridiculous, hollow sense of futility rise in my chest. “Mom, Grandma gave me my middle name!” I cried out, my voice cracking. Before she passed, my grandmother had told me a dozen times how she had spent days looking through family bibles to find a name she liked. How had that become proof of a decades-old romantic conspiracy? My dad stood there, his calloused hands hanging uselessly at his sides. “Even if it is,” his voice was hoarse, thick with a deep, bottomless fatigue. “What does that prove, Cynthia? If I had billions, would I be hauling concrete? Would I be driving twelve hours a night?” The onlookers, who had been glaring at my dad, looked closer. They saw his dirt-crusted work boots, his frayed clothes, and my faded, cheap t-shirt. They saw the raw, unpolished grief in our faces. The tide of sympathy began to shift. “He doesn’t look like a billionaire…” “Yeah, no CEO is going around smelling like wet cement.” Realizing she was losing her grip on her audience, my mother snapped. She lunged at my dad, grabbing the pocket of his cargo pants. With a loud rip, the fabric tore open. A sleek, silver watch tumbled out and landed in the grass. My mother gasped, snatching it up like a trophy. She held it high in the air, her face ecstatic. “You’re broke? Then explain this!” She looked manic, convinced she had finally uncovered his secret life. “This is a Patek Philippe! It’s a limited edition! It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars!” “How does a construction worker get something like this?” My dad’s face went white. He lunged to grab it back. “Don’t touch that! If you scratch it, we’re ruined!” His voice was shaking. “An Uber passenger left it in my back seat last night. He was drunk.” “I’m supposed to hand it in to the police precinct today. The guy called me through the app last night and promised a massive reward if I kept it safe.” He scrambled to pull out his phone. “Look, I have the call logs. I have the messages from the Uber app. I’ll show you!” He tried to unlock his cracked screen to show her. But she didn’t want to see it. She wanted the billionaire. She wanted the tragedy. “Smack.” She slapped the phone out of his hand. The cheap, old phone hit the concrete path. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of black lines, the display flickering before dying completely. “Keep lying!” She threw the luxury watch at his chest and covered her face, sobbing hysterically. “You’ll regret this! You will regret what you did to me!” She turned and fled into the crowded streets, disappearing before we could catch her. The onlookers slowly dispersed, leaving only my dad and me. My dad knelt down on the grass, his hands trembling as he wiped the dirt off the expensive watch. Then, he picked up his broken phone. “Dad…” The tears finally spilled over. “The doctor said… the donor marrow is a rare match.” “If we don’t check her in within forty-eight hours, they have to give it to the next patient on the list.” My dad’s hand froze over the broken screen. He kept his head down, but I saw a single, heavy tear slip from his cheek and splat onto the shattered glass. “We have to keep trying,” he whispered, his throat tight. “She’s your mother. It’s her life.” 4. I went back to my shifts at the upscale downtown restaurant. I wore the crisp, clean uniform, carried trays of expensive food, and smiled politely at wealthy couples. But inside, I felt like I was being boiled alive. Every chance I got, I hid in the staff bathroom to call my mother. I sent texts, voicemails, emails. I begged her, cried until I choked, swore to her on my life that we had no secret trust funds, no hidden estates. My dad barely slept. He ran between his shifts, checking every diner and park she frequented. He left her messages telling her he loved her, that he couldn’t live without her, even kneeling in the street at one point when he thought he saw someone who looked like her, begging her to come back. Finally, on the evening of the final deadline. She answered. “Fine,” she said, her voice dripping with the haughty condescension of a queen granting a pardon. “Since you’re begging so desperately, I’ll allow you to take me to the hospital.” My dad and I collapsed into each other’s arms, sobbing with relief. We thought the nightmare was over. The next morning, we took off work and gently guided her toward the hospital clinic. As the sliding glass doors drew near, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I thought we had finally made it to the other side. But right at the entrance, my mother stopped. She pulled out her phone and opened a live-streaming app. She aimed the camera directly at my dad and me. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes held a manic, feverish excitement. With people constantly streaming past us, she raised her voice, drawing a small crowd. My stomach dropped. “Mom, what are you doing? Put that away!” I lunged for the phone, but she dodged with surprising agility, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Don’t touch me!” Viewers began flooding into the live room, drawn by the public scene. She sobbed into the camera, her voice dripping with theatrical tragedy. “I have terminal leukemia, and my husband—who is actually a billionaire CEO—is pretending we are bankrupt to punish me!” “He wants me dead so he can bring back his first love!” “Today, I am going to make him admit the truth in front of all of you!” She spun around, glaring at my dad. “Tom! If you don’t admit who you are right now, and get down on your knees and apologize…” “I will not walk through those doors!” “I will let myself die, and my blood will be on your hands forever!” My dad froze, his lips trembling violently. He stared at the woman he had loved for twenty years, who now looked like an absolute stranger. The light in his eyes slowly, completely went out. “Cindy, please… stop this, I’m begging you…” His voice was a broken whisper, his knees buckling as if he were about to collapse onto the pavement. “The doctors are waiting. The marrow won’t keep!” “Don’t try to scare me with your lies!” she snapped. “Admit it, or I don’t go in.” Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. With shaking fingers, I pulled it out. It was a message from her primary oncologist. It was a single sentence, but it felt like a physical blow to my chest. “Becca, I am so sorry. Because you didn’t arrive, and the donor’s window has closed, the marrow has been reallocated to the next critical patient on the list.” The world spun. The sounds of the traffic and the crowd faded into a dull, underwater hum. Seeing my face, my dad snatched the phone from my hand. As his eyes scanned the text, he went entirely rigid. He stared at the screen, his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging in his neck as if his chest were about to burst. “No…” A guttural, primal scream tore from his throat. My mother flinched, startled by the sheer violence of his grief. My dad slowly turned his head to look at her. The desperation, the begging, the humility—all of it vanished from his face, replaced by a hollow, chilling emptiness. He wiped the sweat and tears from his face with the back of his hand. He looked at my mother, then at the camera lens she was holding up, and a terrible, exhausted smile crept onto his lips. “Fine,” he whispered, taking a step toward her. “You’re right.” He walked up to her, his eyes dead. “I’ve been lying the whole time.” “I’m a billionaire.”

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My wife, Rebecca, was a saint. Or at least, that’s what the internet called her. She made ten thousand dollars a month, and every single dime of it went straight to charity. Meanwhile, the mortgage, my in-laws’ mounting medical bills, and our son’s preschool tuition fell entirely on my shoulders. My own paycheck was stretched to its absolute limit, leaving us constantly on the brink. One night, drowning in bills, I finally tried to talk to her. “Could you maybe keep just a fraction of your salary this month? Just to help with the house?” Rebecca didn’t even look up from her phone. She scoffed, her voice dripping with irritation. “I work hard for my money, Sean. If I want to donate it, that’s my choice. Since when do you get to micro-manage my life?” My in-laws, sitting across the room, immediately chimed in. “Sean, you’re really in the wrong here,” my mother-in-law, Martha, said, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Our daughter is a renowned philanthropist. Instead of being proud, you’re trying to scheme for her money and ruin her reputation? How can a grown man be so selfish?” Even Toby, our five-year-old son, glared at me from the carpet. “Daddy is trying to stop Mommy from being a good person! Daddy is bad!” I looked at their united front, nodded slowly, and stopped arguing. The very next day, I accepted my company’s offer for a six-month, off-the-grid leadership training program at corporate headquarters. I wanted to see how this family of saints would survive without the selfish villain holding them up. … On payday, Rebecca came home from work and immediately posted on Instagram: “Thirty-five thousand dollars donated this month. Just doing my small part to make the world a better place. ” She had attached screenshots of her bank transfer and a digital certificate of appreciation from a prominent children’s foundation. She had donated her entire monthly salary along with her quarterly performance bonus. The comments section flooded with praise almost instantly. “You are an inspiration, Rebecca! Giving away your bonus too? A true angel.” “The world needs more selfless people like you. Sending so much love!” “An absolute saint.” Martha and her husband, George, were quick to double-tap and comment: “So proud of our incredible daughter!” I sighed, closed the app, and opened my budget spreadsheet. This month, Toby’s preschool tuition was due. I also had to pay for George’s cardiac medication, Martha’s diabetes supplies, the mortgage, and the credit card bill from last month’s groceries. Even if I poured every cent of my own paycheck into the account, we were still fifteen hundred dollars short. It was always like this. Every month at this exact time, the bills felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the air out of my lungs. I took a deep, shaky breath and looked over at Rebecca, who was still lounging on the sofa. She was scrolling through her feed, a small, self-satisfied smile playing on her lips as she bathed in the digital adoration. Hesitating, I finally spoke. “Rebecca, we need to talk.” “Go ahead,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving her screen. “There are too many expenses this month,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and gentle as possible. “Even with my entire paycheck, we’re fifteen hundred dollars short. Going forward, could you please stop donating literally everything? Just keep a small portion for the household?” Rebecca’s thumb froze on her screen. She slowly raised her head, looking at me as if I had just suggested something utterly monstrous. “I work forty hours a week for that money, Sean. What I do with it is my business. Since when do you get to control me?” “I’m not trying to control you,” I explained, fighting the rising panic in my throat. “I’m just asking you to contribute to your own home. Your dad’s heart condition requires constant maintenance, your mom needs her insulin, Toby has school, and we have a mortgage. The cost of living is too high for one person to carry alone.” Rebecca let out a cold, mocking laugh. “If you can’t afford it, maybe you should work harder.” “What?” “If I keep my money for myself, my reputation is ruined,” she said, entirely serious. “The only reason people respect me is because I give everything away. Why should I compromise my calling just because you want to be lazy?” I stared at her, completely speechless. To keep this family afloat, I routinely worked sixty-hour weeks. I hadn’t slept a full eight hours in years. I worked through migraines, through fevers, terrified of what would happen if I took a single sick day. I had sacrificed my health, my hobbies, and my peace of mind, only for my wife to tell me I was lazy. Before I could find my voice, the guest bedroom door clicked open. George and Martha walked into the living room. They had clearly been listening. “Sean, Martha is right,” George said, crossing his arms. “I’ve never met a man so incredibly selfish. Rebecca has worked so hard to build her platform as a philanthropist. Asking her to keep money for the house is practically sabotaging her name. You should be supporting her, not dragging her down over a few dollars.” “George is right,” Martha added, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re just using our health as an excuse because you’re tired of working. We can manage our own health. You’re just being dramatic.” “Martha, George,” I stammered, my chest aching. “Rebecca is a part of this family. I’m not asking for myself. George, your imported heart medication is six hundred dollars a bottle. Martha, your insulin is almost out. If I don’t have the money, I literally cannot buy them for you.” “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” George snapped. “Stop using us to guilt-trip our daughter. It’s pathetic.” Watching the three of them stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down at me like I was a parasite, felt like a physical blow. The fog in my mind suddenly cleared, leaving behind a sharp, cold reality. When Rebecca and I first married, she had cried, saying she couldn’t bear to leave her aging, ailing parents behind in their small hometown. Out of love for her, I had agreed to let them move in with us. For years, while Rebecca spent her weekends at charity galas and volunteer drives, I was the one driving her parents to doctor appointments, managing their prescriptions, and rushing back to the office during my lunch breaks to make up for lost time. Back then, Martha would squeeze my hand and say, “Sean, Rebecca has her head in the clouds with her charity work, but you’re the anchor. We’d be lost without you.” George would pat my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Sean. If Rebecca ever treats you unfairly, you come to us. We’ve got your back.” And Rebecca used to hold me close at night, whispering, “I am the luckiest woman in the world to have married someone so supportive. I promise I’ll make all your hard work up to you, babe.” They had sounded so sincere. And I had believed them. I had carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, telling myself that they appreciated it, that they loved me, and that eventually, once Rebecca’s charity foundation was established, she would step back and share the load. But standing there in the living room, I realized how incredibly foolish I had been. Their gratitude was nothing but a transactional performance. They didn’t want a husband or a son-in-law; they wanted a silent, compliant beast of burden. As long as I paid the bills, took care of the chores, and never complained, I was a saint by extension. But the moment I asked for help, the moment I showed weakness, I became the villain. “Daddy is a bad guy! I hate Daddy!” Toby ran over from the balcony, his small face contorted with anger. He threw his arms around Rebecca’s legs, refusing to look at me. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. I had raised this boy. Because Rebecca was always busy with her charity, I was the one who fed him, bathed him, and stayed up with him when he had night terrors. I knelt down, trying to meet his eyes. “Toby, why would you say that?” “My teachers and friends say Mommy is a hero because she helps poor people,” Toby yelled, pointing a tiny finger at me. “You’re trying to stop her! You’re a bad guy! Go away!” Rebecca smiled, a look of pure triumph washing over her face. She smoothed Toby’s hair and looked up at me, her chin tilted high. “See? Even a five-year-old understands basic morality, Sean. You really need to look in the mirror. All you care about is money. It’s honestly embarrassing.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I stood up, looked at Rebecca, and asked one final time, “So, you are absolutely refusing to contribute even a single dollar to this household?” Martha’s insulin was empty. George’s heart medication was down to the last three pills. Toby’s tuition was overdue. My bank account was at zero. “Since you’re so obsessed with my money,” Rebecca said, her eyes flashing with disdain, “I’ll make sure you never have to ask again.” She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen rapidly for a few moments, and then turned the screen toward me. “There. I just linked my direct deposit permanently to the foundation’s trust account. It’s a locked agreement. I can’t change it for the next three years. My salary will go directly to charity before it ever touches a personal account. You can officially give up on trying to leech off of me.” Martha clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Rebecca, that is wonderful! A true commitment to the cause!” George nodded proudly. “Well done, sweetheart. Unlike some people who only care about pennies, you have a grand vision. Some people are just destined to stay small-minded.” “Mommy is the best!” Toby cheered. They stood there, a perfect, righteous family, looking at me with nothing but disgust. It was almost comical. Rebecca, who had contributed absolutely nothing to the daily survival of this household, was their savior. I, who had bled myself dry for them, was the enemy. “Okay,” I said quietly. “If that’s what you want, I hope you can maintain it.” Rebecca frowned, slightly thrown by my lack of anger. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason. It’s a privilege to be married to someone like me. If we’re short on cash, just pick up some freelance work or put in some overtime. Stop being so lazy.” I smiled, turned around, and walked into the bedroom. I pulled out my phone. Three days ago, my regional director, Mr. Evans, had sent me a text: “Sean, there’s an opening for a six-month intensive leadership training program at our corporate headquarters in Chicago. It’s fully paid, and upon completion, you’ll be promoted to Regional Director with a major salary bump. I know you work incredibly hard, and the board agrees you’re the perfect candidate. What do you think?” I had replied: “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but my in-laws are in poor health and my son is still very young. I don’t think I can leave my family for that long.” The program was fully closed—six months of intense, isolated study with no personal phones, no internet, and no outside contact allowed. I had worried that without me, the house would fall apart. I had worried about George’s medicine, Martha’s checkups, and Toby’s school. What a fool I had been. I opened the chat and typed a quick reply: “Mr. Evans, I’ve reconsidered. I would love to take the opportunity. When do I start?” His response came almost instantly: “Fantastic! I was hoping you’d say yes. The flight leaves tomorrow morning. I’ll have HR send over the paperwork tonight.” The next morning, before the sun had even risen, I packed a single suitcase. While my wife and her parents were still fast asleep, I slipped out of the house, got into an Uber, and headed to the airport. By the time my flight landed in Chicago, it was mid-afternoon. The moment I turned on my phone, a deluge of missed calls and frantic texts from Rebecca flooded the screen: “Sean, where are you?” “My parents’ prescriptions are empty and they’re feeling dizzy. Get back here and buy them now!” “The preschool called. Today is the absolute final deadline for Toby’s tuition. If we don’t pay by five o’clock, they’re going to expel him!”

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At my sister’s wedding, I fell in love with her bridesmaid the second I saw her. I blew through three thousand dollars in a single month trying to win her over. When I finally asked her to be my girlfriend, she said yes. I thought I’d struck gold. I bragged about her to anyone who would listen. Then, I started my internship at my sister’s company. And I watched my sister—the most stubborn, iron-willed woman I knew—bow her head and hand her a folder with absolute deference. She walked over, coffee in hand, and arched an eyebrow at me. “Hey, intern. Your paycheck this month—should we deposit it into your account, or mine?” I froze. 01 On the day of my sister Lauren’s wedding, I was stationed by the entrance of the venue, handing out custom favor boxes to the guests. A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and a girl stepped out of the back seat. She was wearing a lavender bridesmaid dress. Her hair was swept up in a loose twist, exposing the delicate line of her neck. As she gathered her skirt to step over the threshold, she looked back. Just a quick glance. But that was all it took. The favor box in my hand slipped and crashed to the floor. My mom, standing right next to me, smacked the back of my head. “Pick it up. Stop embarrassing us.” I knelt down to gather the scattered boxes, my chest hammering in a rhythm that felt entirely wrong. Before the ceremony started, I cornered Lauren in the bridal suite. “Who’s that bridesmaid?” Lauren was touching up her lipstick. She glanced at me through the vanity mirror. “Which one?” “The one in the lavender dress. Short hair, up-do.” “Maeve.” “What does she do?” Lauren capped her lipstick. There was a brief, deliberate pause. “She’s a colleague of mine.” “Does she have a boyfriend?” Lauren turned around to face me. I still remember her expression. It wasn’t the look a sister gives a younger brother. It was the look you give someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re getting themselves into. But she didn’t say any of that. She just muttered, “I don’t know. Ask her yourself.” During the ceremony and the reception, I barely looked at the altar or the head table. I was sitting in the third row, two tables away from the bridal party, my eyes locked on Maeve. She sat perfectly straight. She barely touched her food, occasionally lifting her glass for a polite sip. When the person next to her spoke, she offered a faint, elegant smile but didn’t lean into the conversation. My mom nudged my elbow. “Eat something.” “I’m not hungry.” “If you’re not hungry, why are your eyes glued to that table?” I ignored her. When it was time for toasts and table visits, I grabbed a glass of champagne and navigated my way across the crowded room, making a beeline for the bridesmaids’ table. I raised my glass. “Hey, ladies. I’m Luke, Lauren’s brother. Thanks so much for being here today.” The other bridesmaids smiled and clinked their glasses with mine. Maeve was the last to raise hers. She looked at me, holding her glass near her lips for a second. “Your sister looks beautiful today.” “She looks beautiful every day.” She let out a soft laugh, said nothing, and took a sip. My heart did a violent flutter. Near the end of the reception, I waited for her in the hallway. When Maeve finally walked out, she had changed into a crisp white shirt and black trousers, carrying her bridesmaid dress in a garment bag. I stepped into her path. “Can I get your Instagram?” She stopped, studying me. “How old are you?” “Twenty-two. Senior in college.” “I’m older than you.” “By how much?” “Guess.” “Twenty-four?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out her phone, opened her Instagram QR code, and held it out. Once I scanned it, she tucked her phone away and stepped past me. As she brushed by, she said, “Make sure you DM me your name. I don’t keep random accounts.” I stood in the hallway, watching her walk away until she disappeared into the elevator. My phone buzzed. She had accepted my request. I sent my first message: I’m Luke, the guy who did the awkward toast earlier. Lauren’s brother. She replied with three words: Got it, Luke. I stared at those three words for five solid minutes. My mom walked up from behind. “Come on. Your dad had too much to drink. Help me carry him.” I slipped my phone into my pocket and went to help her. On the way to the car, my dad draped a heavy arm over my shoulder, his speech slurred. “Your sister is married now. You’re next, bud.” I smiled. “Working on it.” My dad blinked, and my mom stared at me in surprise. I didn’t offer any explanation. That night, lying in bed, I scrolled through her Instagram page over and over. She only had three posts. All landscapes—no selfies, no location tags. It was too clean, almost sterile for a girl her age. At the time, I thought, Man, she’s so cool. Looking back, it wasn’t about being cool. She was just someone who didn’t need to curate an online persona. Because her real-life persona was far too large to fit into a feed. It existed elsewhere. 02 After we connected, I sent her a “Good morning” text every single day. For the first three days, she ignored me. On the fourth day, she replied: Hey. On the fifth, I sent her a photo of my sad attempt at breakfast—two severely burnt fried eggs. I captioned it: See? I can’t even handle eggs, let alone someone like you. She replied with a single word: Ha. Just one syllable. But it made me jump out of bed with a grin. After that, I went all in. During the first week, I ordered a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to her office building. I had no idea what floor she worked on, so I just put her name on the card and told the florist to leave it at the reception desk. That evening, she messaged me: Got the flowers. I replied: Are they pretty? She said: They’re fine. Left them at reception. Everyone saw them. I teased: Even better. Now everyone knows someone is chasing you. It took her a long time to reply to that one. You’re bolder than you look. By the second week, I asked her out to dinner. It took three attempts before she finally agreed. She picked the spot—a quiet, upscale sushi restaurant inside a downtown shopping center. I showed up thirty minutes early, memorized the menu, and mentally prepared myself for the prices. When she arrived, she was wearing a tailored grey coat. She slipped off her scarf and draped it over the back of her chair with effortless grace. “Grey looks good on you,” I said, trying to sound casual. She picked up her menu. “Let’s order.” She didn’t talk much during dinner. She listened to me ramble, offering occasional nods or short comments. But her timing was always perfect. She never made me feel like she was tuning me out, yet she didn’t seem overly enthusiastic either. She kept me at an exact, calculated distance. When the bill came, I practically snatched it. Two hundred dollars. My monthly budget as a student was only six hundred. She watched me pay, making no move to stop me. As we walked out, she said, “You don’t need to choose places like this. It’s unnecessary.” “I’m chasing you,” I said. “Since when does a guy worry about the budget?” She paused under the streetlights outside the mall. She looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t the polite smile from the wedding. This one had a different edge to it—something quieter, more deliberate. I couldn’t quite place it. In the third week, I bought her a gift. A designer scarf I spent two days picking out online. It cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. She sent me a photo when she received it. The scarf was neatly folded on her desk. I noticed how incredibly sparse her desk was—just a sleek laptop and a simple mug. No photos, no knick-knacks, no personal touches. I messaged: Your desk is so empty. Let me buy you a little desk plant or a cute ornament. She replied: No need. I don’t like clutter. In the fourth week, I confessed. It was eight o’clock on a freezing Tuesday evening outside her office building. I knew she was working late, so I waited by the entrance for over two hours. I stood there, clutching a massive bouquet of red roses, shivering uncontrollably. When she finally walked through the glass doors, she froze. “Luke?” “Maeve, I really like you.” “How long have you been standing out here?” “It doesn’t matter. I just need an answer.” She looked at the roses, then up at my face. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her eyes, but she didn’t brush it away. “Okay,” she said. Just one word. It took me a solid two seconds to process it. “Did you say okay?” “Your hearing is fine, Luke.” “Seriously?” “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” I stood there, my mind erupting like a fireworks show. I handed her the flowers. She took them, leaning down to take a soft breath of their scent. Then she looked back up. “Come on. Walk me to my car.” As we walked side by side, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. And it wasn’t from the cold. From that day on, I told everyone. When my roommate, Kyle, asked what I was doing for the weekend, I told him I was spending it with my girlfriend. When my mom called, I proudly announced I was in a relationship. In the background, my dad shouted, “Bring her over for dinner!” When Lauren called to check in on me, I couldn’t wait to tell her. “I’m dating your colleague.” Silence stretched over the line for three full seconds. “Which colleague?” “Maeve. Your bridesmaid.” Another three seconds of absolute silence. “Are you serious, Luke?” “Of course I’m serious. I spent a whole month chasing her.” Lauren sighed. “Luke, listen to me.” “What?” “Do you actually know anything about her?” I laughed. “Lauren, come on. She’s your coworker—how could she be a mystery? She’s great. Sweet, elegant, down-to-earth.” Lauren didn’t reply right away. After a long pause, she said, “Fine. Do whatever you want.” I hung up and brushed it off. I figured it was just the classic overprotective sister act—feeling the need to vet anyone I brought into my life. When I went out with my friends, I pulled out my phone to show them her picture. “Holy crap, Luke. Where did you find her?” “Met her at Lauren’s wedding. Took me a month, but I won her over.” “She looks so classy. What does she do?” “Just a regular corporate job. She works with my sister.” “Lucky bastard.” I put my phone away, feeling an immense wave of pride wash over me. Since my senior year classes were light, I managed to see her at least three times a week. Over that first month, between dinners, flowers, and gifts, I blew through nearly three thousand dollars. It was almost everything I had saved from my summer job, but I didn’t care. I felt like I had somehow managed to punch way above my weight class. It gave me a swagger I’d never had before. 03 Shortly after we made things official, I suggested she meet my parents. She thought about it for a moment, then agreed. That weekend, I brought her home for Sunday dinner. My mom had started preparing two days in advance, cooking a massive spread and even putting out her best tablecloth. My dad dragged his finest button-down shirt out from the back of the closet and meticulously combed his hair. When Maeve arrived, she was carrying a beautifully packaged box of artisanal teas. She greeted my parents warmly the moment she stepped through the door. My mom immediately took her hands. “Oh, sweetheart, you are absolutely gorgeous.” “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Miller. You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all! Eat as much as you like, make yourself right at home.” During dinner, Maeve was perfect. She accepted whatever food my mom offered, listened intently when my dad spoke, and smiled at all the right moments. She wasn’t overly eager to please, yet she wasn’t distant either. She balanced perfectly on the line of polite warmth. My dad, after a couple of beers, started asking questions. “So, Maeve, what do you do for work?” “I’m in corporate,” she said smoothly. “Mainly management-related stuff.” “Management is great. Stable career path.” “It has its moments. It keeps me busy.” My mom chimed in, “Do you work a lot of overtime?” “Sometimes.” “Well, make sure you take care of yourself.” Throughout the entire meal, Lauren barely said a word. She sat across from us, staring down at her plate, moving her fork around without actually eating much. I nudged her foot under the table. “Lauren, why so quiet?” She looked up at me, then glanced over at Maeve. Maeve happened to be looking right back at her. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second. Lauren immediately looked down, stuffing a roasted potato into her mouth. Maeve took a calm sip of water, her face completely expressionless. For a brief second, the air in the room felt thick and strange. But I brushed it off. After dinner, while my mom pulled Maeve into the living room to chat, I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. Lauren slipped in right behind me. She shut the door quietly and lowered her voice. “Luke.” “What?” “Are you really planning on staying with her?” “Duh. I brought her home, didn’t I?” “Do you have any idea what her position is at the company?” I wiped down a plate. “You said she was your colleague, didn’t you?” Lauren stared at me. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but she hesitated and shut it. “What? Just say it.” “I can’t.” “What do you mean you can’t?” “I just can’t,” she whispered, stepping closer. “But I’ll tell you this much: the money you’ve been spending on her? To her, it’s pocket change. It means absolutely nothing.” I set the plate down. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Nothing. I just want you to be prepared.” “Prepared for what?” Lauren looked at me, her eyes suddenly shining with unshed tears. “I’m just afraid you won’t be able to handle it when you find out.” I thought she was being completely ridiculous. “Are you just jealous that my girlfriend is prettier than anyone you’ve ever dated?” I shot back. Lauren choked on her words, looking at me as if I’d slapped her. She stared at me for five agonizing seconds, then turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Later that night, I walked Maeve down to her car. As we reached the street, she asked quietly, “Did Lauren say something to you?” “No, she’s just overcomplicating things like she always does.” “What did she say?” “It doesn’t matter. I know how to make my own judgments.” Maeve stopped and looked back at me. Under the dim streetlights, her expression was hard to read. “Luke, what would you do if you found out one day that I’m not who you think I am?” “What do you mean by that?” “Just what I said.” “You’re you. No matter what, I spent a month chasing you. It’s not like I can return you for a refund now.” She let out a soft laugh, but there was a weight to it. It wasn’t happy, nor was it sad. It felt like some form of quiet confirmation. “Okay. Remember that.” She got into her car and rolled down the window a crack. “You start your internship next month, right?” “Yeah, Lauren helped me get a spot at her company.” “Right. I know.” The window rolled up, and she pulled away. Standing on the curb, I felt a slight chill. Her last words—”I know”—felt a bit odd. How did she know about my internship? I hadn’t mentioned it to her yet. I pulled out my phone to text her, but deleted the draft before sending it. Whatever, I thought. Lauren probably mentioned it to her at work. They are colleagues, after all. I shoved my phone into my pocket and walked back inside. The night air was crisp, but my chest felt warm. I was already looking forward to next month, imagining how great it would be to see her every day, get lunch together, and walk out of the office hand-in-hand. I had no idea that the moment I stepped into that building, every single thing I thought I knew about her would be utterly shattered. 04 On my first day of the internship, I wore a brand-new white button-down. I adjusted my collar three times in front of the mirror. My mom called out from the living room, “Seriously? It’s just an internship, not a blind date.” “My girlfriend works there. I have to look respectable.” My mom chuckled but dropped it. Lauren left thirty minutes before me. As she was putting on her shoes at the front door, I walked out of my room. She looked up at me, her expression unusually tense. “When you get to the office today, keep your head down. Don’t wander around, and don’t say anything stupid.” “I’m not a kid, Lauren.” “I’m serious, Luke.” Her tone was off. It wasn’t the usual bossy nagging of an older sister. It was a plea, heavy and desperate. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” I shrugged it off. I arrived at the building at nine. It was a sleek, modern high-rise with glass walls, the lobby buzzing with people in sharp business suits. I checked in at reception, and an HR coordinator escorted me up to the twelfth floor. My internship was in the marketing department, and my cubicle was at the very end of the hall, right next to a window. My supervisor, Greg, was in his early thirties, wore glasses, and spoke at a rapid-fire pace. “Your sister is on the fifteenth floor in accounting,” Greg said. “Keep your visits to her to a minimum. We don’t want anyone whispering about favoritism.” “Got it, Greg.” “Just get settled today. We don’t have much for you yet, so just read through these training materials.” I sat down and flipped through the documents for half an hour, but my mind was miles away. I was wondering which floor Maeve was on. Since she was in management, she had to be in this building somewhere. I pulled out my phone and texted her: I’m here! What floor are you on? She didn’t reply. At ten-thirty, Greg asked me to go up to the fifteenth floor to grab a budget sheet from my sister. I took the elevator up. The accounting department was on the left side of the hall, the doors wide open. Lauren’s desk was near the back of the room. She was typing furiously. I walked over and tapped on her desk. “Hey. Greg sent me for the budget sheet.” Lauren looked up, her face pale. She grabbed a folder from her drawer and shoved it toward me. “Take it and go.” “What’s the rush?” “Just leave, Luke.” Her eyes kept darting toward the end of the hallway. Frowning, I turned to look. At the far end of the floor was a spacious corner office. The door was shut, and the blinds were drawn halfway. “Whose office is that?” Lauren shot up from her chair, grabbed my arm, and began pushing me toward the exit. “Stop looking. Go back to your desk.” “What are you doing? Stop pushing me.” “Luke, please,” she whispered, her voice visibly trembling. “Just go.” She pushed me all the way to the elevators, and when the doors slid open, she practically shoved me inside. “Don’t come looking for me at lunch. I’ll find you.” The elevator doors slid shut. I stood inside, clutching the folder, my mind reeling. That wasn’t just typical sisterly irritation. It was fear. What on earth was she so afraid of? Lunchtime came and went, but Lauren never showed up. I sat at my desk eating a takeout sandwich when my phone buzzed. It was a text from her: There’s an all-hands meeting at two. Just follow Greg and keep your mouth shut. I replied: What kind of meeting? No response. At two o’clock, Greg led me up to the eighteenth floor and into a massive conference room. There was a long mahogany table, a projector screen, and about twenty-five people already seated. I slipped into a chair in the back corner. Greg leaned over and whispered, “Quarterly review. Every department is here. Just listen and take notes.” “Who’s running it?” “The VP.” The meeting began. The first few departments took turns presenting their slides, reciting numbers and throwing up complicated charts. I understood about half of it, and my eyelids were already growing heavy. Then, the heavy double doors of the conference room swung open. A sudden, absolute silence fell over the room. A woman walked in, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a black leather folder in the other. She wore a crisp white blouse. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and her stride was measured, confident. The sharp click of her heels echoed against the hardwood floor, cutting through the silence. She walked straight to the head of the long table, set down her coffee, and flipped open her folder. I froze, paralyzed in my seat.

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