There’s a trend circulating on TikTok right now about “Radical Claiming.” The gist is simple: if you want something, you don’t work for it, you don’t wait for it—you just claim it. You simply become the person who already has it. It sounded insane. It sounded perfect. So, fueled by a dangerous amount of tequila and the kind of delusion that only strikes after midnight, I stormed into the sprawling estate of my boss, Declan Graves. “Honey, I’m home!” I announced, my voice echoing off the marble foyer. In the living room, Declan’s hand froze mid-air, a file folder hovering over the coffee table. The silence was heavy, thick enough to choke on. It felt eerie. A few agonizing seconds ticked by. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes. There was no shock. No confusion. He simply looked at me, then extended a hand and patted the empty cushion beside him on the leather sofa. “Mhm. Come here.” 1 There was no outrage. He didn’t call me a psycho. He didn’t summon security to drag my intoxicated carcass out to the curb. His tone was flat, practiced, and laced with something that sounded suspiciously like… amusement? It was as if I really was his wife, returning home late from a girls’ night out. Was the man possessed? Or was he playing some twisted 4D chess with me? I froze in the doorway, my brain turning into a slush pile of static. Truth be told, I had regretted this the moment I stepped onto the tree-lined driveway of his exclusive gated community. Watching TikToks in your pajamas is one thing; breaking and entering your CEO’s mansion is a felony—or at least a career-ending move. Was I going to have a job tomorrow? Was I going to have a life tomorrow? The closer I had gotten to Declan’s fortress, the louder the drums of retreat beat in my chest. But alcohol is a hell of a distinct courage, and I was drowning in it. When I first saw that video, I immediately forwarded it to my best friend, Tracy. “Worried about not getting into that gallery show?” I’d texted. “Just curate your own show. Be the artist. Why suffer through the process?” “Tracy! This ‘Radical Claiming’ thing is genius! Look at this! Why are you still struggling with sketches? Just act like the famous artist you are!” On the FaceTime call, Tracy was furiously sketching, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “Harper, are you high? If you believe this trash, why are you still pining from the shadows? Just go marry Declan. Call him ‘Husband’ and be done with it.” She continued, ruthless. “You’ve been in love with him for nine years. High school, college, and now you follow him to his company, yet you don’t even have the guts to say ‘good morning’ in the elevator? You are the definition of a coward.” “Don’t talk to me about Radical Claiming. You’re radically pathetic!” Tracy’s verbal assault triggered something deep in my rebellious, tequila-soaked soul. I slammed my hand on my dining table. “Who are you calling a coward?” I roared at my phone. “I’ll go call him ‘Husband’ right now! Watch me!” Tracy thought I was bluffing. Until she saw me change into a dress, hail an Uber, and actually leave my apartment. Instead of stopping me, she laughed maniacally. “Go get ’em, Harper! If you’re gonna crash and burn, make it spectacular! Don’t come back until you’ve embarrassed yourself thoroughly!” The Uber dropped me off at Kingswood Estate. I brazenly lied to the security guard at the gate. “Hey, I’m here to see Mr. Graves. I’m his assistant, dropped off files earlier, remember?” The guard called Declan. And miraculously, the gate opened. Walking up that long driveway lined with manicured topiaries, the cold wind sobered me up just enough to realize the magnitude of my idiocy. Tracy, watching via video call, sensed my hesitation. “I knew it. Knees shaking? Want me to teach you how to ring a doorbell?” She pitched her voice high and mocking. “‘Hi Mr. Graves, I’m the loser from Operations, I got lost in your yard, can you drive me home?’” Her impression of me was humiliatingly accurate. I flushed crimson. “Shut up! Don’t you dare bring that up!” I hissed. “One more word and I hang up!” 2 The incident Tracy was referencing—the “getting lost” debacle—was the tragic climax of my first attempt to confess to Declan, right before high school graduation. Declan Graves had transferred to our school sophomore year. I remember the day he arrived. He stood at the front of the class in a simple white T-shirt, introducing himself. He wasn’t handsome in a loud, aggressive way. He was striking—clean lines, a cold detachment, skin pale against ink-black brows. He looked like a marble statue that had decided to tolerate being human for a while. He was my exact type. After class, I whispered to Tracy that I believed in love at first sight. Tracy, chewing on a Twizzler, scoffed. “With that face? half the school is in love at first sight.” “It’s not like that. I’m not superficial. It’s his aura. His… vibe.” “Vibe?” Tracy gagged. “Please. If a hotter guy walks in tomorrow, you’ll have a new ‘vibe’.” I disagreed. The football captain was hot. The valedictorian was cute. I felt nothing for them. They lacked… soul. I didn’t know what Declan’s soul looked like, but I unilaterally decided it matched mine. I lectured Tracy on her shallowness, only to be humbled by reality the very next day. Walking home, I saw him again. And I fell all over again. I didn’t even see his face at first. He was crouched by a flowerbed, feeding a stray cat a piece of ham from his sandwich. He was in profile, the setting sun outlining the sharp, lean line of his back. The wind caught his hair, and for a second, surrounded by the golden hour haze, he seemed to glow. The noise of traffic, the chatter of pedestrians—it all faded. My world narrowed down to him, the cat, and the golden light. 3 I gripped Tracy’s arm so hard my nails left crescents in her skin. “I take it back.” “You were right. I’m superficial. I’m weak.” “Tracy, I’m done for. I’m in love again.” Tracy slapped my hand away. “Are you blind? That’s still Declan.” Declan must have heard the commotion because he looked up. His eyes, turned amber by the sunset, locked onto mine. My heart skipped a beat, then stumbled, then started sprinting. That was the moment. The beginning of a nine-year, earth-shattering, absolutely cowardly crush. It wasn’t that I never tried to tell him. Before college applications were due, I gathered every ounce of courage I possessed and stalked outside his classroom. We were academically close—I was only a few ranks behind him. I wanted to ask where he was applying. Maybe we could go to the same university. I paced outside his door for five minutes, unable to cross the threshold. His classmates watched me like I was a zoo exhibit. “Isn’t that Harper from Class 3? You need something?” “I—I—” Stared down by twenty people, my tongue turned to felt. “Nothing!” I stomped my foot and turned to flee. “Harper.” The voice was cool, clear, and stopped me dead. A shiver ran from my scalp to my heels. I couldn’t turn around. I just stared at the floor. The afternoon sun stretched our shadows long, overlapping them on the linoleum. I heard his footsteps. He walked until he was in front of me. His shadow swallowed mine. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. 4 “Harper, you did well on the mock exams,” Declan said. His voice, usually so distant, held a rare warmth. “Keep it up.” He didn’t wait for a response. He started to walk past me. “Declan!” I shouted his name before my brain could stop my mouth. He paused, turning sideways, his gaze landing on my face with a quiet inquiry. Under that focused attention, the speech I had rehearsed a thousand times evaporated. Panic, like a pair of giant hands, crumpled my brain into a paper ball. My face was burning. My ears were ringing. The hallway had gone quiet. Heads poked out of doorways. In that suffocating silence, my mind flatlined. “I… I…” I stammered, my eyes darting frantically around the hallway until they landed on the sign for Room 7. “Where is… where is my classroom again? I think… I think I’m lost.” Silence. Then, an eruption of laughter. “Harper? You’ve been here three years and you don’t know where Class 3 is?” “Did she study so hard she lobotomized herself?” “Go straight and turn right, genius!” What am I saying? Just kill me. Take me now, Lord. I didn’t wait for Declan to answer. I sprinted away, arms pumping. By the time I collapsed in my chair, the rumor that I had “studied myself stupid” had beaten me there. Tracy grabbed my arm, eyes wide. “Did you hear? Some girl had a mental break and forgot where her class was. Senior year is brutal.” I was too humiliated to correct her. But when she found out the “mental patient” was me, she laughed until she cried. “Lost? You went to confess your undying love and you told him you were lost?” “Sorry, Mr. Graves, I’m just a directional idiot,” Tracy mocked me now through the phone, pulling me back to the present. “I couldn’t find my classroom then, and now I can’t find the exit to your gated community!” I pointed the camera at the massive, carved mahogany doors of Declan’s villa. “Shut up! Look with your judgy eyes. I am at his front door!” 5 Because security had called ahead, the heavy doors were already unlatched, slightly ajar. Like a silent invitation. Or a trap. I gripped my phone, inhaled a lungful of cold night air, and stepped inside. Tracy snorted in my ear. “Big deal. You got to his classroom door once, too. Remember how that ended? You have the courage of a ham sandwich. Even if I threw you into his bed, you’d probably apologize and say you were sleepwalking. I know you.” “If you actually call him ‘Husband’ to his face, I will buy every single item in your Sephora cart. I’ll call you Big Sister. I’ll call you Queen. I’ll call you Grandma.” “Deal,” I whispered. I was in the foyer. I panned the camera to the living room so Tracy could see him. There he was, sitting on a black leather sofa under a crystal chandelier, looking like a spread in Architectural Digest. I stared at his back. I channeled my inner “Radical Claiming” energy. I yelled: “Honey, I’m home!” Then I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for death. Silence. Absolute silence. After a moment, I peeled one eye open. Declan was looking at me. He sat in the center of the room, the warm light softening the sharp angles of his face. He stared at me for a few beats, then closed his file. He patted the seat next to him. “Mhm.” “Come here.” Mhm? Mhm what? Did he just agree to the “Honey” part? And come where? To sit? My brain made a loud clunk noise and shut down. My mouth hung open. My hand spasmed, and my phone slipped, hitting the expensive Persian rug with a muffled thud. 6 I stumbled back, grabbing the doorframe for support. The cold metal against my palm shocked a little clarity back into my system. I studied him. He was wearing dark grey cashmere loungewear. The top button was undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and a hint of collarbone. It was casual, yet on him, it looked like a uniform. Rigid. Controlled. But his eyes… there was something in his eyes that broke the rules. The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Harper. Come here.” His voice was softer this time, lighter, yet commanded obedience. I rarely saw this version of Declan. I’d been working at Graves Corp for two years. I saw him often enough, but he was always the distant CEO. Even colleagues would ask, “Hey, weren’t you guys classmates? Why does it seem like you’re strangers?” I’d just smile bitterly. “He went abroad a month into college. We barely knew each other. I doubt he even remembers my name.” For three years of high school, I studied until my eyes bled just to be in the same exam halls as him. I found out where he was going to university and followed him to this city. But he transferred to a school in London a month into freshman year. I didn’t even get a chance to “accidentally” bump into him on the quad. He was busy. He never posted on social media. I lived off the scraps of information I could glean from his rare profile picture updates. I had almost given up when Tracy told me he was back. “Huge news! Declan Graves is actually rich rich. Like, Graves Corporation rich. Apparently, there was some drama with his dad’s mistress pushing him and his mom out, which is why they were in our town. But now? He’s back to claim the throne.” I didn’t care about the throne. I pulled my application to Graves Corp out of the trash and shredded my other offers. 7 Two years as his subordinate. Still no confession. Tracy called me pathetic. But I knew the truth: I was terrified. The distance between us was a thin sheet of paper, but if I poked a hole in it, I might lose the right to even look at him. Unrequited love is a gamble where you hold your chips for nine years because you’re too scared to put them on the table. Until now. I looked into the warm light of the living room. Declan leaned back, one arm draped over the sofa, looking relaxed yet powerful. His other hand was still patting the cushion. A silent invitation. A gravitational pull I couldn’t fight. Why not? I thought. I already called him Honey. I’m getting fired tomorrow anyway. I clenched my fists, steeled my heart, and walked toward him. If I’m going down, I’m going down in flames. I reached the sofa and didn’t just sit. I flopped down, pressed my body against his side, and wrapped my arms tightly around his arm. “Husband… it’s so cold outside.”

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I was dead broke, which is how I ended up taking a job as a professional punching bag. Before I agreed to show up, I texted the broker, my fingers hovering hesitantly over the screen: Is his temper really that bad? His reply was grim: It’s off the charts. Unhinged. So, I showed up to the location armed with oversized sunglasses, a black face mask, and a baseball cap pulled low, fully prepared to get screamed at for cash. Then I walked on set and saw the director. It was my gentle, kind-hearted, flawlessly perfect ex-boyfriend. 1 “That’s him?” My voice betrayed a slight tremble. The man standing next to me crossed his arms, following my gaze to the director’s chair. “Yep.” Max shot me a sideways glance, his brow furrowing at my ridiculous getup. “Is all the spy gear really necessary?” I gritted my teeth behind the mask. “Getting screamed at in public is humiliating.” Thank God I had the foresight to come fully disguised. No matter how high the hourly rate was, there was absolutely no way in hell I was taking a job where my ex-boyfriend got to hurl insults at me. “Fair enough,” Max sighed. “I’m going to place you as his personal assistant. Just survive a month. Deal?” A few yards away, the man slouched in his canvas chair, exuding an aura of bored hostility. In just the five minutes we’d been standing there, three different crew members had approached him, only to scurry away with ashen, teary faces. “He’s relatively calm right now,” Max whispered, trying to be helpful. “He’s tired from yelling.” I stared in disbelief. “Is he really that much of a monster?” Max just chuckled darkly. “Follow me.” As we approached, that cold, piercing gaze finally shifted our way. Carter Kensington’s jaw was locked. His lips pressed into a thin, cruel line as he stared down Max. “What is this, Max? Still holding a grudge against me, so you brought a burglar on set to steal my equipment?” I froze. A burglar? Sure, I was wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a mask, but a burglar? Really?! “No, no, man,” Max laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is your new PA.” I took a tentative step forward. Carter’s eyes swept over me like a physical blow. “I can’t even tell if this is a man, a woman, a human, or a ghost. And you want to make it my assistant? What is this, a halfway house?” “…” I swallowed hard and pitched my voice up, forcing a nasally, unnatural tone. “I’m a woman, for the record.” A muscle in Carter’s jaw twitched. Disgust instantly clouded his features. “Great. You brought me a mental patient. Take her and get out of my sight.” Max coughed into his fist, desperately trying to salvage the situation. “Look, Carter, I handpicked her. She’s great. It’s just… she’s having a horrific allergic reaction on her face right now. It’s highly contagious—I mean, highly unsightly. So she has to keep it covered.” I nodded vigorously like a bobblehead. Carter looked like he was one second away from snapping a clipboard in half. “Then she should be in a damn hospital. Does this look like an urgent care clinic to you?” A dead silence fell over the immediate vicinity. Even Max looked stumped. “Well…” I lowered my head, keeping my voice small and pathetic. “I didn’t ask to be allergic. It’s a chronic condition. It just flares up.” To my surprise, those words made Carter pause. His sharp, unforgiving gaze raked over me again, reassessing. But those beautiful, deep-set dark eyes were entirely devoid of emotion. He looked at me the way one might look at a rusted piece of machinery. Behind my dark lenses, my eyelashes fluttered against my cheeks. The truth was, during the three years we dated, Carter had always been my sanctuary. He was considerate, patient, and impossibly sweet. I had never, not once, seen this side of him. Six months ago, when we broke up, he had looked at me with those same striking eyes. But back then, they were pooling with warmth and regret. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to the finish line,” he had murmured, his voice like velvet. He had pulled me into his chest, his large hand gently stroking my back. “You have to walk your own path from here on out. I just want you to be happy, Josie.” Our breakup had been painfully mature, utterly dignified, and perfectly distant. Much like our three years together, where I always had the lingering suspicion that I was standing in the foyer of his heart, never allowed into the living room. Looking at him now, I realized my instincts had been dead on. There was an entire side to this man that I had never been allowed to see. “Fine,” Carter finally scoffed, a cold, humorless sound. “Let her stay. She’ll quit crying within a week anyway.” Just as the words left his mouth, a stray tabby cat leaped from an apple box straight into his lap. Its paws were caked with dirt. Based on the look of absolute revulsion on Carter’s face, I braced myself for him to launch the poor thing across the soundstage. Yet, back when we were together, Carter used to spend his Sunday mornings sitting on dirty pavement with me, feeding strays and helping me trap feral cats for the local rescue. Thankfully, he only furrowed his brow, his body going rigid. A agonizing minute passed. Finally, he jerked his chin at me. “Get this thing off me.” I muttered an acknowledgment and carefully reached out for the tabby. The cat was sweet, purring as I scooped it up against my chest. As I pulled away, Carter spoke, his voice dangerously low. “What is that smell on you?” I blinked behind my sunglasses. “Um… probably my laundry detergent? It’s the cheap store brand from Target. Do you want the link?” The corner of Carter’s mouth twitched. The familiar disgust returned to his brow. “Hard pass.” But after he said it, his gaze seemed to drift, losing its sharp edge. For a fleeting second, the terrifying tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen. 2 I always knew Carter came from ridiculous, generational wealth. I knew his family let him study fine arts and film directing in college just to give his resume a trendy, intellectual sheen. But I had no idea he was actually directing feature films now. And not just student films—he had semi-famous actors on his set, and he was currently tearing them to absolute shreds. Max, the guy who had recruited me online, had told me to just call him Max. When I pulled him aside, I whispered, “Max… is Carter actually a brilliant director?” Max knew exactly what I was really asking. He chuckled, shaking his head. “These are premium scripts bought out by Kensington Media. His family’s conglomerate is fully funding this. They bought him a multi-million-dollar playground so he wouldn’t get bored.” I processed that quietly. Before I could ask anything else, Max shoved me toward the monitor village. “You’re up, kid. Go!” Carter was in the middle of annihilating his leading man. “Could you possibly be any more agonizingly cheesy? You’re supposed to be a brilliant detective, and you’re playing it like a cheap gigolo at a discount bachelorette party.” The lead actor looked like he had just swallowed a lemon whole. Not pausing for breath, Carter swiveled his death glare to the supporting actress. “In the last five minutes, has a single facial muscle moved? Your father died, your boyfriend dumped you, and you found the murder weapon, and you gave me the exact same vacant stare for all three.” The actress’s eyes welled with tears. “Excuse me—” I interrupted, stepping in with a paper cup of coffee, right on cue. The two actors shot me looks of profound, life-altering gratitude. Because now, it was my turn on the chopping block. Carter slowly looked up at me, a mocking sneer forming on his lips. “Don’t tell me… you brewed this with water from the L.A. River? It smells like a biohazard. What beans did you use? What was the water temperature? Did you put vanilla syrup in this? You know I despise sugar.” When I just stood there, silently absorbing the verbal beating, Carter scoffed. “Looking at you in that thief’s getup, I’m half convinced you poisoned it. Go make another one. If it tastes like this again, you can take your little allergies right back to the emergency room.” “…Okay,” I squeaked. Seeing that he was about to turn his wrath back onto the poor lead actor, I threw myself into the line of fire. “How about I just brew five different cups, and you can pick the one you tolerate?” The air on set evaporated. Carter let out a dark, breathless laugh. “Are you mentally deficient? Did Max hire you just to shave years off my lifespan?” He rubbed his temples, his voice dropping to an eerie, terrifying calm. “You can leave right now. And on your way to the hospital, have them drain the water from your brain.” According to Max, any normal assistant would be crying in their car by now. But I was built different. I was a professional. My emotional tolerance was vastly superior to the average Hollywood intern. “Carter, stop it. Why are you being so mean to everyone?” A bright, melodic voice cut through the tension. A stunning woman in full wardrobe and flawless makeup glided onto the set, a serene smile on her face. She naturally stepped in front of the two terrified actors, shielding them. Max had briefed me on this. If there was one single person on this earth immune to Carter’s rage, it was the leading lady of this film. She came from a family with just as much old money as the Kensingtons. According to the gossip, casting her as the lead was just their families’ very expensive way of forcing the two of them to spend time together. Carter’s lips tightened, but the storm clouds in his eyes noticeably dissipated. Sensing her victory, the woman pressed her advantage. “I’m going to run lines with them in my trailer. The great director can enjoy his coffee and give us ten minutes.” She took the rejected cup of coffee straight from my hands and held it out to Carter. He stared at it for a long, heavy moment. Then, he took it. The actors looked at her like she was the second coming of Christ and practically sprinted toward her trailer. Using the distraction, Max yanked me behind a lighting rig. He shrugged, popping a chip into his mouth. “See? The power of the childhood sweetheart. Unbeatable.” Childhood sweetheart… I lowered my gaze, staring at my scuffed sneakers. In the three years I dated Carter, I had never once heard him mention a childhood sweetheart. It hit me with a dull, hollow ache. I truly never knew him at all. I took the water bottle Max offered, pulled down my mask for a second, and took a sip. “If she’s here to keep the peace, why do you need to hire people like me?” Max rolled his eyes. “Blair is an A-list star. She can’t be playing referee every five minutes. Having a human shield on payroll is way more efficient.” I nodded slowly. “Makes sense.” Max handed me the bag of chips. Since Carter was currently distracted by Blair’s presence, I actually got a moment to breathe. I munched on the snacks, deeply grateful to have the mask off for a second. The condensation was starting to break me out. Max leaned against a production crate, looking at me curiously. “You know, you’ve got a nice jawline. Good nose, pretty mouth. Why are you doing a crap job like this?” “The money is great,” I said honestly. “Fair point.” He seemed eager to keep chatting, leaning in to ask me something else when a low, freezing voice drifted over our shoulders. “Enjoying the picnic, you two?” Max practically dropped the chips. “Just taking a five! We’re done, back to work.” At the sound of that sickeningly familiar voice, a shiver ran down my spine. Not daring to look back, I fumbled with my mask, frantically hooking it back over my ears. But I wasn’t fast enough. From a few feet away, Carter’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sure you have an allergic reaction?” Max jumped in, chuckling with the desperation of a man trying to defuse a bomb. “Oh, yeah, she’s got these nasty, peeling hives on her cheeks. From far away it looks fine, but up close, it’s honestly grotesque. Didn’t want to ruin your appetite, boss.” To sell the lie, I hunched my shoulders and gave my cheek a gross, aggressive scratch. Carter immediately looked away, thoroughly repulsed. A moment later, he clicked his tongue. “Get over here.” Max and I shuffled over like scolded school children. Carter pointed a long finger at Max. “Go tell the location scouts that the exterior shoot is delayed by two hours.” Then, he pointed that same finger at me. “You. Go keep an eye on Blair. And make sure that… whatever his name is… the lead actor, doesn’t sit too close to her.” 3 “Don’t worry,” Max whispered as we walked away. “Blair is actually an angel. She won’t bite.” I gave a weak laugh. “Carter might be a nightmare to work for, but he clearly cares about her.” “Oh, totally,” Max agreed, oblivious to my internal crisis. “I’ve never seen Carter go easy on anyone but her. Actually…” Max paused, his eyes lighting up with the thrill of gossip. “Carter did have an ex-girlfriend a while back. He never talked about her. Blair knew about her, though. She never seemed to care.” My steps faltered. “What?” Max snorted, leaning in conspiratorially. “Word on the street is, the Kensington family absolutely hated the ex. Mrs. Kensington even went to Blair to apologize for it, saying Carter was just going through a rebellious phase. Blair was totally cool about it. She said guys like Carter are bound to have a few flings, but eventually, he’d get bored and come back to where he belongs.” My fingers curled tightly into my palms. I didn’t say a word. So much history. So many machinations behind the scenes of my own life that I was entirely blind to. “At the end of the day, Carter and Blair are the legacy match. Everyone knows they’re endgame,” Max continued, fully caught up in his own storytelling. “Years ago, when Blair wanted to go into acting, her family threatened to cut her off. She had no one in her corner. So, Carter pivoted his whole degree to film directing just to legitimize her career to her parents. That’s the only reason they backed off.” “Why would he do that?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. Max shot me a look like I was an idiot. “Because he loves her, obviously. If it weren’t for Blair, Carter would be sitting in a boardroom right now with a business degree. A bond like that? Their families didn’t stand a chance of keeping them apart.” “Oh,” I mumbled. “Honestly, you kind of have to feel bad for the ex-girlfriend,” Max clicked his tongue in pity. “Carter gave his entire lifetime supply of softness to Blair. There was nothing left for anyone else.” I went entirely quiet. In the three years I loved Carter, I never once felt pitiful. He had been so incredibly attentive. Rich, gorgeous, and endlessly patient. Whenever I had a bad day, he would pull me onto his lap, bury his face in my neck, and whisper away my anxieties. He orchestrated elaborate surprises. He solved my problems before I even had to ask. Even at the very end, he had been the picture of a gracious, heartbroken gentleman. But hearing Max lay it all out like this… I felt completely unmoored. Beneath the flawless surface of my most treasured relationship lay a labyrinth of secrets, condescension, and humiliation. “Are you two just going to stand there all day?” Carter’s voice cracked like a whip across the set. Without another word, I turned and walked toward Blair’s trailer. 4 Inside, the lead actor and the supporting actress were huddled around Blair, whining about their bruised egos. When I walked in, Blair gave me a polite, knowing smile. She didn’t ask why I was there. She was a smart woman; she knew Carter had sent a babysitter. “You’re a lifesaver, Blair,” the younger actress pouted. “If you hadn’t stepped in, he would have fired me.” Blair gently poked the girl’s forehead. “I can only save you so many times. You actually have to read the script, honey.” The lead actor sighed heavily, pointing at me. “Did you see what happened out there? This poor girl offered to make him five different coffees, and he told her she was brain-damaged. But the second you handed him that cup, he drank it like it was holy water.” Blair let out a soft, musical laugh, glancing at me dismissively. “Oh, Carter’s always been grumpy. You just have to know how to handle him.” “It’s true love, I swear,” the younger actress teased. A delicate blush spread across Blair’s perfectly contoured cheeks. The other two immediately started making obnoxious, kissy-face noises. I kept my eyes glued to the floorboards, acting as a piece of furniture until they finally got called back to set. As Blair headed for the door, she paused and looked back at me. “Since you’re not doing anything, do you mind tidying up in here? It got a little messy.” I blinked. “Um, I think I’m just supposed to be a PA for the director.” The lead actor scoffed. “Work is work. You’re Carter’s assistant, which basically makes you Blair’s assistant. You get how the hierarchy works, right?” The other actress nodded in aggressive agreement. Blair held up a hand, her voice dripping with faux-patience. “She’s new. It’s fine if she doesn’t know her place yet. She’ll learn.” I swallowed the retort on my tongue and simply nodded. … As soon as they were out of earshot, I went straight to Max. When I told him what happened, he waved his hand dismissively. “Are you crazy? Don’t clean that up. I’ll call a production PA to do it.” “Max, you’re a real one,” I said sincerely. He grinned. “Hey, I need you on the front lines taking Carter’s bullets. If you’re scrubbing toilets, who’s going to protect me?” “…” Max checked his watch. “Hey, there’s a crew dinner tonight. You coming?” I shook my head immediately. “Pass.” Dinners meant eating. Eating meant taking off the mask. That was a hard no. “Suit yourself,” Max said. “We’re wrapping early today anyway. Go home, get some rest. Don’t let Carter break your spirit.” 5 Back in my apartment, I let out a massive groan, stretching my arms above my head. Wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a mask for ten hours straight was sensory hell. My hair was greasy, and my skin felt suffocated. After a long, scalding shower, I slapped on a sheet mask and collapsed onto the couch. I was half-asleep, comfortably binging a Netflix true-crime doc, when my phone started vibrating wildly. It was a FaceTime audio call from Max. A deep sense of dread settled in my stomach. “Hello?” “Get down here right now,” Max sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “Carter had a few drinks at the crew dinner, and he is going nuclear.” “…And?” “I need you to draw his fire! Please!” “I am off the clock, Max.” “I’ll authorize overtime pay! Double rate!” “Send the address.” Twenty minutes later, I walked into the private dining room of a high-end steakhouse, fully suited up in my disguise. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. No one dared to breathe too loudly. Even Blair was sitting quietly, rubbing her temples, seemingly out of tricks to calm him down. Carter was slouched back in his leather chair, radiating a dark, volatile energy. His collar was unbuttoned, and the faint flush on his cheeks was the only indicator that he had been drinking. Max grabbed my sleeve and shoved me forward, silently praying I would do something to attract the monster’s attention. But Carter didn’t even look at me. The silence dragged on. It felt like walking on a frozen lake, waiting for the ice to crack. Finally, Carter’s expression went dead. He turned to Max. “Call Josie.” I froze. Blair’s head snapped up. Max looked terrified. “Who?” He glanced at Blair’s suddenly rigid posture and quickly did the math. “Oh. Uh. I don’t have her number, boss…” “I’ll dictate. You dial,” Carter ordered, his voice brooking absolutely no argument. Sweating bullets, Max pulled out his phone and opened the keypad. Carter’s voice was icy and precise. He read out the digits one by one. With every number he spoke, my heart hammered harder against my ribs. It was my number. Panic seized me. I jammed my hand into my jacket pocket. Did I put my phone on silent?! I can’t remember! Whatever, I just needed to power it down. I pressed my thumb hard against the power button. Just as I applied pressure, my phone erupted into a cheerful, aggressively loud pop song.

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I spent seven years as the dirty little secret of my sister’s best friend. She was drunk—or playing at it—when she looked at me across the dimly lit VIP booth, a cruel, lazy smile on her lips. “Cole, I should just set you up with someone better. That way you can finally stop suffocating me, yeah?” My expression didn’t shift. I just looked at her and calmly said, “Okay.” Because I remembered another lifetime. A life where I didn’t agree. A life where I stubbornly married her anyway. In that life, she treated our marriage like a prison sentence. She froze me out, entirely indifferent to my existence. And when a semi-truck ran a red light and T-boned my car, leaving me bleeding out on the asphalt, she was miles away, watching the Northern Lights with her ex-boyfriend. That was when I finally learned that human hearts are fickle, fleeting things. You cannot beg someone to love you. … I said “okay,” and Stella froze. She hadn’t expected me to agree so easily. The amber lighting in the private room flickered, casting shadows over her bare, un-made-up face. There was a flush to her cheeks, but her eyes were razor-sharp, completely devoid of the drunkenness she had been feigning just seconds before. I sat perfectly straight, a faint, meaningless smile lingering on my lips as I looked back at her. Stella dropped the lazy, teasing act. Her voice hardened, taking on a defensive edge. “Cole, did you hear a single word I just said?” I nodded once. “Loud and clear.” In the past, if she had said something like that, I would have panicked. I would have feigned anger, cut her off, and begged her not to joke about giving me away. But now, I felt like a ghost inhabiting my own body. I felt absolutely nothing. It was like listening to the weather report for a city I didn’t live in. “Cole, you…” Before she could finish her sentence, my older sister, Tessa, pushed the heavy door open, letting in a blast of cold air from the main bar. She had a wicked, entertained grin on her face. “Guess who I just saw out there?” Without waiting for a response, Tessa forged ahead. “Your ex, Christian. He looks totally trashed. A couple of cougars were basically dragging him toward the back rooms…” Stella shot up from the leather sofa like she’d been burned. She shoved past the table, practically sprinting out into the corridor. A minute later, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—shouting, a glass shattering violently against the hardwood—echoed down the hall. I stayed right where I was, casually peeling a mandarin orange from the fruit platter. Stella loved fresh fruit, but she hated the sticky feeling of peeling it. For seven years, I had painstakingly peeled everything for her, placing the segments on a napkin just so she would take a bite. Tessa used to watch me do it and laugh. “You treat her better than you treat your own flesh and blood. Don’t tell me you’re in love with her, little brother.” I had almost confessed so many times. But Stella would always interlock her arm with mine, flashing a sweet, warning smile at my sister. “Maybe Cole just thinks I’m a better sister than you are. Is it a crime for him to spoil me?” Eventually, I learned the script. She didn’t want anyone to know about us. So, I swallowed the truth. For seven years, not a single soul knew we were together. Tessa stood in the doorway now, craning her neck to see if she needed to break up the fight. She glanced back at me, still eating my fruit, and raised an eyebrow. “Your girl Stella is throwing hands out there. You’re really not going to play knight in shining armor?” I swallowed the last slice of citrus and shook my head. “It’s a catfight over a guy. Why would I get in the middle of that?” Tessa looked surprised, but she didn’t press it. She jogged out to help. I sat alone in the quiet hum of the booth. I waited until the shouting died down completely before I finally stood up and walked out into the corridor. The first thing I saw was Stella. Both of her hands were tightly wrapped around a man’s arm. It was Christian. The ghost of her past. The one she could never quite let go of. He was heavily intoxicated, his body slumped against hers like he had no bones. And Stella didn’t push him away. Instead, she held him up, pulling him flush against her side. Her dark eyes were blazing with anger at whoever had touched him, but beneath the rage was a tender, aching worry she didn’t even realize she was showing. Tessa saw me and nudged my shoulder. “Cole, what do you think? Any chance those two are going to rekindle the flame?” She didn’t speak softly. Stella heard every word. Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto mine where I stood a few feet away. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt flashed across her face. “I have no intention of getting back together with him,” she said, her voice defensively loud. “He’s just drunk. I’m helping him out.” I gave her a soft, accommodating smile. “I get it, Stella. Christian looks like he can barely stand. You should get him home safely.” Stella frowned, a subtle tightening of her jaw, as if my casual, distant tone bothered her. But she didn’t reject the out I gave her. As she turned to leave, supporting his weight, she called back to my sister. “You two head home soon, okay? Don’t stay out too late.” Watching their retreating backs, a familiar, needle-like pain pricked at my chest. It was just so profoundly, bitterly ironic. In my previous life, I had gotten exactly what I wanted. I married Stella. But I never got the happiness I bargained for. On my birthday, I had just wanted a quiet dinner at home. She had scoffed, slipping on her coat. “I’m slammed with work. Can you stop nagging me for one night?” An hour later, I saw Christian’s Instagram story: a picture of the two of them hitting the slopes in Aspen. When an acute stomach ulcer left me doubled over in agony, I begged her to drive me to the ER. She sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m not a doctor, Cole. If you’re dying, call a cab. What do you expect me to do about it?” The next day, I saw her in the same hospital lobby, keeping Christian company for a mild sinus infection. The bitter end came on our anniversary. I had prepared a surprise, rushing home, only to be struck by a speeding car. When the ER trauma surgeon called her emergency contact number, begging for consent to operate, her voice over the speakerphone was ice-cold. “Is he dead yet? If he’s not dead, don’t bother me.” And then, right before the line went dead, I heard Christian’s exhilarated voice in the background: “Stella, look! The aurora is incredible. This trip was so worth it.” As the dial tone hummed, the blood from my crushed ribs soaked through the stark white hospital sheets. Remembering the agonizing, suffocating phantom pain of a dying heart, I gasped for air, clutching my chest in the present. I let out a pale, hollow laugh. Stella, since you feel my love is such a burden, I simply won’t love you anymore. Tessa and I didn’t stay out long. We went home early that night. When I woke up the next morning, groggy and disoriented, my phone screen lit up. It was a message from Christian. He had sent a picture of Stella, fast asleep, tangled in the sheets of his bed. The caption read: Stella stayed over to take care of me last night. I stared at the screen. I felt nothing. No jealousy, no rage. Just a profound emptiness. I typed a single letter: K. He wasn’t satisfied. A few minutes later, another photo buzzed through. Breakfast. Two plates. A perfectly cooked heart-shaped fried egg. Stella made me breakfast, he wrote. Even cut the egg into a little heart. During our seven years together, Stella had never once stepped foot in my kitchen. She used to tell me she was raised like a princess, and she wasn’t about to start scrubbing pots just because she had a boyfriend. So, to make sure she ate well, I had enrolled in an expensive, intensive culinary arts program. I made sure that whenever I was around, she always had a hot, gourmet meal waiting for her. Seeing what she was willing to do for Christian made me realize what a spectacular fool I had been. I put the phone down, didn’t bother replying, and went back to eating my own cold toast. Five minutes later, Stella texted. She didn’t mention where she was. She just demanded, casually: “Those homemade tortellini you made last week were amazing. Make another batch and bring it to my office for lunch.” “Oh, and remember, no basil.” The screen glared back at me. My eyes darkened. Stella had never hated basil. In fact, she loved it. She used to order extra pesto whenever we went out for Italian. I sat in the quiet of my kitchen for a long moment. Then, I typed: Sure. I opened a delivery app, ordered a mediocre, mass-produced pasta dish from a chain restaurant, and had it delivered to her corporate lobby. That evening, Tessa and I went out to a newly opened steakhouse to celebrate a work win. We had barely sat down when I saw them. Stella and Christian, walking through the glass doors, their arms linked, laughing brightly at some private joke. The second Stella saw us, she instinctively dropped his arm and walked over. Christian’s smile faltered for a microsecond before he put on a charming grin and followed. “What a coincidence. Looks like they’re totally booked, though. You guys wouldn’t mind if we crashed your table, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Stella slid into the leather booth, directly next to me. Tessa’s eyes went wide. She immediately stood up to switch seats. “What are you doing? Why are you sitting next to my brother while your first love is standing right there?” Stella was practically shoved across the table to sit opposite me. She looked incredibly displeased, staring at me like she expected me to defend her. I avoided her gaze entirely. I pushed a menu toward Christian. “Go ahead and order whatever you’d like, Christian. My sister and I already put ours in.” He took the menu, chuckling smoothly. “You know, Cole, that lunch you made today was incredible. So much better than anything you can buy at a restaurant.” So, my suspicion was right. The tortellini she demanded was for him. I just smiled and took a sip of water. Tessa laughed, a bit of teasing pride in her voice. “He lost his mind a few years ago and took all these intensive culinary classes. He was the only guy in the room. I thought he’d quit, but he stuck with it.” “Now he can hold his own in a Michelin kitchen. Whoever ends up marrying him is going to be incredibly lucky.” Stella had been wearing a faint smile, but at Tessa’s words, the warmth vanished from her face. She took a slow sip of her wine, her tone cool. “Is Cole looking to start dating?” I looked up at her, feigning innocence. I thought about what she had said in the bar. I gave a slight nod. “I’m twenty-six. It’s probably time. If you know anyone good, Stella, I’d love an introduction.” “Finally!” Tessa slammed her hand on the table, thrilled. “I’ve been trying to set you up for years and you always shut me down! Now that you’re finally open to it, I am going to find you the perfect girl.” Stella’s lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She stared at me unblinkingly, as if trying to dissect the lie on my face. Christian noticed the shift in her mood. He smiled pleasantly. “Cole is a lucky guy, having an older sister to look out for him. I’m almost jealous. Honestly, I think Stella would be…” “Don’t be ridiculous. Cole is like a little brother to me.” Before Tessa could react, Stella cut him off, her brow furrowed. The words sounded like a reprimand, but her expression betrayed a deep, unsettled panic. I nodded enthusiastically, backing her up. “Exactly. I’ve always seen Stella as a second sister. You shouldn’t make jokes like that, Christian.” “Besides,” I added smoothly, “I think you and Stella are a much better match.” Stella’s face darkened instantly. A storm brewed in her eyes, and she let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Is that right? Fine. I’ll set you up with someone. You’d better make time to meet her.” “Sounds great. Thanks, Stella,” I said, my smile blindingly bright. I didn’t contact Stella for the next few days, and she didn’t reach out to me. Instead, Christian showed up at my apartment. Tessa was over, lounging on the couch, when I let him in. “Alright, what do you want?” Tessa asked, not bothering to mince words. Christian looked at me, feigning a sheepish smile. “Tess, you know Stella and I go way back. We’re each other’s first loves. We had our ups and downs, but the connection never died.” “I was an idiot for letting her go. I want to officially win her back. I’m going to propose that we start over, and I need your help setting it up.” In another lifetime, I would have yelled at him to get out. I would have boldly declared that Stella loved me. She would never agree to it, I would have said. But living through that past life had burned the delusion out of my brain. I knew the truth. She loved him. They really were made for each other. “Sure, why not?” Tessa shrugged. “It’s obvious she’s never gotten over you. If you make a big romantic gesture, she’ll definitely say yes.” Christian’s smile widened. He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a strange, competitive triumph. I just shrugged, completely unbothered. Two days later, Tessa and Stella’s inner circle of friends devised a plan. They decided the best way to trigger a confession was an adrenaline-fueled setup. They booked a weekend at a rustic lakeside lodge in the Catskills, timing it perfectly with the town’s famous summer bonfire and fireworks festival. The lakeside was packed. I hated crowds, so I tried to hang back near the treeline. But Christian wasn’t about to let me escape. He grabbed my shoulder, dragging me straight to the front row, right up against the safety barricades. When the massive bonfire roared to life, shooting towering sparks into the night sky, Christian strategically flinched, stepping back until his shoulder brushed Stella’s. Stella saw him ‘trembling’ and her eyes softened with pure affection. She looped her arm through his, teasing him softly over the roar of the fire. “You know you hate fire, you idiot. Why did you insist on coming right to the front?” “Because you’re here,” he murmured, leaning in. “When I’m with you, I’m not scared of anything.” Her eyes practically melted. She reached out and intertwined her fingers tightly with his. Staring at their clasped hands, my mind drifted back to the early days of my marriage in that other life. I had been so hopelessly eager to build a home. I handled every chore, cooked every meal, trying to surround her with warmth. Until the night I went to pick her up from a bar. I stood in the shadows of the hallway and listened as she drunkenly slurred to Christian. “I feel like I didn’t marry a husband. I feel like I married my father. He suffocates me, Christian. He manages my life down to the minute. It’s exhausting.” “Not like you,” she had whispered. “You always knew how to give me space.” A sudden scream yanked me back to reality. A stray, massive dog had slipped off its leash and was tearing violently through the crowd, snapping its jaws. Panic erupted. People shoved each other, scrambling to get away. The dog was charging straight at me. I grabbed Tessa’s jacket to pull her back, but suddenly, a hard hand shoved me squarely between the shoulder blades. Before I could catch my balance, I was pushed forcefully over the wooden safety barricade, landing hard in the dirt on the wrong side of the fence. Screams and the chaotic noise of the crowd swelled around me. And then, through the sea of panicked bodies, I saw a slender figure running toward the barricade. For a split second, an old, pathetic instinct flared in my chest. A delusion that Stella was rushing to save me. But she didn’t even look down at where I had fallen. She vaulted right over my legs, throwing her arms around Christian, who had also stumbled over the line. Cole, what on earth were you hoping for? I wanted to laugh, but the bitter irony choked me. Thank God for Tessa. She fought her way through the chaos, grabbed my arm, and hauled me up, helping me limp away on a twisted ankle. Once we were out of the crush of the crowd, Tessa wiped the sweat from her forehead. “The proposal setup is ready by the garden. Come on, we have to go watch.” She slung my arm over her shoulder, supporting my weight as we hobbled toward the lodge’s courtyard. Stella’s friends had transformed the massive oak tree by the patio. Fairy lights shaped like hearts hung from the branches. Polaroids of Stella and Christian’s teenage years were clipped to twine. Old love letters. Ticket stubs. Christian stood in the center, holding a massive bouquet of pink roses—her favorite. He was speaking softly, pouring his heart out, asking for a second chance. Stella stood in front of him, absolutely stunned. A warm summer breeze drifted past, rustling the leaves. Even the wind seemed to be cheering for them. They were in love. They belonged together. Listening to the crowd cooing and cheering around me, I raised my hands and started clapping. “Say yes! Say yes!” I chanted loudly. Hearing my voice, Stella snapped her head toward me. Her eyes were wide with utter shock and horror. “Cole, are you out of your mind?!” she screamed over the music. “I am your girlfriend!”

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On the eve of our tenth anniversary, my husband—a man who had never once possessed a romantic bone in his body—suddenly suggested we do a wedding photoshoot. He said he wanted to make up for the regrets of our youth, to compensate me for all the grueling years I’d spent by his side. But when I arrived at the studio, I found the display print of my solo portrait defaced. Someone had taken a tube of lipstick and scrawled whore right across my face. His twenty-something assistant, Lexi, stood there with tears welling in her doe eyes. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. I have no idea how this happened,” she sniffled, looking entirely too fragile. “But you know what they say… in a marriage, the woman who isn’t loved is the real interloper.” I stared at the shade of her lips—an exact, unmistakable match to the waxy red smeared across my photograph. A cold laugh escaped my throat as I picked up the heavy framed portrait and smashed it into the hardwood floor. Within the hour, Lexi had uploaded a new post to Instagram: a sprawling flat-lay of a hundred designer lipsticks, followed by a carousel of bridal photos she had just taken. With my husband. The caption read: When he loves you, he makes it obvious. We are the perfect match. I sat in the quiet of my living room, scrolling through a PDF of my divorce agreement. I toggled back to her post, tapped the comment box, and typed: [You have my blessing. A cheating narcissist and a homewrecking gold-digger really are a match made in heaven.] 1. The ink on my comment had barely dried when my phone lit up with Nate’s name. In all our years of marriage, he had never called me this quickly. When I answered, his voice was sharp, dripping with condescension. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now? The poor girl made a thoughtless mistake. Why do you have to be so vindictive?” “You’re in your thirties, Rachel. Do you really need to bully a girl fresh out of college?” “Get back here and apologize to Lexi right now, or else—” Or else. Or else Nate would subject me to weeks of icy silence. Or else he would cut off my access to our joint accounts. Or else he would lock me out of the house in the dead of night, leaving me shivering in the freezing rain. I knew the drill because I had lived it. Again and again. Once upon a time, my silence and my compromises were the currency I paid for love. But the moment he shattered our vows—and then emboldened his mistress to humiliate me to my face—every ounce of love I had left for him evaporated into nothing. I took a slow, deep breath. “Nate, we’re getting a divorce. I agree with her. You two are a much better fit.” The line went dead quiet for three seconds before Nate let out a cruel, mocking laugh. “Divorce? You want to divorce me?” “Take a good look in the mirror, Rachel. Who the hell is going to want a washed-up, barren housewife whose best years were spent on me?” “If you have any shred of dignity left, you’ll drag yourself over here and apologize to Lexi!” I didn’t bother arguing. I just pressed end. Dignity. What a joke. He had trampled on my dignity just to coax a smile out of his little side-piece, reducing me—his legal wife, his partner of ten years—to the punchline of a sick joke. When we first got married, we were drowning in debt. There was no reception. No white dress. The wedding photos we couldn’t afford became a quiet, aching regret that I carried in my chest for a decade. He told me he wanted to make it right. I never imagined it was just an elaborate setup to slap me in the face in front of an audience. Ten years of marriage. Building an empire from a dingy basement apartment. This man, the golden boy I had put on a pedestal since high school, the center of my gravity… he had become the most rotting, painful wound in my heart. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and dialed my attorney to discuss the division of assets. I was halfway through the call when the front door clicked open. Nate was home. “Who are you talking to? And why isn’t dinner ready?” He took two steps toward me, and a suffocating wave of synthetic floral perfume hit my senses. I crinkled my nose and took a step back. Nate’s face instantly darkened. “Why are you backing away? Feeling guilty?” “Which bastard are you talking to, Rachel?” “Is this your pathetic way of getting back at me, or are you just that desperate for attention? I pay for the roof over your head, I fund your entire life, and you’re using my money to entertain other men!” Before I could process his words, he lunged forward, snatched the phone from my hand, and hurled it against the wall. It hit the floor with a sickening crunch. I knelt down and picked it up. A jagged, splintered crack ran dead center through the screen. Just like our marriage. Nate stood over me, looking down with the haughty grace of a king pardoning a peasant. “Fine. I won’t hold this against you. Let’s call it even. Now go make dinner.” The sheer audacity of his double standards was suffocating. He could disappear for weekend getaways with Lexi, drinking and sleeping in luxury suites. But if I spoke a single word to a male cashier, I was a whore. In his twisted reality, no matter what went wrong between us, the blame always landed squarely on my shoulders. I was always the one expected to bow my head. But tonight, my neck was stiff. I had no desire to bow, and zero desire to endure another second of this suffocating, hopeless marriage. When I simply sat down on the sofa, staring straight ahead, Nate’s chest puffed out, gearing up for a rage. But then his eyes flicked down to my leg, catching sight of the faded surgical scar—the one I got years ago saving him from a bad business deal gone violent. His jaw twitched, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Rachel, enough is enough.” “It’s just a photoshoot. I already had the studio manager send over a brand new portrait. What more do you want from me?” Just twenty minutes prior, I had actually spoken to that studio manager. He informed me, with a profound lack of discretion, that Nate had not only paid for their top-tier bridal package with Lexi, but had also booked a private, highly explicit boudoir session for the two of them. Lexi had claimed she wanted to “capture the beauty of the moment.” She was capturing the beauty of sleeping with my husband. I turned my head to look at Nate as he shrugged off his blazer. He was a man obsessed with appearances. Every morning, I spent thirty minutes pressing his shirts until the creases were sharp enough to draw blood. But today, his collar was crumpled. There was a faint smudge of foundation on his lapel, and a distinct, waxy red smear on his shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the kind of intense, breathless workout he and Lexi had just finished. A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit me. I clamped a hand over my mouth, sprinted to the downstairs bathroom, and wretched into the sink. 2. When I finally emerged, wiping my mouth with a cold towel, Nate was leaning against the doorframe, his brow furrowed in disgust. “Playing sick? Or are you going to pretend you’re pregnant again?” “Aren’t you a little old for these childish games? You’re a barren shell of a woman, Rachel. Ten years and you couldn’t even manage to keep a baby. You really think you can fake it now?” I gripped the towel so hard my knuckles turned white. A million tiny needles pierced my chest. When we were building the startup, we were too broke and exhausted to even think about kids. Once the company stabilized, I stepped down from my VP role to focus on my health and get pregnant. But the years of stress, skipped meals, and sleepless nights working for his dream had taken a severe toll on my body. When I finally saw two pink lines, the pregnancy was highly high-risk. During my second trimester, Nate insisted I attend a corporate retreat. We were standing near the edge of the hotel pool when Lexi “accidentally” tripped, shoving me hard into the deep end. I lost the baby. The doctors told me the trauma meant I would likely never conceive again. When I wanted to press charges against Lexi, Nate had literally laughed in my face. “You’re useless, and you want to blame someone else?” he had scoffed. “If you hadn’t ruined your body partying and drinking in your twenties, maybe you could have held onto a goddamn pregnancy.” He knew exactly why my body was ruined. He knew every drop of alcohol I consumed was at corporate dinners, charming investors to keep his company afloat. He knew Lexi pushed me. Yet, he chose to weaponize my deepest trauma, using the cruelest words imaginable to break me down. Over the years, his relentless gaslighting had turned me into a terrified, insecure ghost of my former self. It took until today for the fog to clear. I finally understood that boundless tolerance doesn’t earn you love; it just teaches them how much further they can push you. I didn’t say a word. I walked past him, went straight up to the master bedroom, and pulled my weekender bag from the closet. Nate assumed I was just doing my usual obsessive cleaning. He flopped onto the leather sofa, kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and started texting Lexi, fully expecting me to emerge with a hot plate of food. From the stairs, I could see his phone screen. His wallpaper was a selfie of Lexi, her cheek pressed intimately against his. He was so engrossed in his phone that he didn’t even look up when I dragged my suitcase down the hall. “Lexi wants to take you out to dinner to apologize,” he called out, eyes still glued to his screen. “Look how gracious she is. Meanwhile, you’re making a massive scene over a piece of paper.” “Tomorrow, you’re going to come down to the office and apologize to her in front of the staff. Once you do that, we can put this behind us and go back to our normal lives.” I remained silent, looking down at a message my lawyer had just pushed through to my cracked screen. [It will take me about ten days to finalize the forensic accounting on his hidden assets and compile the infidelity evidence.] I had waited ten years. Ten more days was nothing. I stood there in the quiet hallway, letting the silence stretch. Nate took my lack of screaming as submission. He stood up, grabbed my arm with a heavy, bruising grip, and pulled me toward the door. “Come on. We’re going.” Down in the subterranean garage, I reached for the passenger door handle out of pure muscle memory. Nate instantly panicked, hip-checking me away from the door. My forehead slammed hard against the car’s window frame. A sharp, stinging pain shot through my skull, and tears pricked my eyes involuntarily. “Are you okay?” For a second, his voice sounded genuinely panicked. He reached out to inspect the scrape on my forehead, but his body was awkwardly angled, deliberately blocking my view of the passenger seat. Peeking over his shoulder, I saw it. A scrap of black lace. Lexi’s bra, carelessly tossed on the leather seat. “The front seat is… a mess. Just sit in the back,” he stammered. “Is it bleeding? Do you need me to stop at a pharmacy?” It was a mess. Disgusting, actually. I dodged his hand, opened the rear door, and slid into the back seat, pretending not to notice the pink glittery sticker affixed to the dashboard that read: Princess Lexi’s Throne. Guilt makes a man chatty. For the entire drive, Nate kept up a steady stream of nervous small talk, his tone softer than it had been in months. “Rachel, we’ve been married a long time. You know me better than anyone.” “There is absolutely nothing going on between me and Lexi. She’s just a naive, sheltered kid. I just look out for her because she’s young and new to the city.” I gave a curt nod and turned my face toward the window. As we cruised past a stretch of highway lined with fiery red maple trees, Nate tried again. “Look, the leaves are turning. Remember when we drove up here and took that photo together in front of the maples? You had that beautiful smile…” The autumn leaves outside were ablaze with color, but the blood in my veins felt like ice. I looked at Nate in the rearview mirror, my voice hollow and flat. “We’ve been together for ten years. Aside from the wedding portrait you just let your assistant destroy, we haven’t taken a single photograph together.” 3. For the longest time, I had convinced myself that Nate was just one of those men who hated having his picture taken. He despised cameras. He especially despised being on camera with me. Years ago, during a business trip to the coast, we stopped by a breathtaking overlook. I was so happy, I pulled out my phone and leaned in to snap a quick selfie of us. He violently shoved my hand away, right in the middle of a crowded tourist spot. “Stop trying to act like a college girl. Look at your age!” he had barked, his voice echoing over the crashing waves. “People who live their lives through beauty filters are pathetic losers who have nothing real going for them!” “Put the damn phone away. You’re embarrassing me just standing next to you.” Since that day, I never asked for a photo again. Whenever a camera was pointed in my direction, I instinctively ducked my head, consumed by a deep, learned shame. Lexi’s caption had been absolutely right. When he loves you, he makes it obvious. Caught in his own lie, Nate swallowed hard and shut his mouth. The rest of the drive was suffocatingly quiet, save for the rhythmic clinking of a keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a custom acrylic charm. A photo of him and Lexi. When we finally pulled up to the upscale restaurant, the valet hadn’t even opened his door before Lexi came sprinting out of the lobby. Her eyes were perfectly rimmed with red, making her look heartbroken. She practically threw herself into Nate’s chest. “Nate! You finally made it. I was waiting so long my feet were starting to cramp.” Without a second thought, Nate scooped her up by the waist and set her down on a decorative stone bench near the entrance. He knelt on the pavement, slipped off her designer heels, and began gently massaging her arches. I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and snapped a crystal-clear photo of the two of them. Capturing the beauty of the moment. Hearing the shutter click, Nate suddenly remembered I existed. He dropped her foot and stood up awkwardly. “I’m just… checking on my employee’s wellbeing. HR liabilities, you know.” “I totally understand,” I said, entirely deadpan. “Let’s eat.” As we walked into the dining room, the maître d’ rushed over with a glowing smile. “Mr. Cole! So wonderful to see you and your lovely wife again. Your usual booth?” Nate stiffened. He shot me a nervous glance and cleared his throat. “Actually… this is my wife.” I didn’t offer a polite smile or a greeting. I just walked past them and slid into the booth. I was wearing a plain, slightly faded cashmere sweater. Lexi was draped in a fresh-off-the-runway silk dress that cost more than my first car. To anyone looking, she was the obvious wife. Once we sat down, Lexi dragged her chair agonizingly close to Nate’s. She reached into her quilted Chanel bag and pulled out a tube of lipstick. “Here, Rachel. Nate buys me so much makeup I literally couldn’t use it all in a lifetime.” “Consider this a peace offering. You really shouldn’t hold such a petty grudge over one ruined photo.” Nate frowned, clearly displeased. “Lexi, I bought that for you.” He turned to me, his tone hardening. “Rachel, if you want lipstick, I’ll put it on my card. Don’t beg from a young girl. Besides, that shade is way too bright for someone your age.” Lexi giggled, reaching out to stroke Nate’s forearm. “Oh, stop it, Nate. You spoil me with so many gifts, one little lipstick doesn’t matter.” Once upon a time, hearing an exchange like this would have sent me into a spiral. I would have demanded to know exactly how much of our money he was spending on her. Now? I just let my eyes drag slowly over Lexi’s designer dress, her diamond tennis bracelet, and her bag. Under the table, I texted my lawyer. [I want every single dime he spent on the mistress clawed back.] Once I saw the three typing dots from my attorney, a strange sense of peace washed over me. I picked up my fork. When the food arrived, Nate—a man who claimed to hate the smell of seafood so much he wouldn’t let me cook it in the house—methodically peeled a dozen jumbo shrimp for Lexi, carefully picking out every speck of shell. Lexi shot me a smug, triumphant look across the table. “Ugh, my stomach is so tiny,” she pouted. “I couldn’t possibly finish this.” Without missing a beat, she picked up a shrimp she had already bitten in half and held it to Nate’s lips. Nate ate it off her fork without a second of hesitation. This was the same man who once shattered a dinner plate against the kitchen wall because I had used my own chopsticks to place a piece of chicken into his bowl, screaming that I was “unsanitary.” The sheer revulsion hit me so hard my stomach turned over. I dropped my silverware onto the porcelain plate with a loud, ringing clatter. 4. “What is your problem now?” Nate threw his napkin onto the table, his face twisted in utter annoyance. “I never should have brought you out. You’re a shut-in who doesn’t know how to behave in civilized society. All you do is embarrass me!” Lexi rolled her eyes at me. She tugged on Nate’s sleeve, whining that the vibe was ruined and she wanted to go play tennis at the club. I crossed my arms and flat-out refused. Every single time I had ever attended a social outing with Nate’s circle, he had found a way to belittle me in front of them. “You’re such a buzzkill,” Lexi sighed dramatically. “No wonder Nate hates being around you.” “Honestly, Rachel, you really need to get out and experience the real world. A woman who only knows how to do laundry and cook dinner is completely useless.” I reached for a linen napkin and calmly dabbed the corner of my mouth. “I used to be young, too, Lexi.” “But when I was your age, I was pounding the pavement, securing seed funding, fighting for clients, and managing the logistics of Nate’s entire life so he could build his company.” “I wasn’t spending my twenties playing parasite to another woman’s husband.” The words had barely left my mouth when a glass of ice water was hurled directly into my face. Nate shot up, shoving Lexi behind him like I had pulled a weapon on her. He pointed a shaking finger at my dripping face. “Don’t you dare speak to her like that, Rachel!” “Look at yourself! You have zero right to compare yourself to Lexi. She is an independent, ambitious girl. And you? You’re a leech. A parasite on my bank account. What gives you the right to judge her?” I reached for my own water glass, fully intending to smash it over his perfectly styled hair. But my phone buzzed on the table. My lawyer. [We’ve secured bank statements proving massive transfers to an offshore account, plus undeniable proof of the affair. You are going to take him to the cleaners.] I slowly lowered the glass. “Did you hear me talking to you? What the hell are you looking at?” Nate lunged across the table, trying to snatch my phone. I smoothly slipped it into my pocket and stood up. “Fine. Let’s go play tennis.” Nate blinked, thrown off by my sudden pivot. He glanced back at Lexi. She gave a small, petulant nod, so he backed down. In the back of the SUV, Lexi twisted around in the passenger seat, staring at me with open disgust. “You really have no self-respect, do you?” she whispered, ensuring Nate couldn’t hear over the radio. “Do you honestly think swallowing your pride is going to save your marriage? He hasn’t loved you in years.” I looked at her, utterly unfazed by her little victory lap. “Your lipstick is smudged.” During dinner, it had been perfectly applied. But after she and Nate had taken a “quick trip” to the restrooms together, her collar was unbuttoned and the red gloss was smeared outside her lip line. It was such a cheap, pathetic display of dominance. I couldn’t be bothered to engage. When we arrived at the indoor country club, I grabbed a racquet, walked straight to the spectator benches, and sat down. I had no intention of playing. I just put my head down and continued texting my attorney about the timeline for filing. Nate didn’t care. He was never one to monitor my feelings anyway. He and Lexi were having the time of their lives on the court. They laughed loudly, playfully swatting at each other. Between sets, he wiped the sweat from her forehead with a towel and hand-fed her water from his bottle. They looked exactly like two college kids in the honeymoon phase of a breathless romance. I occasionally raised my phone, snapping photos and recording short videos. Documenting the evidence of their joy. I was zoning out, staring at the screen, when a violent force slammed into the back of my skull. The world tilted on its axis. A heavy, sickening ringing filled my ears as my knees buckled, sending me crashing from the bench onto the hard green asphalt of the court. “Rachel!” Nate dropped his racquet and sprinted toward me. When his hands reached the back of my head, they came away slick with dark red blood. The color completely drained from his face, leaving genuine terror in his eyes. “I—I’m taking you to the ER.” “Nate…” Lexi’s voice drifted over, trembling and delicate. “Are you really going to abandon me here again?” She stood at the net, clutching her racquet, looking at him like a forsaken child. I could see the script playing out in my mind. It was the same script from my birthdays, from Valentine’s Days, from our anniversaries. Every single time, Lexi would create a crisis, and every single time, Nate would choose to walk away from me to save her. Seeing the brief flash of hesitation in his eyes, I didn’t wait for him to make the choice. I pushed his bloody hands away and dragged myself to my feet. “You guys keep playing. I’m fine.” For ten years, Nate had never firmly chosen me. Not once. So this time, I wasn’t going to be the pathetic wife waiting to be discarded. I was making the choice. I was choosing to walk away from this humiliating sham of a marriage. And I was choosing to walk away from him. 5. Nate let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. But he still put on his mask of a concerned husband. “Okay, take an Uber to the hospital. I’ll come check on you the second I’m done here.” “Don’t worry about the bill, okay? Use my black card. Get the best private room.” I held a wad of tissues to the back of my head and walked out the double doors. His hollow promises vanished into the wind. Ever since I quit my job to try for a baby, Nate had taken absolute, tyrannical control over our finances. Every single swipe of my debit card triggered an alert on his phone. Every purchase required his explicit approval. He could drop fifty grand on a Cartier watch for Lexi without batting an eye. But the day he saw a forty-dollar charge from Sephora on my statement, he cornered me in the kitchen and screamed until his throat was hoarse. “You sit at home all day doing nothing! Who the hell are you buying makeup for? Are you trying to trap another man?” “I break my back running a company, not to fund your vanity projects! Do that again, and I’ll cut off your cards and you can starve on the street!” For years, those vicious words had acted like a shock collar, keeping me frozen, compliant, and riddled with self-hatred. But the fog was gone now. I deserved the world. Nate was the one who was unworthy. At the emergency room, the doctors diagnosed a mild concussion. They cleaned the wound, gave me a list of warnings, and discharged me. I carefully filed the medical report into my purse and took a cab to my new, secretly leased apartment to rest. Nate, the man who had promised to rush to my side and shower me with “make-up gifts,” didn’t show up. Instead, at sunset, I received a text. [Emergency out-of-town meeting came up. I know you’re not the type to make a fuss. Remember when you broke your leg tracking down that sketchy distributor for me and didn’t even cry? You’re tough.] [I promise I’ll buy you something nice when I get back.] [I also re-booked the platinum wedding package at the studio. Whatever you didn’t like about the last one, we’ll fix it.] I scrolled through the massive block of text. In ten years, this was the longest message he had ever typed to me. Usually, his texts were cold, barked orders. [Pick up my dry cleaning. Flight lands at 8, have dinner hot. Transfer money to my mother.] For him, typing this out was the ultimate act of groveling. A year ago, a message like this would have had me weeping with gratitude. Today, the only thing I cared about was whether my lawyer had secured the asset freeze. Taking advantage of his absence, I logged into every single corporate and personal portal I still had backdoor access to, downloaded years of forensic ledgers, and fired them off in encrypted zip files to my legal team. I worked in a cold, methodical trance for three days until the job was done. When I finally collapsed on the couch and opened Instagram, my feed was entirely dominated by Lexi. She hadn’t been quiet. Dozens of photos. They were in Cabo. Sunbathing on the deck of a multi-million-dollar rented yacht. Champagne, caviar, high-end resorts. Her caption: Documenting the evidence of our true love. I liked the post. I took a screenshot. I emailed it to my lawyer. Based on the geotags and her story updates, I knew they had landed back in the city yesterday. But for some reason, Nate still hadn’t come home to the empty house. 6. On the tenth day, my lawyer called. We had everything. A watertight case. I glanced at the calendar hanging on the fridge and dialed Nate’s number. “Are you coming home tomorrow?” He slipped effortlessly into his practiced lie. “Things are crazy at the office, babe, I—” I cut through the bullshit. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we lost the baby. You promised me. You swore you would come to the memorial garden with me every year.” That had been the condition of my silence. Back then, I was stupid enough to believe Lexi’s tears when she claimed she slipped. I was brainwashed enough to believe Nate when he said firing her would invite a wrongful termination lawsuit that would bankrupt us. Nate went dead silent on the line. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with rehearsed solemnity. “You and our angel are the most important things in my life, Rachel.” “No matter what happens, I will be there tomorrow.” The next morning, I dressed in a black trench coat and took a cab to the cemetery. I sat on the cold stone bench by the memorial garden, watching the groundskeeper sweep the autumn leaves. I sat there until the sun peaked at noon, and then until the chill of dusk settled into my bones. Nate never showed. As I climbed into the back of an Uber to leave, my phone buzzed. A text from Lexi. [I’m pregnant.] [He’s never going back to your dead-end life.] I stared at the screen for two seconds. Then, I blocked her number. I took the thick manila folder my lawyer had couriered over, walked directly into the county courthouse, and filed the petition for divorce. Then, I hit send on an email containing a meticulously curated Dropbox link, forwarding the absolute, undeniable proof of Nate’s embezzlement and infidelity to every major business reporter and gossip blog in the city.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391931”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I thought I had legally bound my life to the man I loved, I spent all afternoon in the kitchen. I prepared a massive, elaborate dinner—his favorites—just waiting for him to come home so we could pop the champagne and celebrate. I called him, just to ask how far away he was. The call connected, but instead of his voice, I heard the muffled, echoing acoustics of a bar, and then, a conversation that made the blood freeze in my veins. “Man, your girl is dangerously gullible,” one of his friends was laughing. “A fake marriage license from some novelty website, without even a raised county seal, and she actually bought it.” “Hey, if Maddie and I hadn’t already gone to City Hall and gotten the real one, we wouldn’t have had to pay those guys to play-act as county clerks today,” my boyfriend—my supposed husband—replied. Then came Connor’s careless, dismissive scoff. A sound I had heard him make a thousand times about things that didn’t matter to him. “Don’t call her my girl. That kind of pathetic doormat is only good for being a free maid.” The ice in his voice was casual, which somehow made it worse. “Maddie and I grew up together. We’ve been best friends for over a decade. In my heart, she’s always been the only one who matters.” I stood perfectly still in my kitchen. The pristine, fake marriage certificate crumpled in my tightening grip. The tears came fast and silent, blurring the lavish spread of food on the counter. Five years. I had loved this man for five years, shrinking myself to fit his needs, only to realize I was nothing but unpaid domestic help. The man I had desperately wanted to marry had never loved me at all. I took a shaky breath, swiped the tears from my face, and dialed a different number. The one I knew by heart. “Are you free?” I asked when he picked up. “Let’s go get married.” 1 It wasn’t until I held a real, government-issued marriage license in my hands that I realized just how insulting Connor’s forgery had been. It didn’t even have a watermark. “Pack your things and get out of that cursed house,” Cole said, his voice flat and unreadable as he tucked our new legal document into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “Give me two days. I have some business to handle first. It’s about to pour—I called a car for you.” My childhood best friend delivered the instruction with a cool detachment, then ducked into a waiting black SUV. I rubbed my thumb over the empty space in my pocket where my fake license used to be, and slipped into the back of the town car he’d hailed for me. Just as he predicted, the sky broke open, rain violently lashing against the windows. As if on cue, my phone vibrated. It was Connor. “Where are you? It’s pouring. Why aren’t you home yet?” Once upon a time, I would have softened at his tone. I would have playfully begged him to come pick me up. But the illusion was shattered. The love and the marriage he gave me were counterfeit. And just like that, whatever was left of my heart turned to ash. When I didn’t immediately answer, his voice spiked with irritation. “Look, wherever you are, hurry up and get back. We haven’t eaten yet.” We. Before I could say a word, the line went dead. I let out a hollow, bitter laugh, dropping the phone into my purse. I directed the driver back to the place I had called home for the last five years. My intuition had been dead on. When I walked through the door, Madison was already there. She was sprawled comfortably on my sofa, popping grapes into her mouth. Right beside her sat a matching designer luggage set, plastered with travel stickers. Seeing me dripping wet in the entryway, Connor immediately frowned. “Hurry up and start cooking. Maddie and I already picked up the groceries on the way back, so we saved you some trouble.” He paused, not quite meeting my eyes. “Oh, by the way. Maddie’s lease is up. She’s going to be staying here from now on. When you’re done with dinner, go clear out the guest room.” Whenever Madison or his frat-boy friends were around, Connor always turned the dial up on his arrogance. He liked to put on a show of how easily he controlled me. In the beginning of our relationship, he used to apologize for it in private, claiming it was just his “pride” acting up in front of the guys. Now, he didn’t even bother with the apologies. My infinite patience had simply become his entitlement. A hysterical smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Before I could speak, Madison mistook my silence for submission. She reached into her Prada bag, pulled out a crisp sheet of paper, and held it out to me with a saccharine, challenging smile. “Harper,” she purred. “Since we’re all going to be living together, I really hope we can keep the peace. If you’re okay with this roommate agreement, just sign at the bottom. You wouldn’t want to make things difficult for Connor, would you?” I dropped my gaze to the paper. I only had to read the first bullet point to feel a surge of pure, unadulterated disbelief. 1. As this is Connor’s house, you have no right to dictate who he sleeps with at night. Connor’s house? The sheer audacity of it knocked the wind out of me. Because his old apartment was a terrible commute to his office, he had moved into my newly purchased townhouse three years ago. He had sworn up and down that once we got married, we’d buy a massive estate together. He promised we’d move my parents into this house so we could take care of them as they aged. Empty words. He hadn’t kept a single promise he’d ever made me. When I didn’t take the paper, Connor clicked his tongue, impatient. “Maddie is just trying to establish boundaries so we’re all comfortable. Don’t be unreasonable, Harper. I’ll even invite a few of the guys over later, and we can call it a celebration of us tying the knot today.” Every time he invited his leeches over, I spent four hours sweating in the kitchen. I wasn’t just his unpaid maid; I was the catering service for his entourage. I’d played the role of the docile servant for five years. I was entirely suffocated by it. “No need,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “I’m not signing anything. Furthermore, this is my house. Both of you need to leave.” 2 Connor’s face twisted into a mocking sneer. “Harper, do you honestly think that just because we got a piece of paper today, you can suddenly start calling the shots?” He stepped closer, towering over me. “Maddie and I grew up together. I don’t care if I’m married; I am never going to leave her out in the cold.” How could someone deliver such a shameless, disgusting line with such self-righteous conviction? The clearer I saw him, the more my stomach churned with nausea. I let out a dark, freezing laugh. “If she matters that much to you, why didn’t you just marry her?” I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Or… have you already done that?” Connor’s face went rigid. The color completely drained from his cheeks. Just as the silence stretched to a breaking point, Madison whined from the couch. “Aren’t you going to make dinner? Connor, I’m literally starving to death…” It was the lifeline he needed. Connor let out a forced, awkward chuckle and immediately seized on her complaint. “Stop talking nonsense, Harper. I know you’re just throwing a tantrum because you don’t want to sign the agreement. Forget it. Maddie is hungry. Just go make the food.” I was completely done watching this pathetic theatrical performance. I turned on my heel and walked down the hall to my bedroom. Except, it wasn’t my bedroom anymore. Everything I owned—my clothes, my books, my perfumes—had been violently swept off the surfaces and dumped into messy piles on the hardwood floor. “Oh, Harper,” Madison said, trailing right behind me. She stood in the doorway, surveying the wreckage with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Connor said I should take the master bedroom since my immune system is so delicate. The morning light in here is better. You don’t mind, do you?” Connor materialized behind her, showing zero remorse. In fact, he looked indignant. “Maddie’s health has always been fragile. It makes perfect sense for her to have the warmest room. Hurry up and move your trash into the guest room. She doesn’t have any space to unpack.” I stared at my vanity. It was already overflowing with her expensive skincare bottles. Then I looked at the floor. My favorite foundation was shattered. A framed photograph of Connor and me—taken on our second anniversary—lay face down, the glass spider-webbed and completely destroyed. Looking at my desecrated sanctuary, a hot, blinding rage broke through the numbness. I slowly lifted my eyes to Connor. They were bloodshot. For a fraction of a second, he looked away, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his features. But that guilt vanished the second I stepped forward and, with one brutal sweep of my arm, sent every single one of Madison’s expensive glass bottles crashing to the floor. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” Connor roared. He lunged forward and grabbed my arm. The sheer, terrifying force of his grip spun me around, and he threw me backward. I lost my footing and went down hard, right into the pile of my own broken picture frame. Shards of glass sliced deep into the palm of my hand and my bare knee. The physical pain was blinding, sharp and hot, but it was absolutely nothing compared to the sickening, hollow crack of my heart finally shattering into dust. “Are you insane?!” Connor yelled, ignoring the blood beginning to pool on the floorboards. “How dare you destroy Maddie’s things? Apologize to her right now!” He saw the glass embedded in my skin. He saw the blood blooming down my leg. And yet, because I had touched herthings, he wanted me on my knees. I planted my bleeding hand on the floor and forced myself to stand, trembling violently. The shard of glass sticking out of my knee was a horrific sight. “Oh, so my things are allowed to be destroyed?” I breathed out, my voice vibrating with a terrifying calm. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Connor. This is my home. My name is on the deed. I want both of you out. Now.” Because I was trembling so hard, my new, legitimate marriage certificate slipped from my pocket and landed on the floor. Connor glanced down at it. A cruel, condescending smirk spread across his face. He bent down, picked it up, and flipped open the heavy cardstock cover. Before his eyes could focus on the page, Madison gasped dramatically, clutching his arm. “Connor, if she’s going to be this violent, I’ll just leave. I’m actually scared of her. Just let me go.” She squeezed out two perfectly timed, crocodile tears. Hearing her cry, Connor immediately dropped the little booklet back onto the floor like it burned him. He wrapped his arms around her, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Hey, don’t cry.” He shot me a look of pure venom, pulling her tighter against his chest as he guided her toward the front door. “If she leaves, I’m leaving. You’re going to regret this, Harper.” He was right about one thing. I did regret it. I regretted not seeing him for what he was years ago. I regretted letting him strip me down until I was hollow, bruised, and bleeding. But as the front door slammed shut, a twisted sense of disappointment washed over me. I looked at the little booklet lying on the floor. It was a shame he dropped it so fast. I had really been looking forward to seeing the look on his face when he realized the husband in the photograph wasn’t him. 3 I took an Uber to the ER to get the glass removed and my wounds stitched and bandaged. On the ride back to my eerily quiet house, my phone buzzed. A text from Madison. Two photos. Two sentences. The first photo was a crystal-clear shot of her and Connor holding a real, county-certified marriage license. The second was a shot of a garbage can, with a torn, used condom wrapper resting on top. Does your little certificate have a real government seal? I’m the real wife. So I get to sleep with him first. It was almost comical. I stared at my heavily bandaged hand resting in my lap. I didn’t type a single word in response. I just blocked her number and deleted the thread. People who belong in the trash aren’t worth my mental energy anymore. I tossed and turned all night in the guest bed. First thing in the morning, I hired a deep-cleaning service. But before I could even start bagging up the rest of Connor’s belongings to throw on the lawn, I heard the electronic chirp of the front door unlocking. Connor strode in like he owned the place, laughing loudly, flanked by Madison and three of his worst frat-house buddies. “Hey, little wifey!” one of his friends shouted, tossing his keys on the counter. “We’re craving seafood today. Do us a favor and run to the market, yeah? Grab some lobsters—Maine only—and some good sea bass.” “She’s loaded, man,” another guy laughed. “She always gets us the good stuff. Hey, she loves our boy Connor, so we get to reap the benefits, right?” I stood in the hallway, staring at the ugly, entitled expressions on their faces. The arrogance of men who hitched a ride on Connor’s coattails. The first time they called me “little wifey,” I had naively asked why they added “little.” They laughed and said it was because I was younger than them, and they didn’t want to make me feel old. Thinking back on it now made me physically ill. They called me “little” because Connor and Madison were already secretly married. Madison was the real wife. I had swallowed their inside joke with a smile. “Don’t call me that,” I said, my voice slicing through the room like a blade. “If you want seafood, buy it yourselves. And get the hell out of my house.” The laughter died instantly. The room went dead silent. Connor’s face darkened into a furious scowl. He puffed his chest out and raised his voice, clearly trying to assert his dominance in front of his audience. “How the hell are you speaking to my friends, Harper? Apologize to them immediately. And then go buy the damn groceries. Consider it your way of making amends.” All he ever knew how to do was demand my apologies. There was a time when he actually protected me. When we first started dating, one of these exact guys joked that I was only with Connor for his money. Connor had nearly gotten into a fistfight over it, demanding the guy give me a formal apology before he’d speak to him again. On our first anniversary, a restaurant accidentally brought out a soup with clam broth. Knowing I had a severe shellfish allergy, Connor made the manager and the entire waitstaff come to the table to apologize. Now, he was demanding I go buy him lobster. I wondered if he even remembered the allergy. Right on cue, Madison’s bottom lip began to quiver. She clung to Connor’s bicep, looking utterly heartbroken. “Connor… I don’t think Harper wants us here. We only came over to celebrate you guys getting married yesterday…” She placed a heavy, mocking emphasis on the word married. The guys immediately joined in, letting out a chorus of fake, exaggerated aww’s. “Oh, yeah!” Madison suddenly chirped, her eyes lighting up. “Harper, show them your marriage license! Let’s all see it!” She immediately started darting around the living room. In the chaos of last night, I had left the certificate sitting on the TV console. Madison spotted it instantly, snatching it up like a trophy. “Who wants to see the happy couple’s certificate?” she sang. My blood ran cold. I stepped forward, holding out my bandaged hand. “Give it back.” But Madison just giggled, maliciously locking eyes with me as she tossed the booklet over my head to one of Connor’s friends. I lunged for it, but they turned it into a game of keep-away, laughing as they tossed my marriage license back and forth across the room. Finally, the booklet landed squarely against Connor’s chest. He caught it. “You left it right out in the open. You clearly wanted everyone to look at it,” Connor sneered, entirely too pleased with himself as he opened the cover. “Let’s all take a good look, then.” 4 He opened the little booklet and held it up, his eyes scanning the page. Staring back at him was a perfectly legal, county-sealed photograph of Cole and me, looking entirely at peace beside each other. But I wasn’t about to let him process it at his own pace. I marched forward, snatched the certificate right out of his hands, and shoved it deep into my pocket. I needed these parasites out of my house right now. “I told you,” I said, my voice deadly low. “This is my house. Get out, or I am calling the police.” I turned my back on them, walking toward the dining table where a steaming bowl of instant ramen I’d just made for myself was sitting. I glanced back over my shoulder. “And take your trash with you. I left your boxes by the front door. Don’t ever step foot in my life again.” Connor looked paralyzed. Even Madison looked genuinely shocked. “Harper… are you breaking up with him?” she asked, her voice faltering. “Are you just saying this because you hate me? Because if you are, I’ll just leave.” She made a dramatic pivot toward the door, but as she spun, her hand strategically ‘slipped,’ violently backhanding the hot bowl of ramen right off the table. The boiling broth splashed directly onto my legs. I shrieked, jumping back blindly, knocking over a heavy wooden chair in the process. I tangled in the legs of the chair and crashed hard onto the floor. “Ah! It burned me!” Madison screamed instantly, clutching her perfectly fine wrist and bursting into hysterical tears. Connor didn’t even look at me on the floor. He crossed the room in two strides, wrapping Madison in his arms, his eyes blazing with fury as he glared down at me. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you, Harper?!” he roared. “Don’t think just because we have a piece of paper you can do whatever the hell you want to her!” I pushed myself off the floor, gritting my teeth against the searing pain of the burn and the fresh throbbing in my stitches. Compared to the physical agony, looking at this man I had worshipped for five years was a far worse torment. If you stop loving someone, fine. But why the cruel deception? Did my infinite patience just translate to an invitation for abuse? Was I just a prop to stroke his ego in front of his friends? I looked at him, a cold, empty smile spreading across my face. “Did we really get a piece of paper, Connor?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “Is it really my name listed as the spouse on your marriage license?” Connor froze. The anger instantly evaporated from his face, replaced by a sickening, unmistakable guilt. He looked at the floor, unable to meet my eyes. “What are you talking about?” he stammered defensively. “We went to get the license together. You know whose name is on it.” The absolute lack of shame was breathtaking. I pulled out my phone, pulled up the blocked messages folder, and shoved the screen in his face. “Take a look for yourself. Am I talking nonsense, or is your actual wife talking nonsense?” Faced with undeniable proof, his bluster completely collapsed. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Madison bragging about it to me. He shot her a vicious glare, then looked back at me, rubbing the back of his neck in irritation. “Look, if she hadn’t pressured me into marrying her, I wouldn’t have had to lie to you,” he snapped, somehow making himself the victim. “Stop being so dramatic about it. Give it a couple of days, and I’ll take you down to City Hall to get a real one. It’s fine.” I almost laughed until I choked. The sheer, delusion arrogance to think I was still sitting around, begging for his ring. Before I could reply, the heavy front door swung open again. A deeply familiar, dangerously calm voice drawled from the entryway. “Awfully crowded in here. Did you all come to congratulate my wife and me on our wedding?”

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I was finally about to marry the woman I had secretly loved for years, yet I was willing to throw myself off a building just to escape the wedding. Because I had come back. From a previous life. In that life, we were married for over twenty years. To everyone else, we were the picture-perfect couple. But that beautiful illusion shattered violently on our twenty-fifth anniversary. She killed herself. A double suicide, actually, with the man who had always been the ghost in our marriage—the one she truly loved. I remember standing before her headstone, the words tumbling from my lips in a dazed murmur: “Do you regret marrying me?” I knew there would be no answer from the cold granite. I just spoke my own truth to the wind. “I regret marrying you.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Right before the wedding. I decided to run. This time, I thought, let’s just be strangers who know each other too well. I never expected her to find me again. Or that she would look so fragile, so entirely hollowed out by illness, and say to me: “I never regretted marrying you. Not in this life, not in the last. You were always the only one I ever wanted to marry.” … When I opened my eyes, someone was clapping me on the shoulder. Through the haze, I saw the grand double doors swing open. Sandy—who had been dead for ten years—stood on the stage in her wedding dress, bathed in a spotlight that made her look like a terrifyingly flawless angel descending to earth. The gasps from the audience swelled, loud enough to drown out the string quartet. Everyone was marveling at the bride’s beauty. A cold sweat broke across my skin. Someone nudged me, whispering that it was my cue to walk toward her. It was a dramatic entrance I had specifically requested the first time around. But now, I just stared at Sandy from across the room. The corners of her lips curved into a smile. And with absolute certainty, I turned on my heel and sprinted toward the exit. “The wedding is off. I am not marrying her.” The ballroom erupted into instant chaos. The hotel was massive, a labyrinth of velvet and crystal, and in my panic, I couldn’t find the right doors. Sandy’s friends and family surged after me. My soon-to-be father-in-law cornered me, his face tight with anger, his brow deeply furrowed. “Carter, the ceremony has started. Stop this nonsense right now. Get back out there.” I shook my head, hard. I couldn’t believe I had actually been reborn, let alone dropped right into the middle of my own wedding day. But since whatever powers that be had given me a second chance, I was absolutely not going to chain myself to Sandy again. A relative gripped my arm, pleading, “Whatever it is, we can sort it out after the vows. Sandy is waiting for you.” What? Sandy is waiting for me? Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white silk cutting through the crowd. It looked less like a bride and more like an executioner coming for my head. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved open a nearby window. We were on the third floor, but I threw myself out, praying the canvas awning below would break my fall. It did, mostly. But when I scrambled to my feet, a sharp, white-hot pain shot up my spine. Still, compared to the agonizing ache of being deceived by Sandy for over two decades in my past life, this physical pain was nothing. Clutching my side, I began to limp away as fast as I could. Heads poked out of the hotel windows, faces pale with shock. “Carter, you’re insane! You’re actually running away!” Sandy was among them. For a second, a flicker of genuine panic crossed her face. “Carter, what are you doing? If you leave… what about our wedding?” If I were the man I had been in my previous life, I never could have done this. But now? “Sandy, deciding to marry you was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m fixing it.” “Remember—I’m the one walking away from you.” I didn’t stick around to see her reaction. I hailed a cab and sped off, leaving the wreckage behind. I knew better than anyone that her pristine white gown wasn’t meant for me. She never wanted to marry me. The memories rushed back, suffocating me. I remembered rushing to the police station in the dead of night. The officer had looked up from his notepad and asked: “Sir, did you know anything about the man your wife, Sandy, committed suicide with? A Mr. Julian Vance?” I remembered the crushing weight of confusion and helplessness in that room. I had spent twenty years of my past life trying to understand that woman, and I had failed. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. To escape the inevitable fallout, I used my bruised ribs and sprained ankle as an excuse to check myself into the hospital. My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. The calls weren’t from people checking on me; they were from people wanting to tear me apart. The texts painted a clear picture. [Carter, how could you do this to Sandy?! She collapsed from crying! You need to get here and beg for her forgiveness right now!] I tossed the phone aside, unimpressed. There was no way Sandy was heartbroken over me running away. She was probably thrilled. In this life, she and that Julian guy could finally have their epic, star-crossed romance. She should be thanking me. Hell, they owed me a fruit basket. I was busy enjoying this thought when the door to my hospital room burst open. My parents stormed in, their faces flushed with rage. “Carter Harrison, have you lost your damn mind?! A runaway groom? Jumping out of a window? Who are you trying to humiliate?!” I hadn’t expected them to track me down so quickly. My bravado evaporated, and I instinctively pulled the thin hospital blanket up to my chin. “Stop yelling, I’m already in the hospital,” I whined, holding up my bandaged arm in a pathetic attempt to elicit some parental sympathy. They just scoffed. “You brought that on yourself. Sandy is in the hospital too, because of you. You need to take responsibility.” Ah. So that was why they got here so fast. I had to hand it to her—Sandy was fully committing to the performance. A fainting spell was the perfect way to deflect any suspicion that she wanted out of the wedding just as badly as I did. My parents weren’t done. They laid down the law: “As soon as you’re discharged, you are going to reschedule the wedding with Sandy.” “No. I’m not.” My absolute refusal threw them off. After all, my marriage to Sandy was something I had begged for. I had transferred to her high school in our senior year, fallen in love with her at first sight, and spent the next five years quietly pining for her. It wasn’t until her family’s real estate development firm hit a massive financial crisis that her parents approached mine, floating the idea of an alliance through marriage. When I heard, I was ecstatic. I had practically waged war on my own parents to get them to agree to the bailout and the wedding. And now, I was acting like a completely different person. They couldn’t process it. “Why?” The voice asking the question wasn’t my mother’s. My parents stepped aside. Sandy was standing in the doorway. She had traded her Vera Wang gown for faded hospital scrubs. She had always been slender, but now she looked terrifyingly frail. She looked like a strong gust of wind from the air conditioning vent might snap her in half. For a split second, an involuntary pang of sorrow hit my chest. She kept her eyes locked on mine and asked again, her voice trembling: “Why don’t you want to marry me?” I hardened my jaw, forcing the pity down. “Because I don’t love you anymore.” The words hit her like a physical blow. It was as if all the strings holding her up had been cut. She crumpled to the linoleum floor, out cold. My parents shot me a venomous glare before shouting for a nurse and helping carry Sandy back to her room. For a wild, stupid moment, I wanted to follow them. But I dug my nails into my palms and stayed put. I just couldn’t figure it out. When did Sandy get so weak? Was she really this dedicated to the act? After that, my parents were so furious they refused to visit me. One of my buddies, however, dropped by and gave me a thumbs-up. “Man, you are savage. You completely wrecked her. But seriously, didn’t you worship the ground she walked on? You chased her for years. Why bail at the finish line?” I waved him off casually. “The thrill of the chase was gone. It got boring.” “Well, then, I guess it’s my turn to chase you.” I looked up. Sandy was standing in the doorway again, already discharged, offering me a soft, tentative smile. “I don’t want you here,” I said, my voice deliberately flat. She didn’t flinch. She just walked in, carrying an insulated thermos, and calmly began pouring soup into a bowl. “I made some bone broth. You should eat while it’s hot.” My friend, sensing the sudden drop in room temperature, muttered an excuse and bolted. Leaving me alone with Sandy. I kept my expression entirely closed off. Sandy brought the bowl over, her tone coaxing, like she was talking to a stubborn child. “Just smell it. It’s really good.” The familiar, rich scent hit me. In my past life, for over twenty years, we were the couple everyone envied. Even I believed it. She was thoughtful, in her own way. She was always tied up with work, constantly missing holidays and anniversaries, but she would always apologize profusely. She’d bring me gifts—things I genuinely loved, things I had only mentioned in passing. Sandy, the heiress who had never touched a frying pan, actually took cooking classes. Whenever she was home, she cooked. She told me she was worried about my stomach issues, so she learned how to simmer all kinds of broths. This bone broth was my absolute favorite. I used to think it was proof that she loved me. But later, I found out the truth. The memory turned my stomach. The soup didn’t smell good anymore. I turned my head away. “I don’t want it. And I don’t want to look at you. Get out.” Sandy bit her lip so hard I thought it might bleed. She was shaking. It took her a long moment to force a frail, devastatingly sad smile. “If you don’t have an appetite right now, I’ll just leave it here. Drink it when you’re hungry.” I didn’t want to hear her voice. I pulled the blanket over my head and shut my eyes. She didn’t leave right away. I could hear her moving quietly around the room. It wasn’t until I heard the door click shut that I peeked out. She had tidied my room. She had even arranged a vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand, right in my line of sight. I scoffed. “She really is a fantastic actress.” For the next few days, Sandy showed up like clockwork—morning, noon, and night—always with meticulously prepared meals. I never touched a single bite. I ignored her completely. So, she busied herself making the sterile hospital room feel like home. She rearranged things until the room carried a haunting, subtle resemblance to our bedroom from my past life. It only made me feel more suffocated. The second she left one afternoon, I demanded my discharge papers. I was going home. But I had underestimated her. I had barely dropped my bags in the hallway when Sandy walked through the front door. She was hovering over my parents on the sofa, massaging my mother’s shoulders with practiced ease. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, if your shoulders are ever bothering you, just let me know. I can come over anytime to help.” My parents spotted me coming down the stairs. My mom waved her over to me. “Carter just got out of the hospital. Why don’t you help him relax a bit?” Sandy looked at me immediately, her eyes bright with a hesitant, desperate hope. It was obvious. My parents had sold me out. I understood why they suddenly adored her. Before I knew the truth about Sandy, I had been completely taken in by her gentle, attentive facade too. But what was her endgame here? I rubbed my temples, frustrated, and then it hit me. Her family’s firm. They needed our capital to stay afloat. She was probably terrified that my stunt at the wedding meant we were pulling the funding. She was overthinking it. In my past life, after her family’s company survived the crisis, it had exploded in value. It was a brilliant investment. We weren’t going to lose money. Once I rationalized it, I looked at her differently—not as a runaway bride, but as a business asset. My glare softened slightly. Seeing the shift in my demeanor, my mom gave Sandy a gentle push in my direction. Sandy stumbled. She was so off-balance she practically drifted toward me like a falling leaf. I caught her on reflex. Beneath the fabric of her sweater, she felt horrifyingly thin. She was practically weightless, all sharp angles and brittle bones, as if holding her too tightly would shatter her. I frowned deeply. She looked up at me, her cheeks flushed, a raw, undeniable joy illuminating her face. It irritated me. I pushed her away, a little too roughly. She swayed before catching her balance, but she was still looking at me with that damn happy expression. Even my parents were giving me knowing, exasperated looks. Like they thought I was just playing hard to get. I couldn’t stay in this house. “I have plans. I’m not staying here tonight.” I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Sandy jogged after me, relentless. Wherever I went, she followed. When I reached my car, she actually reached for the passenger side door handle. My patience snapped. “Stop. Can you just leave me alone?!” My voice echoed in the driveway, loud and harsh. Sandy froze, looking genuinely terrified. Her shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably. Seeing her look so frail only fueled my frustration. “I know what this is about. You need the capital. Don’t worry. Even if we don’t get married, I’ll still make sure the firm invests. Are you satisfied? If you are, then leave.” When she didn’t move or speak, I got in the car, slammed the door, and floored it. In the dim, neon-lit VIP room of a downtown club, guys I barely knew were already treating my life like a spectator sport. “Carter, man, that was legendary. You had the prom queen eating out of the palm of your hand and you just ditched her at the altar.” “I told you guys, Carter’s not a simp. He was just playing the long game to put Sandy in her place. She is so humiliated right now.” “She deserves it. Remember how stuck-up she used to be? Looking down on guys like us who just want to have a good time. Look who got played now.” Listening to them mock her, it dawned on me that my running away had turned Sandy into a punchline. The untouchable golden girl had been shattered, and now everyone felt entitled to kick the pieces. I didn’t join in. I just sat in the corner, quietly drinking my whiskey. The next morning, I stumbled through the front door, head pounding. My parents were waiting for me in the living room, looking furious. “You are spiraling, Carter. Out drinking all night? Sandy is a wonderful girl, and you threw her away like garbage. Youwere the one who begged to marry her.” “We are not letting this go. You owe us an explanation today.” Their anger cut through my hangover. They were right. I was the one who had forced it. It took living an entire lifetime of misery to realize that you can’t force someone to love you. … The memory of the night I heard about Sandy’s death clawed its way back to the surface. It was our twenty-fifth anniversary. The day before, for the first time in our marriage, I had drawn a hard line. I didn’t ask for much—just that she come home to celebrate with me. Because that day also marked exactly thirty years since I had fallen in love with her. “If you don’t come home tomorrow, we’re getting a divorce.” That’s what I told her. To Sandy, a threat like that must have sounded laughable. That night, I sat at our reserved table in the restaurant, a knot of anticipation in my stomach. Instead of Sandy, I got a phone call. I hung up and drove like a madman to the police precinct. “Are you Sandy’s husband?” The detective had confirmed my ID, his eyes heavy with a sickening kind of pity. He told me she was dead. Suicide. And she hadn’t died alone. She was found with a man named Julian Vance. They called it a lovers’ pact. “Sir, did you know anything about the nature of your wife’s relationship with Mr. Vance?” It was the first time I had ever heard the name. I just shook my head, entirely numb. I didn’t find out who Julian Vance was until Sandy’s funeral. Her best friend had collapsed next to the casket, sobbing hysterically. “If I had known you were still so in love with Julian, I would have dragged you away from Carter if it killed me.” That was how I found out. Julian was an upperclassman she had dated in college. They had never stopped seeing each other. Every holiday, every anniversary Sandy was “too busy” to celebrate with me, she had been with him. At the end of the funeral, I was the only one left. I stood alone in front of her grave. “Sandy,” I whispered. “Do you regret marrying me?” The stone was silent, but I already knew the truth. “I regret marrying you, too. If I could do it all over again, I would never, ever come near you.” The memory grounded me. The fog in my head cleared, and I looked steadily at my parents. “I can’t marry her. I can’t give you the exact reason why. But I promise you, I will make sure her family gets the funding they need.” My mother finally let out a long, defeated sigh. “You’re going to regret this. Fine. We’re done trying to control you. Do whatever you want.” I went upstairs and slept for twenty-four hours straight. When I finally felt human again, I texted Sandy, telling her to meet me at my office. She arrived quickly. She had clearly spent hours getting ready. Her hair was styled in soft, careful waves. She wore a simple, elegant white sundress. She looked like she was showing up for a date. “Carter, it’s been a while since you asked to see me,” she said, a shy, almost girlish smile playing on her lips. I tossed a folder onto the glass coffee table between us, keeping my voice strictly professional. “I know your family needs the sixty million. Sign this contract, and the money is yours. But in exchange, I want you to stop contacting me.” Sandy looked down at the folder. She didn’t move. “Hurry up,” I urged. “I’m giving you exactly what you want. Don’t push your luck.” When she finally looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears. Her jaw tightened, and she threw the contract back at me. Then she closed the distance between us, grabbing the lapels of my jacket, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Carter, I don’t give a damn about the investment! I only ever wanted you! How much more obvious do I have to be?” The tears spilled over, hot and fast. She balled her fists and hit my chest, though there was no real strength behind it. “We were married for over twenty years. Just because you came back doesn’t mean you get to bully your wife like this. You were never this cruel to me in our past life…”

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I spent three years trying to rewrite the ending of a tragedy. My mission was simple: save Nancy, the beautiful, obsessive “doomed girl” of this story, from sacrificing her life for a man who didn’t love her. But when the “hero” of this world finally returned, she still smiled as she crawled through fire for him. By the time I reached the underground fighting pits, the air was thick with the copper scent of blood and the roar of the crowd. Nancy was there, kneeling in the dirt at his feet. A gold victory medal was clenched between her teeth, and her long, dark serpent’s tail was coiled listlessly behind her. Silas, the man I was supposed to keep her away from, leaned over her. He ran a sharp, manicured nail over the raw, jagged wounds on her back. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t resist. She just looked up at him with a terrifying, hollow devotion. Silas used the tip of his expensive leather boot to tilt her chin up. He offered a thin, mocking smile. “I heard a rumor you got married, Nancy. Do you actually love that husband of yours?” Nancy’s lips curled into a faint, ghost-like smile. “No.” Silas arched a brow, amused. “Oh? Then why marry him?” Her answer came without a second of hesitation. “Gratitude. He saved my life once. I was merely paying a debt.” The sound of Silas’s sharp, cruel laughter was the background music to my death sentence. In my mind, a cold, mechanical ping rang out: [Task Failed. Host life-support sequence terminated.] Looking at the two of them, no one would believe that just last night—the night before Silas returned—this same woman had been shifted into her half-beast form, her black scales shimmering as she wrapped her tail gently around my arm. She had looked at me with eyes bright with what I thought was affection and whispered, “Cade, you’ll stay with me forever, right?” Now, I finally had the answer for her. There is no “forever” for us. With the task failed, my terminal condition was no longer being suppressed by the System. I had exactly twenty-eight days left to live. 1 Silas leaned back against the arena railing, his voice dripping with the casual arrogance of a man who knew he was worshipped. “Nancy, go get me the second gold medal. I want the set.” Nancy’s dark, fathomless eyes locked onto him. She nodded once. “Anything for you.” Her opponent for the second half was an avian-shifter—a hawk. In the world of predators, the hawk was the snake’s natural nightmare. Nancy was at a devastating disadvantage. I watched from the shadows as the hawk’s talons, sharp as surgical hooks, tore into her abdomen. The moment her flesh was ripped open, her entire body convulsed. Her tail coiled in a violent spasm of agony before lashing out. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down. She used the momentum of the strike to lung forward, her fingers clawing toward that meaningless gold token. Every time the hawk dived, it took a piece of her with it. I stood there, watching the body I had spent three years painstakingly piecing back together—using every hard-earned point I had to heal her scars and mend her bones—get torn to shreds by her own choice. Finally, she gasped, her fingers closing around the medal. She dragged herself back to Silas’s feet, trembling, and forced a bloody smile as she held it up. “The medal… for you.” Silas took it, tossing it lightly in his hand. Then, with a sudden, sharp grin, he raised his boot and ground his heel into her mangled tail. Nancy’s face went paper-white. A strangled, muffled groan of pure agony escaped her throat as cold sweat broke across her skin. Silas pressed harder, his weight crushing the bone beneath the scales, until a fresh pool of crimson began to spread across the dirt. Suddenly, chaos erupted. Someone had left a cage door open, and one of the wilder beasts broke loose. Nancy’s instincts kicked in instantly. Ignoring her crushed tail, she surged upward, wrapping herself around Silas, using her own back as a shield against the screaming crowd and the charging beast. A shard of glass, shattered by the stampede, whistled past my arm. I barely stepped aside. I wanted to move toward her, to pull her out of that hellhole, but my feet felt like they were bolted to the floor. The System was right. Shifters have instincts a thousand times sharper than humans. I had been standing there for two hours. I had watched her bleed, watched her offer up her soul, watched her throw her life away for a man who enjoyed her pain. And in those two hours, she hadn’t looked at me once. Not even a glance. A sharp, stabbing migraine hit me out of nowhere. My vision tunneled into blackness. I couldn’t hold myself up anymore. With my last shred of strength, I whispered to the void, “System… get me out of here.” 2 I woke up curled on my bed, feeling as if a colony of fire ants was gnawing at my marrow. My “illness” was a side effect of the transmigration. Three years ago, I had accepted this mission to save my own life. When I first found Nancy, she was a wreck. Her scales were scattered like broken glass, her flesh torn from tail to hip, her white bones peeking through the red. She was huddled in a rainy alley, looking more pathetic than I felt. I held an umbrella over her and knelt in the mud. “Beg me,” I told her, “and I’ll save you.” She had looked up at me then, her dark eyes cold and defiant. She bit her bloodless lip and turned her head away, choosing pride over survival. I had laughed. I told the System, She’s the one. Let’s do this. During her recovery, she watched me like a caged wolf. Once, while I was changing her bandages, she bit my hand so hard I bled. I just sighed, looking at the wound. “You have to cooperate if you want to get better, Nancy.” She had frozen then, her pupils slitting into thin vertical lines. She stared at the blood on my hand, then at my face, a flicker of genuine confusion and guilt crossing her expression. After that day, the walls came down. She went from cold silence to soft responses, and eventually, to a suffocating dependence. I’ve always been a magnet for bad luck—tripping, getting sick, minor accidents—but for the three years Nancy was healthy, I didn’t suffer a single scratch. She would tilt the umbrella toward me in the rain. She would spend months crafting gifts for me. Once, in a car accident, she threw her body over mine, using her strength to create a pocket of safety in a heap of twisted metal while she bled out. The System warned me: [Host, remember this is just a task. Do not invest real emotion into the target.] But I wasn’t a professional. I didn’t have the cold, clinical detachment of a long-term jumper. So, when she looked at me with those shining eyes and clumsily presented a ring she had polished from one of her own shed scales, stuttering through a proposal… I nodded. I said, “Yes.” The pain in my chest intensified, blurring my thoughts. Habit took over. I reached for my phone and dialed Nancy’s number. I just wanted her to bring me my meds. But the phone, which she used to answer on the first ring, just kept ringing. I remembered the way she held me every night, her eyes watching me in the dark. I remembered the cool touch of her scales against my skin when she was being affectionate. It was all just “paying a debt.” The pain finally dragged me under, and I spiraled into unconsciousness. 3 I was jolted awake by the thick, metallic scent of blood. As I came to, I felt something shifting inside me. The System had told me that my “illness” wouldn’t just kill my body; it would erode my personality, stripping away my capacity for emotion until there was nothing left. I looked up to see Nancy standing by the bed. She was swaying, barely able to keep her balance. There wasn’t a patch of clean skin on her. She looked like she’d been put through a meat grinder. I frowned, feeling nothing but a sharp, biting annoyance at being disturbed. She didn’t notice my coldness. She reached out, grabbing the hem of my shirt with trembling fingers. Her voice was a raspy whisper. “Cade… I’m hurt.” I nodded curtly. “I can see that. I’m not blind.” She flinched as if I’d slapped her. Her dark eyes, clouded with pain and blood loss, searched mine in confusion. After a few seconds of heavy silence, she tried again. “Cade, I’m in pain… tell me a story? Like you used to?” I looked at the bloody handprints she was leaving on my shirt and felt a wave of disgust. I pulled my clothes out of her grip. “I didn’t do that to you,” I said, my voice flat. “If you’re in pain, why is it my job to entertain you?” The air seemed to leave her lungs all at once. The last bit of color drained from her face. She stared at me for a long time, her voice trembling. “What… what’s happened to you?” I wanted to tell her nothing was wrong—that I just couldn’t stand the sight of her—but a fresh wave of agony hit my head, stealing my voice. My sudden pale face and gasping breath terrified her. She panicked, reaching out to hold me but afraid to touch me, her voice shaking. “Cade? What is it? Where does it hurt?” The medical tech in this world was primitive. Painkillers were the only thing that worked for what I had. I stopped caring about the blood on her hands and grabbed her wrist. “Get… get me the medication… the strong ones…” I lied to cover the System’s involvement. “My migraines… they’re back.” “Yes! Yes! Right away! I’m going!” she cried. She threw on a coat over her ruined clothes and vanished into the night. 4 I waited for hours. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain a dull roar in the back of my mind. She didn’t come back. Eventually, the pain leveled off enough for me to throw on a jacket and head to the clinic myself. I didn’t expect to find Nancy there. And I certainly didn’t expect to find her with Silas. Nancy was strapped to a cold metal surgical table, her wrists bound by heavy iron chains. Her tail hung limply off the side. She was hooked up to a dozen machines and tubes I didn’t recognize. Silas stood over her, holding a syringe filled with a glowing neon fluid. He was smiling. “First injection, Nancy. Let’s see how you take it.” The moment the fluid entered her veins, her body arched violently. The veins in her neck and forehead bulged, and her black tail convulsed in a rhythmic, agonizing spasm. Silas watched the monitors with a predatory obsession, taking notes. He picked up a second syringe. “One more to go. Can you handle it, or are we done?” Nancy was gasping for air, her face a mask of sweat and agony, but she forced the words out. “It’s… it’s fine. Keep going.” Standing in the doorway, I remembered what the System had said. In the original story, she was the “Martyr.” She willingly let the “hero” dissect her and experiment on her in the name of “medical progress.” Silas would build his entire career on her mutilated body, becoming the star of the medical world while she withered away. I should have turned around. My emotions were nearly gone anyway. But the sight of her like that triggered a lingering spark of logic. I pushed the door open. “Stop it. What the hell are you doing?” They both froze. Silas looked at me and blinked. “Doing an experiment,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were making coffee. I took a deep breath, glaring at him. “She’s in agony.” Silas let out a sharp, condescending laugh. “What do I care? She volunteered.” He looked at Nancy. “Besides, even if she dies here, it’s for the greatness of medicine. An honor, right, Nancy?” Nancy’s pupils constricted the moment she saw me. She looked at me not with relief, but with a cold, piercing warning. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. Her voice was ice. “This is none of your business, Cade.” “Get out.” “Don’t interrupt Silas’s work.” I stared at her, the absurdity of it all hitting me. I let out a short, dry laugh. As I turned to leave, the very last tether of affection I had for her finally snapped. 5 I shut the door firmly behind me. The Martyr? I thought. More like a masochist with a death wish. The System chimed in: [Well, look on the bright side. Your emotional decay makes dealing with toxic people a lot easier.] I didn’t answer. I went home, took my meds, took a hot shower, and buried myself in my blankets. If you want something done right, do it yourself. I only had twenty-eight days left. I might be dying, but I was going to die comfortable and clean. I was half-asleep when a cold body pressed against my back. A heavy weight wrapped around my legs. I was too tired to process it at first. I just clutched my pillow and rolled to the far side of the bed. But she followed, her tail coiling tighter around my ankles. The cold, reptilian sensation made my skin crawl. I slammed my hand onto the bedside lamp. Nancy’s face was inches from mine. She looked pathetic. “Cade,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Today, I…” I didn’t let her finish. I grabbed the heavy brass lamp and swung it at her with everything I had. “Get out!” She didn’t move. She didn’t even flinch. The lamp caught her in the temple, and a streak of blood began to travel down her pale cheek. I pointed at the door. “This is my house. Who gave you permission to be here? Get out before I lose my mind!” She looked at me with those wide, wounded eyes. Then, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled, tear-stained box of pills. She held them out to me. “The medicine… I brought it. Are you still hurting?” I looked at the box—the meds she was “too busy” to bring because she was being Silas’s lab rat—and I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated loathing. “I’m hurting,” I sneered. “Looking at you makes me sick. Are you leaving, or am I calling the police?” She stared at me, stubborn as a mule. “I’m not leaving.” She reached out to grab my sleeve, a gesture that used to be sweet. Now, it was the final straw. The “illness” was taking over my brain. I couldn’t control the rage. Why did she get to be a martyr for him and a victim for me? I lunged forward, grabbed her black tail where it sat on the floor, and yanked. “Get. Off. My. Bed!” She tumbled to the floor, looking up at me in shock. “Cade, don’t be angry. I’m moving, I’m moving…” But I wasn’t finished. I stepped down, hard, with my heel on the most sensitive part of her tail, grinding my shoe into the scales. She froze. Her fingers clenched into the carpet. She looked up at me, her eyes filling with tears of shock and betrayal. What are you crying for? I thought. You seemed to love it when Silas did it. I ground my heel down again. And again. I didn’t stop until I felt the floor become slick and wet. When I looked down, Nancy was huddled in a heap, and the rug was stained a deep, dark red. I felt a sudden dizzy spell. The anger drained away, leaving only a hollow exhaustion. Nancy slowly looked up. She forced a tiny, twisted smile. “Are you done?” she whispered. She turned her face away. “If not… you can keep going.” She was trying to play the guilt card. She was waiting for me to apologize, to gather her in my arms and cry. But the dizziness turned into a black void. I pitched forward, losing consciousness before I hit the floor.

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As a premium private caregiver specializing in geriatric recovery, my rate is exactly three thousand dollars higher than the market average. When my prospective employer, Martha Whitaker, asked me why I cost so much more than the others, I didn’t give her a resume. I simply gave her a modest, knowing smile. “I specialize in ‘difficult’ family dynamics,” I told her. “I don’t just manage your recovery; I manage the people who make it harder. I guarantee a peaceful home.” Martha’s eyes lit up, a spark of hope cutting through her weary expression. She didn’t hesitate. “The deposit is sent. You start today.” 1 After the paperwork was signed, I followed Martha back to her suburban home. Before we even reached the front door, she leaned in and whispered a set of instructions. “Once we’re inside, please, just keep your head down. Don’t speak unless you have to. And if you do, keep your voice very low.” I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, though a wave of sympathy washed over me. It was clear why she was willing to pay a three-thousand-dollar premium. Martha wasn’t looking for a nurse; she was looking for a shield. Her daughter-in-law was clearly the type of woman who ruled through intimidation. We entered the house so quietly I felt like a burglar. Martha moved with a tentative, shrinking gait that broke my heart. The door clicked shut. A second later, a sharp, impatient voice barked from the top of the stairs. “Mom? How many times do I have to tell you? The baby and I are napping at this hour. Stop making so much noise!” Martha flinched, her shoulders hunching toward her ears. She stared at her sensible shoes for a long beat before whispering, “I’m… I’m sorry, Melanie. I’ll be more careful. This is the caregiver I hired. Her name is Tess.” I plastered a polite, professional smile on my face and looked up. Melanie looked to be in her late twenties. She was draped in a silk robe, her face perfectly made up even for a “nap,” and she held a glass of what looked like a cold-pressed green juice. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, her gaze raked over me from head to toe, a cold, calculating assessment. “Hi, Tess,” she said, her tone dripping with a bored sort of condescension. “Take a seat. I’ll come down to discuss your ‘duties’ once the baby is awake.” She turned and vanished back into the master suite without waiting for a response. Martha awkwardly gestured for me to sit on the edge of the designer sofa. We sat there in a heavy, stifling silence for nearly two hours. Martha grew more fidgety and embarrassed with every passing minute, but I remained calm, sipping the water she’d given me. I knew exactly what this was. It was a power play—a “know your place” ceremony. Finally, a bedroom door opened. Melanie emerged, leading a small toddler by the hand. She walked right past me as if I were a piece of furniture, taking the child into a side room. A few minutes later, the faint, repetitive sounds of a beginner’s piano scale drifted through the house. Only after the music started did Melanie reappear, wearing a mask of practiced grace. She sat across from me, ready to strike. “So, Tess,” she began, stirring the dregs of her juice with a glass straw. She didn’t look at me. “Since my mother-in-law insisted on hiring you, I expect you to be extremely diligent. Martha is… particular. And she has her gallbladder surgery coming up in two days.” She finally looked up, her eyes narrowing with a need for absolute control. “Post-op nutrition is vital. I want her on a strict regimen. Plain white rice, steamed unseasoned vegetables, and water. That’s it. No fats, no salt.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a sharp, commanding hiss. “Furthermore, this house must remain a sanctuary of silence. Especially when Sophie is practicing her piano. No clanking dishes, no loud footsteps. And Martha’s movement should be restricted to her bedroom and this section of the living room. We can’t risk her tripping or catching a draft. We simply can’t have that responsibility on our shoulders.” Then came the kicker. “Most importantly, Martha gets… confused. Especially when she’s unwell. She might start rambling about the past or wanting to dig through old boxes in the attic. Just nod and ignore it. Don’t encourage her, and certainly don’t go gossiping about family business. We keep our private matters within these walls.” It was a masterclass in isolation. Under the guise of “care,” she was effectively putting Martha in a cage, cutting off her flavor, her movement, and her voice. Martha sat beside me, her face pale, her fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan. She looked like she wanted to scream, but she didn’t dare breathe. I didn’t let my smile slip for a second. I just nodded slowly. Melanie leaned back, looking satisfied. “Mrs. Whitaker,” I said, my voice smooth and warm. “It’s truly moving to see how much you care about your mother-in-law’s recovery. Your dedication to her health is rare.” Then, I shifted gears with the precision of a scalpel. “However, my contract is with Martha. She is my employer of record. Therefore, my primary focus will always be her clinical health and her personal autonomy.” 2 The look on Melanie’s face was priceless—a volatile mix of shock and burgeoning rage. I didn’t give her a chance to cut in. “Regarding the diet,” I continued, “while low-fat is essential after gallbladder surgery, ‘no fat and no salt’ can actually lead to malnutrition and depression in elderly patients. I’ll be following the specific surgical recovery menu provided by her surgeon to ensure she’s getting the nutrients she needs to actually heal. Food is medicine, after all, and a happy patient recovers twice as fast.” Melanie’s perfectly curated expression began to crack. “As for her mobility,” I pressed on, “movement is the best defense against post-operative blood clots. Keeping her confined to a chair is actually a significant medical risk. I will be personally supervising her walks to ensure she’s safe and warm, but she will be moving.” I met her eyes, my gaze steady and filled with professional “concern.” “And regarding her ‘confusion’… most seniors simply need an empathetic ear. Social isolation is the leading cause of cognitive decline. My job is to care for her mind as much as her body. As her family, I’m sure you want her to feel seen and heard in her own home, don’t you?” Melanie sat frozen. I had wrapped my defiance in such professional, “patient-first” language that she couldn’t argue without looking like she wanted her mother-in-law to suffer. The silence in the living room was deafening. The smirk had vanished from Melanie’s face. She looked at me with a simmering resentment, her eyes flashing with the realization that I wasn’t the submissive help she’d expected. Martha, meanwhile, had looked up. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her expression one of pure, stunned disbelief. It was as if I’d just handed her a key to a door she thought was locked forever. Melanie took a sharp breath, her chest heaving. She forced a jagged, unpleasant smile. “Tess, you certainly are… professional. You seem to know so much. No wonder my mother-in-law was so desperate to hire you.” She spat the word professional like an insult. I simply offered a humble tilt of my head. “Since you have such strong opinions,” Melanie said, her voice tight, “I’ll leave her in your ‘capable’ hands. Just make sure you actually do your job.” She stood abruptly and marched into the master bedroom, slamming the door. Martha turned to me immediately. Her voice was a fragile thread. “Tess… you shouldn’t have said all that. She’s going to make things so hard for you now. She never forgets a slight.” I felt a pang of genuine heartache. Martha had been a schoolteacher; she had spent decades commanding a classroom, shaping young minds. Now, she was a ghost in her own house, terrified of a woman who hadn’t even been born when Martha started her career. I reached over and gently squeezed her hand. My voice was soft but anchored with certainty. “Martha, don’t worry about me. You’re paying me to solve problems. I can handle her.” Martha searched my eyes for a long time before finally letting out a long, shaky breath. I looked around the beautiful, sterile living room. It was a house, but it wasn’t a home. Melanie had used her status as the “woman of the house” to mark her territory, but she’d made a mistake. She thought I was the help. She didn’t realize that I was the one who had been hired to take the house back. 3 That evening, as I was preparing a light dinner, Martha’s son, David, returned from work. Melanie glided out of the music room, the picture of the devoted, exhausted wife. She took his briefcase and gave him a soft, performative kiss. “Long day? Sophie was an angel at the piano today. She’s making so much progress.” David gave a distracted hum and looked toward the kitchen. “Who’s this?” Melanie’s voice turned icy. “Oh, that’s Tess. Your mother hired her with her own savings.” She leaned closer to him, her voice loud enough for me to catch every word. “Apparently, she costs three thousand more than the standard rate. I told Mom I’d take care of her, but I guess she thinks I’m not ‘good enough.’ She insisted on wasting the money.” It was a classic move. In one breath, she painted me as an overpriced luxury and Martha as a demanding, ungrateful burden, all while positioning herself as the martyr. David frowned but didn’t say anything. He just mumbled a few platitudes to Melanie. It was clear why Martha felt so helpless. Her son was a “peace-at-all-costs” man—a chronic enabler who took the path of least resistance, which usually meant siding with his wife. At dinner, I brought the food to the table and served Martha a bowl of clear, nutritious cream soup first. Melanie immediately bristled. “Tess, I thought I said light? She has surgery in forty-eight hours. That looks far too rich.” Martha looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to just take it away to avoid a scene. I didn’t stop pouring. “Don’t worry, Melanie. I’ve skimmed every drop of fat from the surface. The doctor confirmed that clear proteins are essential for her strength before the procedure.” David took a sip of his own soup and nodded. “This is actually really good, Tess. Nice work.” Seeing that her husband wasn’t biting, Melanie fell silent, though she looked like she was chewing on glass. She pointedly pushed her own salad around her plate, creating a physical divide between her “healthy” choices and the meal I’d prepared. Later that night, as I passed the study, I heard Melanie’s voice through the cracked door. She was crying—or doing a very good impression of it. “She was so rude to me today, David! She completely ignored my instructions. And your mother… she just sat there and let this stranger talk down to me. It’s like they’re ganging up on me in my own home…” I smiled to myself as I walked away. Let her complain. The more she played the victim, the faster David would eventually see the cracks in the performance. Over the next few days, Melanie transitioned from subtle snubs to open sabotage. When I cooked, she claimed the produce I bought from the organic market was “rotten.” I calmly showed her a video from a botanist explaining that a few tiny holes in leafy greens were actually a sign of pesticide-free, natural growing. She turned beet-red and stomped away. When I checked Martha’s blood pressure, Melanie claimed my monitor was defective. “If you think it’s inaccurate, we should call the manufacturer immediately,” I said. I called the company right in front of her, putting it on speaker. When the technician confirmed the device was perfectly calibrated, I looked at Melanie with wide, “clueless” eyes. “Oh dear,” I said. “You were so certain it was wrong. You must have a much more sensitive intuition for medicine than I do. I’m so sorry for the confusion.” Melanie’s jaw tightened so hard I thought her teeth might crack. The power struggle reached a peak when I made fish stew. Melanie walked into the kitchen, nose wrinkled in disgust. “My husband doesn’t eat fish. Didn’t you listen to anything I told you?” I feigned total shock. “That’s strange. I saw him have two bowls of the trout chowder yesterday.” I was lying, of course. David hadn’t been home for lunch. But Melanie was the type of person who spent the entire meal staring at her phone or eating in another room. She had no idea what he’d actually eaten. She froze, her face cycling through several shades of frustration. When David got home, she rushed to him, desperate for a win. “Tess said you like fish stew now? But you’ve always hated it!” David looked confused. “Actually, the chowder she made was fantastic. Is there more?” I smiled warmly at him. “Of course, David. It’s good for your stress levels. You’ve been working so hard lately; you need the nourishment.” Melanie was speechless. That night, while Martha and David were out for a short walk, I heard Melanie on the phone in the living room. Her voice was sharp, stripped of its “perfect wife” veneer. “I can’t stand her! This bitch of a caregiver is constantly undermining me. I can’t fire her because the old lady paid for her directly, but I’ll find a way. If I don’t get her out of this house by the end of the month, my name isn’t Melanie…” I leaned against the kitchen wall, listening to her unravel. She was getting desperate. Good. But she didn’t realize that for three thousand dollars extra, I didn’t just provide medical care. I provided justice. It was time to show David who his “angel” of a wife really was when the lights went down.

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My husband was staying over at the luxury postpartum retreat to help me recover. Surprisingly, the usually quiet specialist suddenly became a fountain of enthusiasm. First, she gushed over how tall and handsome my husband was, marveling that he was a CEO at such a young age. Then, she dropped subtle hints that I was just another “trophy wife” who had bought her way into high society with a surgeon’s scalpel. While she was helping me with lactation, she sighed with mock concern, advising me that with my “implants,” I shouldn’t even try to breastfeed—that it would be bad for the baby. I didn’t feel like wasting my breath on her, so I turned to my husband to talk about names for our son. He smiled, saying that since this was our first child, he wanted to choose something truly special. That’s when the specialist let out a sharp gasp. “Oh, honey, I thought this was your second? Didn’t you have your first a couple of years ago?” … My best friend, Becca, had recently opened this high-end postpartum retreat. She’d spent a fortune poaching a “miracle worker” specialist named Tiffany, raving that the woman was kind-hearted, sweet-talking, and technically unmatched. To support her new venture, I booked the executive suite. The plan was for my husband to be by my side throughout the entire process. But nature had other ideas. I went into labor at thirty-seven weeks, right when my husband was stuck overseas managing a massive merger. On our FaceTime calls, he was a mess. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I’d give anything to fly back right now. I hate that I’m missing this.” I forced a smile to comfort him. “Shawn, it’s okay. It’s just one day, and my parents are here. Don’t worry.” Three days after giving birth, I checked into Becca’s retreat. Becca was away on a business trip, so her “Gold-Star” specialist, Tiffany, was assigned to handle my intake. Initially, knowing I was a friend of the owner, Tiffany was all smiles. She was bright and attentive as she showed me the room and the recovery packages. But that afternoon, when my father showed up in his worn-out cargo shorts and flip-flops, and my mother in her simple cotton sunblock dress, the light in Tiffany’s eyes dimmed. Her smile turned brittle. When I asked questions, I got nothing but clipped, one-word answers. After my parents left, I asked to start my first recovery session. Tiffany didn’t even look up from her clipboard. “Look, honey, that treatment is fully booked for the week. I don’t have a slot for you.” She walked away before I could even respond. For the next two days, whenever I asked about my schedule, she treated me like a nuisance. By the fourth day of being ignored, I was ready to have a serious talk with her. But as I opened my mouth, her face underwent a terrifying transformation. Her eyes lit up, her posture softened, and her voice shifted into a high-pitched, syrupy coo. I was bewildered until I heard the familiar, deep voice behind me. “Claire, I’m back.” Shawn stood in the doorway, looking like he’d stepped off a magazine cover in a charcoal-grey bespoke suit. The sunlight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, making him look every bit the untouchable executive. The next second, he was at my side, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Sweetheart, you’ve been through so much. I’m here now.” I was just about to tell him about the specialist’s attitude when Tiffany practically glided over, tape measure in hand. “Oh, honey, let me get those measurements for you right now. We need to tailor your recovery plan perfectly.” She shot a quick, shy glance at Shawn. “I’ll throw in two complimentary lactation sessions on the house. You can just call me Tiffany.” So this was the “miracle worker” Becca had promised. I suppressed my irritation and let her start the measurements. As she worked, she kept stealing glances at Shawn, tossing out little conversational hooks. Shawn looked exhausted from his flight, but he remained his usual polite, professional self. When she caught me staring at her, Tiffany gave a forced, awkward giggle. “Wow, honey, your husband is stunning.” Then, without a word of warning, she said, “Honey, you need to take the top off. I need precision.” Before I could even process the request, she reached out and pulled my robe open, completely ignoring the fact that the suite door was still wide open to the hallway. I felt a surge of anger, but I bit my tongue for Becca’s sake. She began prodding me, her voice casual but her eyes roaming. “So, honey, is your husband some kind of big-shot executive? He has such… presence.” “He’s a CEO,” I replied shortly. Tiffany’s lips curled into a strange, mocking smile. “You sure got lucky, didn’t you?” Suddenly, she pinched the soft tissue of my breast with unnecessary force. I let out a sharp cry and shoved her hand away, sitting bolt upright. “What the hell are you doing?” Tiffany looked startled, her gaze snapping away from Shawn. I followed her eyes and saw what she had been looking at: Shawn’s perfect profile and the subtle gleam of the Patek Philippe on his wrist. Tiffany’s face flushed. “Oh! My apologies. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She paused, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “But honestly, honey, it usually only hurts like that if you have implants.” I ignored her. But she wasn’t done. “Seriously though, honey, you’ve clearly had quite a bit of ‘work’ done. Must have cost a fortune. I mean, how much did you have to invest in yourself to land a guy like that?” My blood boiled. I slapped her hand away. “What did you just say?” Hearing the tension, Shawn stepped in. “Everything okay in here?” Tiffany’s voice immediately turned into that breathy coo again. “Oh, everything’s fine! I was just telling her how lucky she is. To have a husband who is as handsome as he is successful.” She sighed, looking at her own nails. “She’s so lucky she just has to worry about being pretty while a man takes care of everything. Must be nice. Some of us actually have to work for a living.” It finally clicked. Tiffany wasn’t just rude; she was pathologically jealous of what she perceived to be my lifestyle. It was almost funny. I wasn’t being “taken care of.” My family had more money than God. My parents had retired years ago, handing the reins of our conglomerate to me. They spent their days gardening in old clothes because they had nothing left to prove. I had hired Shawn as a professional manager for one of our subsidiaries, and eventually, we fell in love. I’d kept the full extent of my wealth quiet, preferring a simpler life. Shawn knew I was comfortable, but he didn’t know I owned the ground he walked on. But none of that gave this woman the right to insult me. Shawn, seeing things had calmed down, went back to the outer lounge to rest. I looked Tiffany dead in the eye. “If you don’t want to do your job, I’ll find someone else. Right now.” She blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ll be professional. Let’s finish the measurements. I’ll be back in thirty minutes for your session.” Thirty minutes later, Tiffany returned in her “work clothes.” Instead of the standard scrubs, she was wearing a tight, sleeveless tank top and a pink miniskirt that barely covered her hips. Her cleavage was on full display. Seeing our surprised looks, she gave a coy shrug. “This work is so physical, and I get so hot. You don’t mind the ‘summer uniform,’ do you, honey?” The AC was blasting, but I didn’t want another argument. “Just start,” I said. Technically, she was good. The pain from the engorgement began to recede under her hands. But as the session went on, something changed. The pressure became localized and sharp. It went from relief to agony in seconds. “Stop!” I yelled, flinching away. Shawn came running in. Tiffany bit her lip, looking at him with watery eyes. “I told her, Shawn… with implants, it’s always complicated.” I looked down. My skin was red and bruised. “Honestly,” Tiffany continued, “I wouldn’t recommend breastfeeding. Those implants leak toxins into the milk. It’s not fair to the baby.” “I have never had plastic surgery in my life,” I hissed, my voice shaking with rage. “What is your obsession with my body? If you don’t know what you’re doing, get out. And if you say one more defamatory word about me, I will call the police.” The shouting attracted a small crowd of staff in the hallway. Tiffany collapsed onto the floor, looking like a kicked puppy. “I was just trying to help! Only women with surgery feel that kind of pain…” I pointed a trembling finger at the door, ready to explode. Shawn walked over, wrapping an arm around me. “Hey, hey, calm down. Don’t let a specialist get you this upset. It’s not good for your recovery.” Under Shawn’s touch, I took a deep breath. I decided I would deal with this through Becca. I wasn’t going to roll in the mud with this woman. Tiffany looked up, seeing I had calmed down. “Can we move on to the next treatment?” “No,” I said firmly. “I want a different specialist.” Tiffany panicked. “No, please! If you request a change, I lose my performance bonus for the month. Please, have a heart.” I didn’t budge. She turned her teary eyes toward Shawn. “Please, sir… talk to her. I’m just a girl trying to make ends meet. I can’t lose that money.” She clasped her hands over her chest, pressing her breasts together to emphasize her cleavage. Shawn looked away, then turned to me. “Claire… maybe give her one more chance? She seems pretty desperate.” “No,” I said. Shawn’s expression soured slightly, a flicker of annoyance passing over his face. To break the tension, I changed the subject. “We still haven’t picked a name for Leo. Let’s look at the list again.” Shawn’s face brightened. “Right. Our firstborn. I want it to be perfect.” Tiffany, who had reached the door, froze. She spun around, her eyes wide with simulated shock. “Oh! Honey, I’m so confused. I thought you said you’d already had a child?” She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she’d let a terrible secret slip. Her eyes darted around the room, the picture of “oops.” The gossiping staff in the hallway leaned in closer. Shawn froze. He looked at me, his brow furrowed. “Claire? What is she talking about?” I looked at him, my heart sinking. “Shawn, you can’t be serious. You’re actually listening to her?” He looked away, his jaw tight. I felt a cold laugh bubble up in my chest. I fixed my robe and walked to the door, standing right in front of Tiffany. “Say that again. Loudly.” Tiffany shrank back, stepping behind Shawn as if seeking protection. I pushed past him and grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at me. “When and where did I have this ‘first child’?” She stammered, “It was… two years ago. At… St. Jude’s Women’s Hospital.” She saw the doubt in Shawn’s eyes and felt emboldened. “I was doing a home-visit recovery then. I saw you in the maternity ward, holding a newborn.” She turned to Shawn. “And honestly, sir, I’ve seen her pelvic floor metrics. She’s clearly carried more than once. She’s had work done all over—you can tell she’s the type who’s been ‘kept’ before. She probably tried to baby-trap some other rich guy before she found you.” She leaned in toward him. “Shawn, don’t let a woman like this play you. You’re successful, you’re handsome… you deserve a woman who is honest. Not a surgical project with a hidden past.” In the hallway, I heard the whispers. Gold digger. Home-wrecker. I knew she looked fake. I took a deep breath, pulled out my phone, and started recording. “You say I had a child two years ago? Do you have proof? You say I’ve had surgery? Proof? You’re calling me a mistress? I hope you have a lawyer, Tiffany. Because I’m going to sue you for every cent you’ve ever earned for defamation.” Tiffany’s bravado vanished. “I… I might have been mistaken…” “Mistaken? No. We’re going to pull the security footage and we’re going to talk to the hospital. Or I can just call the police right now and report a harrassment claim.” Tiffany began to shake her head frantically. Just then, Becca burst through the crowd. She’d rushed back from her trip. One look at the scene and her face went pale. She ushered us all into her private office. Once inside, I told her everything. Becca was vibrating with rage. “That’s it. I hired her for her hands, but her head is clearly broken,” Becca hissed. “Tiffany, you’re fired. Effective immediately. Apologize to Claire right now.” Shawn reached for my hand, looking stricken. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you for a second. I’m an idiot.” I let out a long breath and nodded. The way Tiffany had said it… it was so specific. I could see why he might have stumbled. I forgave him. The manager brought Tiffany in. She didn’t even look at me or Becca. Her eyes were fixed on Shawn with a sickening, obsessive intensity. “Apologize,” Becca barked. Tiffany gave a stiff, resentful bow. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance.” She was escorted out. As she left, she threw one last, lingering look at Shawn—a look full of tears and unspoken promises. I thought that was the end of it. I had no idea it was only the beginning.

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Eight years of marriage, and my husband’s “one who got away” just posted a photo of a deed on her Instagram. The caption read: Choosing the right man is choosing the rest of your life. I left a polite comment suggesting that a woman’s best security is her own hard work. It was deleted within seconds. Moments later, my phone shrieked. It was Gavin, my husband. He didn’t ask for my side; he just went straight for the throat. “Jade is struggling with those mortgage payments, Cassidy! It’s not easy for a single woman in this city. I helped her out with one payment—is that really worth you bullying her? I earned that money; I have the right to spend it. Stop being so damn pathetic and stay away from her!” I could hear Jade sobbing in the background, her voice a fragile, breathy thing, surrounded by the murmurs of people comforting her. I stood frozen for two seconds. By the time I found my voice, he had already hung up and blocked my number. An hour later, Jade posted again. This time, it was a scanned document: a fifty-percent equity transfer for Gavin’s company. I knew exactly what it was. It was Gavin’s way of “compensating” her for my comment. It was a trophy held up to my face, a declaration of war. But for the first time in eight years, I didn’t feel the urge to fight. I just felt… finished. 1 When Gavin finally stumbled through the front door, I had just finished tossing the empty progesterone syringe into the hazardous waste bin. This was our second shot at a family. I was eight weeks pregnant, and the doctors had already labeled it a “threatened miscarriage.” I’d spent the morning bleeding in an ER cubicle while the doctor looked me in the eye and told me that if I wanted to keep this baby, I needed bed rest and daily injections. No exceptions. I hadn’t planned on telling him yet. Not like this. I had spent five hours in the kitchen, despite the cramps, preparing his favorite dinner. It was his birthday, after all, and he’d promised he’d be home early so we could celebrate. But I had waited until the sun went down, and all I got was Jade’s celebratory Instagram feed. After that phone call, the numbness set in. I moved like a ghost, scraping the beef bourguignon and the hand-frosted cake—the one I’d spent all afternoon perfecting—directly into the trash. Gavin glanced at the empty dining table, his forehead creasing with that familiar, sharp irritation. “You forgot what day it is, didn’t you?” It was his birthday. Of course I remembered. Every year, regardless of how many board meetings I had or how much my own career as a corporate executive demanded of me, I made sure this day was perfect. I’d done it since we were broke interns, all the way until we were “the power couple” everyone envied. But this was the last time. And he hadn’t even shown up. I didn’t look up from my phone. I was scrolling through Jade’s old posts. It was an education. Ever since Gavin hired her as his “executive assistant” a year ago, she had posted something every single day. Gifts, flowers, “random” acts of kindness from her boss. In twelve months, he had given her more than he’d given me in eight years. I had spent a decade worrying about our savings, about the company’s overhead, about “building our future.” It turns out I was just saving up so someone else could spend it. A bitter, jagged laugh escaped my throat. “So,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You just handed her ten million in equity and a condo. She couldn’t even be bothered to buy you dinner?” He wasn’t expecting the direct hit. His face flushed, the annoyance turning into a defensive snarl. “Are you having another breakdown? Those are year-end bonuses, Cassidy. She’s the hardest worker in that office. If I don’t take care of my top talent, they leave. It’s called management. Maybe you should take a refresher course.” “Oh, is that how it works? Million-dollar condos for the staff? You’re a regular saint, Gavin. Maybe I should quit my VP role and come work for you. I’d love a view of the park.” His eyes flashed with rage, his chest heaving as he prepared to scream, but then his phone chimed. He looked down at the screen, and the transformation was instantaneous. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a soft, almost sickeningly sweet smile. I didn’t need to see the screen to know it was Jade. When he looked back at me, the heat was gone, replaced by a cold, condescending pity. “Look, I already explained it. And I’m not even going to start on the way you attacked her online. If there was really something going on between us, would I be coming home to you? You think I’m a masochist? You think I enjoy looking at your miserable face?” I didn’t answer. I just turned and walked into the kitchen. He followed me, probably thinking his “logic” had worked and I was going to whip up a late-night peace offering. “Fine, don’t worry about dinner,” he sighed, sounding martyred. “I’ll go down to the bakery and grab a cake. God, I must have done something terrible in a past life to have to beg for a smile on my own birthday.” I walked past him, carrying a heavy, bulging trash bag. When he saw me heading for the door, he froze. His posture went stiff, his eyes darting toward me with a strange, paranoid intensity. “Why are you following me? It’s a ten-minute walk to the bakery. What are you going to do, put a GPS tracker on me? You’re obsessed, Cassidy. You’re literally sick.” 2 I knew why he was defensive. In the past, when he’d stay out until 3:00 AM “networking,” I’d worry. I’d ask him to share his location so I’d know he wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere. He’d weaponized that concern, turning it into a narrative about my “suffocating control.” I knew he hated sweets. He wasn’t going to a bakery. But I didn’t have the energy to peel back the layers of his lie tonight. I just lifted the heavy bag of garbage. “Relax, Gavin. I’m just taking out the trash.” Maybe it was the sight of me—pale, exhausted, carrying a bag of ruined food—that triggered a momentary glitch in his conscience. The edge left his voice. He offered a small, tentative olive branch. “Look, after I drop the trash, why don’t we go to that late-night taco spot? The one you like?” I figured a “last meal” was as good a way to end things as any. I nodded. Twenty minutes later, he pulled the car over in front of a dimly lit, boarded-up food truck in a part of town I didn’t recognize. Before I could even get a good look at the surroundings, he floored the accelerator. The car roared away, leaving a cloud of exhaust and grit in my face. I coughed, shielding my eyes, and realized the “taco spot” wasn’t just closed; it looked like it had been out of business for years. There were a couple of dive bars nearby. Men with glassy eyes and no shirts lounged on plastic crates, their gazes crawling over me like insects. I had left the house in a rush, wearing only a thin silk slip dress under a light coat. I crouched on the curb, feeling small and exposed. It was nearly midnight, and this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you could easily catch an Uber. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Just as I was pulling out my phone to call a cab—or the police—a man stumbled toward me, reeking of cheap bourbon. He held a shattered beer bottle in one hand. I noticed a wedding band on his finger as he reached out to steady himself against my shoulder. “Hey there, sweetheart,” he slurred. “Whatcha doin’ out here all alone? I got fifty bucks. Why don’t you come home with me?” My blood turned to ice. I scrambled backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” The man’s face twisted. The rejection, fueled by the alcohol, turned him aggressive. He raised the broken bottle, his voice rising into a shout. Fortunately, the commotion caught the attention of a passing car. A middle-aged woman pulled over and stayed on the line with 911 until I could get into her car. She drove me back to my complex, and I spent the entire ride shaking so hard my teeth rattled. By the time I walked through my front door, the dull ache in my lower abdomen had sharpened into a stabbing pain. I was clutching a glass of warm water, trying to breathe through the cramps, when Gavin slammed the door open. He looked livid. “You couldn’t have called me? I’ve been driving around that block for an hour looking for you! I almost called the cops! Is this some kind of sick game to you?” I set the glass down. My hands were finally still, but my heart felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon. If he had actually been looking for me, he would have seen that the truck was closed. He would have seen me huddled on the curb. “You were looking for me?” I asked, my voice dripping with irony. “You dropped me in a dark alley in the middle of nowhere. Were you worried I’d get hurt, Gavin? Or were you worried I wouldn’t?” “Don’t start with that—” “I tried to call you,” I interrupted, my voice rising. “I called you six times. But I forgot. You blocked me, remember?” God, I had been so scared. As those men circled me, I had actually started rehearsing my last words in my head. He went quiet, his jaw tightening as he realized his mistake. He threw a white cardboard box onto the coffee table. “I got you the damn cake. Happy now?” He stomped into the bathroom to shower. Through the closed door, I could hear the faint, muffled sound of him laughing at something on his phone. I collapsed onto the sofa, my face bone-white. I looked at the cake box. It had been opened; a small, messy wedge had already been carved out of the side. With trembling fingers, I opened Instagram. Jade had just posted. The photo showed the floor-to-ceiling windows of a luxury penthouse, the city lights reflecting in the glass. Two silhouettes were entwined in the reflection. In the foreground sat a perfect strawberry cake with a single, flickering candle. The caption: Every birthday, from now until forever, we’ll be by each side. Love is in the details. I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on my breathing. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t let the stress kill this baby. I forced myself up, picked up the “leftover” cake Gavin had brought me, and dropped it into the trash can. Gavin walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair. When he saw what I’d done, he exploded. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re always whining about ‘romance’ and ‘rituals.’ I drove halfway across the city for that cake, and you just throw it away?” “I’m not doing this anymore, Gavin,” I said, my voice dead. “Keep your money. Spend it on whatever—or whoever—you want. I have a job. I have a life. I’m done fighting for a seat at a table where I’m not wanted.” He cut me off with a scoff. “Oh, here we go. The martyr act. Ever since Jade started, you’ve been a nightmare. Honestly, it’s a blessing the first pregnancy didn’t stick. With a mother as unstable as you, that kid wouldn’t have stood a chance.” The world turned red. Before I could process the thought, my hand had already connected with his face. 3 “Don’t you dare mention my child!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “The only tragedy that baby faced was having a father like you!” I didn’t wait for his reaction. I ran into the bedroom and turned the deadbolt. Outside, the house shook with his muffled rages and curses. Eventually, it went quiet. I sat on the edge of the bed, hot tears streaming down my face. Since Jade entered the picture, I had watched myself turn into a person I didn’t recognize. The security I’d spent eight years building had vanished in a month. I had become needy, paranoid, desperate for a crumb of his affection. I had even thought a baby might fix us. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I showed him the positive pregnancy test the first time. He was busy texting Jade. He didn’t even look up; he just threw his phone on the table so hard the screen shattered. “The company is growing,” he’d said. “We’re cash-strapped. I can’t afford a kid right now. Get rid of it.” I was horrified. Disgusted. I told him absolutely not. A few weeks later, he’d insisted I accompany him to a high-stakes business dinner. We hadn’t been out together in months, so I went, thinking it was a peace offering. I ended up in a private room surrounded by middle-aged investors who smelled like cigars and entitlement. They kept pushing glasses of high-proof whiskey toward me. I looked at Gavin for help. He just laughed and bragged about how “tough” his wife was, how I could out-drink any man in the room. I drank. I drank until I was numb, the tears mixing with the burning liquid. An hour later, I was on the floor of a bathroom stall, my dress soaked in blood. He took his time getting me to the hospital. We lost the baby. That was why I hadn’t told him this time. If he’d had “no money” for a child back then, how did he suddenly have enough for Jade’s condo and her shares? The math didn’t add up. It never had. He hadn’t been protecting the company; he’d been protecting his “future” with her. My baby was just an obstacle to his true love. Looking at Jade’s post, I realized the lie was over. This marriage was a corpse I’d been dragging around for years. The next morning, he was gone before I woke up. I didn’t waste time. I called my lawyer and told her to draft the papers. As I was about to head out, I saw a notification on LinkedIn. Gavin’s company had posted a “Celebration” video. Jade had been promoted to “Partner.” She was no longer the girl who got the coffee; she was an owner. In the video, they were standing in front of the office staff, arms linked, drinking from the same champagne glass. I zoomed in on Gavin’s hand. His wedding ring was gone. In its place was a heavy, designer band—white gold and diamonds. Jade was wearing the matching female version. I recognized them immediately; they were the “Eternal” set from a boutique we’d visited years ago. I felt a cold, sharp laugh bubble up. When we got married, his company was just a dream in a garage. To save money, I’d picked out the cheapest bands in the store. He’d cried that day, promising me that as soon as he made it, he’d buy me the most expensive ring in the world. I’d waited eight years. He finally bought the ring. He just gave it to someone else. 4 I had just finished signing the initial filing when my phone rang. Gavin. “I’m picking you up at six,” he said, his voice clipped and professional. “Company retreat. Jade wants to clear the air and explain the ‘misunderstandings.’” He hung up before I could say a word. I looked at the phone, feeling a strange mix of irony and coldness. He’d finally unblocked me. Did she want to explain? Or did she want to gloat? It didn’t matter. I didn’t care anymore. I spent the afternoon at the doctor’s office. The news wasn’t good. My stress levels were skyrocketing, and the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped. The doctor handed me a stack of prescriptions and a stern warning: “If you don’t find a way to stay calm, you’re going to lose this one, too.” I took the meds and went home. I didn’t pack a suitcase; I just started looking for a new apartment. I’d already put down a deposit on a furnished rental by the time Gavin’s car pulled into the driveway. I went down in my leggings and an oversized sweater, no makeup, my hair in a messy knot. I just wanted to hand him the papers and be done. He took one look at me and his face twisted in disgust. “You’re going out like that? Could you try not to embarrass me for once? People will think I don’t give you enough of an allowance for a decent lipstick.” The passenger door opened, and Jade stepped out, looking like she’d just walked off a movie set. Her skin was glowing, her makeup flawless. Before I could get a word out, she was ushering me into the backseat with a sugary sweet smile. “Oh, Gavin, leave her alone. Cassidy looks beautiful naturally. Besides, if she dolled herself up too much, you’d never want to let her out of the house, right?” She slid back into the passenger seat, and for the entire forty-minute drive, they chatted incessantly about office politics and “their” new vision for the company. I sat in the back, a ghost in my own life. In eight years, Gavin had never talked to me like that. He’d never shared his day with such enthusiasm. The car pulled over. I looked out the window and realized the “retreat” was at the exact same dive-bar area where he’d abandoned me two nights ago. The “taco truck” was open tonight, and the sidewalk was crowded with his employees. They cheered when they saw the car. “Mr. Miller! Ms. Whitmore!” they shouted, ushering them toward the center table like royalty. I scanned the crowd. There was no seat for me at the main table. Jade tapped her chin, looking performatively shocked. “Oh no! I totally forgot to count Cassidy in the seating chart. Everyone, can we squeeze—” “Don’t worry about it,” Gavin interrupted, not even looking at me. “She’s fine. It’s just dinner.” I didn’t argue. I walked to a small, greasy table in the far corner and sat down. The people at this table were new hires. They didn’t know who I was, and Gavin didn’t bother to introduce me. I sat in the shadows, listening to the chatter. Apparently, Jade had picked this spot. She told everyone it was “sentimental”—the place where she and Gavin used to grab food back in college. I had just taken a bite of a lukewarm taco when a shadow fell over the table. “Well, well,” a familiar, raspy voice said. “If it isn’t the girl who wouldn’t take my fifty bucks. Back for more? I’ll give you a hundred tonight. You look like you need it.” 5 The blood drained from my face. My skin crawled. Gavin looked over from the main table. He saw the man leaning over me, saw the shattered bottle on the ground from the night before, and his expression turned cold. But he didn’t move. It was one of the junior developers who finally stood up and pushed the man away. Gavin just raised his beer bottle and let out a short, sharp laugh. “Is that where you were the other night, Cassidy? I wondered why you weren’t answering. I didn’t realize you’d started a new… side hustle.” The insult hit me like a physical blow. The humiliation and rage boiled over, drowning out the doctor’s warnings. I stood up, my chair screeching against the pavement. I turned to leave. Jade was on me in a second, grabbing my arm. “Oh, Cassidy, don’t go! It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have picked this place. I’m so sorry. I wanted this to be a night of healing. Let me make it up to you. A peace offering!” She grabbed a shot of tequila from a passing tray and downed it in one go. The light caught that massive diamond ring on her finger. It felt like a needle in my eye. Gavin finally stood up and walked over, looking bored. “She apologized, Cassidy. Let it go. Stop making a scene in front of my staff.” I looked at him, truly looked at him. “She apologizes, and I’m just supposed to forget everything? Is that how your world works, Gavin?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a threatening hiss. “She just did a shot for you. The least you can do is show some respect. You’re being a pathetic, jealous brat.” He grabbed a bottle of beer and shoved it into my hand. I gripped the bottle, my knuckles white. “I can’t drink. I’m leaving.” I turned to walk away, but his hand shot out, grabbing me by the back of my neck. “I’m tired of your games, Cassidy. You’re going to stay, and you’re going to be a part of this team.” He jerked me backward, slamming my spine against his chest. He snatched the beer bottle, forced my jaw open, and began pouring the liquid down my throat. I choked, the bitter foam stinging my lungs. I tried to push him away, my hand instinctively flying to my stomach. He threw the empty bottle onto the pavement, the glass shattering. “Stop being so damn dramatic!” he roared. “Apologize to Jade! Now! Or don’t bother coming back to the house. I’m done!” The crowd had gone silent. Every eye was on us. I felt the warm sting of tears, but I didn’t let them fall. I just wiped my mouth and nodded slowly. “Fine,” I whispered. “Let’s get a divorce.” I turned to walk away. Jade tried to grab my arm again, her face a mask of fake concern. “Wait! Don’t be impulsive! This isn’t worth a marriage—” “Get your hands off me!” I shoved her back. She stumbled and fell onto the gravel. Gavin snapped. He grabbed a heavy glass pitcher from the table and swung it with everything he had. It caught me right on the back of the head. The world tilted. I hit the ground hard. The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the dark, crimson stain spreading across the seat of my light-colored leggings.

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