Every single year, my birthday wish was the same: I hope the real son comes home soon. When I smiled at my sister, she’d sneer and call me a sycophant. When I finally won the gold medal at the national piano competition, my parents didn’t celebrate; they smashed the piano to pieces, claiming I was “drinking the blood” of the son who was actually theirs. The entire family lived in a state of constant vigilance. They were terrified of being too kind to me, afraid they’d whet my appetite for a life that wasn’t mine. They didn’t want me to grow bold enough to challenge the “real” boy for his place in their hearts once he returned. So, when the true heir finally came back, I wasn’t jealous. I was ecstatic. That joy lasted until the first mock exam. The “real” son failed, sobbing that no matter how hard he tried, he could never measure up to me. He made a grand spectacle of a suicide attempt, nicking his wrist just enough to bleed. To “repay” me for stealing his life, my parents reported me for cheating during the SATs, weaving a web of lies that landed me in a juvenile detention center, and eventually, prison. They called it the price for living in a nest that didn’t belong to me. But the joke was on me. It turns out, I am their biological son. They had kept it a secret because they were afraid that if their lost, adopted son ever returned, seeing a “replacement” child would break his heart. Now that the eldest has finally “accepted” me, they’ve come to fetch me for a happy family reunion. I look down at the jagged, centipede-like scars crawling up my arms and lower my eyes. The prison doctor said my psychological damage is too severe—that perhaps only the warmth of my “real” family could save me now. But it was all a lie. Every bit of it. And I think it’s finally time for me to go. 1. The day I was released, the sky was a bruised grey, and a brutal wind whipped through the city, biting deep into the marrow of my bones. The guard handed me a tattered old coat. “Nate, you’re free. From today on… don’t be stupid. Don’t come back here.” His eyes flickered to my tightly clenched sleeves, and his voice softened. “And tell your family to… take you to see someone. A professional.” My eyes remained vacant. I nodded, pulling my sleeves down further. Right. My penance was served. I could go find my real family now. I hadn’t walked ten paces before a black Rolls-Royce, hazard lights blinking, pulled to the curb. The window slid down, revealing a face as familiar as it was beautiful. Becca. The “real” son’s older sister. Her gaze was exactly as I remembered: cold, devoid of even a flicker of warmth. “Nate. Get in the car. We’re going home.” I didn’t look at her. I walked straight toward the bus stop. Just as I was about to step onto the bus, a violent force yanked me backward. My spine slammed against the cold, metal frame of the car. Becca towered over me, her eyes filled with that practiced, familiar disdain. “What is this? Are you trying to pull the same stunt Jordan did? Trying to make us feel guilty?” She scoffed. “Two years in a cell and this is the only trick you’ve learned?” Since I went inside, my brain had felt like it was rusting. It turned slowly, laboriously. I stared at her blankly, taking a long time to process her words. Finally, I shook my head. I pulled a crumpled, softened scrap of paper from my pocket—something I had smoothed out a thousand times in the dark—and held it out to her. “No,” I said, my voice sounding like dry leaves. “Jordan came to see me last time. He said he found my real parents. Look. The address is here. I’m going to my own home.” She froze. Then, her face went deathly pale. She snatched the paper, tore it into a dozen pieces, and threw them into the rushing traffic of the boulevard. “Stop acting crazy.” She grabbed my arm, her grip bruising. “Mom and Dad are waiting. Get in the—” Before she could finish, a short, sharp scream escaped my throat. I tore myself away from her and, ignoring the screech of tires, lunged into the street. “Home… I have to go home…” I dropped to my knees on the freezing asphalt, frantically clawing at the scraps of white paper. The world exploded into a cacophony of blaring horns and muffled curses. “Jesus! You want to die?! Get out of the road!” Becca turned white as a sheet. She lunged forward, using her body to shield me from the oncoming cars, shouting apologies to the angry drivers as she practically dragged me back to the curb. “Nate!” Her chest heaved, fear flickering in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by that suffocating annoyance. “If you really want to die, do it somewhere I don’t have to watch! Using these pathetic tactics to get attention… the Beaumonts really wasted their years raising you.” Her shouting left me dazed. My sluggish mind churned for a moment before I looked up at her, my expression one of genuine, quiet confusion. “So… when Jordan cut his wrists,” I asked softly, “was he just… doing it for attention too?” “That doesn’t seem right…” Becca’s entire body went rigid. Her voice died in her throat. For the first time in my life, she looked away, unable to meet my eyes. See? Even she knew it. “Jordan.” Since the day I could remember, that name was a curse etched into my skin. I was the fake. I was the parasite. I was the usurper. That was why my father fired the nanny who dared to serve me dessert first. That was why my mother smashed the piano I won the gold with. That was why Becca stood by and watched as they took the stray puppy I’d found and abandoned it in the woods. With every choice, they proved it: they would never allow the boy who grew up in their home to take even a fraction of the love meant for their “lost pearl.” Their hearts were tilted toward him long before he ever stepped foot back in the house. But I still didn’t understand. If he had all the love—if the world was his for the taking—why? Why, just because I beat him on one stupid test, did he have to open his veins? Jordan. What were you so afraid of? 2. Becca rubbed her temples, her frustration radiating off her in waves. “You know it’s not the same! Jordan is different from you!” “Do you have any idea how much he suffered out there? He didn’t even get to finish school! And you? You were brought into this family and given everything—the best tutors, the best life!” “You just had to be number one every single time, didn’t you? You did it to hurt him. To make him feel hopeless!” I didn’t really hear her. I was too busy with my shaking hands, trying to piece together the sodden scraps of paper. When I finished, three pieces were missing. “It’s gone,” I whispered, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “It’s gone… my home is gone!” I started to lunge for the road again. Slap! The blow was sharp and stinging, ringing in my ears. Becca dragged me by the collar to the edge of a dirty, half-frozen drainage ditch filled with stagnant water. “You want to die so bad, Nate?” She let go, pointing at the dark, frigid sludge. Her voice was like shards of ice. “Go ahead. Jump! Stop the theatrics!” With a violent flick of her wrist, she knocked the remaining scraps of paper out of my hand. They fluttered like dying leaves, landing on the grey, frozen surface of the puddle. I looked up at her. Her eyes held nothing but that familiar, condescending contempt. I remembered Jordan’s first birthday back with us. He had cried, saying the watch Becca gave him was missing, and that he’d seen me sneaking into his room. At first, I tried to fight. “I didn’t steal it! There are cameras in the hallway—” Before I could finish, Becca took a baseball bat and smashed the camera right in front of me. I went silent instantly. She was teaching me a lesson: my truth meant nothing compared to Jordan’s tears. The watch wasn’t in my room. It had been cut into pieces, the strap scattered at the bottom of the deep end of the swimming pool. Everyone in the family knew I had nearly drowned as a child. I had a crippling phobia of water; even drinking from a full glass could make me feel like I was suffocating. But that winter, Becca had me thrown into the icy pool. “Get it,” she had said. “Every single piece.” My parents watched as Jordan sobbed into their shoulders, their silence a blessing for my torment. I passed out in that water more than once, only to be revived by even colder means until my frozen, numb fingers found the last bit of the watch. Since then, my phobia was so bad that even a reflection on a wet surface could trigger a panic attack. So Becca was certain. I was terrified of water. I was terrified of death. She didn’t know that in prison, when I used a sharpened piece of plastic to open my skin over and over, all I felt was… relief. The prison doctor had shaken his head at the guards. He has a profound desire for self-destruction. If he has a family to love and support him, maybe there’s hope… Becca looked at my empty, hollow eyes and smirked, her voice dripping with mockery. “Can’t do it, can you? You don’t even have the courage to look at it. Think about how much pain Jordan must have been in to actually—” She didn’t finish the sentence. I threw myself forward, plunging headfirst into the foul, freezing water of the ditch. The slush filled my nose and mouth instantly. Getting back to my real family… that was my last reason to live. And if that was gone, I was done. But a second later, a pair of arms hooked around my waist and hauled me out, slamming me onto the muddy grass. I coughed violently, retching up the filthy water. Through blurred vision, I saw Becca, drenched and shivering. She was kneeling in the mud, her hands still reaching for me. Her pupils were blown wide, fixed on me with a look I’d never seen before. It wasn’t coldness. It wasn’t disdain. It was pure, unadulterated terror. I didn’t understand. What was she afraid of? The “fake” was finally gone. Isn’t that what she… what everyone wanted? 3. I stared at the pulp in my hands—the ink-smeared, waterlogged mess that used to be my hope. A sense of crushing weight, a weariness that seeped from my bones, drowned me again. I was so tired. If I had a blade right now, could I just sleep forever? Becca, having seen the absolute lack of hesitation in my eyes when I dove into that water, spoke for the first time with a voice that was… soft. “Nate… how could you…?” Her voice cracked. “You weren’t like this when we were kids. Since when do you take my words so seriously?” She was right. Since I could remember, she told me: Nate, you’re just a placeholder. Know your place. Jordan is my only brother. Back then, I’d just smile and hold out my arms for a hug. Later, I worked until my hands were blistered to bake her favorite desserts, only for her to sneer: Nate, why are you so pathetic? Jordan would never beg for a scrap of attention like you do. I’d still smile, holding the plate out to her. No matter how cruel she was, the little version of me followed her like a shadow. I was convinced she was just moody, not that she actually hated me. Until Jordan came back. Then I saw what she was like when she actually loved someone. She was tender. She was protective. When Jordan and I were cornered by older kids at school, she charged in and pulled him behind her. She didn’t even look at me. She just turned and walked away with him. Her friend had pointed at me, bruised in the dirt. “Becca? What about the other brother?” “He isn’t my brother.” I watched her walk away, shielding Jordan, leaving me to face the insults and the shoves alone. I struggled to sit up, my mind trying to piece together the half-remembered words from the paper, but they were fading. “Nate, come home with me. Stop this,” Becca said, her voice carrying that sickening, patronizing tone of comfort. “Mom, Dad, and Jordan are all waiting for New Year’s dinner.” She reached for my wrist. Her fingers brushed the tender skin over my scars, and a bolt of lightning-fast pain shot through me. The dam finally broke. Slap! I swung with everything I had, my palm connecting with her cheek. “Becca! You aren’t my sister! You don’t get to tell me what to do!” I screamed, my voice raw and hysterical. “I just want to go home! To my real family! To people who actually want me!” Becca’s head snapped to the side. She froze. But her eyes weren’t on my face; they were on my wrist, where the sleeve had ridden up to reveal a roadmap of old and new scars, crisscrossing in a jagged mess. Her pupils shrank. Her eyes brimmed with tears instantly. “Nate… your arm…” Her voice was a ghostly tremble. “Did… did someone hurt you in there? I thought… I told them to make sure you were looked after…” For the first time, she looked at me with grief. With heartbreak. It was absurd. I had finally stopped calling her “sister.” I had finally stopped clinging to her. Why was she the one who looked devastated? A wave of nausea rolled over me. “Becca,” I said, my voice as cold as the wind. “What kind of sick game are you playing now?” She didn’t seem to hear me. She grabbed my arm and shoved me into the car, clicking the seatbelt shut with trembling fingers. “We’re going to the hospital,” she said, her voice tight as she gunned the engine. “I’m not going to a hospital! I’m going home! Let me out!” I threw myself at her, clawing at her coat, my nails leaving long, bloody furrows across her face. Blood leaked down her cheek, but she just gritted her teeth, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and didn’t say a word. That silence—that suffocating, unresponsive wall—dragged me right back to the solitary confinement cell. My head throbbed. The last memory of the address on that paper vanished. I let go. I went limp. She glanced at me, misinterpreting my silence. She forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Nate… you… you still care about me, don’t you? You stopped.” I smiled back at her. Then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I lunged for the steering wheel and jerked it hard to the right. If I can’t go home… then we can both just go to hell. Screeeech! The tires screamed against the pavement. The car spun out of control, slamming into the guardrail with a deafening metallic crunch. The airbags exploded. Becca sat there, gasping for air, blood trickling from her forehead, her eyes wide with the shock of being alive. She turned to me, seeing the pure, unadulterated disappointment on my face, and her voice shook. “Nate… you… you really want to die that badly?” “How did you become this…?” I raised my dead, hollow eyes to hers. She flinched, then tried to soften her voice, using a tone you’d use to coax a stray dog. “Okay. Okay… no hospital. We’ll go home. Please. Just… come home.” I lowered my eyes and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Seeing me return to this “obedient” state, Becca’s shoulders finally slumped. She let out a long, shuddering breath. She thought I was finally “listening.” She didn’t know. I just remembered something. Jordan knows where my real home is. I’m going to go ask him myself. 4. The house was draped in festive lights, glowing with a warmth that felt like a mockery. Inside, Jordan was dressed in a pristine new sweater, his cheeks rosy, leaning against his mother’s shoulder. “Mom, Dad, I’m only back for a few days for break. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Mr. Beaumont sat nearby, patiently peeling shrimp for him, his eyes full of fatherly pride. “Your advisor called, Jordan. Another award? We have to celebrate. Our boy is doing so well.” It was a picture of domestic bliss. A perfect family. Becca tightened her jaw and cleared her throat. “Mom, Dad. I brought Nate back.” The laughter died instantly. Three sets of eyes swung toward us. First to me, then to Becca’s soaked clothes and the bloody scratches on her face. My parents’ brows furrowed in unison. Jordan was the first to stand. He walked toward me, his voice laced with the practiced authority of a golden child lecturing a wayward sibling. “Nate, Becca went out in a blizzard to get you, and this is how you treat her?” He sighed, sounding disappointed. “You’re college-aged now. Can’t you be a little more mature? Stop making everyone worry about you.” My father’s face darkened. “Nate, you’re getting out of hand. Your sister just recovered from a cold.” My mother sneered, falling into her old rhythm. “He was always a troublemaker. Fighting in high school, coming home covered in bruises. I suppose you spent your time inside with the same kind of lowlifes—” “That’s enough.” Becca’s voice wasn’t loud, but it had a sharp, metallic edge that cut her mother off. She frowned. “I was clumsy. It had nothing to do with Nate.” She paused, then looked at Jordan, her voice uncharacteristically stern. “And Jordan, Nate didn’t go to college. Maybe think before you speak next time?” The silence in the room was absolute. They stared at her, stunned. No one expected Becca to snap at her “precious” brother for the sake of the “fake” one. Jordan’s eyes welled up instantly. His lip trembled, and his voice took on that pathetic, wounded quality. “Fine! He’s the brother you grew up with, I get it! I’m the outsider! I don’t deserve to speak to him! Is that it?” Becca’s expression flickered with guilt, and she looked away. My mother, heartbroken for her darling, rushed to pull Jordan into her arms. “Becca! How could you talk to your brother like that?!” Then she turned her venom on me. “And you, Nate! You walk in the door and immediately cause trouble. Why can’t you just be grateful?” I looked at this woman—this elegant, bejeweled stranger who looked at me with nothing but exhaustion and hate. The word “Mom” died in my throat. She wasn’t my mother. This was just how the world worked. “Let’s just eat,” my father sighed, trying to diffuse the tension. “Becca made us wait for you, Nate. Jordan is starving.” I looked up. “Did I ask him to wait?” My voice was dry and flat. “Becca made that choice. What does it have to do with me?” Jordan gasped. “Nate! Have you lost your mind? How can you speak to Becca like that?” “She isn’t my sister,” I said, each word clear and cold. “She’s yours.” In the middle of their shocked silence, I continued. “And I didn’t come here to eat.” I turned to Jordan, locking my eyes onto his. “I came for the address.” “Give it to me, and I’ll leave. I won’t ruin your little family reunion.” The color drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. My father frowned. “What are you talking about? This is your home.” “I’m talking about my real home. My biological parents.” I kept my eyes on Jordan. “In prison, you told me you found them. You gave me an address. I lost it. Write it down again.” The air in the room turned to lead. My parents looked at Jordan, their expressions shifting to something dark and unreadable. Jordan stammered, “Isn’t… isn’t this family good enough? Why do you have to look for—” “I have to!” I was shaking now, my voice rising to a raw howl. “I want my home! I want my parents! I want to go back!” Becca, watching me unravel, finally snapped. She turned to her parents, her voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “Just tell him! The truth! Didn’t we agree? We were going to give him the ‘surprise’ when he got out!” I looked at her, confused. She wouldn’t meet my gaze; she just stared them down. The eldest daughter’s word still held weight in this house. My parents exchanged a look. Finally, my father sighed. He looked at me, his voice suddenly artificial, coated in a layer of forced “warmth.” “Nate… the truth is… you are our biological son.”

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I’ve been the Admiral’s secret husband for six years, yet everyone at the Naval Base treats me like a desperate charity case—a military doctor who couldn’t take a hint and spent years pathetically chasing a woman out of his league. She let them believe it. She never offered a single word of clarification. It wasn’t until the gala following the joint maritime exercises that the whispers turned into a public execution. Someone raised a glass, their voice dripping with mock pity: “Dr. Miller, the Admiral’s fiancé is a world-renowned diplomat. Maybe it’s time to stop living in a fantasy world.” Even she was there, swirling her scotch, her eyes as cold and distant as the North Atlantic. “Neil,” she said, her voice a flat line. “Don’t waste any more of your time on me.” In my last life, I would have been blinded by fury. I would have slammed our marriage certificate onto the table, only for her to look me in the eye and call it a forgery. My father-in-law, desperate to save the diplomat’s face, would have had me thrown into the brig for a week of “reflection.” Later, when I was deployed and our ship was ambushed by pirates, I sent out a distress signal with my dying breath. She missed the window for the rescue mission because she was at the Metropolitan Opera, draped in pearls next to her diplomat. That was when I finally understood: I was never her husband. I was just a pawn she used until the wood began to splinter. In this life, I looked at her frozen, indifferent face and simply smiled. “You’re right,” I said. “I wish you both a very long, very happy life together.” I set my glass down. “By the way, my transfer to the National Naval Medical Center was approved this morning. Goodbye, Diana.” 1. The laughter died in their throats. Everyone froze, including Diana Montgomery. Diana was the Navy’s golden girl—the only daughter of Admiral Richard Montgomery and the youngest destroyer captain in the fleet. And me? I was just a staff surgeon in her shadow, an “unremarkable” medic who supposedly harbored delusions of grandeur. Dominic West, the diplomat standing at her side, let his smug grin falter. I didn’t give them a second to recover. I turned and walked straight for the exit. “Neil Miller!” Diana caught up to me in the deserted hallway, her fingers bruising my wrist as she spun me around. I stopped, but I didn’t look at her. “What is this?” she hissed, her voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “A transfer? Who authorized that? What kind of game are you playing now?” In my previous life, when I had miraculously crawled back from the pirates and asked why she hadn’t come for me, she had used that exact same tone. Neil, what kind of drama are you stirring up now? I wrenched my arm back. The force of it made her stumble. I pulled the transfer papers—stamped with the heavy red seal of the Bureau of Medicine—from my jacket and held them inches from her face. “Look closely, Captain. It came from the Surgeon General’s office. Even your father can’t touch this.” Her pupils contracted. I had earned this transfer by saving the life of a high-ranking Senator’s grandson a year ago. In my last life, I had asked for nothing, and the Senator told me he owed me a debt beyond measure. In this life, I called in the favor early. “Cancel it,” she commanded instinctively. “I don’t permit this.” I let out a dry, jagged laugh. I stepped into her space, staring directly into those beautiful, ruthless eyes. “On what grounds, Diana?” I lifted my hand, my finger nearly touching the tip of her nose. “On the grounds of our secret, shameful marriage license? Or on the grounds that you’ve stood by and watched people humiliate me for six years?” Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The color drained from her cheeks until she looked like a ghost. I stepped closer still, until I could feel the heat of her frantic breathing. “You mean nothing to me anymore, Diana. Not a single thing.” At the end of the hall, Dominic West appeared. He stepped between us, his brow furrowed in a performance of noble concern. “Dr. Miller, how can you speak to Diana like that? She’s been more than patient with you over the years, considering you’ve never been quite… up to her standard.” “Move,” I said. “Listen, Neil—” “I said, move.” My voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made Dominic take an involuntary step back. He looked shaken, his polished exterior cracking. “Dr. Miller,” he stammered, trying to regain his footing. “I never wanted to be your enemy. I just love Diana. Is that a crime?” “Not at all,” I nodded. “But standing in my way is.” I brushed past him. Behind me, his voice rose in a desperate warning. “Neil, you’re just a common medic. Without the Montgomery name protecting you, you are absolutely nothing!” I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. “Is that so? Then I’m doing you a favor, aren’t I? I’m finally vacating the seat you’ve been dying to sit in.” Dominic’s face twisted. He looked like he wanted to swing at me, but a hand caught his arm. Diana had stepped forward, her expression unreadable as she held him back. “Dominic, let it go.” “Diana, did you hear him? He has no respect for you. I’m the only one who truly—” Diana didn’t answer him. She was staring at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. “Admiral Montgomery,” I said, giving her a mocking, formal tilt of my head. “I hope you and Mr. West have a wonderful life.” I walked away and didn’t look back. 2. My transfer was flagged the next morning. I received the notification from HR at dawn. The reason was written in that classic, bureaucratic jargon: The base is launching a high-level classified medical research initiative. As a key surgical specialist, Dr. Miller is a mandatory core member. No transfers permitted until project completion. I sat at my desk, looking at the rejection. I slowly tore it into pieces and let them flutter into the trash. I didn’t even know what the project was. It didn’t matter. This was the Montgomery family doing what they did best: controlling the board. They were used to people being orbiting planets around their sun. My sudden bid for independence was an insult they couldn’t ignore. My phone buzzed. An unknown number. I picked up but stayed silent. After a few seconds, Diana’s mother spoke. A woman who lived in a world of silk scarves and casual cruelty. “Neil, don’t be difficult.” Her voice was thick with the condescension one might use for a disobedient golden retriever. “The Montgomery family isn’t something a man of your background can simply discard when he feels slighted. But it’s also not something you can just walk away from. Come home, apologize to Richard and Diana, and we will pretend this little tantrum never happened.” I listened to her lecture, feeling a strange sense of amusement. “Ma’am,” I said, my voice flat. “Keep the ‘blessing’ of your family name. I’m done with it.” I hung up. I knew that quiet defiance would infuriate them more than screaming ever could. The retaliation was swifter than I expected. Within forty-eight hours, rumors began to poison the base. There were different versions, but the core was the same: Dr. Miller had compromised his medical ethics. He had used his position to harass the Admiral’s daughter. He was a social climber who had tried to force his way into the elite through stalking and manipulation. I couldn’t walk into the cafeteria without hearing the jagged edges of whispers behind my back. I knew this was Dominic’s handiwork. As a diplomat, he dealt in the currency of reputation. He wanted to destroy my name in the one place I had given my youth and blood. He wanted to make me radioactive. The funny thing is, when you’ve already died once, you stop caring about what people say at your funeral. Three days later, the base hosted a foreign delegation—several high-ranking naval attachés from the UK and France. Dominic was there as the lead liaison. I was the only attending surgeon on call for the event. During the afternoon break, the nightmare started. A large British attaché suddenly collapsed, his face turning a terrifying shade of purple, clutching his throat. I was on him in seconds. “Severe anaphylaxis,” I shouted. “He’s in shock! Get me the crash kit and the EpiPen! Now!” A corpsman scrambled for the emergency kit, flipped it open, and went pale. “Doctor… there’s no epinephrine. The auto-injectors are gone.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Impossible. I had personally checked and restocked those kits yesterday. The room devolved into chaos. Accusations flew instantly. “How is this possible? Who was in charge of this kit?” “If he dies, this is an international incident!” I looked past the crowd and saw Dominic standing by the door. There was a faint, jagged smile on his lips, a flash of pure triumph in his eyes. This was the trap. A medical “accident” that would not only end my career but likely land me in front of a court-martial. They weren’t just trying to stop my transfer; they were trying to bury me. 3. They threw me into the brig. I was facing a military tribunal for dereliction of duty. Endangering the life of a foreign dignitary through gross negligence—a charge heavy enough to strip me of every medal I’d ever earned. The cell had no windows, just a single, humming yellow light. I sat on the cot, remembering the night I died in my previous life. It had been just like this: dark, cold, and lonely. But that time, I hadn’t seen the blade coming. On the third day, Diana appeared. She stood against the light of the corridor, her face a mask of disappointment. “If you sign a confession admitting to oversight, my father will intervene,” she said. “You’ll be reprimanded and demoted, but you’ll stay in the Navy. You’ll stay under our protection.” She paused. “It’s your only way out, Neil.” I leaned my head against the cold stone wall and looked at her. It was almost funny. This was exactly how she had led me into the abyss before. Always with that tone of “generous” mercy, telling me what was best for me while she tightened the noose. Back then, I was stupid enough to think it was love. “Are you dreaming?” I asked, my voice rasping. “We both know Dominic took those injectors.” Her brow furrowed, a flash of annoyance crossing her face. “Neil, stop being hysterical. Don’t drag innocent people into your mess. Dominic isn’t capable of that.” Dominic isn’t that kind of person. Always that sentence. In her mind, Dominic was the polished, perfect gentleman. I was the small-minded, paranoid liar. Even in my last life, when I sent the distress signal, she had said: I trust Dominic’s assessment. He said it was just a pirate lure, not a real emergency. I was bleeding out while she was watching a soprano hit a high C. I stopped smiling and stood up, walking slowly to the bars. I looked deep into her eyes—eyes I used to drown in, eyes that now felt like glass. “Diana,” I whispered. “You’re going to come back here and beg me.” “Remember that. You will be the one begging.” She blinked, then let out a sharp, mocking breath. “I think three more days in here isn’t enough,” she said, turning to leave. “Keep dreaming, Neil.”

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The end of the world had arrived, and once again, I was making a scene, demanding my boyfriend use his precious hydro-kinesis to give me a shower. That’s when the text scrolled across my vision. The Stream. [OMG lady, it’s the apocalypse. Who cares about hygiene right now?!] [This high-maintenance diva is useless. The male lead needs a woman as strong as he is.] [Don’t worry, just wait for the Zombie Tide. Once the male lead sees her selfishness, he’ll dump her.] [Without the male lead’s protection, the canon fodder ex-girlfriend dies at the hands of the Zombie King. Brutally.] A shiver racked my entire body. I shoved Roman away hard. “No. I… I don’t want to wash anymore.” 01 Roman paused, water hovering in the air. He gauged the distance between us, looking baffled by my sudden burst of strength. I felt a pang of guilt. Of course, that guilt might have been overshadowed by the sheer terror of the “Zombie King” mentioned in the floating text. Roman frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “You really don’t want to?” I nodded frantically, my voice trembling with residual fear. “It’s fine, Roman. Really. You’re the captain. You need to save your energy for the Turned.” Perhaps because it was the first time I’d ever said anything remotely sensible or considerate, Roman didn’t speak immediately. After a long pause, he slowly lowered his hand. “Okay.” Even though I refused the full shower, Roman dampened a towel and gently cupped my face, wiping away the grime with careful, deliberate strokes. I stared at his handsome face, inches from mine. My throat tightened. But before I could lose myself in his eyes, The Stream started scrolling again. [Blair is such a manipulative brat. She’s just lusting after him.] [The male lead is such a stoic engineer type; it’s his first time being chased so aggressively. Of course he fell for the diva’s trap.] [Is no one talking about his ability? Hydro-kinesis. That’s top tier.] [For real. The human body is 70% water. If he wanted to, he could burst your blood vessels or drain you dry in a second.] [No wonder the villainess clings to him. He’s the ultimate safety net.] Me: “…” Seeing the text, my instinct was to snatch the towel and wipe my own face. But the large hand on my waist tightened. Roman’s tone was gentle, but the command beneath it was undeniable. “We’ve been on the road all day. Let me clean you up so you can sleep, okay?” I nodded silently. It wasn’t until Roman left to take the first watch that I opened my eyes again. The words from The Stream were still dancing in my mind. According to them, I was the selfish villainess. The “ex-girlfriend” archetype. Roman was going to dump me. And I was going to die at the hands of something called the Zombie King. I curled into a ball, shivering in the cold night air. 02 Six months ago, Earth was hit by an unknown cosmic event. Global temperatures spiked violently. Ancient glaciers melted, releasing a dormant virus. The dead began to walk. But the virus didn’t just reanimate corpses; it shattered the genetic threshold of humanity. Most turned. But a small percentage didn’t mutate into zombies. Instead, they awakened abilities. Roman was one of them. Ever since he saved me from a horde of the Turned, I had latched onto him like a limpet. Maybe it was the crushing insecurity of the apocalypse. Maybe it was just that Roman was ridiculously attractive, shattering every stereotype I had about stoic engineering types. I fell for him. Hard. I chased him shamelessly for three months until I finally wore him down. Maybe the chase exhausted me, because once we were together, I became insufferable. A true diva. I was a parasite in the squad, contributing nothing but demands. Because Roman was the captain, the others swallowed their complaints, but I knew they hated it. But now. Now I could see The Stream. I knew that all my affectations and tantrums were leading to a karmic reckoning. Even Roman, who currently doted on me, was destined to fall for a heroine who was his equal—someone with power. Fear took root in my chest. Fear of dying in this virus-ridden hellscape. Fear of the unknown Zombie King. I thought about it, but I couldn’t really blame anyone. Who told me to be a powerless, ordinary human in a world of monsters? 03 The next morning. I didn’t wait for Roman to wake me. I was already up, dressed, and packed. Aside from Roman and me, our squad had two others. Coach, a normal human like me, though far more useful. And Jax, a straggler we picked up who possessed electro-kinesis. Seeing me up so early, helping organize supplies, Coach’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. I didn’t need telepathy to know what he was thinking. I ignored his shock and helped him load the gear. My peripheral vision, however, kept drifting to Roman. He was discussing the route with Jax. His profile was cold, sharp. He didn’t look at me. The Stream floated by on cue: [Oh? Is the villainess trying the ‘independent woman’ arc?] [LMAO, does she think this changes the ending?] [In the original book, she starts acting sensible around now, but the male lead is already sick of her.] [Just wait. Once he realizes she’s stopped clinging to him, he’ll be relieved.] I lowered my eyes, my chest aching with a dull throb. Would Roman… be relieved? I didn’t know. But every time I looked at him, the text reminded me of my gruesome fate. So, I avoided him. Throughout the day, I could feel the confusion radiating from Jax and Coach. I smiled bitterly to myself. Can you blame them? Usually, on the road, I’d be demanding snacks, water, complaining that my butt hurt from the car seat. I was a constant source of noise. But today, we drove for hours. I didn’t make a sound. I even offered to drive. Roman rejected the offer. So I sat obediently in the back, shrinking myself down, lowering my presence. If I stop being a burden… maybe I won’t be hated. If I’m quiet, maybe when the danger comes… Maybe they won’t just watch me die. 04 We set up camp at an abandoned gas station. I volunteered to help Coach pitch the tents and start the fire. We worked non-stop. Roman looked at me several times, but I pretended not to see. Once the chores were done, I had a feeling. Roman was going to come for me. I grabbed Coach’s arm. “Hey, can you teach me some self-defense? Just the basics?” Coach was an ordinary human, but he used to be an MMA instructor. He was miles ahead of me in survival skills. I’d thought about it all night. Relying on others is a gamble. Relying on yourself is survival. Coach looked surprised. But, likely out of respect for Roman, he agreed. I trained for three hours until my arms were shaking jelly. After promising Coach I’d continue tomorrow, I headed to my tent. Roman materialized out of the shadows, blocking my path. His tall frame eclipsed the moonlight. His tone was flat. “Blair, what is wrong with you today?” I was a terrible liar. So I kept my head down, avoiding his eyes, my voice airy. “Nothing’s wrong.” “Nothing?” Roman paused, letting the silence stretch. “You haven’t said a single word to me today. And you didn’t…” I bit my lip. I knew what he left unsaid. He wanted to say I didn’t give him his kiss. Usually, no matter how dangerous the situation, I’d sneak a kiss when the others weren’t looking. I knew the pressure he was under as captain. I wanted him to feel a moment of lightness. But today. Forget kissing. I hadn’t even made eye contact. My brain scrambled for an excuse. “You… you were busy.” “…” Roman was silent, seemingly processing this. “Is this because I didn’t wash you yesterday?” My head snapped up, meeting his handsome, expressionless face. “It’s not that. I’m not mad. I just… realized you work so hard. I don’t want to be trouble.” Hearing the word trouble, Roman’s frown deepened. After a moment, he reached out and ruffled my hair. “Don’t be polite with me.” Then, without warning, he yanked me into the tent. Before I could react, he was kissing me—overwhelming, all-consuming. Just as I was gasping for air, a sharp pain nipped at my lip. Roman pulled back slightly, his voice raspy. “Don’t smile at Coach.” He planted two more soothing kisses on my lips, then turned and left to take the night watch. The Stream exploded: [Is it just me, or is the male lead holding back some serious urge?] [Tsk tsk. The beast has awakened.] [Don’t get excited. The male lead’s first time belongs to the heroine.] [Honestly, the villainess is really pretty. Shame she’s just a powerless normie.] [Who said she’s powerless? She’s a metahuman too, okay?] Me: !? I forgot the pain in my lip instantly. What? I’m a metahuman? My eyes widened, staring into the void, praying for the text to explain. [Abilities are just a projection of the inner self. The villainess cares most about her appearance, so she just gets more beautiful. No one realizes it. They think she’s a zero.] Me: Fuck… Never mind the trolls. I wanted to call myself useless. 05 I woke up the next morning in Roman’s arms. He must have switched shifts with Jax in the second half of the night. I stared at his sleeping face, unable to resist tracing his features. My finger had just grazed the tip of his nose when his hand shot up, gripping mine. He opened his eyes slowly and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “We picked up a distress signal last night. About two hundred kilometers out. We need to pass through your old university.” I hadn’t even processed the words before The Stream went nuclear. [Holy crap! The Heroine is coming.] [Oh my god, the male lead is three years older than the heroine, right? Age gap supremacy!!] [Finally! She’s a Healer. Now the male lead won’t have to tank all the damage alone.] [Later on, the heroine undergoes a secondary evolution and becomes the first Dual-Class user. I live for this power couple!] [Two alphas! So delicious!!] I lowered my eyelids, hiding the misery in my gaze. Seeing my flat reaction, Roman asked, “You always said you missed your school. Why aren’t you happy?” I forced a smile, pulling myself out of his embrace and dodging his touch. “I am happy. Let’s pack up.” Behind me. In the blind spot I couldn’t see. Roman’s face went rigid, his eyes darkening dangerously. But his tone remained gentle. “Alright.” 06 Two hundred kilometers took most of the day. My alma mater, the Teachers College in City C, sat on the edge of the university district. The once lively campus was now a desolate ruin. I stared out the window at the lecture halls. The Stream was spamming the chat: [Here we go! Heroine countdown!] [Healing ability. The male lead’s fated wife!] [Wait, what was the heroine’s name in the book? Shen… Iris?] [Yes! Iris! Third-year med student. Cool, rational, gorgeous!] I gripped the hem of my shirt. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I was already trying so hard to suppress my feelings for Roman. Why did seeing the text make it hurt so much more? The car stopped. Cold wind rushed in. Roman glanced back at me, extending a hand. Normally, I would have launched myself at him. But this time, I jumped down myself, pretending I didn’t see his hand. I jogged over to Coach. “Hey Coach, what are we learning today?” Roman’s hand hung in mid-air for two seconds before he casually retracted it. He seemed… fine. I looked away and followed them into the building. 07 We thought the survivor was just Iris. We didn’t expect her to have a boy standing next to her, looking vaguely similar. Her brother, Ezra. An ordinary human, like me. Roman didn’t say much. Jax, on the other hand, practically vibrated when he heard Iris was a Healer. “Holy shit!” Jax’s eyes went wide. “A Healer?!” I stood by the window, looking out at the familiar campus, but my ears were tuned to their conversation. A Healer was a rare treasure. No wonder Roman changed the plan to come here. I looked at him instinctively. But he was looking at Iris. His gaze was focused. I knew that look. He used to look at me like that. Back when my face was covered in blood and I looked like a stray dog. Now, Iris stood there, calm, commanding, full of potential. My chest felt tight, like someone was crushing my lungs. I lowered my head, forcing my voice to remain steady. I walked over to Coach. “Coach, let’s help move the supplies.” Halfway through moving boxes, someone blocked my path. It was the brother, Ezra. “You were staring at the school earlier. Did you go here?” I nodded. “Graduated two years ago.” Ezra nodded thoughtfully. “What’s your name, sister?” “Blair.” He repeated it, complimenting it. We chatted idly while moving boxes. The Stream floated by: [Ooh, is the puppy crushing on her?] [Was this guy in the book?] [Yes! He awakens a Strength ability later! He always had a secret crush on the villainess!] [What?! He liked the villainess? How did I miss that?] [Because she dies so early in the book, idiot. He never got the chance to confess.] Me: “…?” Well, that was new. Ezra seemed the complete opposite of his icy sister. Warm, open. After we finished, he pulled a packet of compressed biscuits from his pocket and shoved it into my hand. “You’re too thin,” he said earnestly. “Eat up.” I stared at the biscuit, at a loss for words. Then, I felt a gaze burning into me. I looked up. Not far away, Roman was staring right at us. His expression was blank. But the water bottle in his hand was crumpling, collapsing in on itself at a visible speed.

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My name is Dutch. I haul freight for a living. But you won’t see my rig parked at a Walmart loading dock, and I don’t move consumer goods. I specialize in the kind of “shadow contracts” that most drivers wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Word around the depots is that I’m hard to kill—that I was born under a dark star and have enough grit to stare down whatever crawls out of the roadside ditches. But this last job? The cargo was a truckload of “live fish,” and it damn near buried me. These weren’t your average catch. They were massive, housed in custom-built black timber crates that looked more like caskets than shipping containers. The creepiest part was the sealing protocol. Each lid had to be hammered shut with seven iron spikes, black as sin and thick as a finger. Curiosity is a dangerous thing on the road, but it got the better of me. I pried a corner open for a peek. Just one look. That’s all it took to make sure that for the rest of my life, the mere sight of open water makes my hands shake. Because what was swimming in that box wasn’t a fish. It was… 1 It was an open secret in the underground logistics circuit that the heir to the Vanderwalt fortune had a taste for fish. Rumor had it the young patriarch consumed a dozen massive sturgeons every month—creatures bigger than a grown man. Hauling for the Vanderwalts used to be the golden ticket—high pay, premium routes. But in the last three months alone, seven veteran drivers had vanished or washed out. When Russo, the owner of the logistics company, cornered me, he looked like he’d been drinking swamp water. His face was a sickly shade of green. “Dutch, I’m telling you, this is wrong. It’s unnatural,” Russo hissed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We watched them load the crates. They looked like fish. They moved like fish.” “The Vanderwalts have money to burn,” I said, scrolling through the video file Russo had sent to my phone. “Why are they importing monster river monsters when they could be eating lobster on a yacht?” On the screen, a driver I vaguely recognized was curled up on the asphalt, sobbing. His skin was pale as chalk. “It’s not a fish!” he screamed at the person recording. “It’s people! I saw legs!” The camera panned to the overturned cargo. Sliding out of the splintered wood was a massive, glistening creature. It had scales, fins, and a tail. “That thing has to be five feet long,” I muttered, zooming in. “Growth hormones? Genetic splicing?” “Rich people and their sick hobbies, who knows?” Russo looked miserable. “Supposedly it’s some rare import. Young Mr. Vanderwalt craves the… freshness.” I lit a cigarette and watched the driver on the screen breakdown, swearing he’d never touch a steering wheel again. I knew then why Russo was begging me. “Dutch, I need you to bail me out. Just two more runs. If you don’t take this, the breach of contract fees will leave me without a pot to piss in.” Russo looked like he was about to get on his knees. The Vanderwalts weren’t just rich; they were powerful in ways that made the local police look the other way. I didn’t want their karma rubbing off on me. “You’ve been pulling too many cursed tickets lately, Russo,” I said, exhaling smoke. “I drive for a paycheck, not a death wish. The Vanderwalt water is too deep. People drown in it.” Russo sighed, the lines on his face deepening. “It’s the holidays, Dutch. The boys need the bonus. I warned them about the risks, but the Vanderwalt money… it made them blind. We would have folded three months ago without it.” Russo and I went way back. When I was at rock bottom, he was the one who fronted me the cash for repairs. “Look,” Russo pressed, seeing me hesitate. “Miller just got diagnosed with kidney failure. Lewis’s wife is expecting their second kid. They’re desperate.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “I’m all in on this. You do this run, I don’t take a cut. Every cent goes to you. If something happens… that’s on me. I won’t hold you to it.” He had me cornered. I couldn’t walk away when he put it like that. “Fine,” I crushed the cigarette under my boot. “Tell them I’m coming. But don’t start loading until I get there.” 2 The pickup point was a secluded hatchery deep in the marshlands, a private facility leased entirely by the Vanderwalts. It was a twenty-hour haul. When I rolled into the yard the next day, the massive crates were already staged. Because it was a “short” run relative to cross-country, the creatures were packed in thick, transparent industrial bags pumped full of oxygen before being crated. The size of them was unsettling. It took three burly dockworkers heaving in unison just to lift one bag into a box. And the boxes… why black timber? Why not fiberglass tanks or insulated coolers? lined up on the gravel, the vertical crates looked exactly like rows of coffins waiting for a mass burial. “Dutch.” Russo had saddled me with a rookie named Mikey. The kid looked like he’d been drafted for war. “Dutch, stay back,” Mikey whispered, scrunching his nose. “The smell… it burns your eyes even through the plastic.” He wasn’t wrong. As I got closer, a stench hit me—pungent, metallic, and rotting. Live fish smell like algae and river mud. They don’t smell like a week-old corpse. My gut tightened, but I walked up to the line. Before the workers could nail the lid shut, I leaned in. The creature inside hovered in the water, suspended. Its mouth gaped open and shut rhythmically. Its belly was a sickly, translucent white, contrasting with scales that shimmered a bruised grey-blue. The meat beneath looked dense. I checked the manifest. They were alive. Then the hammering started. The workers weren’t just sealing the crates; they were driving those seven black spikes in with a violence that made the wood groan. Clang. Clang. At the sound, the fish in the bags went berserk, thrashing against the plastic. That’s when I saw it. A detail that sent a cold spike of adrenaline down my spine. The fish were blinking. Fish don’t have eyelids. They live in the water; they don’t need to moisten their eyes. But I saw it clear as day. A thin, membranous layer of skin slid down over those milky, bulbous eyes and then retracted. Blink. Blink. 3 “Well, look at that. Russo actually found someone stupid enough to drive the hearse. I heard the last guy pissed his pants for three days straight.” The voice was oily and mocking. “Shut your mouth!” Mikey snapped. He was young and full of nervous energy. “We handle our business. Worry about your own.” “Easy there, pup. The grown-ups are talking.” “Slick,” I acknowledged without turning around. “Ah, Dutch. I should have known.” The bald man grinned, his scalp gleaming in the harsh sunlight. “I figured Russo brought in a heavy hitter.” I ignored him and looked past his shoulder. Standing behind Slick was his brother—a man known in the circuit as Twitch. Slick and Twitch were the bottom feeders of our industry. If I was the guy you called for a tough job, they were the guys you called to bury the evidence. 4 We have a term in the trade: “Pathfinding.” When a new route opens up, or an abandoned logging road needs to be run again, you send a veteran driver to test the waters. We call it “clearing the mines.” If the pathfinder makes it through without vanishing or crashing, the fleet follows. It pays double, sometimes triple. But you’re basically being paid to see if the road ghosts are hungry. Slick and Twitch made their living doing this. But they were dirty. They’d run you off the road to beat you to a contract. They’d sabotage your rig at a rest stop. I’d had run-ins with them before. My mentor used to tell me, “Don’t wrestle with pigs; you both get dirty, and the pig likes it.” Twitch, the younger brother, was the one who really turned my stomach. He didn’t talk much. He was short but had disturbingly long arms that hung past his knees, giving him the silhouette of a gibbon. People said I looked scary—I’m six-four, built like a linebacker, with a face that stops bar fights before they start. But if I looked like a bouncer, Twitch looked like a demon that had clawed its way out of a basement. It wasn’t just his looks. Twitch had a history. He’d done time for stalking and assault. He liked to hurt women. 5 “What are you doing here?” I lit a cigarette, stepping between them and Mikey. “Russo has the contract. You trying to poach?” Slick flashed a grin full of yellow teeth. “Relax, Dutch. We aren’t poaching. We’re the overflow. The client said the volume was too high for one truck. We’re splitting the load. Everybody eats.” I glanced back at the loading dock. There were at least thirty of those coffin-crates. Too many for my flatbed. “Fine,” I said. “Stay out of my lane, I’ll stay out of yours.” Honestly, I was relieved. If they wanted to share the curse of the Vanderwalt job, they were welcome to it. 6 We loaded up and rolled out first. Mikey was fuming. Slick had spat on the ground near his boots before we left. “Garbage humans,” Mikey muttered, gripping the dash. “Slick and Twitch have been rotting in this business for twenty years,” I said calmly. “They’re dangerous. Keep your distance. Don’t engage.” Mikey grumbled but quieted down. I wasn’t just lecturing him. There was a darkness around those brothers that went beyond just being jerks. 7 Over a decade ago, back when I was still riding shotgun with my mentor, there was an old-timer who took on a young apprentice. The kid was barely seventeen, pretty in a way that made you look twice. Soft features, bright eyes. We called him Jamie. We were all stuck at a rest stop during a blizzard. Jamie had the bad luck of running into the brothers in the bathroom. We heard the shouting through the walls. Jamie was crying, screaming that Twitch had cornered him in a stall. My mentor and the old-timer kicked the door in. Twitch was on the kid. It turned into a brawl. I was the only one big enough to pin Twitch down. I held his face against the dirty tile floor, and when I looked into his eyes, I didn’t see fear. I saw red, frantic arousal. It wasn’t human. The cops were called, but without physical evidence, nothing stuck. But the bad luck started immediately for the old-timer. Tires blowing out on straight roads. Engines catching fire. Jamie blamed himself. He went to confront the brothers alone. No one knows exactly what happened. We just know that Jamie jumped off a bridge the next night. When they fished him out, he was bloated beyond recognition. The old-timer quit the life, heartbroken. He told my mentor one thing before he vanished: “You can dodge a bullet, but you can’t dodge a curse. Those two aren’t men; they’re devils.” 8 I shook the memory off. We were on the access road now, heading for the highway. It was desolate country. The dirt road was riddled with potholes. The truck bounced violently. Maybe it was the suspension, or maybe it was the load, but I kept hearing sloshing sounds from the back. Mikey was curled up in the passenger seat, looking pale. “Take a nap,” I said. “We’ll switch in a few hours.” “I’m not tired,” Mikey said quickly. Too quickly. He looked like a cornered animal. “I slept great last night.” I wanted to ask what he’d seen on the manifest, but I didn’t want to spook him further. Suddenly, a rhythmic thumping started from the cargo hold. Thump… Thump… It was heavy. Deliberate. Mikey’s face went grey. He stared at his knees, twisting his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “Just the water displacement,” I lied. “Road’s rough.” Mikey didn’t answer. The noise got louder. Faster. It didn’t sound like fish tails slapping water. It sounded like wet, heavy palms slamming against the wood. I pressed down on the accelerator. “We’ll be on the interstate soon. It’ll smooth out.” 9 Once we hit the pavement, the thumping stopped. “See?” I told Mikey. “Physics.” He nodded, but the color didn’t come back to his cheeks. Around noon, we pulled over at a gravel lot where a guy was selling hot meals out of a converted trailer. “Get out, get some air,” I ordered. The cab smelled like a fish market that had lost power three days ago. Mikey stumbled out, breathing in the cold air. He ordered the braised pork over rice and a chicken leg. I chatted with the food vendor while I ate. He mentioned traffic was thin; drivers were avoiding this route. Behind me, Mikey let out a strangled scream and hurled his lunch container across the lot. “What is that?! What the hell is that?!” He fell to his knees, clawing at his mouth, trying to dig the food out of his throat. The vendor looked terrified. “Hey! That meat is fresh! Bought it this morning!” “No! No!” Mikey was gagging, tears streaming down his face. I grabbed a water bottle from the truck and flushed his mouth out. He retched violently, vomiting a pile of half-chewed pork onto the gravel. And there, glistening in the mess, were several scales. They were the size of thumbnails. Grey-blue. 10 The vendor poked at the mess with a stick. “I didn’t cook any fish today. Where did those come from?” He tried to refund us, but I waved him off. It wasn’t his fault. Just then, the screech of air brakes announced the arrival of the brothers. Slick hopped out of their rig. “Look at that. Kid’s got a weak stomach. Typical.” Twitch stood by the fender. His face was flushed a deep, unnatural red, like he’d downed a bottle of vodka. He was vibrating with energy. I recognized that look. It was the look he got when things were about to go wrong. He was hunting. Mikey was still dry heaving. I hauled him back into the cab. As I pulled away, I checked the mirror. Twitch was staring at our truck, a twisted, predatory smile stretching his face. 11 I drove the afternoon shift. Mikey was a wreck, shaking too hard to hold a cigarette. I kept the windows down, letting the freezing wind blast through the cab to scrub out the smell. We stopped for the night at a motel in a small, forgotten town at the base of the mountains. The next leg was a treacherous climb, icy and narrow. I wasn’t risking it in the dark. The motel was a dive—peeling paint, neon sign buzzing—but it had a big lot for rigs. The lobby doubled as a diner. Mikey picked at two hard-boiled eggs and nursed a beer, trying to drown the memory of lunch. The bell above the door chimed. Ding, ding… It was a sharp, piercing sound. Mikey didn’t even flinch, seemingly deaf to it. I looked up. A girl walked in. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. She wore a faded white down coat and tapped the floor with a white cane. 12 What was a blind girl doing alone in a place like this? The diner was full of truckers—rough men, smoke, grease. The owner, a portly woman, hurried over. “Honey, are you lost?” The girl turned her head slightly, guided by the sound. “I need a room. A single.” Her voice was soft but clear. “We… we aren’t really set up for… look, there’s a chain hotel two streets over. Much safer,” the owner stammered. She didn’t want the liability. “I want to stay here,” the girl insisted. “It’s what I can afford.” Before the owner could argue, the door opened again. A gust of snow blew in. Slick and Twitch. Twitch looked even worse than before. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging. As soon as he saw the girl, he froze. His gaze crawled over her, disgusting and palpable. The girl sensed the new presence. She shrank back, fumbling to hand her ID and cash to the owner. The owner, sensing the tension, quickly ushered the girl toward the stairs. Twitch watched them go, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 13 “Mikey.” I shoved five hundred bucks into the kid’s hand. “Go to the owner. Tell her to move that girl to the hotel down the street. I’m paying.” Mikey blinked, confused, but saw the look on my face and scrambled off. Twitch whipped his head around, staring at me with those dead, frantic eyes. I slammed my hand on the table. “What are you looking at? Sit down. We’re drinking.” Slick glanced between me and his brother. He knew I wouldn’t let them leave that room until the girl was gone. Mikey came back, nodding to indicate the girl was safe. I kept the brothers at the table until midnight. Slick talked shop, trying to fish for details about the payout. Twitch just drank. He poured cheap whiskey down his throat until the veins in his neck looked like they were going to burst. Finally, Slick dragged his brother to their room next door. I helped Mikey upstairs. The kid passed out the second he hit the mattress. 14 That night, the nightmare found me. I wasn’t in the motel. I was back in the truck, parked in pitch blackness. A figure, dripping wet, approached the window. The voice sounded like sandpaper on bone. “Driver… when do we leave?” I tried to open my eyes, but they were glued shut. “Driver… it’s so stuffy in the bag. I can’t breathe.” Panic set in. I could smell the cargo. The brine. The rot. Then, something cold and slimy wrapped around my throat. Wet hair. But it wasn’t just hair—it was matted with scales and chunks of raw meat. It tightened. Ding, ding… The bell. Was the girl back? My heart hammered against my ribs. She shouldn’t be here. Twitch was a powder keg. I thrashed in the dream, finally tearing the wet hair from my neck. I woke up gasping. 15 The room was silent. Gray morning light filtered through the dirty curtains. No bell. Just a nightmare. Mikey was curled in a fetal ball, shivering. I shook him awake. “Wash up. We move in ten.” We walked out into the hallway just as Slick opened his door. “Morning, Dutch.” I grunted, intending to walk past. But my eyes caught the inside of their room. Two beds. One was a mess of tangled sheets. The other was pristine. Unslept in. Where was Twitch? Slick saw me looking. He smirked, a lewd, knowing expression. “He found his own way back. Guess the little lady has a thing for bad boys. Don’t be a prude, Dutch.” 16 “What did you say?” I grabbed Slick by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Hey! Easy! They’re consenting adults!” Slick yelped. “I swear to god…” Mikey grabbed my arm, holding me back. The commotion brought the motel owner running up the stairs. “What is going on?!” I spun on her. “The blind girl. Did she come back? Which room?” She looked terrified. “The… the utility room at the end of the hall. She said she forgot something…” I threw Slick aside and sprinted down the hallway. I knew what Twitch was capable of. I knew about Jamie. Slick chased after me. “He hasn’t had a woman in years! Don’t ruin this for him—” Before he could finish, a scream tore through the building.

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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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