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

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

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

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

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The last thing I remembered from my first life was the smell of wet fur and the sound of snapping bone. When the kidnappers took me and my sister, my father was busy celebrating his anniversary with his second wife. Valerie had wanted a romantic getaway, so my father had taken the entire security detail and driven upstate to their private cabin. The burglars, who had been casing our house for weeks, saw their window. My little sister, Zoey, died trying to protect me. She was brutalized by those men, left clinging to a thread of life while I screamed into a dead phone line. I had called my father dozens of times, begging him not to get on that plane, pleading for him to turn the car around. In that life, he eventually came back. We were “saved,” technically. But because he abandoned Valerie to rescue us, she spiraled into a performative depression. Pregnant at the time, she threw herself into the river in a fit of rage—her fate left “unknown” to the public, though her daughter, Crystal, made sure the blame landed squarely on us. Crystal showed my father a forged suicide note, claiming Zoey and I had hired the kidnappers ourselves just to keep him from his anniversary date. My father didn’t act like he believed her at first. He comforted us. He told us not to worry. Then, after legally transferring the entire company to Crystal, he drugged our dinner. He didn’t take us to a hospital. He took us to a remote kennel—a place for fighting dogs. As he locked the cage from the outside, his eyes were as cold as a winter morning in Manhattan. “If it weren’t for you two, Valerie and my unborn child would still be alive,” he said, his voice devoid of any fatherly warmth. “You need to atone for her. I only need one daughter, and Crystal is enough. You two… you’re just dead weight.” The dogs were hungry. I died in agony, my heart breaking long before my body gave out. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back in the villa. It was the day of the kidnapping. 1 When the heavy thud sounded at the front door, the fog in my brain finally cleared. I lunged forward, grabbing Zoey’s arm just as she started to get up. “Maddy?” she asked, blinking in confusion. “Is that the DoorDash guy?” I didn’t answer. I dragged her into the walk-in pantry, my hands shaking as I pulled up the security app on my phone. When the feed loaded, Zoey gasped, pressing her hand over her mouth. On the screen, a massive man dressed in black stood under the porch light. He wasn’t carrying a delivery bag. He was gripping a rusted crowbar. “Don’t make a sound,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Wait for him to leave.” In my last life, Zoey had been too trusting. She’d opened the door, and the nightmare had begun. If my father hadn’t returned when he did back then, we would have… But the memory of the dogs chilled me to the marrow. My father hadn’t saved us because he loved us; he had saved us so he could kill us himself later. “I—I have to call Dad,” Zoey hissed, her eyes wide with terror as she fumbled for her phone. “He just left. He can bring the guards back…” On the screen, the man stopped knocking. My breath hitched. I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d think the house was empty. But then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “Maddy…” Zoey’s voice broke into a sob. My blood ran cold. He didn’t just have a crowbar; he had a key to the front door. This wasn’t a random hit. We were being targeted. I hit the silent alarm for the police, typing out our coordinates with trembling fingers. Beside me, Zoey’s call connected. “Zoey? What is it now?” Our father’s familiar, annoyed baritone filled the small space. “Dad!” Zoey whispered, her voice thick with fear. “Someone’s in the house. He has a crowbar and a key. Please, you have to bring the security team back. Please help us!” I leaned against her, listening to the silence on the other end. 2 There was a five-second pause. Then, a sharp, irritated sigh. “Zoey, stop the theatrics. I told you, today is my anniversary with Valerie. I don’t have time for these little games you and Maddy play for attention.” On my screen, the man had unlocked the door. The deadbolt slid back with a heavy thwack. I snatched the phone from Zoey. “Dad, this isn’t a game! Look at the cloud footage if you don’t believe us! If you don’t come back right now, you’re going to be coming home to a crime scene!” I expected panic. I expected him to roar into action like he did the first time. Instead, his voice turned arctic. “Maddy, I know you hate Valerie. But faking a home invasion? That’s low, even for you. You two are so desperate to ruin her day that you’d lie about your own safety.” “Dad—” “I’m not falling for it this time. Don’t call me again.” Click. He hung up. Zoey and I stared at each other in the dim light of the pantry. My soul felt like it was being submerged in ice. In my previous life, the moment he heard the word ‘kidnapper,’ he had raced back so fast he nearly totaled his car. This time, his reaction was the opposite. A sickening thought took root: He remembers too. If he had been reborn with the memories of the ‘first’ life, he believed we had faked the first kidnapping to spite Valerie. He thought the trauma we went through—the broken bones, the violation—was all a staged performance. But it had been real. It was real then, and it was real now. “Maddy, what do we do?” Zoey’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Why does he think we’re lying?” Before I could answer, the pantry door groaned. Two violent strikes of metal against wood shattered the lock. “Found you,” the man growled. He swung the door open, his hulking frame blocking out the light. He looked at us with the predatory hunger of a wolf finding two lambs in a pen. 3 The crowbar came down with a sickening crunch, shattering my left tibia. The pain was a white-hot explosion. I screamed, collapsing as the man grabbed Zoey by her hair. She was paralyzed, her eyes rolling back in terror. “I’m gonna give you girls a chance,” the man rasped. “Call your rich daddy. Tell him to pay up for his precious little princesses, or I start taking pieces of you home in Tupperware.” Sweat poured down my face as I clutched my mangled leg. In the last life, he’d said the same thing. But I knew better now. This man wasn’t just a kidnapper; he was a butcher. He had no intention of letting us live. He would break us until there was nothing left to break, then discard the remains. To buy time, I grabbed my phone and redialed my father. He picked up on the third ring, sounding purely murderous. “Maddy? Again? I swear to God—” “Listen to me!” I gasped, glancing at the kidnapper. “Dad, I—” The man snatched the phone from my hand. “One hour,” he barked into the receiver. “Ten million dollars, or I kill them both. Start with the pretty one.” To punctuate his point, he slammed his heavy boot down on Zoey’s shin. “No!” I shrieked. Zoey had been a ballerina since she was five. Her legs were her life, her joy, her entire future. I heard the bone snap—a dry, sharp sound like a branch breaking in winter. Zoey’s scream was a high-pitched wail that seemed to tear the air apart. My heart hammered against my ribs. Surely, even if he hated us, he would hear that scream. He used to love us. He used to be our hero before Valerie moved in and slowly poisoned the well. Then, my father spoke. “Ten million?” he repeated. His voice was flat, bored. “Then kill them.” The world seemed to stop spinning. “They’re ungrateful, manipulative brats,” my father continued. “Maybe if they’re dead, I’ll finally have some peace. Maddy, if you’re listening, your acting has improved, but tell your friend he’s overdoing the sound effects. Don’t call me again, or I’m cutting your trust funds to zero.” The line went dead. He blocked the number a second later. “Son of a bitch,” the kidnapper spat, looking at the phone. He turned to me, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, dark malice. “Looks like Daddy doesn’t want you back. Guess that means I can do whatever I want with you.” I lay on the floor of the pantry, watching in horror as he grabbed Zoey by the hair and began dragging her toward the living room like a sack of laundry. “Leave her alone!” I roared. 4 I dragged my useless, throbbing leg across the hardwood, trying to reach them, but the man backhanded me so hard the world tilted. My left ear erupted in a sharp, ringing pain. “Maddy!” Zoey sobbed, thrashing in his grip. My heart was breaking. I hated him. I hated my father with a ferocity that burned hotter than the pain in my leg. He knew what was happening. He chose to believe a lie because it was more convenient for his perfect life with Valerie. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth into the kidnapper’s wrist. I prayed for the police. I prayed for a miracle. The man howled in rage. He dropped Zoey and pinned me to the floor, raining blows down on my face. I felt a tooth click against the floorboards. Blood filled my mouth, and the world began to gray at the edges. “Stop it! Stop hitting her!” Zoey, usually so fragile, found a heavy crystal ashtray on the coffee table. She swung it with everything she had, catching the man in the temple. He didn’t go down, but he stumbled. He turned on her, his face a mask of pure fury. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. The sound of her joint popping made me want to vomit. “You little bitch!” He threw her onto the sofa, his hand ripping into the collar of her shirt. The sound of tearing fabric sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. “Don’t touch her! Don’t you dare touch her!” Zoey was screaming. I scrambled up, my vision swimming, and grabbed the ashtray. I slammed it into the back of the man’s head with a guttural roar. He slumped, dazed, falling to his knees. “Zoey, run!” I wheezed. I grabbed her hand, snatching a set of car keys off the table. We had to get to the gates. There were security guards at the main entrance a mile away. If we could get to them, we were safe. We made it to the heavy front door, but a massive hand clamped onto my shoulder. A blade flashed in the dim light. “Maddy, go!” Zoey threw her entire weight into the man, knocking him off balance. The knife swiped across her face, leaving a long, jagged red line across her cheek. “No! Zoey, I’m not leaving you!” Her eyes, filled with blood and tears, met mine. “Lock the door! Go to the guards! Get help!” She shoved me out and slammed the door from the inside, locking it. I heard the man roar and the sound of a struggle. My heart was shattering into a million pieces, but I couldn’t stop. I ran for the SUV in the driveway, sobbing as I shifted into gear. 5 The security station was less than a mile down the winding mountain road. I made it there in three minutes, practically falling out of the car before the gate. The guards here were all ex-military, hired by the development to protect the multi-million dollar estates. “Miss? Miss, what happened?” A young guard rushed over to help me up. I grabbed his tactical vest, my voice a jagged mess of sobs. “I’m from Number 15. There’s a man… he’s in the house. My sister is still inside! Please, you have to go now!” I expected them to move. I expected sirens and drawn weapons. Instead, the guard’s expression shifted. He let go of my arms. “You’re Maddy Beckett? From the Beckett estate?” I nodded frantically. “Please! He’s hurting her!” The guard sighed and shook his head. “Miss Beckett, don’t you think this is a bit much? Putting on a show like this?” “What?” “Mr. Jordan called us a few minutes ago. He told us to expect some… ‘dramatic performances’ from you today. He said not to leave our posts if you showed up with a fake story.” Jordan? Jordan Ward. My “fiancé.” Our families had been close since we were kids. He was supposed to be my protector. “It’s not a story! Look at me! Look at my leg!” I screamed, dropping to my knees. “Please! Just go and check! If I’m lying, fire me, sue me, I don’t care! Just save my sister!” The guard looked at my mangled leg, his brow furrowing. He looked at the other guard, who seemed to be wavering. “Maybe we should just take a look—” Before he could finish, a sleek black Porsche pulled up to the gate. Jordan stepped out of the driver’s seat. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for a girl in a pristine white silk dress. Crystal. Valerie’s daughter. When she saw me—bloody, muddied, and broken—she gasped and pressed a delicate hand to her mouth. “Maddy? I know you didn’t want my mom and your dad to have their anniversary, but isn’t this… a little much?” Jordan looked at me, his eyes full of disappointment. “Look at the state of you, Maddy. You really went all out with the special effects makeup, didn’t you?” “Jordan, listen to me,” I rasped. “Your dad told you I was acting, but he’s wrong. There is a man in the house with a knife. Zoey is—” “Richard told me everything,” Jordan interrupted, his voice cold. “He said you hired actors to stage a kidnapping so he’d have to come home. I didn’t want to believe you’d be this pathetic, but here you are.” 6 The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. “My father told you I hired actors?” “Yeah.” Jordan stepped forward and grabbed my arm to pull me up. His touch, once something I craved, made my skin crawl. “Stop this, Maddy. You’re embarrassing yourself.” I shoved him away, my voice cracking. “I didn’t hire anyone! Look at the blood! It’s warm, Jordan! It’s real!” I grabbed his hand, trying to make him feel the heat of my injuries, but Crystal stepped in. “Maddy, did you hire a Hollywood makeup artist? It looks so real. It’s actually kind of creepy how far you’ll go just to be the center of attention.” Something inside me snapped. I reached out and slapped Crystal across her smug, porcelain face. She stumbled back, sobbing instantly. “Maddy! Why would you—” Jordan’s face darkened. He shoved me back, letting me fall onto my broken leg. I screamed as the bone shifted. “That is enough!” Jordan roared, stepping in front of Crystal to shield her. “How am I supposed to marry someone so unstable? So cruel?” He looked at me with pure disgust. “A woman who represents the Ward family needs to have dignity. You have none. Apologize to Crystal. Now.” I looked at him—the man I had loved since I was sixteen. In my last life, he had stayed with me until he found out I’d been ‘ruined’ by the kidnappers. Then, he’d jumped into bed with Crystal the moment she was named heir. He didn’t love me. He loved the status of being a Beckett son-in-law. I looked at the gate, then back at them. I realized no one was coming. “I will never apologize to that snake,” I spat, my voice low and dangerous. “And I will never marry you. I’d rather die.” I dragged myself toward the security office, grabbing a heavy heavy-duty flashlight from the desk. “If you won’t save her, I will.” As I tried to limp back to the car, Jordan yelled, “Stop her! Don’t let her leave until she settles this!” 7 The guards grabbed me, forcing me to turn back around. Jordan walked over, his face a mask of ‘righteous’ frustration. “Maddy, do you have any idea how fragile Crystal’s mental health is? She struggles with depression. You can’t just lash out at her because you’re having a tantrum.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound reasonable. “Just apologize. Then go wash that fake blood off and call your father to tell him you’re sorry for ruining his night. We can still fix this.” I let out a scream of pure, unadulterated agony. “Jordan! You are killing her! If anything happens to Zoey, I will spend every cent I have to ruin you!” He hesitated for a second, seeing the sheer conviction in my eyes. But Crystal leaned into his side. “Jordan, she’s the one who hired the ‘kidnapper.’ She knows exactly how much ‘danger’ Zoey is in. She probably told him to be rough to make it look convincing.” That was all it took. The doubt left Jordan’s eyes. “She’s right.” Crystal gave me a tiny, triumphant smirk from behind Jordan’s shoulder. I fell to the ground, the weight of the betrayal crushing the air from my lungs. “Please… it’s Zoey. It’s her life…” Suddenly, a sharp, wailing siren pierced the air. Two police cruisers tore past the gate, heading straight for Number 15. Hope flared in my chest. The silent alarm. They’d finally made it. Jordan’s face went pale, but not from concern. “You actually called the cops? Maddy, the paperwork for a false report is going to be a nightmare. You’ve gone too far this time.” Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I answered, putting it on speaker. “Is this Madelyn Beckett? This is Sergeant Miller with the State Police. We’ve apprehended a suspect at your residence.” Jordan scoffed, looking at the guards. “See? They caught her actor.” The Sergeant’s voice continued, crackling with grim urgency. “We need an ambulance at your location immediately. Your sister… she’s in critical condition. It’s a bloodbath in there.” The color drained from Jordan’s face. The silence that followed was deafening. “Maddy…” he whispered, his eyes wide with a dawning, horrific realization. “What happened?”

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After his “Perfect Ghost” died, Nate Harrison spent ten years hating me. I spent those years trying to win him back, piece by piece, only to be met with his icy sneer. “If you really want to please me, Evie,” he’d say, his voice a serrated blade, “do the world a favor and stop breathing.” It was a phantom pain, a dull ache I’d learned to live with—until the night the world actually ended. When the burning rafters of our estate came crashing down, Nate didn’t run. He didn’t save himself. He threw his body over mine, absorbing the fire and the weight of the collapsing roof to keep me alive. As he lay dying in my arms, covered in ash and blood, he used the last of his strength to flinch away from my touch. “Evie,” he wheezed, his eyes glassy and distant. “If I could go back… if I could just un-know you… how much better would our lives have been?” At the funeral, Nate’s mother was a ghost of a woman, her voice dissolving into salt and grief. “Nate, my boy… it was my fault. I shouldn’t have forced you to marry her. If I’d just let you be with Serena Blackwell, maybe you’d still be standing here today.” Nate’s father didn’t even look at me. He just stared at the mahogany casket with a simmering rage. “He saved you three times, Evie. Three times he nearly died for a woman who brought him nothing but misery. Why was it him? Why couldn’t it have been you?” Everyone regretted Nate marrying me. Even me. In the end, I climbed to the top of the Sky Deck—the highest point in the city—and let the wind take me. I closed my eyes, praying for an end to the guilt. But instead of the cold embrace of death, I woke up ten years in the past. This time, I’m cutting the ties. I’m letting him go. I’m going to give everyone the happy ending they missed. 1 “You’re really something, aren’t you, Evie? Manipulating my parents until they’re threatening a hunger strike just to force this engagement. Do you actually think a ring on your finger will make me love you?” The voice was low, cold, and achingly familiar. I blinked, my vision blurring as I stared up at Nate Harrison. He was standing in front of me, twenty-two years old and radiating a restless, arrogant energy. He wore a slim-fit navy suit, his tie loosened, looking every bit the Ivy League rebel he was back then. This wasn’t the broken, haunted man who died in the fire. This was Nate at his peak. My heart hammered against my ribs, a painful, frantic rhythm. I was back. I was really back. I forced down the sob rising in my throat and stared at him, greedy for the sight of him alive and breathing. “You don’t want to marry me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “because the person you actually want to spend your life with is Serena, right?” Nate let out a harsh, dry laugh. “So what if it is? You going to step aside? We both know you’re too selfish for that.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Actually, I am.” My parents had died in the line of duty, leaving behind a legacy that the city’s elite whispered about in hushed tones. They’d left me with a “Golden Ticket”—a legal trust and a social standing so high that the Mayor himself had offered me any favor within his power. I could have married anyone. I could have had anything. And ten years ago, I’d used that leverage to secure a marriage contract with the Harrisons. He froze, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You’ve got the contract. You’ve got my parents in your pocket. It’s a done deal, Evie. Why the sudden act of martyrdom? How exactly are you going to ‘set me free’?” “I’m not playing games, Nate. Not anymore. Go wait for me by the East Gate. I’m going to fix this.” He leaned back against the marble pillar of the gala hall, his expression twisting into a look of pure disgust. The look stung like a physical blow. In my past life, I’d loved Nate Harrison with a desperation that bordered on insanity. He’d saved me from a kidnapping when we were teens, and again from a car wreck. I’d convinced myself his heroism was a sign of secret love. I’d walked into our marriage with a smile, only to find a prison of his making. It wasn’t until Serena died that I realized I wasn’t his partner. I was the person standing in the way of his soulmate. My ten years of devotion were ten years of psychological torture for him. Before I “returned,” an old woman at a roadside shrine had told me: “If you get a second chance, you must resolve his three greatest regrets within twenty-four hours. Once they are gone, you must leave. Only then will the cycle break, and he will live past thirty. But every miracle has a price.” I didn’t care about the price. I just wanted him to live. I went straight to the family lawyers and the city archives. I did what I should have done a decade ago: I tore up the marriage contract and drafted a new one—one that would unite the Harrison and Blackwell interests. I knew Nate’s three regrets by heart. He’d written them in a leather-bound journal I found after the fire: I regret marrying Evelyn Crawford. I regret letting my parents control my life. I regret not saving Serena. The first regret was about to be crossed off. I walked out of the hall and found him waiting by the gate. I handed him the revised document. He looked at the envelope with a sneer, ready to throw it back in my face. I pressed my hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin—real, living skin. I offered him a soft, sad smile. “Don’t open it yet. Wait until tomorrow. Think of it as a parting gift.” Nate scoffed. “You’re being weird, Evie. What, did the idea of being Mrs. Harrison finally break your brain? You’re acting like we’re never going to see each other again.” I smiled, my heart breaking quietly. “I just realized you deserve to be happy, Nate. You’re a good man. Whoever ends up with you… she’ll be the luckiest woman in the world.” “Whatever. I’m going home,” he muttered, turning away. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was flustered. As his car pulled away, I caught the sound of people talking on the sidewalk. “The meteor shower starts tonight at the Observatory! They say if you watch it with the person you love, you’ll stay together for seven lifetimes.” In my previous life, I’d begged Nate to take me there. He’d looked at me with such icy disdain. “Is one lifetime of you not enough, Evie? You want seven? It’s a cheap tourist trap. Go by yourself.” The memory made me shiver, even in the humid night air. I climbed into my own car and pulled the door shut. Suddenly, Nate’s car slowed down. He leaned out the window, his expression unreadable. “You want to go?” I blinked. “What?” “The Observatory. I’ll take you tonight. Consider it a… a pre-wedding tax. I’m busy the rest of the week, so this is it.” I stared at him, caught between shock and a familiar, dangerous hope. That was Nate’s problem. He was mean, but his heart was instinctively soft. He didn’t love me, but he’d still died for me. He’d saved me three times before the fire: once from those kidnappers (he took a knife to the hand, losing his chance at a professional piano career), once from a viral fever where he stayed by my bed for two weeks, and once from the fire that finally took him. Nate Harrison was perfect in every way. Except for the fact that he didn’t want me. I knew that after tonight, we were done. Even if we saw the stars together, there would be no “seven lifetimes.” But I couldn’t say no. “Okay,” I said, leaning into the light. “Let’s go see the stars.” 2 We were halfway there when his phone buzzed. It was Serena’s assistant. Serena had a migraine; she was “spiraling” and needed Nate. Nate’s face hardened instantly. He pulled the car over. “Serena’s sick. I have to go check on her. Take a cab home, okay? I’ll meet you at the Observatory later.” I nodded slowly. “Go. She needs you.” He paused, his hand on the door handle, looking genuinely confused. “Since when are you okay with me seeing her? Usually, you’d be throwing a fit by now.” I opened my mouth to explain, but he beat me to it with a cynical smirk. “Right. I forgot. We’re getting married in a month. I guess you figured she isn’t a threat anymore.” He hopped out and climbed into a waiting car, never seeing the devastating grief in my eyes. I didn’t go home. I went to the courthouse to finalize my exit papers, then I went to the Harrison estate. Diane Harrison had a full dinner waiting for us. She loved me like the daughter she never had. I took off my coat and draped it over her shoulders. “It’s chilly tonight, Diane. You need to stay warm.” She beamed at me, holding my hands. “Oh, Evie, you’re so thoughtful. Tell me, is the contract signed? I’ve waited so long to officially call you my daughter.” Arthur Harrison walked in, scowling when he saw I was alone. “Where’s that boy of mine? He should be with you. I’ll give him a piece of my mind when he gets back.” Their genuine love made my throat tight. After my parents died, the Harrisons were my world. They gave me a home, an education, and their name. I had always been the “perfect girl” for them. But tonight, I was going to disappoint them. “Diane, Arthur,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m not marrying Nate.” The room went silent. “I’m leaving for the West Coast tomorrow. I’m starting over. I won’t be around to take care of you anymore, so please… take care of yourselves.” Diane grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with panic. “Evie, no. This is your home. Where will you go? Is this about that Blackwell girl? Did Nate say something?” “Honey, he loves you,” Arthur added, stepping forward. “He’s saved your life twice! He spends weeks picking out your birthday gifts. I know you love him, too. You’ve learned his favorite recipes, you help him with his hand exercises… you’re perfect together! Don’t let that other girl win.” In my last life, I’d listened to them. We all stayed, we all fought, and in the end, they lost a son and I lost a husband. I wiped a tear from Diane’s cheek. “You can’t force a heart to beat for someone it doesn’t want. Nate doesn’t want me. And I can’t keep pretending that’s okay.” “I had a dream last night,” I whispered, the pain nearly choking me. “I dreamt we got married. He spent every day working until he collapsed just so he wouldn’t have to come home to me. He wouldn’t eat the food I made. He told me I brought him nothing but pain. And then… then he died trying to save me from a fire I started by accident. He died at thirty, Diane. Because of me.” Diane looked stunned. “Evie… it was just a nightmare.” I forced a smile through the tears. “Dreams are warnings. I’d rather he live a hundred years without me than die a hero at thirty in my arms.” I knelt down on the plush carpet—a final gesture of respect to the people who raised me. “My papers are processed. I’m leaving. Thank you for everything.” Arthur sighed, his shoulders sagging, and helped me up. Diane began sobbing, pressing a stack of envelopes into my hand—traveler’s checks and cash. “If this is what you need, we won’t stop you. But remember, Evie: this house is always your home.” I hugged her tight, sobbing into her shoulder. One more regret to go, Nate. I’m almost done. I had twelve hours left to fulfill the third regret: Saving Serena. I went to the Observatory alone. The deck was crowded with couples, all whispering promises under the glowing sky. “Evelyn.” I spun around, my heart leaping, only to see Nate standing there, his face contorted with fury. He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise. “You really couldn’t help yourself, could you? I miss one dinner and you run to my parents to cry? They just called and tore Serena apart over the phone. She’s… she took a handful of pills, Evie. She’s in the ER. Are you happy now?” 3 My wrist felt like it was going to snap. I turned white, the air leaving my lungs. In my last life, Serena had waited until a month after our wedding to attempt suicide. Nate hadn’t been able to find a blood match for a rare complication she had, and he’d watched her die. He blamed me for her death until the moment he breathed his last. But this was happening now. Today. I hadn’t even married him yet, and she was already slipping away. I have to fix this. This is the third regret. I looked at him, ignored the pain in my arm. “You need a donor, don’t you? For the rare antibody treatment?” Nate froze, stunned that I knew. His voice turned lethal. “Don’t act like you care. You drove her to this. You owe her.” He dragged me to the private wing of the hospital. Serena was pale, hooked up to machines. The specialist looked at the labs, then at me. He ran a quick prick on my finger. “It’s a match,” the doctor said, surprised. “But the procedure… to get enough of the concentrated antibodies, we have to do a deep-marrow draw and a high-volume transfusion. It’s incredibly taxing on the donor. You’ll be weak for months. There’s a risk of cardiac stress.” “No,” Nate snapped, his brow furrowed. “She’s too fragile. Is there any other way?” The doctor shook his head. “Without this specific match, Miss Blackwell won’t make it through the night.” Nate looked at Serena, then at me. I saw the raw terror in his eyes—the fear of losing his “Perfect Ghost.” “I’ll do it,” I said. “Start the prep.” “Evie, wait—” Nate started, but I cut him off. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Just save her.” Nate stared at me, his emotions a chaotic wreck. Finally, he took his silk handkerchief and tied it around my eyes, a strange, protective gesture. “I owe you for this, Evie. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” He left the room, and the needles went in. The pain was visceral—a deep, hollowing ache that felt like my very soul was being siphoned out. As the world faded, I thought of our history. I was eight when my parents died. The older kids at the prep school used to corner me, telling me I was an interloper, a charity case. Nate, only ten, had pushed them away and patted my head. “Don’t cry, Evie. I’ll look out for you.” He’d kept that promise, even when he hated me. He’d kept it until he died in the fire. I couldn’t help but love him. But I knew that to save him, I had to disappear. As I drifted into unconsciousness, I heard his voice from the future, echoing in the dark: “If I could just un-know you, Evie… how much better would our lives have been?” I whispered into the empty air of the hospital room, “I’m fixing it, Nate. You won’t have to know me anymore.” When I woke up, the sun was streaming through the hospital window. My chest felt like it had been crushed by a lead weight. I was alone in a small recovery room. I checked the clock. It was almost noon. I had to leave. Outside the door, I heard nurses whispering. “Did you see the meteor shower last night? It was incredible.” “I heard if you saw it with your soulmate, you’ll be together forever.” I closed my eyes. I missed it again. A moment later, the door pushed open. Nate walked in carrying a tray. On it was a bowl of the specific seafood chowder from the deli I used to love as a kid. I stared at it, breathless. He remembered. Nate sat by the bed, his voice softer than I’d heard it in years. “How are you feeling? The doctor said you need to stay for a few days. Serena… she’s stable. Because of you.” I nodded weakly. “That’s good.” He looked at my pale face, his jaw tight. “I was out of line yesterday. I shouldn’t have blamed you. Serena told me… she told me my parents came to her on their own. I’m sorry, Evie.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t tell him I’d already broken the engagement. I just smiled. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now.” Nate tucked the blanket around my legs. “Once you’re out of here, we’ll take that trip to the coast you wanted. I know you love the ocean. We can do the honeymoon early.” I looked at him, my heart breaking for the last time. “No, Nate. You don’t have to compensate me for this. I did it because I wanted to.” His eyes flickered with something like hurt. “I’ve already arranged the car for Friday. We’re going.” I didn’t answer. I just watched his hands. They were shaking—the old injury from the kidnapping. Whenever he was stressed or the weather turned, his nerves misfired. “Nate,” I whispered. “Do you ever regret it? Saving me back then? Losing the piano?” He looked at his hands, his expression neutral. “I don’t regret it. I’d do it for anyone.” For anyone. Not just for me. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you. For everything. For being my hero over and over again.” “I was a lonely kid, Nate. I just wanted a family so badly that I tried to force you into being mine. I’m sorry for the pressure I put on you.” He looked startled, like he wanted to say something, but a nurse knocked on the door. “Mr. Harrison? Miss Blackwell is awake. She’s asking for you.” Nate’s face lit up instantly. He stood up. “I’ll be right back. Stay put, okay? We need to talk.” “Nate,” I called out as he reached the door. I gave him the brightest, most genuine smile I had left. “I’m sorry. And… I hope you have a long, beautiful life. I hope you get everything you ever wanted.” He looked confused, an uneasy shadow crossing his face. “You’re acting like this is a goodbye. Just eat your soup. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He left. I waited until his footsteps faded, then I forced myself out of bed. Every movement was agony, but I dressed and slipped out the side exit. I found the doctor on my way out. “Tell Mr. Harrison I’ve gone to the coast. Tell him… tell him to live well.” When Nate finally returned to the room, it was empty. The soup was cold. “Where is she?” he demanded of a passing orderly. “The girl in 402?” The doctor walked up, handing him a note. “She left, Mr. Harrison. She said she was heading out west. She asked me to tell you: ‘The debt is paid. Be happy.’” Nate felt a chill go down his spine. “She can’t be gone. She’s too weak to drive!” Just then, his head of security ran down the hall, face ashen. “Sir… there’s been an accident on the interstate. A pile-up involving a bus and several cars. We think… we think Miss Crawford’s Uber was in the zone.”

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My ex-husband hated me with a vengeance that burned like a fever, all for the sake of the girl who’d been his “forever” dream. I did the only sensible thing: I took the settlement money and disappeared, leaving everything behind—including our child. Six years later, a miniature version of him, a little marshmallow of a boy, knocked on my door. He was wearing a bright yellow backpack, his small face set in a mask of solemnity that was far too old for him. “Dominic doesn’t want me anymore,” he announced, his voice steady despite the slight tremble of his lower lip. “I’m moving in with you.” I froze, the air caught in my lungs. Before I could even find my voice, he tilted his head back and began reciting legal statutes with the precision of a court reporter. “Under the Family Code, parents have a non-delegable duty to support and maintain their minor children…” He didn’t get to finish. I stepped aside, opening the door wide. “Get in here.” … 1 The warm light of the entryway hit his face, and for a split second, his eyes shimmered. Then, with a haughty little huff, he marched inside on his sturdy legs. As soon as the door clicked shut, the boy—Milo, as I knew him from the few photos I’d dared to look at over the years—began surveying my life. He gripped the straps of his backpack tight when he caught me watching him. “I’m Milo,” he said, puffing out his chest. The tone was unmistakable. It was a declaration of war and a plea for recognition all at once. He wanted me to know exactly whose blood ran through his veins. Not that he needed to say it; with that jawline and those piercing dark eyes, he was a carbon copy of Dominic. When I didn’t immediately fall at his feet, he looked slightly deflated. He turned his head away, pouting. I took his backpack, hanging it on the hook by the door, and led him toward the bathroom. “Wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.” He gave a small, obedient nod. By the time I’d set the table, he had already scrambled up into the dining chair, looking tiny against the high back. “Why are you here, Milo? Really?” I asked. He poked at a piece of broccoli with his fork, his head drooping low. His voice came out muffled, thick with unshed tears. “We had a fight. He threw things. He told me to get out, told me never to come back to the estate again.” A runaway. I remembered how fiercely the Thorne family had fought for custody, nearly burying me in lawsuits and threats of jail time just to keep me away from him. He was their crown prince. I figured Dominic was probably tearing the city apart looking for him right now. Watching him eat, a lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t prepared for guests. It was just a simple stir-fry and soup. Milo was clearly a picky eater—he meticulously picked out every sliver of onion and carrot—but eventually, only the greens were left. He stared at them like they were poison, stole a quick glance at me, and then, with the dramatic resolve of a martyr, closed his eyes and swallowed them whole. The arrogant little prince who had walked in ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by a kid who was trying so hard to be “good” that it broke my heart. It seemed he hadn’t been mistreated at the Thorne mansion, but he was certainly disciplined. I cleaned up the dishes, expecting a frantic knock on the door at any moment. But nine-thirty came and went. The hallway remained silent. Six-year-olds can only stay awake so long. Milo’s eyes were drooping. He pulled a pair of dinosaur pajamas out of his bag and looked around my cramped studio apartment. He wrinkled his nose. “Your house is so small. Why is there only one bed?” “Are we… are we sharing?” he asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice. I glanced at the clock, wondering where the hell Dominic was. I sighed and nodded. “Yeah. We’ll make it work for tonight.” I expected a tantrum. Compared to the Thorne estate, this place was a glorified closet. Instead, Milo just bit his lip, a flash of something that looked suspiciously like relief crossing his face. He scrubbed his face, changed into his pajamas, and climbed under the covers. Just like at dinner, he was playing the part of the perfect guest. He wiggled around until he was tucked in like a little silkworm, only his big eyes visible. Then, he reached under his pillow—God knows when he’d hidden it there—and pulled out a book of fairy tales. “Aren’t you going to read to me?” The hope in his eyes was so bright it was almost unbearable. 2 After Milo fell asleep, I pulled up the number that had been sitting in my block list for six years. My thumb hovered over the “unblock” button, trembling. I couldn’t do it. Dominic and I… we were a lifetime ago. When my family’s business collapsed, the Thornes decided I was a liability. They arranged a match between Dominic and Becca—the girl everyone said was his “true” soulmate. Dominic fought them. He gave up his inheritance, took a literal beating from his grandfather that left him bedridden for weeks, all for me. I had cried over his bruised body, and he had just smiled, wiping my tears away, promising me we’d be okay. We were young enough to believe love was a shield. We eloped, I got pregnant, and I spent nine months dreaming of our future. Then came the day of the delivery. The pain was agonizing. I called Dominic dozens of times, but he never picked up. A neighbor eventually drove me to the hospital. When I woke up from the C-section, the man standing over me wasn’t my husband. He was a stranger. His eyes were cold, filled with a visceral disgust, as if looking at me made him sick. It was Becca who eventually came to my room to explain the “truth.” She spoke about “narratives” and “destiny,” claiming I was just a glitch in the system. She was the protagonist of his life, and I was a side character who had overstayed her welcome. She told me the “universe” had corrected itself. Dominic’s love for me had been a mistake, and now, it had been inverted into pure, unadulterated loathing. As she left, she looked at me with chilling pity. “Have you thought about what will happen to that child?” I was broken. My parents had died in a car crash on their way to the hospital to see the baby. I was alone, hemorrhaging money I didn’t have, and the man I loved looked at me like I was dirt. I remember standing by the hospital window, thinking about jumping. Then, I heard a cry from the bassinet. I walked over, looking at that wrinkled little life, and a horrific thought took root: If I go, what happens to him? Would Becca hurt him? Would Dominic hate him the way he hated me? Maybe it was better to take him with me. My hands were shaking as I reached for his tiny neck. In that moment, the crying stopped. The baby opened his eyes—red-rimmed and bright—and looked straight at me, as if he were asking for a hug. A nurse burst in a second later, pulling me away. I stared at my hands, cold sweat pouring down my back. I had almost killed my own son. The Thornes heard about the incident. The grandfather came for the child. I didn’t fight. I signed the divorce papers, gave up my rights, and took the two-million-dollar settlement. I needed the money for my parents’ medical debts and funeral, and I needed to get away before I destroyed what was left of my soul. Dominic never showed his face. He hated me too much to even say goodbye. So I moved on. I told myself it was for the best. Milo rolled over in his sleep, his warm little body pressing against mine. His tiny hand gripped the fabric of my t-shirt, as if terrified I’d vanish if he let go. I brushed a stray hair from his forehead, my heart aching. If he knew that his mother had once considered ending his life, would he still be sleeping here? He’d probably run as far away as he could. 3 The next morning, Dominic still hadn’t called. I couldn’t figure out the game he was playing. Milo was six; he couldn’t have found my apartment on his own without help. Had Dominic sent him? I woke Milo up and hailed a cab to take him to his kindergarten. It was across the city, an hour’s ride. Before we got out, he gripped my hand, making me swear on my life that I’d be there to pick him up. As we approached the school gates, his eyes suddenly lit up. He saw a sleek black car idling at the curb. Milo pulled me along, but as we got closer to the car, he slowed his pace. He intentionally stepped in front of a chubby little boy who had just stepped out of a luxury SUV. With a voice loud enough for every parent on the sidewalk to hear, Milo chirped, “Mom, you’re definitely coming to get me after school, right?” It was the first time he’d called me “Mom.” The chubby kid stared, eyes wide. “You have a mom? Why hasn’t she ever dropped you off before?” Milo lifted his chin, his expression pure Thorne arrogance. “My mom is very busy. She runs a massive company. She took a special day off just to be with me today.” He emphasized the word “special” with a bite. He led me toward the door like a victorious little general. But just before he went inside, he turned back, his composure crumbling for a split second. “…You’ll be here?” When I didn’t answer immediately, panic flared in his eyes. “You promised in the car! Adults aren’t allowed to lie to kids!” I knelt down, straightening his collar, and ruffled his soft hair. “I’ll be here. I promise.” He tried to hide his grin, failing miserably. “Fine. I guess I can wait for a little while.” I watched him disappear inside, but a nagging feeling tugged at my gut. I went to the front office and asked to speak with his teacher. The teacher was hesitant at first, but then she sighed, leaning over her desk. “Look, I know the Thorne family is… complicated. But I have to say something.” “No matter how busy parents are, the child should come first. Milo has been here for three years, and not once—not once—has anyone come to a parent-teacher conference. The other kids tease him. They say he’s an orphan. It’s affecting him, Ms. Thorne.” Nobody had ever come? Even if Dominic hated the boy, wouldn’t he send an assistant? A nanny? I felt a surge of rage. For the first time, I wondered if giving up custody had been the right thing. I might have been poor, but I would have given him everything. He was a billionaire’s son, but emotionally, he was a beggar. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. I needed to have it out with Dominic. If he didn’t want the boy, I’d take him. I wasn’t the broken girl I was six years ago. I could raise him. As the phone started to ring, a familiar melody sounded right behind me. My spine turned to ice. I turned around. Standing next to a black Bentley was a tall, imposing figure. Six years hadn’t changed him much. He looked harder, colder, his presence more suffocating than I remembered. He was holding his vibrating phone, his eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “You’ve been hiding for a long time,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Are you finally ready to show your face?”

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My daughter fell into a storm drain in our apartment complex, and soon after, a torrential downpour began. I desperately called property management for help. After my repeated pleas, they assured me my daughter had been rescued. But when I finally arrived home, my daughter was nowhere to be seen. When I found her again, she was floating in the icy storm drain, long gone. Grief-stricken, I confronted property management, demanding answers. Instead, they used my status as an influencer against me, twisting the narrative to claim I had deliberately harmed my daughter for publicity. A furious wave of online abuse crashed down on me. Shattered by the loss of my child and the relentless cyberbullying, I drove in a daze, crashing head-on into an oncoming truck. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the moment my daughter fell. I quickly realized that the truth was far more sinister than I had ever imagined. 1. My phone suddenly rang, startling me. It was my daughter. I quickly answered. “Mommy, I fell into a drain, and I’m so scared! Please come and save me!” My daughter’s tearful voice came through the phone. In that moment, I knew I had been reborn. “Piper, don’t be scared! It might rain soon, so feel around with your feet for anything you can stand on. Stand there and wait for Mommy. I’m bringing help right away!” In my previous life, after receiving Piper’s call, I immediately dropped everything and rushed home. But my studio was too far from our apartment complex. On the way, a massive downpour caused traffic jams. To make matters worse, there was an accident on my route, and I was stuck, unable to move. I could only call the property management, pleading and urging them to rescue her quickly. They readily promised, “Madam, don’t worry, our team is already on their way and is conducting the rescue.” I felt a slight ease, calling Piper’s smart watch, but it wouldn’t connect. Calling property management again, they told me my daughter had been rescued. I asked to speak to her, but they claimed she was frightened and had fallen asleep. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, never imagining the property manager would lie to me. When I finally got back to the complex, Piper was nowhere to be found. I frantically interrogated the property management, but they all became silent. I had no time for their nonsense and immediately contacted the fire department to search for my daughter. When the firefighters found her, she was floating in the storm drain, lifeless. Grief-stricken, I demanded answers from the property management. They all stuck to the same story, claiming they never received my distress call. I showed them my call logs, but they insisted I had only called to report a faulty motion-sensor light. I only regretted not recording the calls! Afterward, a video of me arguing with the property management was posted online. The property staff collectively accused me of staging the incident for attention, claiming I had deliberately caused my daughter’s death for publicity. The internet mob, eager for drama, believed them and subjected me to a relentless online attack. Some even broke into my home, vandalizing it. My husband, who was away on a business trip, rushed back but also believed the online rumors, insisting on a divorce. Overwhelmed by the loss and the cyberbullying, I was in a daze. While driving to pursue legal action, I crashed head-on into an oncoming truck. Thankfully, fate had given me another chance. This time, I would save my daughter and ensure those heartless people at property management received their just punishment! First, I called the fire department. Then, I called property management and began recording the call. “Is this property management? My daughter fell into the storm drain in the complex. Please send someone to rescue her immediately!” “Alright, we’ll send someone right over.” They agreed readily, but I knew they wouldn’t actually help. This time, I chose a different route home. Although it was longer, it had less traffic and was mostly clear. I called property management again, asking, “Has my daughter been rescued?” “Our people are already working on it. Stop calling and rushing us. It won’t help; rescues have to be done step by step!” They hung up abruptly, clearly annoyed. By now, the rain had started, big drops pelting my car window. Despite the wipers, visibility was very poor. I called Piper again. “Piper, are the property management staff near you?” 2. My daughter’s terrified, tearful voice came through the phone. “No, Mommy, I’m scared.” Just as I suspected. Property management was just fobbing me off. “Don’t be scared, Piper. The firefighters will be there soon, and Mommy is almost there too. Is the rain heavy where you are? Did you find anything to stand on?” “I’m standing on a big rock, Mommy, please hurry. It’s so tiring to stand like this.” “Be a good girl, Piper. Mommy will be there any minute. You have to hold on!” Tears streamed down my face. In my previous life, when Piper fell into the drain, the water initially only reached her waist. But because property management delayed the rescue for so long, all the rainwater flowed into the drain, submerging her and causing her to drown. The pain of losing my daughter was excruciating. I absolutely would not let it happen again in this lifetime. Suddenly, the fire department called me. “Ms. Jones, we arrived at the complex entrance but were blocked by property management. They said the child has already been rescued and told us to leave.” I was furious. “Please don’t go back! My daughter hasn’t been rescued! Property management is lying!” The firefighter hesitated. “Ms. Jones, we understand you’re anxious, but property management wouldn’t lie about a rescue, would they?” “I’m begging you, please go back and check! My daughter is definitely still in that drain! Please, I’m begging you to go back and check!” After my repeated pleas, the fire department finally agreed to go back and verify. I tried calling my daughter again, but her smart watch was unreachable. I was furious. How could property management treat a human life so lightly? Not only did they refuse to help, but they also blocked the firefighters. Was it just because they feared such an incident would affect property values, or was there something else going on? I couldn’t comprehend it. I called property management again. “Did you or did you not rescue my daughter?” “She’s already been rescued.” “Then let me speak to her.” “The child was scared and has fallen asleep.” It was the same excuse as my previous life. I wanted to crawl through the phone and tear them apart! “Then wake her up and let her answer the phone!” They grew impatient. “Don’t think you can order us around just because you’re an influencer. You have no special privileges here!” They slammed the phone down. When I called back, they simply wouldn’t answer. Then the fire department called again. “Ms. Jones, property management took us to the drain, and there was no one inside.” “How is that possible? Our complex has six drains. Did you check all of them?” “We only checked five. One is abandoned, and the opening is completely blocked. No one could possibly be inside.” “My daughter is definitely in there! Please, can you go and check that one too?!” The firefighters were clearly in a difficult position. Before the call even ended, I heard someone shouting in the background. “Why aren’t you firefighters leaving? Do you know how much you’re affecting us by just standing at our complex entrance? People will think there’s a huge emergency. Leave now!” Property management was already trying to drive them away. The firefighter on the phone said, “The property manager is directly blocking the entrance and refusing to let us in. They insist the child has been rescued and sent home. I’m sorry, Ms. Jones, we don’t have the authority to forcibly enter a complex without an emergency.” “No! Property management is lying! I have surveillance at home; my daughter isn’t there! You have to believe me, my child is still in that drain! Please, you have to save her!” By the end, I was openly weeping. 3. “Ms. Jones, I understand how you feel, but property management really has no reason to lie about this. It’s a matter of life and death; if someone isn’t rescued, they would also be held responsible.” I truly didn’t know how to explain the situation to the firefighters. I could only say, “Please, I beg you to go back and check again. I will bear all the costs, including any wasted manpower, resources, and potential losses incurred from this deployment! Please, I’m begging you!” Under my continuous tearful pleas, the fire department finally agreed. But soon, the fire department called again. “Ms. Jones, although we managed to force our way into the complex, property management is refusing to cooperate. We don’t know where the drain is. Do you know where the opening is?” I thought of several locations, but none of them were right. Our complex was huge, with many residential buildings, like a maze. It was easy for someone visiting for the first time to get lost. Time was ticking away. Every minute of delay meant another minute of danger for my daughter. My heart was churning, but thankfully, I was just around the corner from home. When I reached my front door, I saw the firefighters preparing to leave. I quickly stopped them and then led them to the property management office. “Take me to the drain, now!” The property manager was impatient. “Who are you?” “My daughter is still in that drain! Who do you think I am?! Lead the way!” “We already told you your daughter has been rescued. If you go home now, I’m sure she’s there!” “I have surveillance at home! My daughter never came back!” “We already sent her home. If she’s not there, she must have run off again herself. Your daughter is seven or eight years old; there’s nothing we can do if she runs off!” I was shaking with rage. They were murderers, pure and simple. They were treating a human life as dirt! I stopped wasting words and pulled out a fruit knife, pressing it against the property manager’s throat. “Take me there, now!” The property manager was terrified. “This lunatic! Call the police for me!” The firefighters tried to calm me down, but my daughter’s life was on a countdown. I couldn’t calm down. I pressed the knife closer. “If you don’t take me there, I’ll kill you and make you my daughter’s grave mate!” Seeing the killing intent in my eyes, the property manager finally got scared. “Alright, alright, I’ll take you! Just put the knife away. I’m scared, and I’ll walk slowly like this.” I hesitated, then removed the knife. The moment I did, the property manager shoved me away. “Murder! Call the police! There’s a crazy woman here!” I quickly shouted, “Stop him! He refuses to take us to check the drain; there must be something wrong!” The firefighters reacted quickly and caught up to him, but even held by them, he wouldn’t cooperate. “Why are you helping that crazy person? I told you the child was rescued ages ago! You’re letting her threaten me with a knife! I’m going to sue you; you’ll all be facing charges!” The property manager was utterly arrogant. By this point, I had completely lost my rationality. “If I can’t save my daughter, then you can go down and join her!” I charged at the property manager like a madwoman but was pulled back by two firefighters. “If my daughter dies, you’re a murderer! Every single one of you at property management is a murderer!” The property manager sneered, uncaring. “You need proof for those accusations. Where’s your proof? We did rescue your daughter. Everyone at property management can testify to that.” In that moment, I finally realized that all these people were colluding, determined to kill my daughter.

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For five years, my husband Finn and I kept our finances completely separate. We split the mortgage evenly, divided every utility bill, and took turns buying condoms. Friends joked we acted more like roommates, but I’d always defend it: “Financial independence keeps our love pure.” Whenever I said this, my best friend Ivy would vent about her own husband being a lazy freeloader. On Christmas Eve, Finn’s old phone buzzed at home. I checked it and saw a notification: his company’s year-end bonus had arrived — a million dollars. Just as I was about to celebrate, Finn called. “Honey, no bonus this year. Could you cover the utilities for now?” My heart dropped. After hanging up, I rushed to check his bank records. Rows of transactions appeared, all labeled “Ivy.” As if drawn by a ghost, I opened Ivy’s social media. Her latest post was a screenshot of a million-dollar transfer, captioned: “Hubby’s bonus arrived! Starting a baby fund now!” The sender was Finn’s company. Under the post, our mutual friends were commenting. “Jenny,” one wrote, “How did you find such a successful man?” Ivy replied: “Oh, we’re just dating, nothing serious yet! He got promoted to director — it’s a special bonus.” … I remembered Finn being promoted to director last month. The comments section was full of envious remarks, including two that tagged me from our mutual friends. “@Autumn, look at her man! How much did your Finn get this year?” Ivy replied beneath that comment: “Autumn and Finn keep their finances separate, so it’s different.” Another friend commented: “AA to that extent is rare. Autumn, you’re just too independent.” Ivy sent a face-with-hand-over-mouth emoji: “Yes, Autumn likes it that way. She thinks it’s fair.” Someone else replied, “Can’t wait for the baby! When’s the celebration?” Ivy responded to all: “Thank you, everyone! We’ll definitely have a party once things are stable!” My hands trembling, I scrolled through Ivy’s photos of her “ex-boyfriend.” One back-of-head shot bore an eight-tenths resemblance to Finn. There was also a picture of a pregnant belly, with a hand visible that had a scar on it. Finn had the same scar in the same spot, a mark from a lab accident during an experiment. I had traced that scar countless times; there was no mistaking it. The caption beneath that photo read: “The baby’s dad is so happy, he can’t stop holding me.” My phone clattered to the floor. The screen displayed a photo of the three of us together, and for the first time, it felt like a searing burn. A month ago, Ivy had told me she was pregnant, and the father was her “worthless ex-boyfriend.” She said they’d long broken up, and she was preparing to be a single mother. I had even worriedly accompanied her to the hospital for a check-up, spotting her three thousand dollars for medical fees. “Autumn, you’re the best friend a girl could ask for,” she’d said, her eyes red-rimmed. Now, I realized that three thousand dollars was likely just a fraction of what I was contributing to someone else’s child. I turned off my phone, closed my eyes, but countless images flooded my mind. Last year, for Finn’s birthday, I gave him a two-hundred-dollar pen. He immediately reciprocated with an equally priced scarf. At the time, Ivy stood beside us, saying enviously, “You two are so good together; you don’t even have to worry about the cost when exchanging gifts.” Now, I imagine she was secretly laughing at my foolishness. The year before, my mother was hospitalized, needing eight thousand dollars for surgery. I was short on cash and asked Finn if he could lend it to me. He said, “Our principle is separate finances. This money would be a loan from me to you, accruing interest at the bank rate, to be repaid within three months.” I gritted my teeth and agreed. Later, it was Ivy who lent me five thousand dollars, interest-free. I was incredibly grateful, treating her to three dinners, five hundred dollars each, at a fancy Japanese restaurant. But now, I suspect that five thousand was just pocket change from what Finn had given her. I forced myself to walk home and cooked a Christmas Eve dinner, intending to confront him when he returned. Looking at the carefully prepared feast, all his favorite dishes, I felt a sliver of hope. Five years of marriage, Finn and I lived in respectful harmony; to outsiders, we were an enviable couple. I hoped he would tell me it was a coincidence, that he would offer an explanation. The clock chimed twelve times. Finn’s call came through. “Autumn, I have to work late tonight. I won’t be home for dinner.” In the background, I could faintly hear fireworks. “It might end late, so I’ll just stay at a hotel near the office. I have an early meeting tomorrow.” I gripped my phone, my fingers tightening. “The company is heartless, making you work on Christmas Eve. Which hotel are you at? Maybe I can bring you some dumplings.” Finn’s panic was almost palpable. “No!” Realizing his overly strong reaction, his tone instantly softened. “No need. It’s too cold outside; I couldn’t bear to let you go out in the cold.” “Alright, then don’t drink too much.” The moment the call ended, my heart turned utterly cold. Outside, scattered fireworks burst, and the array of dishes on the table lay untouched, now completely cold. I aimlessly scrolled through social media. My mother-in-law had posted a photo of her Christmas Eve dinner—a lavish spread of all my favorite dishes. The caption read: “Christmas Eve dinner for my daughter-in-law.” Someone commented: “What’s the point of making so much for a daughter-in-law? She’s not even family.” My mother-in-law immediately retorted: “Sons are never as thoughtful as daughters-in-law. In our family, we treat our daughter-in-law better than our son.” A warmth spread through my heart. Regardless of Finn, my mother-in-law was always on my side. I remembered the year Finn and I first got married; she held my hand, her eyes red, and said, “Autumn, Finn was a sickly child. I spoiled him, and he grew up stubborn and difficult. If he ever does anything wrong, tell me, and I’ll scold him.” On Christmas morning, I drove to Finn’s old family home. His parents lived in an older complex in the suburbs. Finn had bought the house two years ago, putting it in their names. He said it was for his mother’s retirement, and I even paid half the down payment. Before leaving, I brought a treasured limited-edition bourbon and picked up his father’s favorite Cuban cigars. For five years, his parents had treated me better than their own son. The first Christmas after we married, my mother-in-law quietly pulled me aside and slipped a thick envelope tied with a ribbon into my coat pocket. “Finn is too proud; he insists on keeping everything separate. Don’t take it to heart. Marriage isn’t always about keeping score.” Once, after an argument with Finn, I stubbornly skipped the holiday gathering at his parents’ house. His father called, not asking for explanations, just saying, “Autumn, Dad sent you some of that maple-glazed bacon you love from the old shop.” I cried when the package arrived that day. I carried the gifts upstairs and was about to knock when I heard a familiar voice from inside: “Mom, don’t bother. She’s not picky.” My hand, holding the gifts, paused. He said he was working late yesterday, didn’t he? But I still smiled softly, a little relieved, thinking, As long as he’s not with Ivy. Just as I reached to push the door open, the next sentence froze me to the spot. “Auntie, these cherries are so sweet,” Ivy’s voice cooed, sickly sweet. “Then eat more, dear. You’re expecting; you need to keep up your strength,” my mother-in-law said, her voice filled with loving tenderness. His father squatted by the coffee table, tidying up a pile of baby clothes and tiger-head shoes, beaming with joy. My stomach began to churn. The gifts in my hand clattered to the floor. Everyone in the living room turned simultaneously. Ivy saw me, immediately rose, then cried out in pain and clutched her stomach, sinking back onto the sofa. Finn, with practiced ease, set down his teacup and went to help her. Ivy put her arm around me intimately. “Autumn, I fell on the way here today. Finn just happened to be passing by and picked me up. Otherwise, I don’t know what I would have done.” I evaded Ivy and stared intently at Finn. “Honey, weren’t you supposed to be working late? Why are you here to see your parents?” He paused, then averted his gaze. “It was canceled at the last minute.” My mother-in-law quickly interjected. “Yes, yes, Finn just arrived. The boy is filial; he rushed over early this morning to see me. Little Ivy just fell on the way, and Finn happened to see her, so he brought her here to rest…” I looked at Ivy. She was wearing soft-soled wool slippers; there wasn’t a speck of dust on her legs. I struggled to control my emotions. “Mom and Dad, I just remembered I have something important to do, so I’ll be going.” No one followed me out. I slowly slid down the cold wall, tears streaming down my face. “Mom, don’t worry. With her brain, she’ll never figure out what I’ve done. Her father was smart, but she’s useless. She didn’t inherit any of his intelligence,” Finn said, a hint of triumph in his voice. I leaned against the icy wall, my heart pounding.

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In the third year of my marriage to Arthur Hayes, he died unexpectedly in a car accident. I was inconsolable. It took me five full years to recover, finding solace through the comforting presence of his best friend, Ben Carter. Over time, living in such close proximity, feelings developed between us, and we decided to get married. But at the registrar’s office, the clerk looked at me with a strange expression. “Ma’am, our records indicate you’re already married and your marriage is still active. If you proceed, it could constitute bigamy.” At first, I didn’t believe it. But when I saw “Arthur Hayes” listed in the spouse column, both Ben and I froze. How could my husband, who had passed away five years ago, still be legally married to me? “Excuse me, could there be a system error?” I glanced awkwardly at Ben. “My former husband was indeed Arthur Hayes, but he died five years ago. Legally, a marriage automatically terminates upon the death of a spouse. How could I still be married to him?” The clerk grew impatient, her eyes scrutinizing me. “I’ve checked three times. Your husband, Arthur Hayes, is currently alive, and your marriage is legal and valid. There’s no mistake.” She wasn’t particularly quiet, and hearing her, people nearby shot me disdainful glances. “That woman has some nerve, bringing her lover to get married while her husband is still alive.” “Is she crazy? Does she not know marrying two people is bigamy?” “Can these people stop treating government officials like part of their twisted games?” Seeing the increasingly hostile looks from those around us, Ben quickly pulled me out. Back in the car, I still hadn’t recovered from the shock. Before Ben could offer comfort, I immediately pulled out my phone and called Arthur’s mother. After two rings, her cold voice was piercing. “Why are you calling me? Didn’t I tell you not to contact me again?” “What, you’re marrying Arthur’s best friend now, and you want to invite your former mother-in-law to the wedding?” I ignored her sarcastic tone and immediately asked, “Mom, please tell me, was Arthur truly dead back then? Was he faking his death to deceive me?” On the other end of the line, Arthur’s mother exploded like a sputtering oil pan, roaring at me in anger. “Evelyn Lane, do you have any conscience? Arthur died because of you! If you hadn’t suddenly craved cake in the middle of the night, would he have driven while fatigued and gotten into that accident? You personally identified his body; how dare you ask me such a thing? You have no conscience!” The call was abruptly cut off, but I remained suspicious. After all, though I had rushed to the scene of Arthur’s accident immediately, his body was so mangled from the impact that even his face was unrecognizable. We had identified him by his clothes and car. I took a deep breath, then took Ben to the police station that had handled the accident to check the records. Seeing the 100% DNA match, I froze. The person who died was indeed Arthur Hayes. But a dead man… how could he maintain a five-year marriage with me? Back home, Ben received an urgent call for overtime work. Before leaving, he hugged my shoulders, reassuring me softly. “Don’t be scared.” “I helped with Arthur’s funeral arrangements; he truly was… it couldn’t have been faked.” “Maybe something went wrong when the paperwork was processed. We’ll check again tomorrow; it might be nothing.” “Sweetheart, it’s your birthday today. Be happy.” “When I get back, we’ll celebrate properly.” Looking at Ben’s gentle eyes, my unease lessened considerably, and I nodded at him. After Arthur’s death, I was overcome with grief, on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. If Ben hadn’t canceled so much work to be with me, even using his connections to find me the best psychologist, I doubt I would have recovered so quickly. Although our relationship later wasn’t approved by many, and there were even some unpleasant rumors, I didn’t care. After all, I was living my own life. Sighing, I poured myself a cup of hot water, just about to calm my nerves. The doorbell suddenly rang. I thought it was Ben, having forgotten something. But when I opened the door, it was a smiling delivery man holding a bouquet of flowers. He enthusiastically said, “Is this Ms. Evelyn Lane? These are from your husband.” I took the bouquet, seeing the vibrant red roses, and the gloom in my heart instantly lifted. Just as I was about to snap a photo to send to Ben, the delivery man suddenly smiled and said, “You know, Mr. Hayes is truly thoughtful.” “Our shop had run out of roses, but he specially had the owner air-freight these from a neighboring city.” “Because he said your first meeting was at our shop, he insisted the roses be delivered under our shop’s name. So romantic…” The delivery man continued to chatter, but my face had instantly changed. “Wait.” I gripped the doorframe, my heart feeling like it was trying to leap out of my throat. “My husband, you said. What’s his last name?” The smile on the delivery man’s face froze. He looked at me strangely. “Mr. Hayes, of course. He orders flowers from our shop every year; he’s a regular customer.” Thud. The bouquet in my hand instantly fell to the ground. But I didn’t even bother to pick it up, staring at his face in shock, enunciating each word. “The Mr. Hayes you’re talking about, does he have a red mole between his eyebrows?” Seeing the delivery man nod in surprise, I immediately pulled out my phone, found a photo of Arthur’s ID, and showed it to him. “Is the Mr. Hayes you’re talking about him?” Now the delivery man looked at me even more strangely. “Of course it’s him, Ms. Lane. Are you messing with me? Don’t you know what your own husband looks like?” He scratched his head, gave me a look as if I were an idiot, and walked away. I held onto the doorframe, staring at the blood-red flowers on the ground, and suddenly noticed a greeting card tucked in the bouquet. But in previous years, the bouquets never had one. I picked up the card, and after reading its contents, a chill instantly crawled up my spine. Because the card clearly read: “Dearest wife, happy wedding anniversary. Your loving husband, Arthur Hayes.” I didn’t dare stay home alone. I hailed a taxi and went straight to my office. On the way, I messaged Ben, telling him what had just happened. But the man who always replied instantly didn’t respond. It wasn’t until I entered the office. Just as I was about to call him directly to ask what was going on, Liam, a colleague I was always friendly with, chuckled and came over. “Didn’t you take today off for a romantic day with your husband? Why are you back so soon?” I forced a faint smile, replying evasively, “He’s a bit busy, and I need to catch up on work, so I wanted to come back and organize some project files.” Liam gave me a knowing smile, pointing at a lunch bag on my desk. “Got it, got it. Your husband stood you up today. But he did make you a fancy meal to apologize. You should be gracious and forgive him.” Instantly, the smile on my face froze.

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