It was noon, the day before Valentine’s Day, and the hottest thread on the campus anonymous app had my name written all over it. [BREAKING] It’s Official! Student Body President Chloe Vance is dating campus golden boy, Julian Hayes! I was sitting in the dining hall, eating lunch with my best friend. Riley shoved her phone right into my face. “Chloe, you’re dating someone? Why am I the last to know?” Julian Hayes stood right in front of my table. His white button-down shirt was crisp and clean. The entire dining hall was whistling and cheering. He looked down at me and said, “Everyone already knows about us. Are you still not going to make it official?” In my past life, drowned out by this ridiculous, roaring crowd, I stayed silent for thirty seconds. And just like that, I defaulted into being his girlfriend. From that day on, he started checking my socials, dictating who I could talk to, and cornering me between classes. Eventually, he spread rumors that I was a “serial cheater playing the field.” I was stripped of my Student Body President title. My spot in the national finance decathlon was revoked. Driven to the edge, my depression relapsed. I took a medical leave—and eventually, took my own life. But when I opened my eyes again, I was back in the dining hall, right at the peak of the cheering. This time, I set my fork down and looked right up at him. “Dude, who even are you?” 1 For a few seconds, a wave of hushed laughter rippled through the crowd. Julian’s expression froze. He was undeniably good-looking. Cold eyes, tall, athletic—the kind of face that flooded the campus app every single day. In my past life, under that heavy gaze, my heart had skipped a beat. Paired with the crowd chanting, “Get together!” I hadn’t managed to tear down his setup in time. I had thought my silence was just saving us both from public embarrassment. Now, Julian frowned at me. “Chloe, stop messing around.” He said my name so naturally, like we were actually close. Beside me, Riley immediately held up her phone and started recording. She was a pre-med student, having just rushed over from the lab, still wearing her white coat. “Getting this on video just in case,” she muttered. “This guy’s vibe is way off.” I nodded and turned my attention back to Julian. “I’m not messing around. I’m asking you a question.” “You said we’re dating. Do you have any proof?” Julian’s face darkened. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Madame President is just shy!” “The whole school knows, why are you playing dumb?” I turned to look directly at the people holding up their phones. “Whoever is recording this right now, make sure you get the whole thing.” “Because I stand by every single word I’m about to say.” The cheering slowly died down. I stood up, looked Julian dead in the eye, and enunciated every word: “First, I barely know you.” “Second, I am not, and have never been, in a relationship with anyone.” “Third, please move. You’re ruining everyone’s lunch.” A flash of sheer embarrassment crossed Julian’s eyes. He reached out, trying to grab my shoulder. I took a sharp step back. “Back off.” His hand hung in the air. His face turned ice-cold. “Chloe Vance, do you really have to do this?” “Do what?” I shot back. “Refuse to confess to something I never did? Is that what you mean?” Julian’s face went from pale to flushed. He let out a cold laugh. “Chloe, denying it now just makes you look like a buzzkill.” I stared right through him. “I don’t care.” I picked up my tray, grabbed Riley’s arm, and walked away. As I brushed past Julian, he leaned in and whispered, “You’re going to regret this.” I stopped, tilted my head, and smiled. “Regret what? Not dating a piece of trash like you?” Stepping out of the dining hall, the midday sun was almost blinding. Riley tugged my sleeve, whispering, “Since when did you get so savage?” I didn’t answer. 2 Over the next few days, Julian spawned around me like a glitchy NPC. He wouldn’t approach. He wouldn’t speak. He just stood a few yards away, watching me with this intense, suffocating glare. One evening, as I was leaving the Student Union office, the hallway lights flickered on. Julian was standing at the end of the hall, like he’d been waiting for hours. The moment I saw him, I stopped and discreetly hit ‘Record’ on my phone. He walked up, his voice dripping with anger right out of the gate. “Who is the guy liking every single one of your Instagram posts?” My stomach dropped. I looked up at him. “What guy?” He scoffed. “The one with the black geometric profile picture. Initial ‘H’.” “You posted about the stage setup for the Spring Gala. He liked it.” “You posted your mock portfolio returns for the finance competition. He liked it.” “And the night run you posted two days ago? He was the first to like it.” He was too detailed. So detailed that a cold sweat broke out across my back. I just looked at him and asked: “Julian, you and I aren’t friends on Instagram. How can you see my likes?” He clearly froze. Then he looked away. “Someone told me.” “Who?” He snapped, “Does it matter?” I pulled out my phone and immediately initiated a FaceTime call. A few seconds later, the screen lit up. A man in a dark grey tailored suit appeared on screen. He was sitting in a boardroom, gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose, looking sharp and professional. “Chloe?” I turned the screen toward Julian. “Connor, someone is asking me who the guy is that keeps liking all my posts.” The man on the screen raised an eyebrow. “That would be me.” Julian’s face shifted. I introduced him slowly: “Connor Vance. My older brother.” “The ‘H’ you were talking about? That’s his middle name, Harrison.” Julian immediately pushed back: “A brother stalks your Instagram that closely?” On the screen, Connor’s eyes turned lethal. “I like my little sister’s posts about her academic awards, her student council events, and her evening runs. Is that a crime?” “But more importantly, Mr. Hayes.” “You are not my friend on that app, nor are you hers. How exactly are you viewing her private metrics?” Julian’s jaw clenched. “I told you, someone told me.” Connor replied coldly: “Then you better remember exactly who that ‘someone’ is.” Julian’s composed facade finally cracked. I watched him, my heart turning to ice. In my past life, he spun this exact situation into him just “being jealous.” While the campus forum tore me apart for being promiscuous, he had the nerve to act hurt, asking me: “Why do you hide your life from me?” On the phone, Connor instructed: “When you get back to your dorm tonight, check the login history on all your devices.” I promised I would. After hanging up, Julian glared at me. “Chloe, is this really necessary?” I asked back, “When you were invading my privacy, did you ask yourself if that was necessary?” He turned pale. “I just wanted to know how many guys are orbiting you.” “Why do you feel entitled to know that?” “Entitled?” He looked at me like I was the punchline to a joke, taking a step closer. “Chloe, the whole campus knows you’re my girlfriend. And you’re asking me why?” I raised my hand and showed him the recording app running on my screen. “Perfect.” “I got that on tape, too.” Julian froze in his tracks. I walked around him. As I reached the stairwell, he called out from behind me: “Acting like this just makes you look more guilty.” I didn’t bother looking back. That night in my dorm, I followed Connor’s advice and checked my account login activity. My finger stopped. Aside from my own iPhone, there was a login from an unknown device. A model I had never owned. The location pinged locally. I stared at that line of text, my fingertips turning numb. I screenshotted it, forwarded it to Connor, and saved a backup to my cloud. 3 Half an hour later, Connor sent me a contact card. [Ethan Caldwell. A 2L at your university’s law school. He’s a friend. Talk to him.] Ethan’s profile picture was a snowy mountain peak. His first message to me was sharp and professional: [Hi Chloe. Your brother gave me the rundown. Do not delete anything, and do not provoke him privately anymore.] I stared at the message for a long time. I replied: [I won’t accept a private settlement. I won’t accept a verbal apology.] He replied instantly: [Understood. Meet me at the campus Legal Aid clinic tomorrow. We’ll start building the evidence binder.] The next morning, I went to the library to meet my oldest brother. Liam Vance had just flown back from Europe. He was an independent graphic designer who had done visual branding for major art exhibitions. The student union’s Spring Arts Festival poster looked like a cheap real estate flyer, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I begged him to come rescue it. He was sitting by the library window in a light linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tweaking the color palette on my laptop. After he finished, he glanced over my financial modeling spreadsheet and casually corrected two formula errors. I rested my chin on my hands, watching him. “Liam, how are you literally good at everything?” Liam chuckled. “Because I have a little sister who loves waiting until the last minute.” I was about to argue when a familiar, icy voice cut through the air behind me. “So this is why you rejected my invite?” I closed my eyes. Riley was right. Julian really was a glitching NPC. A few people in the library looked up. Julian stood by the table, staring daggers at Liam, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. “Chloe, you’re my girlfriend, but you’re out here on a library date with him?” Before I could speak, Liam looked up. His aura was gentle, his tone extremely polite. “Excuse me, we’re in a library. Keep your voice down.” Julian sneered: “And who the hell are you?” Liam closed the laptop. “Liam Vance. Chloe’s oldest brother.” Julian paused. “Another brother?” The moment he emphasized the word “another”, people around us started whispering. “Wasn’t the guy on Instagram her second brother?” “Now the oldest brother?” “She sure has a lot of ‘brothers’…” I deadpanned, opening my recording app. “Julian, you sound disappointed.” A flash of irritation crossed his eyes. “Who knows if you’re telling the truth?” Liam slid his driver’s license and his campus visitor pass across the table. “If you need to, I can accompany you to campus security to verify my identity.” “But before we do that, I have a question.” “In what capacity are you interrogating my sister?” Julian went silent for two seconds before actually saying: “I am her boyfriend.” I let out a laugh. “I publicly denied it in the dining hall.” “I told you we had no relationship outside the union office.” “When you cornered me about my Instagram likes, I reminded you we aren’t even friends on the app.” “Julian, do you only hear the voices inside your own head?” More eyes were on us now. In my past life, in this exact scenario, I frantically tried to explain that Liam was my brother. Someone filmed only the part where Julian questioned me, and I looked panicked. When it hit the campus app, the headline was: [Caught in the Act: Chloe Vance panics when Julian Hayes busts her.] This time, I didn’t panic. I looked up at a guy leaning over the second-floor balcony, phone in hand. “You can film, but don’t edit it out of context.” The guy jumped, nearly dropping his phone. A librarian was already power-walking toward us, hissing, “Quiet down! Take this outside immediately.” Julian looked humiliated. He lowered his voice: “Did you have to embarrass me like this?” Liam spoke calmly: “When you hurl baseless accusations at a woman in a public space, did you ever consider if she would be embarrassed?” Julian choked on his words. I packed up my laptop and files, turning to Liam. “Let’s go somewhere else, Liam.” As I walked past Julian, he suddenly reached out to block me. I stopped, staring at his arm. “Move it.” He didn’t budge. The librarian was almost upon us. My voice dropped to absolute zero: “Julian, if you touch me, I am calling campus security.” Liam stood up. His gentle demeanor completely vanished. “Don’t touch my sister.” Julian’s fingers twitched for a few seconds before he finally pulled his arm back. Liam and I walked out of the library. As we stepped outside, the sun stung my eyes. 4 Over the weekend, my twin sister, Harper, and I took a road trip to an art exhibition in the next city over. “Call me ‘Big Sister’,” she demanded. I rolled my eyes. “Give me my suitcase back first.” Harper was dragging my luggage with one hand and holding an iced Americano with the other. The wind tossed her short, choppy hair. She wore a black leather moto jacket, over-ear headphones resting around her neck. She looked sharp, pale, and incredibly cool. From the back, she honestly looked like a handsome indie-rock boy. She was a cybersecurity prodigy. After I told her about my week, she only had one question: “What kind of narcissistic malware is this Julian guy?” I laughed so hard I almost choked on my coffee. I was in a rare good mood that day, so I posted a short vlog on my public TikTok. The video showed the exhibition entrance, the sunset, our coffees, and a shot of Harper’s back as she dragged my suitcase. The caption read: [Escaping campus for eight hours.] Half an hour later, a text from Julian popped up. [Why are you out of town alone with a guy?] I glanced at it and immediately swiped it away. He texted again: [The guy in the library was your oldest brother. The guy on Instagram was your second brother. Who the hell is this?] [Chloe, do you think I’m stupid?] I screenshotted it and sent it to Ethan. Ethan replied: [Received. Do not reply.] That night, the campus app absolutely exploded. A megathread was pinned to the top, marked with a blazing red “HOT” icon. [EVIDENCE DROPPED! Chloe Vance playing the field: The Golden Boy, the Library Stud, and the Travel Boy. She’s collecting them all.] The post compiled every single picture. The comments were a dumpster fire. [I always knew there was something off about her.] [Poor Julian.] [Impeach her from the Student Union. She shouldn’t represent us.] [Is this how she gets all those prime internships?] My phone buzzed non-stop. No one in the Student Union group chat dared to ask directly, but my private DMs were flooded. The Dean of Students called me. She sounded much sterner than usual. “Chloe, have you seen the forums?” “I have.” “This is causing a major disruption. The administration is getting complaints from students.” I sat by the hotel window, watching the neon lights of the commercial district across the street. “Dean, I am officially requesting to use the Student Center Auditorium tomorrow at 3 PM for a public address.” The Dean paused. “A public address?” “Yes.” “I will clarify every single allegation, all at once.” Silence on the other end. “Are you sure about this?” I let out a slow breath. “I’m sure.” After hanging up, I opened the campus app. I didn’t argue in the comments. I just made one public post from my verified account: [Tomorrow. 3 PM. Student Center, Auditorium 3.] [Regarding the recent posts about me, I will be holding a public address.] [I invite anyone who believes I am ‘playing the field’ to attend in person.] Within a minute, the comments came flooding in. [Wow, she actually has the guts to hold a press conference?] [Can’t wait to see this trainwreck.] I looked at those words and smiled. Harper looked up from her laptop. “What’s funny?” “They’re really looking forward to it,” I said. “Perfect.” She slammed her laptop shut, a cold smirk playing on her lips. “Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget.”

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1 At 3:06 AM, my husband Connor Hayes called me. I had just answered when his voice pressed heavily through the receiver. “Grace, go downstairs and move the car.” I sat up, pulling the blanket around me. The line was dead quiet. Quiet like a sealed room. I didn’t say a word. He urged again, “Hurry up, the car is blocking the fire lane. The keys are on the entryway console.” I stared at the caller ID. Connor Hayes. My husband. It was definitely his voice. But in our three years of marriage, he rarely called me by my first name with such coldness. I felt a chill of suspicion. Was he drunk? “Where are you?” I asked. There was a two-second pause. “The office. Move the car first, don’t ask so many questions.” He hung up. I looked at the time. 3:08 AM. My palms were sweating, but in the next second, I dialed 911. The dispatcher’s voice was clear: “911, what is your emergency?” I swallowed hard. “I need to report a crime.” “My husband, Connor Hayes, might have murdered someone.” “The body might be hidden in the underground garage of The Pinnacle Luxury Apartments, in his black Range Rover, license plate A9Z-77.” The dispatcher clearly paused. “Ma’am, can you be more specific? Where is your husband now? Who is the victim?” I dug my nails into my palms. The pain kept me lucid. “I don’t know who the victim is.” “But he just called me at 3:00 AM, telling me to go down and move the car.” “I suspect there’s something inside it.” “Please send officers immediately.” The dispatcher didn’t waste time with pointless questions. “Please keep your phone on, stay in a safe location, and do not approach the vehicle.” I said okay. After hanging up, I stood by the entryway. The car keys were right there on the console table. Black leather strap, silver logo. I reached out to touch them, then immediately pulled my hand back. Don’t touch. The thought exploded in my brain. I threw on a coat, grabbed my phone, and deadbolted the front door. Five minutes later, the building’s HOA group chat blew up. [Why are there cop cars in the P2 garage?] [Did something happen to someone?] [Mrs. Hayes, is your husband’s car blocking the fire lane?] I didn’t reply. I stood by the elevator, listening to it tick its way up to my floor. Ding. The doors opened. Two uniformed officers and a man in a black leather jacket stepped out. The man had a sharp gaze. He asked immediately, “Grace Harper?” I nodded. “I’m Detective Marcus Quinn, Major Crimes Unit. You’re the one who called in the tip about your husband murdering someone and hiding the body?” “Yes.” Detective Quinn looked at me. “Lead the way.” We took the elevator down to P2. Connor’s car was parked in the furthest corner of Section A. The black exterior was polished to a shine. Standing by the hood was the property manager, his face as pale as a ghost. “Officers, we just checked the security footage. Mr. Hayes parked here at 11:00 PM and no one has touched it since.” Detective Quinn signaled the crime scene tech to pop the lock. I stood ten feet away. The moment the trunk popped open, my heart clenched. It was completely empty. There was only a folding umbrella, a car emergency kit, and Connor’s usual cashmere blanket. No blood. No body. Nothing suspicious whatsoever. The property manager breathed a huge sigh of relief and immediately looked at me. He looked at me like I was insane. Detective Quinn didn’t jump to conclusions. He had them open the doors, check the back seats, the crevices, the floor mats, and the spare tire well. Everything was clean. Unbelievably clean. A young officer frowned. “Detective, it smells like bleach in here.” The property manager immediately chimed in, “Mr. Hayes is a neat freak. The car gets fully detailed twice a week.” I wanted to laugh. Connor a neat freak? He’d come home, toss his jacket on the sofa, and kick his socks under the bed. I’d nagged him for three years and he never changed. Detailed twice a week? Bullshit. I was about to speak when a shrill woman’s voice echoed from the elevators. “Grace Harper!” My mother-in-law, Helen Hayes, stormed over in her sleepwear, followed by Connor’s younger brother, Blake Hayes, and Connor’s secretary, Morgan Davis. When Helen saw the cops, her face contorted. “What kind of crazy pill did you take in the middle of the night?” “Connor is a good, hardworking man, and you call the cops on him calling him a murderer?!” Blake caught her arm, his eyes dark and cold. “Grace, my brother puts up with a lot from you, but you can’t drag his name through the mud like this.” Morgan, wrapped in a white cardigan, had red-rimmed eyes. “Grace, I know Mr. Hayes has been busy lately and neglecting you.” “But dragging this to the police… it’s going to ruin him.” I looked at the three of them. What a perfect little reunion. Three in the morning. I had just hung up, the cops had just arrived, yet the mother-in-law, the brother-in-law, and the female secretary were all here without missing a beat. The string of tension in my chest pulled tighter. Detective Quinn asked, “Where is Connor Hayes?” Helen immediately answered, “He’s at the office, in a meeting.” Blake chimed in, “Yeah, Frostline Logistics has a rush order tonight. My brother is swamped.” Detective Quinn locked eyes with him. “If he’s at the office, why did he call his wife to come down and move his car?” Blake choked on his words. Morgan rushed to say, “Maybe the property manager was rushing him, and he couldn’t get away.” I laughed. “Mr. Manager, did you rush him?” The property manager broke out in a sweat. “No! I was asleep. I only got the call from security when the cruisers showed up.” The air instantly froze. Helen glared at him fiercely. “What does a building manager know? What if other residents complained?” Quinn ignored her and pulled out his phone. “Call Connor Hayes.” Blake dialed the number on the spot. It rang twice and connected. Connor’s face appeared on the screen. He was sitting in his office. White button-down, black tie, his expression cool and detached. “Mom, what’s going on?” Helen burst into tears. “Connor! Grace called the cops saying you killed someone! Hurry up and explain it to them!” The Connor on the video frowned at the camera. “Grace, what are you doing this time?” The blood drained all the way to my feet. The face. The voice. It was all exactly right. But I felt sick to my stomach. 2 Detective Quinn took the phone. “Connor Hayes?” The man in the video nodded. “Yes.” “Where are you right now?” “Frostline Logistics headquarters.” “Did you just call Grace Harper and tell her to move your car?” “Yes.” He answered too fast. Too fast, like he was reciting a script. Quinn pressed, “Your car is parked in the P2 level of your apartment building, you’re at headquarters, how did you know your car was in the way?” The Connor on screen paused for a fraction of a second. “Property management called me.” Quinn turned to look at the manager. The manager waved his hands frantically. “I didn’t call! I swear I didn’t!” Helen panicked. “Officer, don’t let Grace twist this! Married couples fight all the time, what household doesn’t have drama? She just wants to humiliate Connor!” Morgan looked at me with teary eyes. “Grace, Mr. Hayes is under a lot of pressure right now.” “If you really care about him, please stop pushing him to the edge.” I took a step forward, staring at the man on the screen. “Connor.” He looked at me. His eyes were incredibly blank. I said, “Take your phone to the window.” He frowned. “Grace, what more do you want?” “Take it to the window.” My voice was very soft. “Let me see the sky outside the office.” The video feed went dead quiet. Two seconds. Three seconds. The image suddenly froze. Immediately after, the call disconnected. Blake cursed out loud, “Are you seriously trying to make a conspiracy out of bad reception? Grace, if you’re sick in the head, go to a hospital!” Quinn looked up. “Say one more word, I dare you.” Blake shut his mouth. I looked at the black screen, my heart sinking deeper into the abyss. Frostline Logistics headquarters was on the fifteenth floor, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and flawless cell reception. Every time Connor video-called me from the office, the connection was so clear I could see the bubbles popping in his coffee. The background in that video just now was too steady. As steady as a printed backdrop taped to the wall behind him. Detective Quinn ordered the techs to keep processing the car. K-9 units arrived. They sniffed every inch of the trunk, the back seats, and the garage drainage grates. Nothing. The techs sprayed Luminol. The lights were cut. The underground garage plunged into darkness. I held my breath. No blue glow. No blood traces. Absolutely nothing. Helen sneered. “See that?” “Officer, can you arrest her now?” “Framing her own husband for murder at 3 AM. I’m terrified to even have a woman like this in our family.” Morgan whispered, “Mrs. Hayes, maybe Grace just loves Mr. Hayes too much.” That sentence was dirtier than a rusty knife. I looked up at her. “Morgan Davis, is your relationship with my husband so close that you accompany my mother-in-law to a parking garage at 3 AM?” Her face paled. “Grace, you’re misunderstanding. I’m Mr. Hayes’s secretary. If something happens to the company, of course I have to be here.” “The company?” I caught her slip-up. “My 911 call was about The Pinnacle Apartments. Who told you something happened to the company?” Morgan’s lips trembled. Blake immediately stepped in front of her. “You’re going to bite her head off over a slip of the tongue? Your mouth is pure poison.” I didn’t bother acknowledging him. I looked at Detective Quinn. “If he’s not in the garage, we go to Frostline Logistics.” Quinn didn’t agree immediately. “Reason?” I said, “First, the background in Connor’s video was fake.” “Second, he mentioned the manager rushing him, which was a lie.” “Third, right before the video cut out, there was an alarm—three short beeps, one long beep.” Quinn’s eyes shifted. “What alarm?” I turned to look at Blake. His jaw was clenched tight. I enunciated every word clearly. “The temperature control alarm for Warehouse 7 at Frostline Logistics.” Helen screamed on the spot, “You’re lying!” Blake panicked. “Warehouse 7 is undergoing maintenance right now! A couple of beeps don’t mean anything!” “I said three short, one long.” I stared him down. “A maintenance alarm is one continuous drone. You only get three short and one long when the internal temperature drops abnormally.” “Blake, you haven’t even memorized the safety protocols of your brother’s company, and you dare lie for him?” The veins on Blake’s neck twitched. Morgan gripped the hem of her cardigan. Quinn took it all in. He turned and gave the order. “Units, roll out to Frostline Logistics HQ.” Helen lunged forward to block him. “You can’t go! Do you have a warrant?! That place is full of client inventory. If you force the doors and ruin the temperature, who’s going to pay the damages?!” I raised a hand and pointed at myself. “I will.” Helen froze. I pulled up the corporate registry and authorization documents on my phone. “I own thirty-five percent of Frostline Logistics.” “Connor granted me the highest level of emergency executive authority years ago.” “Detective, whatever damages we incur opening those doors tonight, I’ll sign for it.” The way Helen looked at me suddenly changed. It was full of hate. Full of panic. And a deep, hidden, venomous resentment. My heart felt like lead. Connor. Where are you? 3 When the police cruisers pulled up to Frostline Logistics, the guard booth was still lit. Stan, the night guard, turned ghostly pale when he saw us. “Mrs. Harper? This late…” I cut to the chase. “Is Connor inside?” Stan’s eyes darted around. “I… I think he’s in his office.” Quinn asked, “You think?” Stan stammered, “I didn’t go up to check.” I walked over to the security terminal and pulled up the backend logs. Connor’s keycard logged into HQ at 9:48 PM. There was no exit record. Blake’s keycard logged in at 10:03 PM. Morgan’s keycard logged in at 10:26 PM. Helen didn’t have a keycard. But the outer gate logs showed her car pulling into the complex at 1:47 AM. I handed the logs to Quinn. “They were all here.” Blake’s face turned grim. “Is it a crime for me to work late? Morgan is his secretary, and my mom was worried about Connor, so she came to bring him soup.” I looked at Helen. “Where’s the soup?” She choked. “I threw it away after he finished it.” I let out a cold laugh. “Connor has a bad stomach. He never drinks heavy broth at night. For his own mother, your memory is terrible.” Helen’s eyes instantly welled up. “You’ve hated me for a long time, haven’t you?” “Ever since Connor married you, he never comes home.” “When Blake was sick and needed to borrow money, you guys made every excuse not to help.” “Grace, you carry the Hayes name, but your heart is made of stone!” The moment she started crying, the night shift workers poked their heads out to look. Morgan took the opportunity to shed tears. “Grace, Mr. Hayes already agreed to sit down and talk about the divorce.” “He wanted to give you the house and a cash settlement.” “Why do you have to drag things out this far?” I turned to look at her. “Divorce?” Morgan bit her lip. “Mr. Hayes is soft-hearted. He didn’t want to humiliate you in public.” Blake immediately pulled out a document folder. “This is the draft of the divorce agreement. Grace, just take the money and walk away. It’s better for everyone.” He slapped the document down in front of me. I skimmed it. Asset division. I take $500,000. Forfeit my 35% stake in Frostline. Waive all rights to marital assets. The signature date was left blank. I picked up the agreement and slowly tore it in half. “Blake, do you know which stroke your brother is most afraid of messing up when he signs his name?” He blanked for a second. I slammed the shredded paper against his chest. “Before you forge his signature, you should know that the last stroke of his name always flicks upwards.” “The signature on this agreement is as flat as a dead man’s EKG.” Quinn immediately confiscated the shredded paper. “Bag it for evidence.” The tears on Morgan’s face froze. I kept going. “And you.” “You said Connor was discussing divorce with me.” “Last month, he listed me as the second-in-command proxy for Frostline Logistics.” “Two days ago, he had our lawyers draft an ironclad post-nuptial asset confirmation.” “Before you try to play the tragic mistress, at least check the corporate filings.” Morgan’s lips turned white. “Mr. Hayes and I are strictly professional!” “Professional enough to escort his mother and brother to intercept the cops at 3 AM?” I said coldly, “Morgan, don’t treat me like an idiot.” Quinn had already sent a tech to pull the interior surveillance footage. Soon, the tech came out, frowning. “Detective, the exterior cameras for Warehouse 7 are offline from 10:30 PM to 2:40 AM.” “Reason?” “The system logs show a scheduled maintenance.” I looked at Blake. “You just said Warehouse 7 was undergoing maintenance.” Quinn took the handoff. “Who authorized it?” The tech checked the backend. “Authorized by Morgan Davis.” Morgan’s head snapped up. “I was just following Mr. Hayes’s orders!” “Where’s the proof?” She looked at Blake in sheer panic. Blake looked awful. “My brother gave a verbal order.” Quinn scoffed. “Verbal again.” He waved his hand. “Move to Warehouse 7.” Warehouse 7 was in the rear building of the HQ lot. The whole way there, Helen kept cursing me. “A curse on our family!” “Connor’s had nothing but bad luck since he married you!” “Are you not going to be satisfied until you’ve destroyed this family?” I didn’t look back. There was only one voice in my head. Connor, hold on. If they trapped you, I’ll smash the doors down. If you’re hurt, I’ll put every last one of them behind bars. If you’re… I cut off the thought. I couldn’t go there. When we reached the doors of Warehouse 7, the alarm strobe was dead. Three brand-new padlocks hung on the outer latch. White fog seeped through the door seam. Stan whispered, “Warehouse 7 isn’t usually padlocked.” Quinn heard him. Blake immediately yelled at him, “Shut up! You’re a security guard, what do you know?!” Stan shrank back in fear. I walked up to the door. The three locks were shiny, with remnants of price tag adhesive still stuck to them. I reached out and touched the edge of the door. It was wet. And it carried the faint scent of bleach. I looked up at Detective Quinn. “Open it.” Blake rushed forward. “Grace! There’s millions of dollars of imported medical supplies in there! If the temperature shifts, are you going to pay for it with your life?!” I stared him down. “I’ll pay for it with my life.” “Step aside.” 4 Quinn didn’t hesitate anymore. “Cut the locks.” An officer brought up a pair of bolt cutters. Snap. The first lock fell. Helen rushed up crying, but a female officer held her back. “You can’t do this to our family!” “Connor is going to hate you for this when he gets back!” When I heard the words “gets back,” my throat felt like it was lined with needles. I truly wanted Connor to come back. Even if he came back and called me crazy. Even if he blamed me for ruining the company. As long as he was standing in front of me. Anything would be fine. The second lock hit the ground. The third lock snapped. The heavy insulated door was slowly pulled open. A blast of freezing air rolled out. The shelves inside Warehouse 7 were perfectly organized. On the surface, it was just rows of white cold-storage pallets. Morgan instantly let out a breath of relief. Wiping away fake tears, she said, “Grace, look, there’s nothing in here.” “Are you done throwing this tantrum?” I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the very last row of pallets. They were stacked way too tight. Frostline had strict protocols: cargo must be kept twelve inches from the walls for air circulation. Connor wrote that rule himself. He used to say, Inventory can spoil, but people can’t get lazy. But that last row of boxes was pushed flush against the back wall. I pointed at it. “Move those.” Blake’s face dropped. “How long are you going to keep doing this?!” Quinn gave him a look. “Do what she says.” A forklift driver was called in. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly crashed into the rack on the first try. I said, “I’ll guide you.” One pallet. Two pallets. Three pallets. Behind the rack, a section of gray waterproof tarp was exposed. Underneath the tarp was a long, bulging silhouette. Warehouse 7 fell dead silent. The blood drained from Morgan’s face completely. Helen suddenly threw herself toward the doors, screaming, “Don’t touch that! It’s client inventory!” Quinn pushed her back. “Pull the tarp.” An officer snapped on latex gloves and lifted the canvas. A heavy, black body bag was revealed. The zipper was frosted shut. Dark red, frozen runoff had seeped into the floor underneath it. My ears started ringing. Blake turned to run. I was faster than the cops. I sprinted over and kicked him hard in the back of the knees. He crashed to the ground with a thud, his nose smashing into the concrete, drawing blood. “Grace, you crazy bitch, you hit me!” I bent down, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and shoved his face toward the black bag. “Why are you running?” “Didn’t you just say it was client inventory?” “Open your eyes and look at what kind of inventory you hid in here!” Blake thrashed like a dying fish. Quinn barked, “Restrain him!” Two officers rushed up and pinned him down. Helen collapsed onto the floor, mumbling over and over, “It’s over… it’s all over…” Morgan was shaking so hard she couldn’t stand, but she was still trying to act. “I didn’t know… I swear I didn’t know there was something back here…” I walked up to her. She instinctively backed away. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. Smack! The sound echoed sharp and clear through the freezing warehouse. Morgan clutched her cheek, tears spilling instantly. “You hit me?” I stared at her, my voice trembling but my words absolute. “You just asked me if I was done throwing a tantrum.” “Now it’s my turn to ask you.” “Stepping on a dead man’s body to get a promotion… was it worth it?” Quinn’s voice boomed. “Blake Hayes, Morgan Davis, Helen Hayes. Cuff them all!” The metallic clack of handcuffs rang out. I pointed at the black body bag in the depths of the freezer, looking at their pale faces. “Whoever wants to call me crazy again can get on their knees in front of that bag and say it.”

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“A family of five. Four of them were tenured Ivy League academics. I was the sole exception. The year I bombed my SATs and college applications, my mother announced in front of the entire country club, “”I have no son.”” Then she practically adopted the neighbor’s valedictorian daughter and cleared out my bedroom. Ten years later, in the hallway of State Memorial Hospital. She stared at the badge on my chest, chasing me up eight flights of stairs. I didn’t even turn my head. “”Appointments must go through the proper channels. My specialist clinic is on Tuesday mornings. You need to book three days in advance through the patient portal.”” Care to guess if she ever got that appointment? Chapter 1 State Memorial Hospital, Neurosurgery Department. Tuesday morning. I had just finished a craniotomy. Four and a half hours. My lower back was killing me. As I stripped off my scrubs and headed toward my office, all I could think about was whether the cafeteria still had any meatloaf left. The hallway was bustling. I kept my head down, scrolling through my phone to see how many consultations I had lined up for the afternoon. Forty-seven. I sighed. Then, a voice exploded behind me. “”L-Luke?”” My footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. That voice. It had been ten years, but I could recognize it in my nightmares. But I didn’t look back. I kept walking. Urgent footsteps echoed behind me, high heels clicking frantically against the linoleum. Clack, clack, clack. “”Luke Harrison! You stop right there!”” I sped up. Not because I was afraid of her. It was because I still had a chart tucked under my arm, and I needed to brief the family in Bed 34 on post-op care. I was busy. Truly. “”Luke! Is that you? Turn around and look at your mother!”” I ducked into the elevator lobby and hit the button for the eighth floor. Right as the doors slid shut, I caught a glimpse of a figure lunging forward, her hand slapping against the metal, just a second too late. Getting to the eighth floor, I thought that was the end of it. Three minutes later, the stairwell door banged open. Margaret Harrison. Fifty-eight years old, retired tenured professor, state-awarded educator of the year, wearing a navy cashmere coat, clutching her knees and gasping so hard she looked like she might pass out. She had climbed eight flights of stairs. I was standing by the nurses’ station signing off on orders. I saw her in my peripheral vision, but my pen didn’t stop. “”Luke… Luke Harrison…”” She was panting too hard to form a complete sentence. I handed the chart to Nurse Chloe and turned around. “”Hello.”” My tone was calm, polite, and standard—the exact same tone I used for every walk-in patient. “”Do you have an appointment?”” Margaret froze. She stared blankly at the badge clipped to my chest. Luke Harrison, M.D., FACS. Chief of Neurosurgery. And right below it, a smaller line: Board-Certified Specialist. Her lips trembled. I checked my watch. “”If you are here for a consultation, my specialist clinic is on Tuesday mornings, and you need to book three days in advance through the hospital portal. My slots for this week are fully booked; I suggest you try for next week.”” “”If this is an emergency, the ER is on the first floor, take a left. They are open 24/7.”” With that, I turned and walked away. A heavy thud echoed behind me. Nurse Chloe rushed over. “”Ma’am? Ma’am, are you alright? Here, sit down, let me check your blood pressure—”” I didn’t look back. It wasn’t cold-bloodedness. I was just really short on time. Bed 34’s family was waiting for me. And to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t had any relationship with this woman for ten years. Legally speaking, anyway. Dr. Ryan Adams, my resident, poked his head out of the office. “”Chief, who was that? Chased you up eight floors. An ex-girlfriend?”” I shot him a look. “”Have you ever seen a fifty-eight-year-old ex-girlfriend?”” Ryan scratched his head. “”Then who…”” “”A patient trying to bypass the waitlist,”” I said. “”Pour me a cup of coffee, please.”” Ryan let out an “”Oh”” and obediently went to the coffee maker. I closed my office door and sat down in my chair. I stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment. Then I picked up the phone and dialed the number for Bed 34’s family. “”Hello, this is Dr. Harrison…”” My voice was steady. My hands were steady. Everything was steady. It was fine. Chapter 2 Speaking of why I was so strictly business with this woman, the story goes back a decade. The Harrisons were practically royalty in the state’s education circles. My dad, Richard Harrison, was the principal of a prestigious prep school and a math genius whose math-lete students could fill a stadium. My mom, Margaret, was the AP English department head. Every year, students wrote tear-jerking valedictorian speeches calling her their guiding light. My sister, Eleanor, three years older than me, was the quintessential “”golden child.”” Yale undergrad, Master’s, Ph.D., and by thirty-five, an associate professor at a top-tier university, already on track for tenure. My uncle, Robert, was the Deputy Superintendent of the school district. Every holiday gathering, there was only one topic at the dinner table: Academia. Whose kid got into Harvard, who coached this year’s National Merit Scholar, which new curriculum got approved. And me? Luke Harrison. I was the anomaly in this family from day one. It wasn’t that I wasn’t smart. I just couldn’t muster any interest in the rigid metrics they took so much pride in. When I wrote creative essays, my teachers said I went off-topic. When I solved math equations using unconventional logic, they called it “”improper format.”” I used to pick ‘C’ for every multiple-choice question on my history finals just because I liked the symmetry. By the time I hit high school, my sister had already won a national writing competition and a state science fair. Me? I barely scraped into a mediocre public high school. My dad came home that day and didn’t say a single word. My mom slammed my bedroom door that night, and the next day enrolled me in three different SAT prep boot camps. For three years of high school, I bounced between tutors. No weekends, no summer breaks. My mom’s catchphrase was, “”Look at your sister, and then look at yourself.”” “”You are a disgrace to the Harrison name.”” “”Are you doing this just to spite me?”” I wasn’t spiting her. I just… wasn’t built for the assembly line they worshipped. But I couldn’t say that out loud. And even if I did, no one would listen. The year of college applications, I bombed. I barely qualified for a third-tier state college. In the Harrison household, “”state college”” had the destructive power of a nuclear bomb. My dad sat in the living room, chain-smoking. My mom threw dishes in the kitchen. My sister called home and carefully suggested, “”Maybe Luke could take a gap year and re-apply?”” My mom screamed back, “”A gap year? So he can embarrass us for another twelve months?”” That night, my mom made a decision. I would re-do my senior year at a charter school. She declared it. She didn’t ask if I wanted to. So I repeated the year. And that year, I studied like my life depended on it. Not to prove anything to them. But because I never wanted to see my mother’s eyes look at me like that again. That look—like she was staring at a piece of garbage. And the result? I did well. Scored high enough to get into a solid, respected public university. You’d think they’d see that as a massive improvement, right? But by the Harrison standard, it was merely a passing grade. My mom held my acceptance letter, her face totally blank. “”What’s your major?”” I said, “”Pre-med. I want to be a doctor.”” She looked up, finally showing an expression. Mockery. “”With your grades? What kind of doctor? A vet?”” That summer, the neighbor’s daughter, Sarah Jenkins, got accepted into Harvard. The whole neighborhood knew. My mom went over with a massive gift basket. When she came back, the way she looked at me was even darker. A month later, she called me into the living room. Sarah and her mother were sitting on the couch. “”From today on,”” my mom announced, “”Sarah is my daughter.”” I thought it was a sick joke. Then I saw Sarah gripping a shiny new key in her hand. The key to my bedroom. “”Your father moved your things to the basement,”” my mom said, not even looking at me. “”Sarah will stay in that room when she comes back for breaks. It faces south, gets good light. Perfect for studying.”” I stood there. I actually felt like laughing. Really. It was hilarious. Chapter 3 September rolled around. Time for me to head off to college. Even though it was just a regular state university’s pre-med track, it was a way out. The night before I left, my mom didn’t yell at me for once. She sat across the dining table, her expression unnervingly calm. “”Luke, I paid your tuition. I’ll transfer a living allowance to you every month.”” I nodded. “”But there is a condition.”” I looked up at her. “”From now on, do not tell anyone you are a Harrison.”” The dining room went dead silent for three seconds. My dad sat next to her, his fork hovering mid-air. He said nothing. “”Your sister is up for tenure next year, and your uncle is at a critical point for his promotion,”” my mom said flatly. “”Your… situation. It wouldn’t look good if word got around.”” I put down my fork. “”Fine.”” Just one word. My mom seemed to let out a breath of relief. The next morning, I walked out with my suitcase. No one saw me off. My dad had left early for a faculty meeting. My mom was on the balcony watering her plants. Sarah Jenkins happened to be walking in, laughing and chatting with my mom. Seeing me with my bags, she paused. “”Luke… you’re heading out?”” My mom chimed in from behind her, “”He’s going to school. Come on in, sweetie.”” Her tone was like she was shooing away a stray dog. As I dragged my suitcase out of the neighborhood gates, I bumped into our neighbor, Mr. Henderson. “”Hey, Luke! Heading to college? Where’re you off to?”” Before I could open my mouth. My mom’s voice rang out. She had somehow followed me down to the courtyard. “”Don’t even bring it up, Bob,”” her voice was loud enough for half the block to hear. “”He’s useless. I don’t have a son like that. As far as I’m concerned, I never had him.”” Mr. Henderson offered an awkward smile and shut his mouth. My hand gripped the handle of my suitcase so tight my knuckles turned white. Then, I let go. I smiled at the neighbor. “”See you around, Mr. Henderson.”” I turned and walked toward the bus stop. Behind me, my mom was still talking: “”Now our Sarah, she’s the real pride and joy! Harvard! Ten thousand times better than my own flesh and blood…”” The weather that day was beautiful. The early September sun was warm. The bus arrived. I got on and found a window seat. As the bus pulled away, the neighborhood I had lived in for eighteen years shrank in the distance. I didn’t cry. Crying didn’t solve anything. From that day on, I never went back to that house. And I never received a single cent of that promised monthly allowance. Not one deposit. I never asked about it either. What was the point? Freshman year, I worked in the campus dining hall for minimum wage. Sophomore year, I started tutoring high school kids for twenty bucks an hour. Junior year, I discovered I had an almost freakish talent for neuroanatomy. Those complex neural pathways, the intricate vascular maps—things other med students spent months memorizing, I could build into a 3D model in my head after one glance. My professor told me I was the most naturally gifted student he’d seen in twenty years. I said, Thank you, Professor. In my head, I thought: If you said that to my mother, she’d laugh in your face. Senior year, I got into the university’s medical school. My mentor was the Chief of Neurosurgery at the state hospital. By my second year of residency, I scrubbed in for my first major surgery. When I made that first incision, my hands were steadier than any veteran’s. My attending watched me and chuckled. “”Luke, your hands don’t look like they belong to a med student.”” “”What do they look like?”” “”Like you were born holding a scalpel.”” I thought of my mother’s words—With your grades? What kind of doctor? A vet? I almost smiled. After completing my fellowship, I stayed on at State Memorial. At thirty, I was made an attending. Exceptionally fast. At thirty-two, Chief of Neurosurgery. At thirty-three, I secured a massive NIH grant. At thirty-four—this year—my name was the lead author on a groundbreaking paper in The Lancet. For ten years, I never reached out to anyone in my family. And they never reached out to me. To be accurate, I don’t know if they ever tried. Because I changed my phone number my freshman year. Then I moved to a different city for med school, another city for my fellowship, and when I finally returned to this city, I bought an apartment on the exact opposite side of town. I thought that was it for the rest of my life. We’d stay out of each other’s way. Until today. Margaret Harrison chased me up eight flights of stairs. Now you know why I told her to book an appointment through the portal. It wasn’t revenge. There just wasn’t anything left to say. Ten years. The only relationship left between me and this woman was that she might be my patient. If she needed medical care, I was a doctor, and I would treat her. Nothing more. Chapter 4 Afternoon clinic wrapped up around 6 PM. I was in my office updating patient logs when Ryan knocked and came in. “”Chief, there’s a situation…”” He looked deeply uncomfortable. “”Spit it out.”” “”That older woman from this morning… the one who chased you…”” I looked up at him. “”She came back this afternoon. Sat in the lobby for hours. The triage nurse asked her what department she needed, and she said she wasn’t here to see a doctor. She was just waiting for someone.”” I looked back down and continued typing. “”That has nothing to do with me.”” “”She was crying,”” Ryan said quietly. “”Just sitting on the bench crying. A bunch of the nurses saw.”” My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second. Then I kept typing. “”The lobby is a public area. As long as she’s not disturbing the peace, security won’t kick her out.”” Ryan stood in the doorway, hesitating, but eventually couldn’t hold back. “”Chief, who is she to you?”” I closed my laptop and slid it into my briefcase. “”Former family.”” “”Former?”” “”Now, she’s a stranger.”” I grabbed my coat and turned off the desk lamp. “”Let’s go. We have two craniotomies tomorrow.”” As I walked to the parking garage, I spotted a figure standing near the main entrance in the distance. A navy cashmere coat. Her hair was much grayer, and she looked much older than I remembered. She was looking at her phone, swiping through something. I bypassed the main entrance and left through the side door. As I drove out of the hospital gates, I glanced in my rearview mirror. She was still standing there. It was getting dark. I pressed the gas pedal and merged into the rush-hour traffic. When I got to my penthouse, I heated up a meal prep container and popped open a beer. I turned on the TV for background noise. My phone buzzed. A text from Nurse Chloe. Dr. Harrison, the lady left. She asked me to pass on a message to you. I opened the thread. She said she wasn’t here for a doctor’s appointment. She was here to see you. I stared at the screen for ten seconds. Then I placed the phone face down on the kitchen island. I took a sip of beer. It was cold. See me? See what? See how the failure you threw out is doing? See if you have the right to reinstate me back into the “”Harrison Family Roster””? Or maybe— Forget it. I have a 7 AM surgery tomorrow. Time for sleep. Chapter 5 The next day, business as usual. Arrive at 7, scrub in, enter the OR. Today’s surgery was a brainstem tumor. The location was incredibly tricky. The whole department had been sweating over the pre-op board review. But this was my specialty. Four hours. A flawless resection. When I briefed the family post-op, they nearly dropped to their knees in gratitude. I caught them, gave them the standard post-op warnings, and had Ryan walk them through the paperwork. On the way back to the office, Ryan trailed behind me, looking like he wanted to say something. “”Talk.”” “”That lady… she’s back.”” I didn’t break my stride. “”Did she make an appointment?”” “”No. She says she’s not here as a patient. She’s just waiting in the lobby. This time she brought a thermos.”” A thermos. My jaw twitched. “”She brought someone with her too,”” Ryan added. “”Who?”” “”Some guy in his late forties or fifties. Balding.”” Balding. Fifties. Richard Harrison was sixty-one. Didn’t fit. My uncle, Robert, was fifty-six. Could be him. “”The guy was pacing the lobby on his phone, talking pretty loud, asking about someone…”” I walked into my office and shut the door. Whatever. I sat down to type up my surgical notes. Two lines in, my desk phone rang. An unfamiliar number. I usually don’t answer external calls on my direct line, but the caller ID showed the city’s Board of Education. I stared at it for three seconds, then hung up. Two minutes later, it rang again. Hung up. The third time, I picked it up. “”Hello?”” “”Luke?”” A deep male voice. I stayed silent. “”It’s your Uncle Robert.”” I leaned back in my chair. “”Can I help you?”” Silence on the other end for a few seconds. “”Your mother has been looking for you. Did you know?”” “”I know.”” “”Then why…”” “”Robert,”” I cut him off. “”I am on the clock right now. If it’s a personal matter, call me after hours. If it’s a medical issue, book an appointment through the proper channels.”” The line was quiet. “”Luke, your mother… she’s not well.”” “”What’s the issue?”” “”Your dad says… there’s a mass in her brain.”” My fingers tapped against the mahogany desk. Twice. “”Do you have the scans? Which hospital?”” “”City General. They did the imaging. Said they need to transfer her to a more specialized facility.”” “”Tell them to initiate a standard transfer request. My department can take her.”” “”Couldn’t you just…”” “”Robert.”” My voice was entirely devoid of emotion. “”If she is my patient, I will treat her with the exact same dedication I give to every other patient. No more, no less. That is my professional oath.”” “”But if she’s not here for a doctor, and she’s just here to ‘see me,’ then with all due respect—there is no need.”” A heavy sigh crackled through the receiver. “”Luke, your mother has regretted things for years…”” “”I have surgical notes to file. Goodbye.”” I hung up the phone. I sat there, looking at the city skyline through my window. Regret. Ten years later, now there’s regret. Why? Because there’s a tumor in her brain, and she suddenly realizes the garbage son she threw away happens to be the best neurosurgeon in the state? I let out a dry laugh. I picked up my pen and went back to my notes. My handwriting was steady. Always steady. Chapter 6 Day three. Day four. Day five. Margaret came every single day. Every day, she sat in the first-floor lobby. Sometimes with a thermos, sometimes just sitting there. I always used the side entrance. I never walked through the lobby. But the updates kept trickling in. “”Chief, that lady is back.”” “”Chief, she looks like she’s lost weight.”” “”Chief, she was talking to the security guard today, bragging that her son is a doctor here…”” By day six, the head nurse came to find me. “”Dr. Harrison, I don’t know if I should say this.”” “”Go ahead.”” “”That lady passed out in the lobby today. We took her vitals. Her systolic pressure was 190. We asked about her history, and she admitted she’s been having blinding headaches recently.”” I stopped what I was doing. “”Did the ER evaluate her?”” “”Yes, they got her pressure down and recommended admission for observation. She refused. Said she was fine.”” The head nurse looked at me sympathetically. “”Dr. Harrison, I know it’s not my place to pry into your personal life, but her condition… it doesn’t look good.”” I fell silent. “”Where are her scans? The ones from City General.”” “”She has them with her. She’s been clutching the envelope.”” “”Tell Ryan to go get the scans from her. Bring them to me.”” Twenty minutes later, Ryan hurried in with the films. I snapped the CT scan onto the light box. I looked at it for three seconds. My fingertips went slightly cold. Right temporal lobe. A space-occupying lesion, roughly 3.2 centimeters. Irregular borders. Significant surrounding edema. Given the location and morphology— It was almost certainly a glioma. And judging by the imaging characteristics, it wasn’t a low grade. I pulled the film down and tossed it onto the desk. I stared at that dark mass for a long time. Then I picked up the phone. “”Ryan, bring the patient to my office.”” “”Uh… she’s in the lobby, Chief. Bring her straight up?”” “”Yes.”” Five minutes later, a knock on the door. “”Come in.”” The door opened. Margaret stood in the doorway. She looked infinitely worse than she had six days ago in the stairwell. Her skin was sallow, dark circles hung heavy under her eyes, and she was swimming in that cashmere coat. But the moment she saw me, her eyes lit up. It was a kind of desperate light that made me deeply uncomfortable. “”Sit,”” I pointed to the chair across from my desk. She walked over and sat down, her hands shaking as she clutched the empty envelope. “”Luke… is it… is Mom’s…”” “”Let me lay out the facts first,”” I interrupted her. She clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes were already red. “”First, based on the imaging, you have a space-occupying lesion in your right temporal lobe. Preliminary diagnosis is a glioma. We need a contrast MRI and a biopsy to confirm the grading.”” The color completely drained from her face at the word “”glioma.”” “”Second, while the location is complicated, it is operable. I have performed resections in similar areas, and my success rate is the highest in this department.”” She stared at me, unblinking. “”Third.”” I met her eyes. “”As a physician, I will treat you as my patient and do absolutely everything in my power to cure you. That is my job.”” “”But—”” I paused. “”That is all it is.”” Tears spilled over her eyelashes. “”Luke…”” “”You need to be admitted immediately,”” I said, grabbing my pen and filling out an admission slip. “”Ryan will take you to intake. We’ll schedule the contrast MRI for tomorrow morning.”” “”Luke, Mom knows she was wrong.”” My pen didn’t stop moving. “”Is Bed 28 or 32 open?”” I asked over the intercom. “”Bed 32 is clear, Chief.”” “”Good. Put her in 32.”” I ripped the slip off the pad and slid it across the desk. I didn’t look up once. “”Ryan will walk you down.”” “”Luke!”” She stood up and reached across the desk, trying to grab my hand. I stood up and pulled my chair back half a step. “”Mrs. Harrison,”” I said, cold as ice. “”Please comply with the admission protocols.”” Mrs. Harrison. Not Mom. Her hand froze in mid-air. Tears fell, splashing onto the mahogany desk. I walked around the desk to the door. I pulled it open. “”Ryan, get in here.”” Then I walked out without looking back. Behind me, a muffled, agonizing sob broke out. I stepped into the adjacent breakroom and shut the door. I leaned back against the wall. Closed my eyes. That shadow on the CT scan burned behind my eyelids. 3.2 centimeters. Irregular borders. Significant edema. If it was Grade 3 or higher… I took a deep breath. I couldn’t think about that. She was my patient. Just my patient. And I was her doctor. Just her doctor. That was it.”

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1 My husband, Bennett, was a man ruled by cold, unrelenting logic. Whenever I bought him a gift, he would analyze its design, calculate its market value, debate its utility, and ultimately conclude that I had overpaid and made a foolish purchase. When I was criticized at work and came home upset, he never offered a single word of comfort. Instead, he would look at me and say, “Clearly, you made a mistake. If you had done your job perfectly, why would your supervisor criticize you?” So, when I recently found out I was pregnant and struggled with severe morning sickness, I leaned against him and whispered, “This is too hard, Bennett. I don’t think I can do this.” He looked at me, his eyes entirely serious, and said, “If you find it so miserable, get an abortion. You don’t have to carry it.” I froze. Eventually, I took his advice and terminated the pregnancy. But when we returned from the clinic, he fell to his knees in front of me, weeping, promising he would never let his logic get the better of him again. The day I returned from my initial prenatal checkup, my lower back was throbbing. I walked into the house, supporting myself with one hand, stepping with agonizing care. Bennett was sitting on the couch, his eyes glued to his phone. He did not say a word, nor did he look up. A surge of resentment flared in my chest. Since I had discovered the pregnancy, I had gone to every single hospital appointment alone. I watched other expectant mothers accompanied by attentive partners, while Bennett never once offered to join me. He had not even brought it up. Even now, after a long day at the clinic, he did not care to ask how the baby was doing. I had tolerated his neglect in the past, telling myself that his work was stressful, but this time, the silence was too heavy to bear. “Bennett, the baby in my womb is yours,” I said, my voice trembling. “Can’t you show a little fatherly responsibility?” He set his phone down, turning his head to look at me with that familiar, analytical stare. “What exactly do you want me to do?” It was always this question. Every time I expressed frustration, he would calmly ask what I wanted him to do, as though he were incapable of human empathy unless provided with an explicit checklist. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. “You see how much I’ve been struggling since the pregnancy began. I can’t sleep at night, I’m constantly running to the bathroom, and I’m taking multiple medications just to keep my thyroid levels and blood sugar stable. You…” “It is indeed a difficult process,” he interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. “But you have a logical alternative. You can terminate the pregnancy. You can choose not to have it.” I stood frozen, my ears ringing. An abortion? I had only been venting, seeking a gentle word or a warm embrace to soothe the erratic emotions brought on by pregnancy hormones. Instead, he had offered to end our child’s life. I knew he was a man who took everything literally, analyzing every statement as a sterile problem to be solved without ever considering the human heart behind it. But was I just another problem to him? Was our unborn child merely a variable to be eliminated? My heart throbbed with a sharp, physical pain. “Are you joking with me?” I whispered. “Of course not,” he replied, his voice flat and even. “I am looking at the root of your physical distress. To resolve the issue permanently, abortion is the only logical solution.” The pain in my chest deepened. “So, you are suggesting this for my sake? You are looking at this from my perspective?” I stared at him, desperately hoping for a nod, a sign that some part of his advice was born of love. If he said yes, I could forgive him, just as I had forgiven his coldness a thousand times before. But he shook his head. “No. It is not about your feelings. I am simply analyzing the facts.” A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I tilted my head back, forcing the tears to stay inside my eyes. “Right. I understand.” “Good,” Bennett murmured, picking his phone back up and returning his attention to the screen. I looked at him, the man I had loved for years, the man I had chosen to build a life with, and felt a block of ice settle over my heart. He was just solving a problem. He was treating me like a client seeking professional consultation, rather than his wife. When we first started dating, I had found his hyper-rationality almost charming, mistaking it for intellect and honesty. Now, I realized that even after marriage and pregnancy, I was still a stranger to him. I dragged my exhausted body into the bedroom and shut the door. Pulling out my phone, I dialed my OB-GYN. “Dr. Barrett, I’d like to schedule a termination.” “Are you out of your mind?” Dr. Barrett’s voice rose in disbelief. “Your scan from this morning showed a perfectly healthy fetus. Aside from the physical toll this will take on you, what about your husband?” “The termination was my husband’s idea,” I said quietly. The line went silent. After a long pause, Dr. Barrett spoke in a softer tone. “Did you two have a fight? Is there someone else?” “No. Nothing like that.” “Then why…” “Dr. Barrett, this is a personal matter, and I’d prefer not to discuss it,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “I am only calling to schedule the procedure. If you have ethical reservations, I can find another clinic.” The doctor let out a long, heavy sigh. “Fine. Monday morning. Come in early.” Today was Saturday. Monday was only two days away. “Thank you,” I said, and hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall. When we first met, Bennett had argued over every minor disagreement, parsing my words until I conceded. I had excused it back then, thinking he was simply passionate. On our first anniversary, I spent half my monthly salary to buy him a beautiful watch. I had imagined his face lighting up with joy. Instead, he inspected the piece, researched its market value, debated its daily utility, and ultimately concluded that I had overpaid by nearly double. My smile had died on my face, leaving a cold lump in my throat. Shortly before our wedding, my supervisor had unfairly blamed me for a team failure. I came home in tears, looking for comfort, only for Bennett to tell me, “It’s because you didn’t manage up properly. You should work on your communication skills instead of whining to me.” I had stayed awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I was in this relationship. Once, I asked him directly if he loved me. “Yes,” he had answered. A single, flat word. No hug, no kiss, no warmth. He was simply answering a query. The bedroom door clicked open. Bennett stood in the threshold, his face devoid of emotion. “It’s time to make dinner.” I clenched my fists, the numbness finally giving way to a slow, burning anger. “If I told you I wanted a divorce, what would you say?” He paused, considering the question with academic focus. “We would need a certified attorney to draft a clear division of assets, preventing any messy legal disputes down the line.” I felt the last thread of warmth in my chest snap. “Yes. We would certainly need a lawyer.” I forced myself to look at him without crying. “We aren’t cooking tonight. Let’s go out. To that bistro downtown.” I wanted to use this final evening to say a quiet, private goodbye to the ghost of our marriage. Bennett frowned. “It is not Valentine’s Day, nor is it either of our birthdays. Why go to an expensive restaurant? If you do not want to cook, I can order takeout.” A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and fast. His frown deepened. “I only said we shouldn’t go out, and now you are crying? Fine, fine. We will go to the bistro.” He turned and walked down the hallway. I sat on the bed, staring at my slightly rounded stomach, and used both hands to slowly push myself up. Bennett stood by the front door, watching my struggle without taking a single step to help me. During the drive, and then the walk from the parking lot, he kept a brisk pace, leaving me to jog slightly to keep up. At the restaurant, the waitress noticed my condition and carefully guided me to the table, shielding me from a passing busboy. Bennett, however, had already seated himself and was scanning the menu. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?” the waitress asked, pen poised over her pad. Before I could open my mouth, Bennett answered, “None.” The waitress frowned, looking between us. “Sir, you aren’t the pregnant one. How would you know?” “Because she is my wife,” Bennett explained, his voice perfectly reasonable. “I know her habits. From the day we met, she has never had any dietary restrictions. She eats spicy food, sour food, raw food, everything.” The waitress’s expression hardened. “That was before. She is carrying a child now.” “I am aware,” Bennett replied, his tone polite but dismissive. “But gestation does not alter her baseline biological makeup. She is still the same person.” I saw the waitress’s knuckles turn white. I quickly spoke up to defuse the tension. “Just something simple and mild, please.” She nodded, shooting a glare at Bennett, and purposely stepped on his leather shoe as she turned to leave. “Excuse me,” she said flatly, before walking away. Bennett looked down at his shoe. “Her service is incredibly unprofessional. She will likely be terminated by the end of the quarter.” I stared at him. “Did it ever occur to you that she was standing up for me? I am pregnant, Bennett. I actually do need extra care.” He shook his head. “That is an emotional justification, not a logical one. A professional should never let personal bias affect their work.” I stopped talking. I barely touched my food while he ate with efficient, quiet hunger. On Monday morning, Bennett surprised me by standing at the door with his car keys. “I am coming with you to the clinic.” I hesitated. “There’s no need. I’ve handled the previous appointments myself.” “I am your husband,” he argued, his logical faculties fully engaged. “I was unavailable for the prior visits due to scheduling conflicts. Today, I have an open calendar. Therefore, it is my duty to accompany you.” I didn’t argue. At the hospital, he walked five paces ahead of me through the sterile corridors, never looking back. In the waiting room, other husbands sat close to their wives, whispering soft words of encouragement. Bennett sat two seats away from me, his head bowed over his phone. When my name was called, he followed me into the room. Dr. Barrett looked at him, then turned to me, her voice heavy with reluctance. “Cathy, I need you to tell me you’ve thought this through.” Bennett spoke up. “What is there to think about? It is a standard procedure. We are ready.” Dr. Barrett’s eyes flared with anger. “Sir, your wife is about to undergo a significant procedure. I suggest you both consider the weight of this decision. You have responsibilities as parents.” Bennett frowned. “I am fulfilling my responsibility. I am present, and I am supporting her choice to resolve her physical distress. What more do you expect?” I closed my eyes. “Dr. Barrett, please. Let’s just begin.” I lay on the cold operating table, tears leaking silently into my hair. My sweet baby, it is not that I do not want you. I just cannot let you grow up in a home without love. When the procedure was over, I was wheeled into the recovery room. My face was entirely white, my lips dry and cracked. Bennett rushed to my side, a rare look of confusion crossing his face. “Why are you so pale? What kind of checkup was this? Where is the baby?” It was the very first time he had asked about our child. I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “The baby is gone. I had the abortion.” “What?” Bennett gasped, his face draining of color. “You, you terminated the pregnancy? Why?” “I did exactly what you suggested,” I said, my voice empty of all emotion. “I resolved the issue at its root. Now, I won’t suffer, and I won’t whine to you ever again.” Bennett’s hands began to shake.

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1 Bored out of my skull at home, I dragged my wife to join a couples’ reality show. She was a woman who seemed surgically attached to her faded sweatpants and fuzzy slippers. The internet immediately ripped us to shreds. [A washed out actor and a deadbeat couch potato. A match made in heaven.] [What does Cole even see in her? Does he like the way her slippers squeak? Or maybe he loves how she outruns grandmas for discounted eggs at the grocery store?] Right after the broadcast started, the hottest rising star Jaxon paraded his elite corporate wife around, soaking up all the spotlight. The producers asked both couples what they had been up to lately. Riley dangled one of her fuzzy slippers from her toes. “Fishing down at the local pay to fish pond.” I scratched my head. “Living off my wife’s savings.” Jaxon practically oozed a sickening sense of superiority. He flawlessly flexed that his wife had just been hired as a Vice President at Apex Holdings, pulling in a cool three million dollars a year. Then he shot me a look of pure, fabricated pity. “Hey Cole, why don’t I have my wife get yours a janitorial gig at Apex? At least she would get dental and a 401k.” My mouth twitched uncontrollably. I genuinely did not have the heart to shatter his little fantasy. Because the actual founder and Chairman of Apex Holdings was currently tugging on the hem of my shirt with big, pitiful eyes. “Honey, we can talk about the janitor gig later. My two dollar bargain bin fishing rod snapped yesterday. Can I get a ten buck bump on my allowance tomorrow?” Jaxon covered his mouth, laughing so hard tears actually formed in the corners of his eyes. “Cole, your wife is absolutely hilarious.” Sienna’s lips curled into a smug smirk. “We actually are hiring cleaning staff at Apex right now. If Cole’s lady is struggling, just say the word.” Riley aggressively scratched her messy hair. “A real job? No way. That would totally cut into my fishing time.” The live chat instantly flooded with question marks. [This woman is unbelievable! Absolute trash!] [Cole is going to be dragged down for the rest of his life by this street bum.] [Sienna is such a boss. That is a high value woman right there. The other couple is an absolute joke.] I looked at Riley’s gorgeous face. It was a face that somehow radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated foolishness. I rolled my eyes hard. “No ten dollar raise. Five bucks, max.” I rejected her coldly. Riley squatted on the ground, looking entirely wronged. “Fine, five bucks it is. At least I can buy two boxes of premium nightcrawlers.” Seeing the tension, the director raised his megaphone and cleared his throat. “It seems our two couples have vastly different lifestyles.” “To give the audience a more direct look at your spending habits, we are moving into our first interactive segment.” “Wives, please hand over your phones. We will project your shopping cart histories onto the big screen.” Jaxon’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He practically sprinted to hand Sienna’s sleek phone to the production staff. I nudged Riley’s slipper with my foot. “Hand it over.” Riley flinched like she had been electrocuted and clamped both hands over her sweatpant pockets. “No way! This is a total invasion of privacy!” Her suspicious reaction sent the livestream chat into an absolute frenzy. [Oh my god! This jobless loser definitely has something shady on her phone!] [Check her right now! These deadbeats who live off their partners are always the ones cheating!] “Did your girl buy something she shouldn’t have behind your back, Cole?” Sienna let out a soft, mocking laugh. “I suppose it makes sense. Zero income brings a lot of stress. Finding cheap thrills on the side is perfectly normal.” I stared at Riley’s shifting, guilty eyes. A flare of irritation sparked in my chest. This little gremlin spent her entire life fishing and cooking my dinners. Was she actually hiding something from me? “Riley.” My voice dropped an octave, dripping with ice. “Are you going to take it out, or do I have to do it myself?” Riley swallowed hard. She looked up at me like a kicked puppy. “Honey, it is really nothing bad. It is just… it is kind of embarrassing.” “Hand it over!” I was entirely out of patience. I reached right into her pocket, fished out the phone, and tossed it to the staff. Riley clutched her face in agony and let out a dramatic wail. “It is over. My pristine reputation is ruined.” The staff opened Sienna’s luxury shopping app first. Item one: A high end designer men’s watch, priced at ninety thousand dollars. Item two: Custom handcrafted golf clubs, priced at fifty six thousand dollars. Item three: Bespoke diamond cufflinks, priced at over two hundred thousand dollars. A collective gasp echoed through the studio. Jaxon covered his face, blushing with a perfectly rehearsed bashfulness. The comments went wild. [Oh my god! Is this the power of a three million dollar salary?!] [She spoils him so much! Sienna is the dream wife!] [This is how you do the female CEO aesthetic properly!] The director nodded in deep satisfaction and signaled the cameras to pan right. “Now, let us take a look at Miss Riley’s shopping cart.” The staff clicked on a bright orange, notoriously cheap knockoff app on Riley’s home screen. Rows of loud, colorful, deeply discounted items popped onto the massive screen. Item one: [NIGHT ANGLER PRO] Ultra bright headlamp. Original price five bucks, slash the price with friends to get it for just ninety nine cents! Item two: [GRANDPA CHIC] Pure cotton sweat absorbent tank top. Clearance price three dollars. Item three: [POND KILLER] Secret recipe catfish bait. Buy two get one free. Two dollars and fifty cents. Item four: Lifetime subscription to an auto checkout bot for grocery store egg discounts. Sixty bucks. The entire studio plunged into a deafening silence. Five whole seconds passed. Then the live chat exploded with a magnitude never seen before. [What the hell is secret catfish bait?! This chick actually fishes at pay ponds!] [Slash the price to ninety nine cents?! I am dying of laughter!] [Sienna buys high fashion, Riley buys grandpa tank tops. What kind of agonizing life is Cole living?!] Jaxon let out a loud snort. “Cole, I am so sorry, I did not mean to laugh.” “But your lady is just… she is just so down to earth!” Sienna shook her head, her face plastered with thick, syrupy sympathy. “Riley, if you are really hurting for cash, I can reimburse you for these.” I stared dead at the rows of absolute junk on the screen. The veins in my temples were visibly throbbing. I turned my head slowly to look at Riley. She was still squatting on the floor with both hands covering her face. “Is this what you meant by embarrassing?” I asked through gritted teeth. Riley peeked one eye through the gap in her fingers. She looked completely devastated. “You just do not understand, honey.” “That headlamp might only be ninety nine cents, but it is incredibly bright! It is a game changer for watching the bobber at night!” She pointed desperately at the fourth item. “And the local supermarket marks down their eggs every night at nine. Those grandmas move like professional sprinters. I can never beat them!” “With this bot, I can lock in the inventory and instantly snipe the deal!” The room went dead silent again. The chat stalled for a full ten seconds before another nuclear explosion of text took over. [Help me! Spending sixty bucks on an egg sniping bot? What kind of chaotic brain operates like this?!] [Incredible! If my mom had this bot, she would wipe out the entire grocery store!] [Cole looks like his soul just left his body! Hahahaha!] The director rushed in for damage control. “It appears Miss Riley is a remarkably practical person.” “Ahem, well, let us move on to our next task.” “The crew will now confiscate all wallets and phones.” “For the next two days, you must earn your own living expenses. The first couple to earn one thousand five hundred dollars wins and gets to stay in the luxury Presidential Suite.” “The losers will be sleeping outside in a leaky tent.” The staff immediately moved forward to collect our things. Sienna handed over her phone and designer wallet with absolute grace. “Making money? That is child’s play for me.” When it was our turn, Riley guarded her pockets with her life. “No! I just added the pond owner on Snapchat! He stocked the pond with a hundred pounds of massive bass today!” “I need real time updates!” The staff member looked at me, pleading for help. I reached out and smacked the back of Riley’s head. “Hand it over! You will get it back when we finish shooting, or you are sleeping on the couch tonight!” Riley pouted heavily, pulling her phone out along with two dull quarters. “This is my secret stash. I was going to buy spicy chips with this…” The audience erupted into laughter. Sienna did not even try to hide the sheer disgust in her eyes. The timer started. Sienna took Jaxon straight to the city’s highest end financial district. She smoothly talked her way into an exclusive investment mixer, laughing and clinking glasses with men in tailored suits. Jaxon stood off to the side, looking impossibly proud. Then the camera cut to us. Riley was squatting on the curb, chewing on a blade of grass. She was staring blankly across the street at a group of park Zumba moms. “Honey, if I go lead their dance routine, how much do you think they would tip me?” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “With your stiff joints, they would think you are trying to scam them for medical bills.” Just as we were trying to figure out how to avoid starving, a sleek black Maybach suddenly screeched to a halt right in front of us. “Oh my god! Boss! It really is you!” A heavy set man practically climbed out of the passenger window in his excitement. “I was watching the livestream and thought I was hallucinating! What are you doing squatting on the curb?” It was Mr. Henderson, the city’s most notorious real estate tycoon. Riley spit out the blade of grass and lazily lifted her eyelids. “Hey Henderson. Can you not see the cameras? I went bankrupt. I am begging on the streets.” Henderson’s eyes darted around, catching on quickly. “Understood! Say no more!” He hopped out and pulled a massive cooler from his trunk. “Boss, this is top tier Wagyu beef I just had flown in from overseas.” “Slice it for me, and I will pay you five hundred bucks for the manual labor! How does that sound?” The chat went completely ballistic. [What the hell? Who is this fat guy?] [This is so staged! The producers have no shame! They are faking it just to make Cole look good!] Riley waved her hand in pure disgust. “Slicing meat takes too much effort. I might strain my fishing wrist.” “Pass.” Henderson started sweating profusely. “Then… then how about you wash my car? Just spray it with the hose for a second! I will give you fifteen hundred!” The viewers collectively lost their minds. [Is this a car wash or money laundering?! Where are the broadcast regulators?!] [Sienna is inside busting her ass to secure investments, and Riley is out here hiring paid actors! This makes me sick!] Riley rubbed her chin. “Just spraying water… fine.” She grabbed the hose Henderson offered and carelessly splashed some water on the immaculate, gleaming Maybach. “Done. Pay up.” Riley tossed the hose on the ground. Henderson respectfully pulled out a thick stack of cash. “Your water spraying technique is incredibly artistic! You have practically blessed my vehicle!” I stood off to the side, wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole. The blatant bootlicking was so aggressive it was making me physically cringe. With the cash secured, we effortlessly won the challenge and checked into the Presidential Suite. Meanwhile, Sienna and Jaxon were forced to miserably set up their leaky tent outside. Early the next morning, the director gathered all the guests in the main hall. “Cole, you two cheated!” Jaxon screamed at the top of his lungs, pointing a trembling finger right at my face. “Fifteen hundred dollars to spray a car? Do you think the audience is entirely stupid?!” Sienna glared coldly at the director. “Are the producers going to let this slide?” “I can have Apex Holdings pull every single cent of sponsorship money from this show with a single phone call.” The director started sweating buckets. “Please calm down, Sienna. It is definitely a controversial situation…” “Cole, Riley, your methods yesterday clearly violated the spirit of the rules. The production team has decided to void your results.” “As a penalty, you must complete double the workload today.” I actually laughed out loud. “Violated the rules? Which page of the rulebook says we cannot wash a friend’s car?” “Sienna can use her corporate connections to pull money at a mixer, but we cannot use our connections to wash a car?” “Why do you not just rename the show ‘Sienna’s Solo Showcase’ and get it over with?” Jaxon scoffed loudly. “Connections? You call that connections? You hired a cheap actor!” Sienna took a step forward, towering over Riley with a lethal glare. “I do not care what kind of gutter trash tricks you used yesterday. Today, I will not let you find a single loophole.” “In the face of true power, your pathetic little street smarts mean absolutely nothing.” Riley let out a massive yawn and casually dug a pinky into her ear. “Right. Are you done?” “If you are done, can I go eat breakfast now? The lobster porridge in the suite is getting cold.” Her absolute refusal to care completely shattered Sienna’s composure. She lunged forward and grabbed Riley by the collar of her cheap shirt. “Stop playing the fool!” “Do you believe me when I say that with one word, I can have you thrown off this show right this second?!” The atmosphere in the room plummeted below freezing. The cameras zoomed in tight, refusing to miss a single second of the explosive drama. “Vice President Sienna, your clothes are very expensive.” “If you tear something, you will not be able to afford the replacement.” Sienna looked at Riley like she had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “I cannot afford it? I could buy ten thousand of these rags just to set them on fire!” She violently let go, pulling out a silk handkerchief to wipe her hands in disgust. Then she snatched a glossy folder from her assistant and slammed it onto the table. “Take a good look at this, Cole.” I frowned, picking up the folder and opening to the first page. It was a Joint Declaration of a Total Industry Blacklist Against Mr. Cole. The bottom was entirely covered in the official crimson stamps of every single subsidiary under Apex Holdings. Film, commercial, fashion… a total, inescapable blockade. The last page was a lawsuit demanding catastrophic breach of contract damages. It claimed my damaged public image had harmed their brand, demanding a penalty of ten million dollars. “Ten million dollars.” Sienna’s cold, calculating voice echoed through the studio. “Cole, you are a washed out has-been. You could sell your organs on the black market and still not come up with that kind of cash.” The live chat turned into an absolute bloodbath. [I knew I hated Cole and his wife! Finally, some justice!] [Ten million! Cole’s entire life is over.] [This is brutal. Is this really necessary…] “Sienna, is this… is this really the right place for this?” the director pleaded weakly. “Shut up!” Sienna snapped fiercely. “Apex Holdings just bought this show out entirely!” She looked down her nose at me and Riley, her eyes brimming with pure malice. “I am giving you three seconds.” “Get on your knees, beg for forgiveness, and announce your retirement from the industry.” “Otherwise, the court summons will be waiting on your doorstep tomorrow morning.” Sienna started the countdown. Jaxon held up his phone, ready to record our humiliating defeat. “Three.” “Two.” “One.” Riley pulled out her phone and slowly unlocked the screen. “Since you are acting like such a big shot, let us play a fun little game.” “Let us cast the Apex Holdings Executive Management group chat onto the big screen. Let us see just how much weight this Vice President throws around at the office.” The entire room erupted in shock. Jaxon outright barked a laugh. “You have the Apex executives’ group chat? Who do you think you are? The Chairman of the Board?” Sienna crossed her arms, smirking coldly. “Impersonating Apex employees is a felony. Our legal team will absolutely ruin you for this.” Riley ignored them completely and jammed the cable right into her phone. The giant screen flashed. A group chat titled [Apex Holdings Beggars Group] appeared for the entire world to see. [Bob (CEO)] [David (CFO)] [Marcus (Legal Director)] The comment section instantly flatlined. [Holy shit… she actually has it!] [I just googled it, the CEO of Apex really is named Bob!] [What is up with that group name? Beggars Group? I am crying!] Sienna stared unblinking at the screen. A cold bead of sweat slid down her forehead. Riley typed a quick message into the chat. [@Bob, Bobby boy, come out and greet our guests.] Everyone held their breath, their eyes glued to the massive screen. Less than three seconds later. A reply popped up. [Bob (CEO)]: You absolute menace! When are you coming back to sign the papers?! The representatives for the five billion dollar overseas merger have been trapped in conference room B for three days! Right after, the other executives started flooding the chat. [David (CFO)]: Boss! I emailed you the quarterly financials a month ago! Just look at them for five minutes, I am begging you! [Marcus (Legal Director)]: Please have mercy on us! Forget the fish! Pay attention to us! The messages on the big screen were scrolling up at warp speed. Every single one was a desperate complaint about Riley entirely abandoning her job. And right there, plain as day, Riley’s nickname in the group chat was fully visible: [Your Lord and Savior (Chairman)].

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1 Seven years into my relationship with Tina, I realized I was trapped in a slow, silent punishment. Every time she chose her childhood friend, Lucas, over me, a piece of the evidence that I had loved her was stripped from my mind. The first time it happened, she left to spend Lucas’s birthday with him, and I woke up unable to recall the first time she and I had ever held hands. The second time, she put his name on a project proposal I had pulled all-nighters to write. When I woke up the next morning, the memory of the pouring rain on the night she confessed her love to me was gone. For our seventh anniversary, she booked a private fireworks display by the waterfront, plastering it all over social media for everyone to see. But when her call came through, urging me to hurry, I was sitting alone in the office breakroom, staring blankly at the unsaved number flashing on my screen. “Stop playing around,” she said, her voice sharp. “You know exactly what day it is.” Beside her, someone chuckled. “Tina, is your boyfriend throwing a fit again?” She sighed, her impatience cutting through the receiver. “He’s always like this. The more important the day, the harder he tries to make a scene.” I watched the fireworks burst against the night sky outside the window. There was no jealousy in my chest, no dull ache of betrayal. I simply asked, quite sincerely, “I’m sorry, but who is this?” … When the phone rang a second time, I handed it to the receptionist, asking politely, “Do you know whose number this is?” The receptionist blinked, staring at the screen that read Tina. “Uh, Thomas, that’s Tina. Your girlfriend.” I stared at the name. My fingers pressed against the rim of my mug, the heat from the coffee barely registering. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said. The call connected, and Tina’s voice came through, sharp and hushed. “Thomas, cut it out. The fireworks are almost over. Get down here.” In the background, a man offered a soft, mocking chuckle. “Don’t be so hard on him, Tina. Thomas is probably just jealous.” Tina sounded as if she had pulled the phone slightly away, though she made no effort to hide her words from me. “He always does this. The more you humor him, the more entitled he gets.” I brought the phone back to my ear. “Ms. Shen, if you’re a client, please go through the proper channels. If not, please stop calling me.” There was a cold, heavy silence on the other end. Then, a sharp laugh. “You still remember my last name, yet you’re pretending you don’t know who I am?” I didn’t answer. I hung up and blocked the number. The receptionist stared at me, bewildered. “Thomas, haven’t you two been together for seven years?” That number, seven, echoed in my mind, but it brought nothing with it. It was as if someone had pulled every photograph out of an album, leaving behind nothing but empty plastic sleeves. On my desk sat a blank leather album I had uncovered from my locker earlier that afternoon. The cover was worn, but the pages inside were painfully clean. Each sleeve had a tiny numbered sticker in the corner, from one to seven. I had asked my colleagues if it belonged to me. They laughed, saying of course it did, and reminded me that I put a new photo in it every single anniversary. Yet, when I searched my phone, I couldn’t find a single photograph of Tina. When I left the building, Tina was waiting by the entrance, holding a sleek silver gift box. Her tense expression softened slightly when she saw me, and she reached out, grabbing my wrist. “Alright, let’s go. I’m here to pick you up.” I looked down at her hand. “Let go of me.” She didn’t. Instead, she pushed the silver box into my arms. “This is for you. Happy seventh anniversary. Lucas said the watch from this fireworks collection was stunning, so I had them reserve a set for us.” I didn’t hold onto it. The box slipped from my grip, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. A delicate silver necklace slid out, its pendant shaped like a tiny, intricate firework. The receptionist, who was walking out behind me, gasped softly. Tina’s face darkened instantly. “Thomas, do you really have to humiliate me in public?” I bent down, picked up the box, and handed it back to her. “This isn’t mine.” She stared at me for several seconds, then let out a dry laugh. “You’re getting really good at this act. Before, when I was an hour late, you’d ignore me for two days at most. How long are you planning to stretch it this time?” Lucas stepped out of her car, wrapped in her gray scarf. “Thomas, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice laced with practiced fragility. “I wasn’t feeling well today, so Tina took me to the clinic first. She only put together the fireworks show because she was worried you’d be upset.” I looked at the scarf around his neck. It was a deep charcoal gray, with a crooked, hand-stitched ‘T’ in the corner. He noticed my gaze and touched the wool lightly. “Oh, this? Tina said it was just sitting in her car collecting dust, so she told me to wear it.” Tina stepped closer, pulling the scarf tighter around his neck. “He has a cold, Thomas. Stop staring at him.” I asked quietly, “What does that letter mean?” Tina froze for a fraction of a second before recovering her cold composure. “Nothing. Just an old rag.” An old rag. My fingertips brushed the cover of the empty photo album in my bag, and a fleeting, disjointed image flickered in my mind. A cold winter night, someone clumsily threading a needle, promising that we would fill this album with a new photo every year, and on the seventh, we’d finally get married. But before the face in the memory could clear, Lucas let out a soft, dry cough. Tina immediately let go of my wrist, turning to support him. “Get in the car first,” she murmured. Then she looked back at me, her voice commanding. “Thomas, stop making a scene. Bring the album tomorrow. I’ll help you remember everything.” Before the car door clicked shut, Lucas caught my eye through the window, his fingers resting deliberately over the stitched ‘T’. When I brought the empty album into the conference room the next morning, Tina was busy adjusting the projector height for Lucas. Lucas, cradling his laptop, smiled up at me. “Thomas, you’re here. Tina mentioned you were originally running this project. I was worried I wouldn’t present it well, so I was hoping you could back me up today.” I slipped the album into my bag and pulled out a chair. “Why is his name on my proposal?” Tina’s finger paused on the remote control. Her voice was flat. “Lucas is up for a promotion, and he needs a strong portfolio piece to show the board. Your position is secure, Thomas. You don’t need this one victory.” I stared at the title slide. The strategy was the result of seven straight nights of my life, but the footer now read: Presented by Lucas. The department head tried to smooth things over. “Come on, Thomas, you and Tina are practically family. Don’t sweat the small stuff. The kid needs a break.” Lucas quickly pushed his laptop toward me. “How about I do the opening, Thomas, and you handle the core strategy? You’ll still get all the credit.” Tina frowned slightly. “He claims he can’t even remember who I am. What is he going to present?” A few people in the room snickered. The sound was soft, but it felt like a needle pricking the back of my neck. I stood up and unplugged the projector cable. “If I’m not fit to present it, then this proposal isn’t fit to be used.” Tina grabbed my wrist, her grip firm enough to keep me from moving the cable. “Thomas, professional meetings are not the place to vent your personal frustrations.” I looked down at her hand. “You said last night you’d help me remember.” Her eyes softened a fraction. “Let’s get through the meeting first. This afternoon, I’ll take you to the old art studio where we had our first date.” Lucas’s laser pointer slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table. He leaned down to retrieve it, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Tina, my stomach is acting up again. I think I forgot to take my medication this morning.” Tina immediately let go of my wrist. “Where is it?” “Probably in the car,” Lucas murmured. “I can go get it myself.” But she was already grabbing her coat. “I’ll go with you.” I stood in front of the door, holding out the printed copies of the proposal. “Before you leave, change the name back.” Tina looked at the papers, refusing to take them. “Thomas, don’t force me to say things that will embarrass you in front of everyone.” “You already have,” I said. She brushed past me, her shoulder clipping my bag. The empty photo album tumbled out, hitting the floor and sprawling open. A yellowed sticky note slipped out from the first page. It was her handwriting: Year One. Under the fireworks, I promise: Tina will always choose Thomas first. The room fell dead silent. Lucas picked up the note, his eyes instantly welling with tears. “Oh… so this was yours, Thomas? I’m so sorry. I thought Tina wrote this for me years ago. No wonder she told me yesterday that the old promise didn’t count anymore.” Tina’s expression shifted. “Lucas.” He quickly covered his mouth, looking horrified. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I took the note back from him. “What does that mean?” Tina avoided my gaze. “It was just a silly joke.” “Was the scarf a joke too?” I asked. Her patience finally snapped. “Thomas, an old scarf, a dusty note, do you really have to cross-examine me over every little piece of the past?” The department head cleared his throat. “The clients will be here any minute. Thomas, maybe you should step outside and cool off.” I looked at the faces around the table. They all knew whose work that proposal was. They knew Tina and I had been together for seven years. Yet every single one of them was waiting for me to back down. Lucas hovered by the doorway, offering a soft, conciliatory murmur. “Thomas, why don’t we put both our names on it? Having you as the co-author still looks great.” I let out a quiet laugh and closed the album. “No need.” Tina’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if she believed I had finally come to my senses. She reached out to smooth my lapel. “I’ll see you this afternoon at the studio. I’ll help you remember.” I stepped back, avoiding her touch. “Ms. Shen, your clients have arrived. You should get on stage with Lucas.” The clients walked in, and Lucas immediately took his place at the podium. Tina cast one last look at me before stepping up beside him, clicking the remote to display the first slide. A text from an unknown number buzzed on my phone: Want to know the third thing you forgot? Go to the old art studio. Don’t bring Tina. When I walked into the dusty studio, the elderly owner looked up, surprised. “You’re finally here to pick up the painting,” he said. I hesitated. “What painting?” He dragged a long cardboard tube from beneath the counter, blowing the dust off it. “The fireworks landscape you and Tina painted seven years ago. You told me you were saving it for your proposal on your anniversary. Actually, Tina was here a few weeks ago. She wanted to alter the signature.” My grip on the tube tightened. “Altered to what?” The owner glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “To some young fellow named Lucas. He said those fireworks were where his and Tina’s story began.” The bell above the door chimed. Tina pushed her way in, followed by Lucas and a few colleagues from the firm. She frowned when she saw the tube in my hand. “Who told you to come here alone?” Lucas stepped forward, his eyes bright with false excitement. “Oh, the painting is here! Tina has been looking for this everywhere. She wanted to display it at my promotion party.” I looked at Tina. “Is this painting not mine?” She remained silent for a long moment before reaching out and taking the tube from my hand. “It’s just a silly college sketch, Thomas. It doesn’t matter who uses it.” The studio owner spoke up, indignant. “How does it not matter? Thomas painted the entire skyline back then. Tina only painted that tiny silhouette at the bottom.” The colleagues began whispering among themselves. Lucas’s face paled, and he stammered, “I… I didn’t know. Tina just told me this painting meant a lot to her. I thought she wanted me to have it.” Tina pulled the yellowed canvas from the tube. In the corner of the painting, under the bursting colors, were two small figures, one in a white dress, the other holding a camera. In the signature block, the name Thomas had been lightly rubbed away with an eraser, and the name Lucas had been faintly penciled over it. I stared at the smudged canvas. A sudden image flashed in my mind: a hand covered in bright acrylic paint, holding mine, a warm voice whispering, We’re using this when we propose. Nobody else gets to touch it. Sensing my silence, Tina’s voice softened. “Thomas, you forgot anyway, didn’t you? If it’s gone, let it go. We’re trying to start over here, but you have to give me a way to reach you.” I looked up at her. “And starting over means erasing my name?” Lucas’s eyes filled with tears again. “Thomas, please don’t misunderstand. The party is starting soon, and Tina just didn’t want me to go up there empty-handed. I never wanted to steal what’s yours.” The department head chimed in. “Thomas, you’re not in the right headspace. Don’t make a scene in front of the clients. Lucas just landed a massive account. He needs this night to go smoothly.” Tina handed the canvas to her assistant. “Get this framed.” I reached out to stop him, but Tina caught my hand. Her voice was a low, urgent whisper that only I could hear. “Don’t do this to me, Thomas. Lucas cannot afford any mistakes tonight.” Lucas was always the one who couldn’t afford to make mistakes. I pulled my hand back, my fingernail dragging across the edge of the canvas, leaving a thin, white scratch. Tina’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Thomas, this childish behavior has to stop.” The celebration was held in the small hall right next to the studio. Lucas stood before the framed painting, giving a speech about how the fireworks symbolized his journey and the deep trust Tina had placed in him. As the room erupted into applause, Tina stood right behind him, adjusting his microphone with an encouraging smile. Two guests near me whispered, “Tina really treats Lucas differently. Even with Thomas losing his memory, she still puts Lucas first.” The other laughed quietly. “Seven years doesn’t mean a thing. At the end of the day, the one who gets chosen is the winner.” I sat in the corner, holding the empty album, turning the pages one by one. The second page was empty, but on the third, there was a torn piece of an old medical receipt from three years ago. The clinic’s name was listed, and the department read: Cognitive Evaluation, Initial Consultation. Before I could read the doctor’s name, Tina walked over and snatched the paper from my hand. “This is garbage,” she said coldly. I looked up. “I was going to the hospital three years ago?” She folded the receipt into her palm. “You were under a lot of stress back then. I took you for a check-up, and the doctor said you were fine.” Lucas strolled over, holding a glass of juice. His eyes lingered on her closed hand as he murmured, “Tina, Dr. Harris just asked if you were still planning to bring Thomas in for his follow-up tomorrow.” Tina’s expression hardened. “Lucas.” He instantly shut his mouth. A cold sensation crept up my spine as I looked at the two of them. Dr. Harris. Follow-up. Original plan. The gallery lights illuminated the stolen painting. As I looked down, I saw a slip of paper peeking out from Tina’s coat pocket. It was an appointment card. The patient’s name was mine, but the notes section had only three words: Stimulus-Induced Recall. When I slid the appointment card back into Tina’s pocket, Lucas was kneeling on the carpet, carefully tying the delicate leather straps of her heels. She sat on the sofa, her emerald dress brushing his wrist. Lucas looked up, his voice barely a whisper. “Tina, what if Thomas sees us? Won’t he be upset?” Tina didn’t look away from me as I approached, though her foot remained in his hands. “He doesn’t remember anything anyway. Why would he care?” I stood by the door. “I’m coming to the appointment tomorrow.” Her hand paused on her cufflink, then she stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I was planning on taking you anyway, Thomas. I told you, I’m going to help you remember us.” Lucas bit his lip. “But the doctor said we need familiar faces and settings. Shouldn’t I come too? I’ve been there for almost everything these past few years.” I looked at Tina. “Why was he there?” She avoided my eyes, picking up my album. “Because you’ve forgotten too much. I can’t explain it all on my own. Lucas is observant. He can fill in the blanks.” The next day in the consultation room, Dr. Harris flipped through my files, his expression grave. “Thomas’s memory loss isn’t just a simple case of stubbornness. Severe emotional distress will only worsen these blackouts. Ms. Shen, I warned you before: do not use substitute stimuli.” I looked at Tina. “What is a substitute stimulus?” Tina cut in, her voice clipped. “Doctor, his mood has been highly unstable lately. Please just get to the point.” Dr. Harris sighed. “It refers to taking his personal milestones or keepsakes, handing them to someone else, and making him watch. It forces his brain to actively shut down to avoid the pain of betrayal.” Lucas, sitting on the adjacent chair, clutched the edge of his shirt. “Doctor, isn’t that a bit dramatic? Tina was just trying to show him what he was missing.” Show me. The memories of the gray scarf, the fireworks painting, the stolen proposal, none of it had been an accident. Tina reached out and took my wrist, her voice softening. “Thomas, don’t look at me like that. You were becoming so hypersensitive back then. I only did it to help you accept reality, to stop treating everyone around me like an enemy.” I looked at her. “So you knew I would forget?” She was silent for a beat. “I knew you’d be hurt. I didn’t think you’d actually forget.” Dr. Harris pushed a consent form across the desk. “I do not recommend proceeding today. Unless Thomas consents, we cannot perform the situational stimulus.” Tina reached for the pen. “I’ll sign for him.” I pressed my hand flat against the paper. “No.” Her brow furrowed. “Thomas, don’t you want to remember me?” Lucas chimed in, his eyes red. “Thomas, Tina canceled two board meetings and went to so much trouble to gather all these things for you. Don’t throw her effort back in her face.” I stared at Tina. Her eyes held exhaustion, but beneath it lay a deep, unwavering certainty. She was absolutely certain that I was just throwing a tantrum. She believed that once the past was laid out before me, I would crawl right back into my place. Outside the office, her assistant knocked gently on the glass. “Ms. Shen, the waterfront venue is ready. The pyrotechnics team wants to know if they should proceed with the seven-year proposal script.” The proposal script. My fingertips went numb. It felt as if a heavy velvet curtain had been violently ripped away inside my mind. The rain from seven years ago, the smell of acrylic paint in the studio, the clumsy stitch on the charcoal-gray wool, and her voice whispering under a canopy of light: On our seventh year, you’re going to marry me. The memories rushed back. But as they flooded my mind, they brought no warmth, only a profound, chilling detachment. The woman standing in front of me had taken every promise she ever made me, stripped them down, handed the pieces to another man, and then brought me the ruins to prove she still cared. Tina didn’t notice the shift in my eyes. She let out a long breath, looking as though she had finally won. “Perfect. Thomas, let’s go to the waterfront. I’ll give you the proposal we missed. Once you see the fireworks, I know you’ll remember.” Lucas’s face drained of color, his fingers desperately clutching her sleeve. “Tina, let me come too. Just in case Thomas gets overwhelmed, I can help explain the details.” Tina hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Alright. Come with us.” I looked down, letting out a quiet, humorless laugh. I reached into my bag, tore the very last page out of the photo album, and slipped it into my coat pocket. The wind off the river was freezing. In the middle of the decorated deck stood the stolen fireworks painting, flanked by the gray scarf, the silver necklace, and seven empty photo frames. Tina handed a small velvet box to Lucas. “Hold onto this. Give it to me when the first firework goes off.” Lucas took the box, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Of course.” She turned back to me, holding her hand out. “Thomas, enough. Walk with me to the painting.” I looked at her open palm, then at the ring box in Lucas’s hand, and finally at the sky where the first launch was about to ignite. Tina finally sensed the eerie stillness in my demeanor. Her brow furrowed. “Thomas? Did you… did you remember something?” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I reached out, took the velvet box from Lucas’s hands, and clicked it open. Engraved on the inner band of the platinum ring were two letters. They weren’t S & T. They were S & L. Lucas lunged forward to grab it, his voice trembling. “Thomas, don’t touch that! It’s just a prop for the ceremony!” I snapped the box shut and handed it back to Tina. “Here is your prop. And here is your co-star.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “519862”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 During the latter half of the Levitan Group’s online auction, my phone buzzed repeatedly with notifications from my smart vacuum. Gizmo is stuck. Please assist. My brow furrowed. My husband, Samm, was an extreme germaphobe with severe obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Everything from the alignment of the coasters to the exact angle of the bedsheets had to be precisely positioned. Even our intimate moments required a rigorous sanitization process beforehand. Every cleaning path of our robot vacuum, Gizmo, had been meticulously programmed by Samm himself. It was practically impossible for the machine to get stuck. I opened the vacuum’s camera feed while texting my husband back home. “Gizmo is sending distress signals. Check on him when you get back from work.” A few minutes later, his reply came through: “K.” Just as I was about to message the building manager, a pair of pale, bare feet appeared on the camera feed. In the next second, a familiar, soft giggle echoed through the speaker. “Let’s do it right here.” A pair of women’s slippers was carelessly kicked aside. I closed the feed, immediately backed up the video, and forwarded it to my assistant, Paige. “Compile a complete inventory of all marital assets. Book me a flight. I’m heading back to New York immediately.” … I strode out of the conference room. Paige hurried to catch up, flipping open her folder. “Ms. Ashford, I identified the woman in the video.” She handed me a photograph and briefed me as we walked. “Her name is Fiona. She’s an intern who joined through the youth recruitment program you established. She only has an associate degree and was assigned to clean and organize the executive suite.” I glanced at her resume. “She was given a rare opportunity in the executive offices, yet she chose to throw it away. Add her to the layoff list.” I handed the folder back, took a couple of steps, and paused. I tapped my finger on Fiona’s name. “Pull all her expense reports, corporate card transactions, and keycard access logs. Every single one.” “Understood, Ms. Ashford.” We waited in the elevator lobby for three minutes. With a soft chime, the elevator doors slid open. Before we could step in, the regional manager blocked the way, holding a massive bouquet of roses in one hand and a tablet in the other. “Congratulations on winning the bid, Ms. Ashford! Mr. Levitan rented out an entire restaurant floor. Tonight is a celebration for our overseas team!” The tablet screen lit up, showing a video call from Samm. “You’ve worked hard these past two months. I’ll make it up to you when you return.” His voice was deep and steady as he sat upright in his office chair. I didn’t say anything, gently pushing the roses aside. “What’s wrong? You look pale,” Samm’s face filled the screen, his expression intense and focused. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and forced a neutral expression. “Nothing. I’m allergic to roses.” The screen went quiet for a second before he let out a soft laugh. “I thought you liked them. I’ll remember that next time.” Next time? My chest tightened with a sharp, familiar pain. The first time he had ever sent me roses, my face swelled so badly I had to stay indoors for three days. Back then, Samm had been so guilt-ridden that he had the entire rose garden at our estate paved over overnight. But now, his memory only held the preferences of his intern. Samm glanced at his watch. “I only have a minute. I have an international board meeting.” I froze, my eyes landing on the vibrant checkered tie around his neck. It was loud, flashy, and completely unlike anything in his closet. “Samm, do you know what day it is?” He paused, rubbing his temple. “Right. I almost forgot. It’s your birthday.” He glanced up, scanning the flight information projected on his screen. “I’m sorry. The last flight out tonight has already departed. Let’s celebrate tomorrow instead.” Before I could speak, a pale, slender hand entered the frame. “Samm, can you zip me up?” The call was abruptly disconnected. The black screen of the tablet reflected my pale, hollow face. The manager beside me held his breath, while Paige asked softly, “Ms. Ashford, should I cancel your ticket?” “No. We fly tonight.” Three hours later, my flight landed. The arrivals gate was packed with people, each holding a bunch of red roses. The scent was suffocating. I pulled my coat collar up and hurried through the crowd, covering my nose. “Happy birthday, Fiona!” A familiar masculine voice cut through the noise, freezing me in my tracks. Looking up, I saw twenty-four rose-shaped fireworks bursting across the night sky, marking Fiona’s twenty-fourth birthday. In the center of the crowd, a girl in a white dress and a ponytail threw herself into Samm’s arms. He caught her, spinning her around. When they stopped, his usually cold, distant eyes held a tenderness I hadn’t seen in five years. “You are the best gift the universe has ever given me, Fiona.” A bystander whispered in envy, “Must be nice. She casually mentioned wanting to see the ocean, and her billionaire boyfriend flew her out overnight.” Another joined in. “When you have that kind of money, you can celebrate anywhere.” I stood in the crowd, pulling a pack of allergy medication from my purse and swallowing the pills dry. The bitterness lingered on my tongue. Taking my phone out, I dialed Samm’s number. A few yards away, the man pulled out his phone and switched it off. I gripped the phone so tightly my fingers throbbed with a sharp ache. As I suddenly loosened my grip, my diamond wedding ring slipped from my ring finger, rolling into the bustling crowd and vanishing from sight. For five years, I had memorized every single one of Samm’s triggers. Every time we shared a bed, I scrubbed myself raw, terrified of causing him even the slightest discomfort. Thinking back to the footage of Samm and Fiona, a wave of nausea washed over me. I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. “Eleanor, Samm is having an affair.” There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a soft, resigned sigh. “Victoria, you know how Samm is with his condition. It was a miracle he found a woman he could tolerate. Try to be understanding.” She already knew. Sensing my silence, she tried to soothe me. “Victoria, I promise you, the Levitan family only recognizes you as our daughter-in-law. Once you give us an heir, I will transfer the majority of my Levitan shares to you. With nearly forty percent of the company’s stock, you can live comfortably without worrying about Samm’s little distractions.” Her voice was dripping with sweet persuasion, offering a tempting fortune. But what she didn’t know was that on the day our families merged our business interests, my parents had already transferred all their Levitan shares to me. The last shred of warmth I felt for this family evaporated under her empty promises. Paige sent me a link to an online profile. “Ms. Ashford, this is Fiona’s private account.” I tapped the link. The pinned post was a grid of photos. Eight showed sweeping views of the city skyline, while the center photo was a selfie. The angle of the shot could only have been taken from Samm’s and my private penthouse suite. The pink diamond necklace my parents had gifted me for our wedding was draped around her neck. The caption read: The view from our private suite. It feels so good to have someone who remembers every little thing I like. I scrolled down. During a charity golf tournament last year, I had sprained my ankle. Samm had only helped me up before breaking into a cold sweat, visibly shaken by his severe germaphobia. Yet, on Fiona’s profile, the man who couldn’t bear human touch was kneeling on the floor, gently massaging her ankle. The caption: A little slip, and the big boss gets so worried. Although only his profile was visible, I had gazed at the small mole on his jawline too many times to mistake it for anyone else. I systematically compiled every image and forwarded them to my lawyer. It was only when my hands gripped the steering wheel that I realized I was shaking. I drove straight to the Levitan Hotel. Throwing the keys to the valet, I took the private elevator to the penthouse. When the doors opened, the place was a disaster. My custom-tailored gowns in the walk-in closet were covered in neon yellow stickers reading Trash and tacky. The silk nightgown from my wedding night lay crumpled on the floor, slapped with a label that read Desperate and cheap. Even the organic herbal remedies and therapeutic salves I had painstakingly prepared for Samm’s skin condition had been dumped into the trash can. I clenched my teeth, stepping back out of the closet. Taking deep breaths, I used my phone to document every piece of damage. I also took a photo of a white pill lying under the coffee table, texting Paige to have it collected and analyzed. Years of corporate experience had drilled one rule into my mind: always leave a paper trail. The next morning, Paige knocked on my door with a cup of coffee. “Ms. Ashford, I tried to pull the security footage, but the hotel staff said the penthouse cameras require authorization from either Mr. Levitan or Fiona. They refused to hand it over.” I let out a cold laugh. The Levitans might own the hotel chain, but the Ashfords were a legacy family of architects and builders with just as much leverage. Our marriage had been a merger of equals, though my feelings for Samm had been genuine. Knowing how protective he was of his personal space, I had managed the hotel’s interior operations without ever stepping on his private authority. Now, that respect was being used against me. I looked up and handed her a stack of financial reports. “Request the footage as a major shareholder of Levitan Enterprises. My personal property was damaged and stolen. Pulling those tapes is entirely within my legal rights. Also, publish the layoff notice we drafted yesterday immediately.” By afternoon, I was holding a team meeting in the hotel’s conference room when Fiona, dressed in a light summer outfit with a beach bag slung over her shoulder, burst in. “On what grounds are you firing me?!” she demanded, her eyes welling with tears as she looked around at the watching staff. “I was just doing my job for Mr. Levitan, and you’re throwing me out! I don’t have a wealthy family or a big background. I’m just trying to make a living! Just because you were born with a silver spoon, Ms. Ashford, doesn’t mean you have to ruin my life!” Faced with her performance, I slammed the folder containing the evidence onto the table. “Doing your job? You used Samm’s authority to embezzle high-end hotel vouchers and resell them for personal profit. The paper trail is right here. Do you want to review it?” Instead of backing down, Fiona let out a bitter laugh. “Ms. Ashford, I really don’t understand what you’re so afraid of.” She spread her hands, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “I’m just a cleaner. How could I possibly have the power to do all that? If my presence bothers you so much, I’ll leave! But the rest of you better watch your backs. Our dear Ms. Ashford doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like!” Giving me a venomous look, she leaned in and whispered, “If you push me, you’ll be the one who ends up humiliated. Just watch.” With that, she ran out of the room, crying hysterically. A few employees looked as though they wanted to speak up for her, but none dared to. Not even five minutes passed before Samm’s name flashed on my screen. I ignored it. Seconds later, whispers of “Mr. Levitan” echoed outside the room. Samm strode in, wearing his signature white gloves to avoid direct contact with the door, keeping a careful distance from me. “Did you issue Fiona’s termination?” “Yes.” “Victoria, you’re letting your personal feelings interfere with business again.” Looking at his cold, dismissive eyes, my remaining respect for him crumbled further. “Have you been up to the penthouse lately?” Samm frowned, adjusting his cuffs. “What does that have to do with Fiona’s termination?” I held up a flash drive. “She vandalized and stole my personal property, and she embezzled hotel assets. It’s all on this drive.” Samm interrupted me impatiently. “I authorized her access to the penthouse. She’s just a young girl who got curious. There’s no need to make a mountain out of a molehill.” “A molehill?” I let out a sharp laugh and tossed the flash drive at him. “Take a look for yourself and tell me if it doesn’t meet the threshold for grand larceny.” Samm’s face darkened. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the spot on his suit where the drive had hit him. “Whatever is damaged, I’ll pay for it. I’ll have her apologize to you. But you will withdraw the termination. Fiona did nothing wrong, and she shouldn’t have to endure this kind of humiliation.” I stared at the white gloves he wore. I was the one who had them custom-made by hand from Europe every month, keeping spares in our home, his car, and his office. Yet, he had never once tried to see things from my perspective. He only stood on his moral high ground, correcting me. My voice turned entirely cold. “The notice stands. Samm, I want a divorce.” Samm fell silent for a moment, then scoffed. “So that’s what this is about. You’re upset because I can touch Fiona without any issues, aren’t you?” He tossed his handkerchief into the trash can, a lie slipping easily from his lips. “Victoria, my relationship with Fiona is purely professional. I am simply looking out for an employee.” I lost every ounce of my patience. Stepping closer, I held up my phone. “Looking out for her? Samm, is this how you look out for your employees?!” As I drew near, Samm instinctively slapped my hand away. A sharp, burning pain flared across my skin. “I’m sorry,” Samm muttered, his brow furrowing as he stared at the red mark on my hand, hesitating to reach out. “You got too close.” I put my hand behind my back. “Leave.” The remaining staff members exchanged uneasy glances, keeping silent for the rest of the meeting. By evening, a heavily edited video of Fiona’s confrontation in the lobby was circulating online. It showed only her weeping about being bullied, while I sat there looking cold and unbothered. Public opinion flared up instantly. People began twisting the operational guidelines and standard auditing policies I had established, claiming I was exploiting lower-income workers. Within hours, I was painted as a bitter, insecure heiress abusing her power. I stared at the toxic comments flooding my screen. “Find out who leaked the video and who is driving this narrative,” I told Paige. I had seen this kind of online smear campaign since I was a child. Later that night, Fiona’s account updated. She posted a photo of two hands clasped together, showing off matching diamond bands. Samm’s back was turned to the camera. The caption read: He said once I wear this ring, I’m his forever. Someone commented: Why is his face always hidden? Is he married? Fiona replied immediately: What do you know? He’s a prominent businessman. He has to maintain his privacy. I scoffed and typed a reply: I know quite a few prominent businessmen, but I don’t seem to recognize this one. A few seconds after posting, a text from an unknown number popped up. It was Fiona: Delete that comment right now, or I’ll make sure you regret it! I didn’t bother replying. By nightfall, my comment had climbed to the top of the thread. Thousands of users began questioning Fiona’s role in Samm’s life, calling her out as a homewrecker. Panicking, she made a grand announcement: her boyfriend would be proposing to her at a luxury hotel the following day, and the entire event would be livestreamed. I opened the livestream link and watched the waiting viewer count climb past one hundred thousand. The next morning, I met with my lawyer to finalize the divorce agreement, ensuring every asset division was precise and documented. On my way back to the hotel, Paige called. “Ms. Ashford, we traced the source of the leaked video. It was Fiona herself. Should we file a defamation lawsuit?” “No. Keep the evidence. We’ll settle everything at once.” The moment I stepped into the hotel lobby, a group of beauty influencers holding phones blocked my path. The woman at the front raised her voice. “Are you Victoria Ashford? What kind of fake vouchers are you selling? The hotel refuses to let us check in!” She reached out to shove me, but I caught her wrist firmly, stopping her in her tracks. “First, did you verify the identity of the person who sold you those vouchers? As a major shareholder and design consultant, I have no reason to sell fraudulent vouchers. Second, all legitimate hotel vouchers are registered with the buyer’s name. Yours have no registration numbers, meaning they are counterfeit.” A few people in the crowd began to hesitate. “She has a point. And her voice doesn’t sound like the person we spoke to online.” The leader wasn’t convinced, thrusting her phone near my face. “You’re just making excuses! The girl who sold them to us said her name was Victoria Ashford! I don’t care, you’re the one pocketing our money!” I smiled calmly. “If I were the seller, there would be transaction records. You are welcome to check. However, if you can provide the contact information and payment details of the person who sold them to you, I will personally arrange for you to stay in an executive suite for free today.” The group wavered, whispering among themselves as they sat down in the lobby to look up their purchase history. Right then, the lobby manager entered, accompanied by several police officers. The lead officer stepped forward, showing his badge. “Are you Victoria Ashford?” I nodded calmly. “We received your report regarding stolen property. Please accompany us to the scene to identify the items.” I glanced at the influencers, my lips curving slightly. “Of course. Everyone, please follow me.” At the end of the top-floor hallway, the penthouse door was slightly ajar. Romantic music drifted out into the corridor. Inside, Samm was down on one knee. Fiona, wearing my pink diamond wedding necklace, was crying tears of joy. A phone was set up nearby, broadcasting the scene live, carefully framing only the side of Samm’s face. Just as Fiona was about to say yes, I pushed the door wide open. In the dead silence that followed, only the rapid clicking of camera shutters filled the room. I covered my mouth in mock surprise, looking at them. “Samm, why are you proposing to our cleaning lady in our hotel?”

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1 As a defense attorney with an undefeated record, I was hired by the state’s wealthiest man. His only son, convicted of a brutal serial murder and dismemberment case, had been sentenced to life. That was not enough for the billionaire. He wanted an acquittal and was prepared to pay dearly for it. Opening the file, I looked up. His face, a mask of calculated hope, pulled me back eighteen years to when my father was framed, jailed, and driven to suicide. The auditor who forged the evidence was the man sitting before me. He had built his fortune on my father’s ruin, then played the philanthropist, funding my schooling under the guise of charity. I abandoned physics for law, consumed by the need to clear my father’s name. Today, he slid a ten-million-dollar check across my desk. I offered my warmest smile. “I’ll take the case.” “I guarantee the appeal succeeds.” “Counselor, they do not call you the undefeated queen of the courtroom for nothing. I appreciate your straightforwardness.” Flex Cross leaned back into the plush leather of my office sofa, tapping his expensive cigar against the armrest. His corporate legal director stepped forward from the shadows, sliding a thin manila folder toward me. “Mr. Cross, what is this?” I asked, eyeing the file. “Brandon is a good boy, just a bit sheltered. The environment in that prison has terrified him. It seems his mental state has taken a slight hit.” Flex exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke, his eyes narrowing as he studied my reaction. “These are his psychiatric records from a few years back. Have a look. Tell me if they can be of any use to our case.” I flipped open the folder and scanned the pages. It was a vague, noncommittal diagnosis for generalized anxiety. There was no hard confirmation, no direct link to psychosis, and absolutely no definitive proof that could be flagged as a forgery by the prosecution. The man was an old fox. I closed the file, looking up with a perfectly crafted professional smile. “Mr. Cross, a standard anxiety diagnosis might buy a few tears from a jury.” “But if we can use this as a foundation, and have a top tier, authoritative medical board escalate this into a diagnosis of severe schizophrenia.” “Then our insanity defense for the appeal will be an absolute slam dunk.” Flex stared at me for a long moment before bursting into deep, booming laughter. “Excellent! God, it is so refreshing to work with someone who actually uses their brain.” He leaned forward, pointing a heavy finger at me. “You know, Valerie, eighteen years ago I saw you digging through the trash on the streets. My heart broke, and I paid for your schooling out of pure charity.” “I knew even back then that you were a smart girl. A girl who knows how the world works, and knows how to repay a favor.” I picked up my porcelain teacup. “If it were not for your incredible generosity back then, I would not be sitting in this chair today.” “Do not worry, Mr. Cross. I will make sure this case plays out exactly as it should.” Flex gathered his team and walked out of the office. The moment the heavy glass door clicked shut, my fingers tightened around the teacup until my knuckles turned stark white. Eighteen years ago, my father, Robert Davis, was a senior auditor. He uncovered Flex’s massive web of fraudulent accounts. Before he could blow the whistle, Flex planted dirty money in my father’s accounts and framed him for embezzlement. My father smashed his own head against the concrete wall of his cell until he died. Flex walked away with a clean record and a fortune. He only sponsored my education because the scandal had drawn too much heat. He needed to build a public persona of a merciful, forgiving saint to shut the media up. I took a deep, shaky breath, shoving the suffocating rage back down into my chest. I had waited eighteen long years. A few more days meant nothing. That afternoon, I took my legal assistant, Sarah, to the county jail to meet Brandon Cross. Sitting on the other side of the thick plexiglass, the kid who was accused of butchering multiple women looked completely bored. “You are the hotshot lawyer, right?” Brandon picked at his manicured fingernails. “Get me out of this hellhole. The slop they feed us here is not fit for a dog. I have already lost five pounds.” Sarah clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. I kept my face entirely neutral. “If you want to win this appeal, you need to cooperate.” I opened my legal pad. “Your father is pivoting to an insanity defense. Because of that, we need to go over the exact details of the nights in question to make sure our stories align.” “What is there to go over?” Brandon rolled his eyes dramatically. “My old man said this appeal was just a formality. He already cleaned up the only real mess out there. What else could possibly go wrong?” “The mess?” I paused my pen. “That stupid bitch, obviously.” Brandon grinned, showing his teeth. “She insisted on calling the cops. She was practically begging to die.” He leaned forward, pressing his face close to the glass, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, counselor. That delivery driver. Is he dead yet?” My fingers clamped down hard on my pen. The original case files stated that a food delivery driver, the sole eyewitness to one of the body dumps, had been in a hit and run. He was currently in a vegetative state. Brandon asking if he was dead proved that he knew exactly how his father was tying up loose ends on the outside. I did not take the bait. If I engaged with that line of questioning, I would be crossing the line into criminal conspiracy and witness tampering. “The driver’s medical status is a matter of police record. That is not our focus today.” I stared blankly into his eyes. “I need to verify the state of your memory during the events.” “For instance, the medical examiner’s report states that the victim’s left hand was missing the index and middle fingers. Do you recall that?” Brandon frowned in sheer irritation. “Bullshit! I chopped off her right hand! She had this incredibly tacky butterfly tattoo on her right wrist. It grossed me out just looking at it.” I looked down and made a note. The unpublished forensic files explicitly stated that the right hand was missing and had a tattoo. The police had intentionally fed the press false information about the left hand. Brandon blurting out the truth meant he was entirely lucid and possessed a crystal clear memory of the dismemberment. This completely shattered the legal requirements for a severe schizophrenic break and a lack of cognitive awareness. “Understood. That is very helpful.” I drew a small, coded star on the interview log. Back at the firm, Sarah marched right up to my desk, her face red with fury. “Valerie! Did you see his face when he talked about cutting her hand off?! He looked like he was talking about chopping vegetables! He is not insane!” Sarah slammed her palm flat against my desk. “You know he is faking the illness. You know the delivery driver’s accident was a targeted hit. And you are still going to help this monster walk free?” “Has your conscience been completely eaten by your greed?!” “Sarah, please manage your emotions.” I calmly sorted the files into neat stacks. “I was so wrong about you!” Sarah kicked an empty chair, sending it clattering to the floor. “You threw away every moral boundary you ever had for ten million dollars! I am done. I will not touch this case!” Sarah stormed out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. The office fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. I sat at my desk, organizing the Cross family documents into one pile. Then, I looked down at the locked bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. Inside that drawer was the weathered, eighteen year old case file belonging to my father. Being completely alone was for the best. When the explosion finally happened, nobody else would get caught in the blast radius. 2 First thing the next morning, Flex’s corporate legal team invaded my firm. Three ruthless corporate lawyers essentially hijacked the core discovery process. “Counselor, the boss made it clear. We will handle the heavy lifting with the core evidence. You just need to focus on your courtroom theatrics.” Marcus, the legal director, offered a smile that did not reach his cold eyes. They were keeping a leash on me. I calmly pushed the peripheral case files across the desk. “Not a problem. Since we are building an insanity defense, the core of the argument is not the crime itself. It is the trigger.” I pulled out a requisition form and handed it over. “I need Brandon’s prescription logs for the last three years, his passport travel history, and the shift schedules for his personal driver.” Marcus frowned. “What do you need all that for?” “To prove a three year pattern of erratic behavior, chemical dependency, and geographical instability. We need to establish a verified history of a mental breakdown.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Juries do not just look at a doctor’s note. They look at a lifestyle.” Marcus snatched the list and walked out. I needed those schedules for a very different reason. I was going to map Brandon’s exact movements around the times of the murders to locate any hidden body dumping sites. My desk phone rang. It was Flex. “Valerie, how is the evidence collection going?” “Swimmingly. Your team is incredibly efficient.” “Glad to hear it.” Flex paused, his tone shifting into something far more sinister. “By the way, you do not need to bother visiting the victim’s family anymore.” “I heard their little noodle shop just had a run in with the fire marshal. And the IRS found some major discrepancies in their books.” “You know how people are. Once they are fighting tooth and nail just to survive, they lose the energy to make a fuss in court.” I gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. “You think of everything, Mr. Cross.” I kept my voice perfectly smooth. After hanging up, I grabbed my car keys and drove straight to the victim’s neighborhood. I parked at the end of the alley. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt wood. The family’s noodle shop had been completely trashed. Bright red seizure tapes from the fire department and the tax authority were plastered across the shattered front door. The pavement was covered in broken porcelain, spilled broth, and crushed vegetables. The victim’s mother was sitting in the middle of the debris. She was clutching a framed photo of her dead daughter to her chest, wailing with a grief that shattered the quiet street. I stood in silence, watching from a distance. “That is her! That is the butcher’s lawyer!” someone screamed, pointing a finger right at my face. Seven or eight locals charged out of the alley toward me. “You heartless animal!” “Do you think rich people can just slaughter whoever they want?!” A bowl of lukewarm broth was hurled at my chest, soaking my silk blouse. Then came the rotten cabbage leaves and raw eggs. Someone threw a jagged piece of a broken bowl. It struck my forearm, slicing a deep, bleeding gash into my skin. I did not flinch. I did not move. I just let the garbage and the hatred hit me. If I was going to act as Flex’s attack dog, I had to absorb the consequences. The old woman was pulled up from the rubble by her neighbors. She glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “You go back and tell that monster…” the old woman screamed, her voice cracking. “My daughter will drag him to hell! We will never let this go!” I turned around, stepping carefully over the rotting vegetables, and opened my car door. Once inside, I gripped the steering wheel, my fingernails digging painfully into my palms until they bled. Patience. Let them enjoy their high ground for just a few more days. That night, the internet exploded. A local gossip blogger uploaded a video of me getting pelted with garbage in the alleyway. The headline was painted in bright red font: [Heartless Ten Million Dollar Lawyer Teams Up With Billionaire To Destroy Victim’s Family!] The comment section was an absolute bloodbath of death threats and insults aimed at me. Flex was using the public to cut off my escape routes. He wanted to make sure my reputation was so radioactive that I had no choice but to rely entirely on him. Back in the empty law firm that night, I booted up the files Marcus had delivered. Buried deep in a mountain of financial data, I found a single ledger receipt. The serial code was SZ-10928. It was the wire transfer Flex used to pay off a fake witness in Brandon’s case. The serial number format, the shell company structure, and the routing patterns were completely identical to the fake accounts used to frame my father eighteen years ago. Even the authorized signature at the bottom belonged to the exact same accountant. The bloody threads of the past and the present had finally tied themselves into a perfect knot. The next morning, I went back to the county jail. Brandon laughed through the glass. “Well, counselor, the whole world knows you are my personal lapdog now.” He kicked his boots up onto the metal table. “You have absolutely no way out except to win this case. You and me, we are chained to the same sinking ship.” I pulled out a tissue, carefully wiped the ink from my pen, and pushed the interview transcript through the slot for his signature. “You are absolutely right.” I looked up, meeting his arrogant eyes. “We are going to be chained together right up until the judge reads the final verdict.” 3 The night before the appeals trial, Flex rented out the entire penthouse of a luxury hotel for a private banquet. The room was packed with the city’s elite. Flex seated me right next to him at the head table. “Ladies and gentlemen, this case has been a thorn in my side. But with Valerie steering the ship, I can already taste the victory.” Flex raised his crystal champagne glass, beaming with pride. Halfway through the dinner, a wealthy developer brought up the old corporate restructuring era from nearly two decades ago. Flex took a sip of expensive liquor and chuckled. “Speaking of those days, do any of you remember that stubborn corporate auditor?” “The man was a complete boy scout. And how did that work out for him?” “I took a flawlessly clean audit report, tweaked the numbers, and sent him off to eat prison food for the rest of his life.” He turned to look at me, a vicious glint in his eye. “That is what you call true power, Valerie. As long as you own the rulebook, you can paint the sky green and the grass blue.” The entire table erupted into sycophantic laughter. That was my father he was talking about. I stared at the side of Flex’s face, forcing myself to keep breathing. I raised my own glass. “A brilliant strategy, Mr. Cross. A toast to your success.” I knocked the burning liquor back in one gulp. Beneath the heavy silk tablecloth, my left hand gripped the edge of the table so hard my joints popped. Not yet. The trap was not fully set. My phone vibrated in my purse. It was Richard, the senior partner at my firm. “Valerie, you have seen the news. The public backlash is apocalyptic. Our switchboards are crashing from the death threats.” Richard’s voice was tight and cold. “The board had an emergency meeting. Effective immediately, you are stripped of your right to represent this firm in any public capacity.” “Tomorrow, you step into that courtroom as an independent contractor. Every single ounce of liability falls squarely on your shoulders.” The firm was throwing me to the wolves. I hung up the phone, looking at the room full of laughing billionaires, and forced a smile. After the banquet, I drove back to my dark office. I pulled the blinds shut. I spread every single piece of evidence, every wire transfer, the driver schedules, and the interview transcripts across the massive glass desk. I divided the mountain of paper into three distinct stacks. Stack one: Proof that the schizophrenia diagnosis was a purchased forgery. Stack two: Proof of witness tampering, bribery, and the destruction of the noodle shop. Stack three: The shell company ledgers, perfectly linking the current bribery to the framing of my father eighteen years ago. I slid each stack into a heavy duty, tamper evident evidence bag. I placed them gently into my leather briefcase. I did not sleep a single second that night. Eight in the morning. Trial day. The courthouse steps were drowning in a sea of protestors and cameras. The victim’s mother was kneeling on the cold concrete steps, holding her daughter’s picture in total, crushing silence. The moment I stepped out of my car, the press swarmed me, shoving microphones into my face. “Valerie! Ten million dollars to set a butcher free! Do you have a price tag on your soul?!” “How do you sleep at night? Do you see the victim when you close your eyes?!” A protestor with a bullhorn screamed over the crowd. “Corporate lapdog! You are just as guilty as the killer!” The crowd surged, pushing against me. A stray elbow hit my injured arm, tearing the wound open. Fresh blood soaked through the sleeve of my suit. I kept walking, catching a glimpse of Sarah standing at the back of the mob. She looked at me with pure disgust, then turned and pushed her way out of the crowd. I stood at the top of the courthouse steps. I smoothed down the lapels of my jacket, took a breath, and walked through the heavy oak doors. Inside the courtroom, Flex sat dead center in the front row of the gallery. He gave me a confident, knowing nod as I walked down the aisle. I walked straight to the defense table and took my seat. “Court is now in session.” The judge slammed his wooden gavel. The prosecution was struggling. Because Flex had successfully bought off or intimidated their witnesses, their chain of evidence was falling apart. Brandon sat at the defendant’s table, bouncing his leg in absolute arrogance. He turned around, looked straight at the grieving mother in the gallery, and mouthed the words: “Deserved it.” A gasp of horror rippled through the spectators. Brandon turned back to me, raising a cocky eyebrow, signaling me to present the fake medical records and end the show. “Defense,” the judge’s voice echoed through the room. “Do you have any objections to the prosecution’s exhibits? You may now present your evidence.” Sitting in the row right behind the railing, Marcus caught my eye. He aggressively tapped his finger against the wooden barrier, demanding I submit the insanity plea. I stood up. I placed my hand flat on top of the fabricated psychiatric report. Flex smiled, leaning back in his seat. With a flick of my wrist, I pushed the fake report to the far edge of the table, abandoning it. I did not open it. The courtroom fell dead silent. Flex’s smile vanished. He sat up, his brow furrowing into a deep, dangerous scowl. I reached down, unlatched my leather briefcase, and pulled out the first sealed evidence bag. “Your Honor,” my voice rang out, clear and unwavering. “As defense counsel for Brandon Cross, in the course of reviewing the files and conducting supplementary investigations…” “I have discovered that the financial records and medical documents provided to this firm by the defendant’s family show undeniable evidence of malicious forgery!” The gallery erupted into chaos. “Valerie! What the hell are you talking about?!” Flex shot out of his seat, his face purple with rage. His entire legal team jumped up behind him, shouting objections. “Order! Order in the court! The gallery will remain silent!” The judge hammered his gavel violently. I did not stop. I raised my voice over the noise. “Furthermore! Based on legally obtained travel logs and financial wire transfers…” “I have uncovered that the defendant’s family recently engaged in the illegal detainment, violent intimidation, and bribery of key eyewitnesses!” “And the network of shell companies used to manufacture this perjury is the exact same network used to fabricate a massive corporate embezzlement case eighteen years ago!” Brandon lunged against the wooden barrier of the defendant’s box, screaming at the top of his lungs. “You crazy bitch! You took our ten million dollars! What are you doing?!” I looked at his pathetic, screaming face. I turned around, picked up all three sealed evidence bags, walked to the center of the courtroom, and slid them onto the judge’s bench. “Your Honor, I formally petition to withdraw as defense counsel.” “And I submit to the court a chain of evidence that is more than sufficient to send Brandon Cross directly to death row.”

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1 During the World Cup Final night, I went into the kitchen to grab some snacks and drinks. When I returned, Beckett and Brooke were already sitting side by side in the center of the sofa. The television screen was playing a slow-motion replay of a goal. Their faces were flushed with excitement as they clung to each other, laughing and cheering in celebration. I stood behind the sofa, holding the tray, suddenly feeling like an absolute intruder in my own home. Back in our school days, Beckett and Brooke were the legendary golden duo of the varsity soccer team. After graduation, they both went into aviation, one becoming a captain and the other a flight attendant. Everyone in our social circle envied them as the industry’s perfect couple. I had spent months trying to memorize the complex rules of the sport just to have something to talk about with them. But when I finally gathered the courage to join their conversation, Beckett had simply smiled, patted my head, and dismissed my efforts. “You don’t need to stress over these details, Serena. Just enjoy the game and celebrate when we win.” Then, he had turned right back to Brooke, diving deep into a passionate discussion about tactical shifts and player positioning. Watching the two of them now, completely lost in their self-proclaimed soul connection, an overwhelming exhaustion settled deep in my bones. On the screen, a player fell to the turf and struggled to get back up. I felt a painful wave of empathy. I suppose when you are injured enough times, it is finally time to walk off the field. … By the time the match ended, they were still eagerly dissecting the performance. “What a missed opportunity! That shot absolutely should have gone in!” Brooke slapped the armrest, her entire body leaning heavily into Beckett’s side. Beckett caught her naturally, pulling up a replay on his phone to show her. “Look at this run. If she had started her sprint just two seconds earlier…” “Exactly! Just a split second too slow. You really have an eye for this, Beckett.” They shared a knowing, intimate smile, completely oblivious to how inappropriate their posture had become. Today was my birthday. I had explicitly asked him, begged him even, not to ignore me for the game tonight. I had asked him not to leave me sitting on the sidelines. And Beckett had promised. Yet, throughout the entire match, they laughed and joked, and neither of them had uttered a single word of congratulations to me. Just as I was about to speak, the apartment plunged into darkness. A power outage? I fumbled around in the dark until I found a candle and lit it. In the dim, flickering glow, Brooke immediately clung to Beckett, trembling. “Why did the lights go out? You know I hate the dark.” “You little coward. Still afraid of the dark? You should learn from my Serena. She’s the brave one.” Beckett spoke of my bravery, yet his hands were busy rubbing Brooke’s back, whispering soft reassurances to soothe her fear. But was I really brave? In middle school, I had been accidentally locked in a dark equipment shed for hours. For years afterward, I couldn’t sleep without a lamp on. Beckett knew this. He had once cared enough to place small nightlights along the hallway from our bedroom to the bathroom. He had even lined the stairwell with adhesive strip lights so I would never have to face the dark alone. But whenever Brooke was in the picture, all his care and affection shifted entirely to her. When the lights went out, my legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand. I had instinctively whispered his name, but he still chose to comfort Brooke first. Suddenly, Brooke gasped in mock surprise. “Serena! It’s your birthday!” She looked at her phone. “It’s past midnight already. Why didn’t you ask Beckett to help you blow out your candles?” Had I not asked? I cleared my throat, which felt dry and painful from the hours of silence, and remained quiet. Seeing my reaction, Beckett frowned. “What is with that miserable face? I promised I would spend your birthday with you, and here I am, sitting in this living room, aren’t I?” He turned his gaze to Brooke. “You know, birthday wishes are the most powerful. Didn’t you say yesterday that you wanted that designer necklace, Brooke? Go ahead and blow out the candle for your wish.” I quietly pulled out my phone and paid the outstanding electric bill online. The lights flickered back on. Brooke walked over to the table with a sweet smile. “Serena is always the nicest to me, even letting me blow out her birthday candles.” “Beckett, you really need to learn from her. You’ll never understand how thoughtful girls can be.” A sudden draft swept through the room. Before Brooke could even reach the table, the candle flickered and went out on its own. This year marked my tenth year with Beckett. It was also the tenth time I had intended to wish for a long, happy marriage with him. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Even the universe seemed to agree that this wish was never going to come true. Beckett’s expression darkened. “Serena, we just watched a soccer match at home. Do you really have to be this cold toward Brooke?” Brooke. Serena. I repeated the names in my mind, noting the difference in his tone, and chose to say nothing. Sensing the mounting tension, Brooke quickly stepped in, linking her arm through mine. She glared playfully at Beckett. “What are you saying, Beckett? How dare you speak to my Serena like that? She’s always so good to me. She didn’t mean anything by it.” She raised her glass high. “Let me propose a toast. Happy birthday, Serena!” Beckett’s scowl softened into a smile as he looked at her. “Alright, my little princess, my mistake. Let me drink this to make it up to you.” He drained his glass in one gulp. I watched him apologize so easily just because Brooke had prompted him to. In all our years together, he never cared to understand why I was truly upset. But the moment Brooke offered a casual mediation, he listened without question. Wishing to ignore the heavy weight in my chest, I picked up the knife to cut the cake. Suddenly, Brooke let out a soft groan, clutching her stomach. Beckett was at her side in an instant. “What’s wrong?” “It’s nothing. Just my period, and I think that iced water I drank earlier made the cramps worse.” Beckett snapped his head toward me, his eyes cold and accusing. “Serena, did you do this on purpose? Don’t you know girls shouldn’t have iced drinks during their cycle?” I stared at him. So he did know that. Yet, during a company gathering last summer when my cramps were so severe I could barely stand, I had begged him for a cup of warm water. He had only snapped at me impatiently. “You’re an adult, Serena. Where am I supposed to find hot water in the middle of summer? Other women deal with their periods just fine. Why do you always have to be so difficult?” The memory rushed back, flooding my chest with a familiar, suffocating ache. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but my mind suddenly drifted back to the boy he used to be. The boy who had reached out to grab my hand when I was down. “Can you stand up? Don’t worry about what they think. From now on, I’ve got your back, Serena. If anyone laughs at you again, I’ll take care of them.” It had taken me three long years to transition from an insecure, overweight girl to the girlfriend of the school’s most popular guy. To be worthy of him, I had lost over sixty pounds and studied day and night, defying everyone’s expectations to get into the same university. Only I knew how much pain and effort that journey had cost me. But the Beckett I loved, the Beckett who once cherished me, when did he turn into this stranger? Seeing me stand frozen with tears welling in my eyes, the coldness on Beckett’s face vanished. He stepped forward, looking flustered as he reached out to wipe my tears. “Alright, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You’re still such a child, crying the moment someone says something to you.” I gently pushed his hand away, my voice carrying a quiet, heavy finality. “I won’t cry anymore.” Beckett assumed the matter was resolved, just like it always was. For the past five years, my own insecurities had made me hide my anger, always terrified that he would actually leave me. But I was done holding it in. “Beckett, let’s break—” Before I could finish the sentence, Beckett was already lifting Brooke into his arms. “Serena, my stomach is absolutely killing me,” Brooke whimpered, looking over Beckett’s shoulder. “Since he spent the evening celebrating your birthday, do you mind if I borrow your man to drive me to the clinic?” Only then did Beckett seem to remember my existence. He glanced back at the untouched cake on the table. “Happy birthday, Serena. I have to get Brooke to the hospital for a checkup. I won’t be back tonight.” After they left, I took a small bite of the cake. It was from the most highly recommended bakery in the city, but it didn’t taste sweet at all. But his absence was a relief. It gave me the quiet I needed to book my ticket out of here. Once the apartment was completely silent, I opened my phone and sent a message to my chief flight attendant. “Ma’am, I would like to submit my resignation.” The reply came back almost instantly, filled with surprise. “Are you sure, Serena? Weren’t you waiting for the airline’s special sky wedding package with Beckett? Your turn on the registry is coming up very soon.” The sky wedding. It was the dream that had kept me in this industry. Beckett had promised me years ago that the moment he became a captain, we would have our wedding in the clouds. But on the day of his promotion, the only recognition I received was a group photo he posted on social media. It featured him, Brooke, and me, with him leaning noticeably closer to Brooke. And just today, a video had gone viral on the local news showing a Seattle couple pulling off a breathtaking sky wedding. The couple in the video was Beckett and Brooke. He had already given her the dream he promised me. I let out a breathless, hollow laugh. “No need,” I typed back. “There was a change of plans. We won’t be needing the reservation anymore.” Beckett was gone for three days. During that time, he sent only two messages. The first was a complaint: “This is all because of that iced water you served. Brooke ended up with acute gastroenteritis.” The second was a brief notification: “She needs to stay in the hospital for a few more days. I’ve taken a week off to care for her. I won’t be coming home.” I didn’t reply to either of them. The next day, I went into the airline headquarters to finalize my transition paperwork. In the breakroom, a few colleagues were huddled together, whispering excitedly. “Did you hear? Captain Beckett and Brooke finally made it official.” “Honestly, it’s not like it was a secret. Everyone in the company knew they were the ultimate dream team. Have you seen Brooke’s latest post? Beckett looks so whipped cooking for her.” I stepped closer and glanced at the screen. The image showed Brooke flashing a peace sign close to the camera, while in the background, Beckett stood in an apron, preparing a elaborate meal. Her caption read: Having someone who remembers every single ingredient you dislike is enough for a lifetime. I hadn’t seen this post on my own feed. She had blocked me from viewing it. An elaborate home-cooked meal. In all our years together, Beckett had never lifted a finger in the kitchen, always insisting that he only loved the food I prepared. The few times he did cook, it was nothing more than a bowl of plain instant noodles with an egg. He would often throw in a handful of cilantro, which I absolutely despised, but I had always forced myself to eat it without complaining, just to keep him happy. Looking at the photo now, seeing how carefully he had prepared her favorite dishes, I realized he hadn’t forgotten my preferences. He was simply too accustomed to catering to Brooke’s. “Serena,” a young intern whispered, stepping up beside me. “Isn’t Beckett your boyfriend? Why is everyone calling Brooke his perfect match?” Before I could answer, an older flight attendant nudged her. “You’re way behind on the gossip. Serena and Beckett are just distant cousins.” I froze. I remembered the time Beckett had introduced me to his colleagues as his cousin. When I had confronted him, demanding to know why we couldn’t just tell people the truth, he had wrapped his arms around me and sighed. “The company has strict policies about workplace relationships, Serena. If word gets out, it will hurt my chances of promotion. Please, just try to understand.” And so, I understood. I understood for three long years. The first year, he said, “We just started, let’s keep things professional.” The second year, he said, “I’m up for captain, we need to avoid any rumors.” The third year, he pleaded, “Just do this for me, please?” He was always avoiding rumors, yet those rules never seemed to apply to Brooke. The entire airline knew them as the golden duo. They sat together in the cafeteria, and Brooke always took the seat next to him on the crew shuttle. No one ever asked about me. Compared to Brooke’s striking, polished beauty, my plain appearance made me entirely invisible. To everyone else, I was just “his cousin, Serena,” or “a childhood neighbor.” Ten years. We had known each other for a decade, and had been together for seven years, yet I had never once been granted a proper place in his life. After completing my resignation process, I returned to the apartment to pack. Beckett had called earlier to let me know Brooke was being discharged, and that he would be returning tomorrow. I pulled out my suitcase, only to realize how little of my presence actually existed in this apartment. Because Brooke visited so frequently, more than half of the closet was filled with her spare clothes. While other couples shared jewelry and keepsakes, the only piece of gold I owned was a small, hollow pendant. Yet, for Brooke’s birthday last month, Beckett had spent his entire monthly bonus to buy her a solid gold bracelet, complaining to me afterward, “She’s your best friend too. Why are you making me feel guilty about buying her a nice gift?” When I finished packing, my things didn’t even fill a single carry-on suitcase. As I sat on the floor, staring blankly at the small bag, my phone rang. The panicked voice of our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, came through the line. “Serena! Your father was in a terrible car accident! He’s in the emergency room at General Hospital, and they are desperately low on RH-negative blood! You need to get here right away!” My mind went completely blank. RH-negative is an extremely rare blood type. My father possessed it, but I had inherited my mother’s common blood type. In a panic, I remembered that Beckett shared my father’s rare blood type. I dialed his number immediately. “Beckett, my dad was in a bad accident. He needs a blood transfusion right now, and your blood type matches. Can you please come to the hospital?” Without waiting for me to finish, Beckett cut in. “Don’t panic, Serena. I’ll be right there.” I rushed to the hospital. But after twenty minutes of waiting, the nurse came out for the third time asking for a donor, and Beckett was still nowhere to be seen. My chest tightened with dread. I called him again. “Where are you? The doctors are asking for the blood.” “I’m almost there. Brooke’s dog suddenly collapsed, and it looks really bad. I’m helping her take it to the veterinary clinic, and then I’ll head straight to you. Just hold on.” “What?” I gasped, unable to believe what I was hearing. “It will only take twenty minutes. She’s hysterical right now. Just tell your dad to hang in there for a little bit, I’m almost—” “Beckett, you—” The line went dead before I could finish. When I tried to call back, he declined the call. The operating room doors swung open, and the nurse’s voice was sharp with urgency. “Have you found a donor yet? Your father’s blood pressure is dropping rapidly. If we don’t get the blood soon…” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, my heart hammering against my ribs. What was I supposed to do? Just as despair began to consume me, a face flashed in my mind. Nolan, our high school class president. During our school physicals, everyone had joked about how rare his blood type was. With trembling hands, I sent him a desperate message, though I felt a pang of guilt. Years ago, I had flatly rejected his feelings to be with Beckett. Why would he help me now? But ten minutes later, Nolan appeared at the end of the hallway, looking disheveled and completely out of breath. “Don’t cry,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “Take my blood. Everything is going to be okay.” After a tense few hours, the red light above the operating room finally switched off. “We got the blood in just in time,” the doctor said, smiling tiredly. “A few minutes later, and we would have lost him.” Nolan sat on a bench nearby, his face pale from the significant blood loss. I turned to thank him, but the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. “Serena! How is your dad?” Beckett walked up, looking slightly breathless. I looked at him, my expression entirely blank. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “The dog was in really bad shape, Serena. You know how Brooke is. She almost threw herself from her balcony when her last pet passed away. I couldn’t just leave her like that.” “Beckett.” I interrupted him. He blinked. “What?” “Let’s break up.”

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1 My wife is a world renowned chief neurosurgeon. Yet, in our eight years of marriage, she has never once written me a prescription or ordered a scan, even when my head felt like it was splitting open. Last week, her department hosted a symposium on the latest minimally invasive surgical techniques, and I attended as her spouse. Right in the center of the massive projector screen was a detailed slide analyzing a highly complex meningioma resection. My heart warmed, foolishly thinking she was finally preparing to operate on my own brain tumor. But a resident standing nearby whispered to another, “Dr. Rachel worked on this surgical plan for five long years. She oversaw every single simulation herself, staying up until dawn.” “I heard that for Lucas, she even handpicked every single layer of surgical gauze herself.” I stood frozen. Lucas. He was Rachel’s protégé, and ironically, the underprivileged medical student I had been personally sponsoring for the past three years. When we got home that night, I could not help but ask her, “Could you perform my tumor resection yourself?” She was busy scanning Lucas’s medical files and did not even bother to look up. “It is just a minor procedure. I have already booked the associate chief for you.” She was willing to spend five years perfecting a surgery for another man, while I could not even get ten minutes of her time for a proper consultation. That very night, I booked the earliest flight out. Since she chose to fight tooth and nail for her darling boy, I would grant her wish and fade away forever into the endless snow of Switzerland. … “Is it really alright for the next of kin signature line on this organ donation consent form to be left blank?” the coordinator’s voice on the phone was gentle. I opened my desk drawer and slipped the signed consent form into the hidden compartment of my suitcase. “My family is very busy. They do not have time to worry about whether I live or die.” “Mr. Scott, the tumor is pressing hard against your brainstem. You could suffer a fatal hemorrhage at any moment.” I stared calmly at the first winter snow drifting past the window. “It is fine. Let it be.” Hanging up, I pulled out the one way ticket to Switzerland. There were only four days left before my flight. At half past eleven that night, Rachel returned. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin in the crook of my neck. “You bought your ticket so early?” she murmured. “Once his surgery is over next week, I will take you to Switzerland to see the snow.” The sterile scent of hospital disinfectant clinging to her was laced with the rich, woody cologne Lucas always wore. I stared at the study wall, which was covered in CT scans of Lucas’s brain, and remained silent. Rachel let out a soft laugh, her warm breath brushing against my ear. “Why so tense? You barely even get a cold. Do not scare yourself. Lucas already looked at your scans, and he said it is just a tiny benign growth. You will be back on your feet three days after the surgery.” I froze. My wife was one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, yet she had let an unlicensed intern decide whether I lived or died. My voice felt dry and thick. “Is that what Dr. Bennett said too?” Rachel let go of me and walked over to the water dispenser. “Dr. Bennett has been swamped with his research team lately. I have not had the chance to show him your scans yet. But Lucas is incredibly sharp. He has a real gift for this.” Looking at her casual, uncaring expression, a wave of intense nausea hit me. Without warning, a sharp, white hot agony exploded deep inside my skull. I began to tremble violently, cold sweat instantly soaking through my pajamas. Rachel frowned, grabbing her coat and throwing it over my shoulders. “Are you cold even with the heater on full blast? Your health is really going downhill lately.” She did not even bother to look down at my deathly pale face. Suddenly, the phone on the desk rang. It was the custom ringtone she had set for Lucas. Rachel instantly put down her glass and swiped the screen. “Dr. Rachel, my head hurts so much, is the tumor pressing on my nerves again?” Lucas’s tearful, panicked voice drifted through the line. Hearing him cry, Rachel’s expression shifted instantly to sheer panic. “Don’t move. Take deep breaths. I am on my way.” The desperation in her voice made it sound as if she were facing the most critical exam of her life. She spun around and bolted for the door, not even pausing to button her coat. I reached out, my trembling fingers gripping her sleeve. “Rachel, tonight is our anniversary. Can you please stay?” She paused, looking back at me with a sigh. “Lucas is critically ill, Scott. You need to show some maturity as his sponsor.” I did not say a word, but my grip on her sleeve did not loosen. Rachel gently but firmly pried my fingers away. “I am just going to check his vitals. I will be right back.” The door slammed shut behind her. The moment she left, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor as a metallic, copper taste flooded my mouth. I coughed violently, splattering a dark pool of blood onto the pristine white rug. It was a terrifying, stark contrast. Yet, all I could hear was the echo of her marriage proposal eight years ago. “Scott, these hands of mine can hold a scalpel steady, and they will protect you for the rest of your life.” Back then, if I so much as nicked my finger slicing vegetables, she would panic and spend half an hour carefully dressing the tiny wound. My mind drifted to the medical report buried under a stack of magazines in the corner of the drawer. It was my official diagnosis: a malignant glioblastoma of the brainstem. But Rachel had never once looked inside that folder. I quietly wiped the blood from my lips and dragged my suitcase out from under the bed. The closet was packed with expensive clothes Rachel had bought me over the years: row after row of bespoke, high end suits. She had forgotten that I only wore casual clothes. But she remembered perfectly that Lucas loved tailored suits. I ripped the suits off their hangers, stuffing them ruthlessly into a trash bag. As I cleared out the drawers, a receipt fluttered to the floor. It was for a custom Patek Philippe watch. The engraving request read: “S & L”, Rachel and Lucas. I stared at the slip of paper. My eyes burned, but my heart remained uncannily quiet. I took a quick photo, crumpled the receipt into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash. My phone lit up with a text from Rachel: “Lucas is highly unstable tonight. I need to stay at the hospital to monitor him. Go to sleep early.” It was not until the morning sun began to pierce through the curtains that I realized I had been sitting in the dark all night. I washed my face, splashed cold water over my tired eyes, and hailed a cab to the hospital. As I walked past the courtyard outside the inpatient ward, I stopped. The winter sun was bright and crisp. Rachel was gently pushing Lucas in his wheelchair, letting him soak in the morning warmth. Over his hospital gown, Lucas was wearing Rachel’s expensive, custom made woolen coat. “Scott, hey! What brings you to the hospital?” Lucas looked up at me, his smile radiating pure, simulated innocence. “Dr. Rachel stayed by my side all night. She even insisted on feeding me water herself, even though I told her I could manage.” Passing nurses cast curious glances our way. Rachel did not correct him. She simply leaned down to tuck the coat closer around his shoulders. “I told you, Scott, Lucas should not be under any stress right now,” she said, her voice cool. “Please do not bring your drama here and pressure him.” I stared at the woman I had loved with every fiber of my being for eight years. Her immediate, instinctive reaction was to assume I was here to pick a fight. I pointed toward the main building. “I am just here for a follow up.” Lucas gasped, covering his mouth. “A follow up for a tiny benign tumor? Is not that overkill?” As he spoke, he casually lifted his wrist to adjust his sleeve. In the bright morning light, the gold face of the custom watch gleamed, the engravings “S & L” clearly visible. “Do you like it? Dr. Rachel said since I have a major surgery coming up, she wanted to buy me a little something to keep my spirits up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black credit card, twirling it between his fingers. “She has been covering all my tuition and living expenses these past few years. You do not mind, do you?” I recognized that card instantly. It was the joint account card I had set up specifically for charity. Three years ago, Rachel had introduced Lucas to me, calling him a brilliant but impoverished medical student. Seeing a shadow of Rachel’s younger self in his features, I had not hesitated to finance his entire education. I took a step forward, grabbed Lucas’s wrist, and unclasped the watch strap. I let the expensive timepiece slide off his arm and smash onto the concrete. A crisp, sharp crack echoed through the quiet courtyard. Rachel’s face hardened, but for once, her tone softened slightly. “Why are you acting out like this today? I already spoke to Dr. Bennett about your procedure. Stop making a scene. Or, if you can wait a little longer, I will perform the surgery myself after I am finished with Lucas’s.” Looking at her pitying, patronizing expression, a bitter pang struck my chest. “Wait? Why is it always me who has to wait?” Rachel offered her usual, clinical justification. “His condition is far more urgent. Besides, yours is just a minor growth. A few days’ delay will not kill you.” I nodded slowly and turned on my heel. “Alright. Remember what you said today.” “Scott! Stop right there!” Rachel called out, but I did not slow down. In the consultation room, Dr. Bennett looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “Rachel only mentioned in passing that you had a tiny cyst and asked me to take a quick look when I had a moment. She has not actually sent me your scans yet.” She had not even booked an appointment for me. It was just a casual afterthought. I nodded and pushed the refusal of treatment form across his desk. “There is no need to look at them anymore. Could you please export my electronic medical files to a flash drive?” Dr. Bennett’s eyes widened as he read the document, his face turning pale. “Scott, this is no joking matter! Do you have any idea…” “I have already signed it. It is legally binding,” I interrupted softly, packing the documents into my bag. Leaving the hospital, I drove straight to a law firm. “Mr. Scott, are you absolutely certain you want to liquidate all your assets, including the estate, and donate everything to charity?” the attorney asked, seeking confirmation for the third time. That estate was the house Rachel had gifted me when she proposed. It had been our home for seven years. “I am certain.” I signed my name with a steady hand. Back home, I pulled out several large cardboard boxes and began erasing every trace of my existence. My easel, my paints, and the oil landscapes that lined the walls, memories of our once happy life, were packed up and shipped to local charities. The house emptied out piece by piece, mirroring the growing void in my chest. I sat on the bare living room floor, quietly watching the snow begin to fall outside. “Rachel, I will not be waiting for your surgery after all.” Three days remained before my flight. Perhaps Rachel had finally sensed something was wrong. Breaking her usual routine, she came home early, holding a bouquet of white bellflowers, my favorite. She stopped in her tracks, staring at the half empty living room. “Where did all our furniture go?” I sat on the remaining sofa, motionless. “Just clearing out some old clutter. I donated it.” Rachel did not press further. She walked over and handed me the flowers, her voice softening into the gentle tone she used to have during our early years of marriage. “I am sorry about my attitude the other day. I was out of line.” She sat beside me, reaching out to wrap an arm around my shoulder. “Lucas’s surgical plan is finally locked in. I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.” “Once his operation is done, I will take you to Switzerland for that ski trip you have always wanted.” I subtly leaned away from her touch and took the bouquet. The petals were fresh, dotted with morning dew. But as I adjusted the stems, a gold embossed card slipped out and fell onto the floor. Written in elegant, flowing script was a single line: “Wishing you a speedy recovery, Lucas. Love, Rachel.” The room fell into a heavy silence. Rachel’s expression faltered, and she snatched the card off the floor. “The florist must have mixed them up. I ordered two bouquets,” she muttered, her explanation thin and unconvincing. “One was for you, and the other was from the department for Lucas.” I did not call her out on her lies. I just watched her perform. “Would a department card be signed ‘Love, Rachel’?” Rachel snapped, standing up abruptly. “Scott, I swallowed my pride to come home and apologize. What more do you want from me?” I did not have the energy to argue. I pulled a document from the drawer and handed it to her. “Since you are here, sign this.” She frowned as she took it. “Marital Asset Transfer Agreement?” I offered a casual lie. “I am looking into a new venture and need to mitigate some financial risks.” Without reading a single line, she flipped to the back page and scribbled her signature. She tossed the pen onto the coffee table, her tone shifting back to dismissive ease. “You need to grow up, Scott. Operating all day is exhausting. Home is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a battleground. You really need to learn how to be a supportive partner.” A supportive partner? The words felt like a cruel joke. Before I could reply, her phone rang. It was an urgent call from the hospital. She answered, and her face went instantly pale. “What do you mean his pre op vitals are unstable? His blood pressure is dropping? I am on my way!” Without a second thought, she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I sat there, calling her name one last time. “Rachel.” She stopped at the entryway, turning back with a look of pure exasperation. “What now?” “If I were to die tonight, would you still leave?” Rachel stared at me, her eyes flashing with disbelief and anger. “Have you lost your mind? I spend every day saving lives, fighting for seconds. Do you really have to resort to faking an illness just to get my attention?” Right then, the agony in my skull flared up with monstrous force. The pain dragged me off the couch, sending me crashing onto the hardwood floor. Rachel looked down at me coldly. “This act again? Fine, play act all you want.” The door slammed shut. The pain made it impossible to breathe. Cold sweat instantly drenched my clothes as I lay there, enduring the agonizing torment for three endless hours in the dark. I did not call for help. I knew the only person who could save me was currently cradling another man at his bedside. When the pain finally subsided into a dull throb, I dragged myself up and texted my lawyer: “She signed the papers. Proceed with the transfer tomorrow.” Then, I picked up the bouquet of white flowers and the romantic card, throwing them both into the trash. “Rachel,” I whispered into the quiet room, “you better pray he is actually dying. Otherwise, my life is a terribly high price to pay for your little game.” The next morning, my screen lit up with an incoming image from Lucas. It showed Rachel curled up on the hospital room sofa, fast asleep under Lucas’s blue blanket. The caption read: “Dr. Rachel wore herself out helping me prep for surgery last night. Do not be mad, Scott.” Looking at the photo, even the lingering trace of heartache vanished. I slipped the wedding band off my finger, walked into the study, and placed it beneath her prized “Outstanding Young Physician” trophy. Beside it, I laid the divorce papers she had unknowingly signed the night before. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the front door, leaving behind the house that had been my prison for seven years. I did not look back. The snow fell thicker on my way to the airport. Today was the day Rachel would perform her career defining surgery on Lucas. She had spent five years prepping for this moment, and the entire medical community was watching. I sat alone in the departure terminal. I was so weak that standing was an ordeal, so I leaned back in an airport provided wheelchair. “Sir, your flight begins boarding in thirty minutes. Would you like me to wheel you over?” an attendant asked. “Thank you, but I would like to wait a bit longer.” I watched the ground crew clear the snow off the runway as planes took off into the gray sky. Thirty minutes left. Across town at the medical center, Rachel would already be scrubbing in. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It was the first time in seven years I had ever disturbed her during work. It rang so long I thought she would ignore it, but then the line clicked open. “What is it?” Rachel hissed, her voice hushed but dripping with annoyance. “I am scrubbing in. Whatever it is, it can wait until tonight.” In the background, a nurse called out, “Dr. Rachel, anesthesia is ready.” I listened quietly. For once, I did not apologize or hang up. “Rachel,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. There was a brief pause on the other end. “Scott, what is wrong with you today? Lucas’s surgery requires absolute focus. Do you have any idea how critical this is for my career?” Yes, I knew. If this succeeded, she would become the youngest prominent neurosurgeon in the country. “I know,” I murmured, watching the snow blanket the tarmac. “I only called to tell you one thing.” Rachel exhaled sharply, clearly at the limit of her patience. “Make it quick.” I closed my eyes as a single tear escaped, instantly chilled by the air. “I hope the surgery goes well.” The line went dead with a sharp click. I smiled faintly, wrapping my coat tighter around my shoulders. “You can take me to the gate now,” I told the attendant. The wheelchair glided forward, moving toward the gate, and toward the quiet end of my journey.

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