I bought four roasted duck legs, and my son ate two of them. When he saw me pick one up for myself, his face flushed with anxiety. “Why didn’t you save any for Dad?” I was confused. “There’s still one left for him on the plate, isn’t there?” He was on the verge of tears, reaching out to snatch the duck leg I had just taken a bite of. “Couldn’t you have saved two for Dad?” I froze. So in his eyes, I had no right to eat the duck legs I had personally bought and cooked? 1 For a moment, I couldn’t believe the words coming out of the son I had raised with my own two hands. I thought maybe he just hadn’t seen clearly. I explained to him, “There were four in total. You had two, I’m having one, and we saved one for Dad.” He dodged the point. “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” I was baffled. “Tell you what?” He raised his voice, shouting, “You were supposed to tell me before you ate it! How else was I supposed to know you took one?” I was struggling to understand. “I have to ask for your permission to eat a duck leg now?” His face turned crimson with anger. “Are you crazy? Stop changing the subject and answer my question! Why didn’t you save more for Dad?” I pointed to the plate. “I did. There’s one right there.” He looked as if he’d been deeply wronged, wiping away tears as he said resentfully, “Why didn’t you save two for him?” I was dumbstruck. So he wasn’t bad at math. I suppressed my anger and questioned him, “So, in your opinion, is Mommy not even allowed to eat a single duck leg?” He didn’t answer, just stood there with his chin up and his neck stiff, looking sympathetically toward his father. “Dad works so hard every day, of course he should get an extra one. You could just eat something else. Why do you have to fight him for it? Can’t you stop being so selfish for once?” At this, my husband, Mark, who had been sitting by silently, grinned and pushed the plate of duck legs closer to our son, Alex. Alex’s eyes immediately welled up again, his lip trembling as if his suffering had just been validated. It finally clicked. I looked at the child I had painstakingly raised, my voice filled with disbelief. “So Mommy doesn’t work hard? Mommy goes to work every day, does all the housework, and takes care of you. Isn’t Mommy tired? Doesn’t she deserve to eat one single duck leg?” He said nothing, just kept wiping his tears away. Seeing this, my husband finally decided to speak, playing the peacemaker. “Alright, alright, why are you arguing with a child? He’s so young, what does he know? He’s just fooling around with you.” 2 I stared silently at the dishes on the table. Every day after work, I’d rush to the market, always picking the freshest, most expensive ingredients, terrified that anything less would affect my son’s health. Then I’d race back home to get dinner on the table before he returned from school, just so he wouldn’t have to wait hungry. Every morning, a neatly folded set of clean clothes was waiting for him by his bed. The house was always spotless, a result of me fighting off sleep every night to clean. The snacks, the fruit, the household supplies—they never ran out, and he never once wondered where they came from. He was used to it, so he never saw it. He only saw his father leaving early and coming home late from “work.” A knot of pain tightened in my chest. I couldn’t help but ask him, “Mommy is very tired and works very hard, too.” He pushed the plate back toward his father, his tone dismissive. “You barely make any money. How hard can your job be?” “Dad is the pillar of this family. He’s the one who works the hardest.” My eyes locked onto my husband, Mark. He looked away guiltily, forcing a laugh. “Anna, don’t take it out on the kid.” His job was a cushy, low-stress position, and his salary was significantly lower than mine. But he’d always said that a father needed to maintain a strong, positive image to encourage his son to become a responsible, upstanding man. So, he lied to Alex about his income, inflating his own while drastically downplaying mine. I thought it was for our child’s benefit, so I never said anything. I never imagined that in my son’s eyes, his father was the sole provider, and I was just a pathetic freeloader who didn’t even deserve a duck leg. The thought made my anger boil over. I swept my arm across the table, sending dishes crashing to the floor. “Then nobody eats!” Mark gasped. “Anna! Are you insane?” I laughed coldly. “If I don’t go insane, I’ll probably end up not being allowed to eat at all in this house.” My son shrieked and hid behind Mark. “The tigress is on a rampage again!” Tigress? Is that what they called me behind my back? Mark looked uncomfortable and turned away, pretending to scold our son. “How can you talk about your mother like that?” Alex didn’t care. He ran over, shoved me hard, then ducked back behind his father and made a face at me. A chilling cold spread through my heart. This was the child I had carried for ten months and raised with my own hands? When he was born, he was frail and sickly, constantly in and out of the hospital. Mark always had an excuse, an “urgent meeting,” leaving me to take him to the emergency room alone in the middle of the night. My milk supply was low, so I spent hours researching and preparing nutritious baby food to make him strong. And now, he was indeed strong. Strong enough to push me onto the sofa with one shove. It didn’t hurt physically, but my heart felt like it had been stabbed. Clutching my chest, I went back to the bedroom. 3 Lying in bed, I couldn’t understand how things had gotten to this point. Mark had stopped “working late” around the time Alex started recognizing faces. He’d come home early, bringing little toys and playing wildly with Alex until I had dinner ready. Then, his tone would change. “Okay, okay, time to eat, or Mommy’s going to get angry.” And the two of them would go wash their hands, giggling together. At the time, I thought it was wonderful. I thought he was a good, family-oriented man who was willing to play with his son. But thinking back… Why was I always the villain? “Hurry up and eat, or Mommy will get mad.” “Stop fooling around, you’ll make Mommy upset.” “Still playing? Just wait until your mother comes to deal with you!” “No, Mommy won’t let you eat that.” “Mommy won’t let us go.” “Here comes Mommy to get you…” … I had never hit him, never even yelled at him. Yet “Mommy” was always the consequence, the threat that followed every restriction and every unpleasant moment. And “Daddy” had neatly extracted himself, comfortably playing the “good guy.” Soon, Mark came in to “talk” to me. Every time Alex and I had a conflict, he would play the mediator. To Alex, he’d say, “Your mom’s just got a temper. All women are like that. You be the bigger person and let it go.” To me, he’d say, “Kids don’t mean what they say. It’s our job as parents to teach them. He was so upset he was crying just now, you shouldn’t hold it against him.” My heart would ache for my son, and listening to Mark, I’d start to feel like it was my fault he wasn’t being raised right. Guilt would wash over me. I’d reflect on my actions and then go make up with Alex. Over time, this became our routine. Right now, Alex was sitting in the living room like a little prince, waiting for me to come and appease him. And Mark, as usual, started his tirade of clichés. Before, I would just stew in my anger and not pay him much attention. But this time, I watched him quietly. And I saw it. In his eyes, there was excitement. A strange sense of triumph. He was happy. He was proud that his son was so devoted to him, so much so that he would belittle and even attack his own mother. He was enjoying this. How had I never noticed it before? He talked until his mouth was dry, but it was all the same: invalidating my feelings and emotionally blackmailing me. I gradually began to see his true intention. He was showing off. Showing off how close he was with our son, while I, the actual mother, was treated with contempt. But hidden within that pride was a sliver of jealousy I couldn’t quite place. I didn’t understand. We were a family. My salary paid for them, for this home. What was he jealous of? He was the one who couldn’t handle a demanding job and chose the easier, lower-paying one. 4 After waiting a long time for me to come and grovel, Alex started throwing a tantrum in the living room, breaking things. Specifically, my things. When I walked out, he was using a small knife to slash at my handbag. Mark glanced at my face and quickly rushed over to play the good guy. “Quick, apologize to your mother. If you apologize, she won’t be mad anymore.” I picked up the ruined bag. I had worked on a project for months, and I’d used my bonus to finally treat myself to this. Alex huffed. “She makes so little, and she has the nerve to make you buy her such an expensive bag. Dad, you just spoil her too much.” I had to laugh. I threw the bag at Mark’s feet. “You bought this for me?” He avoided the question, pulling Alex behind him. “Don’t drag the child into our problems. He’s still young.” Alex was immediately moved, hugging Mark’s arm tightly. “Dad, just divorce her. We don’t need this tigress.” Mark’s expression stiffened. He cleared his throat and ruffled Alex’s hair. “What are you talking about? Mom and Dad would never get a divorce. We’d never separate, especially not for your sake.” Alex snorted in my direction. “You’re just lucky you found a husband like my dad, who’s willing to support you.” The two of them exchanged a smile. Mark ushered Alex into his room, then turned to face the mess, sighing dramatically. “Anna, you’re a mother now. Can’t you be more mature? Look at this place, what a mess.” I pressed him. “You said you bought this bag?” He looked down. “It’s just a bag. Do you really have to be so petty?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “You’re right. It’s just a bag. So buy me a new one.” He scoffed. “Fine, I’ll buy it. It’s not like I’ve never bought you anything before.” True. He had bought me things. An apron for International Women’s Day. Laundry detergent for Mother’s Day. A rice cooker for my birthday. He looked a little embarrassed, pulling out his phone to order one. “Is that what this is about? You just wanted a gift? I’ll get it for you, you don’t have to be so relentless.” But his face changed when he saw the price. He jumped to his feet. He pointed a finger at me, yelling, “Anna! How can you be so wasteful!” Hearing the commotion, Alex ran out, crossing his arms and sneering. “See? I told you. She’s just a lazy, wasteful woman.” I glared at him. He glared back defiantly. “I’m not wrong! You spend Dad’s money on bags and makeup for yourself, but you won’t even save him a duck leg! You’re so selfish! How can you be so shameless? I’m so embarrassed to have a mother like you.” 5 Without a moment’s hesitation, I slapped him across the face. He was too stunned to react, just stared at me blankly. It was the first time in his life I had ever laid a hand on him. After a few seconds, his face contorted with rage, and he pointed his finger right at my nose. “You hit me!” I slapped his pointing hand down. Furious, he tried to head-butt me. I sidestepped, and he slammed his head into a cabinet. He burst into tears. “Dad, Mommy’s bullying me! Go hit her!” Mark rushed to hug him, then roared at me, “What is wrong with you tonight? Do you have to turn this house upside down?” “Is it all because of a stupid duck leg? Fine! Alex and I won’t eat them! You can have them all, is that what you want?” I walked right up to Mark. He snorted, lifting his chin, as if waiting for me to back down and apologize. After all, I was always the one who compromised for the sake of our family, for our son. I stopped in front of him. I raised my hand. And I slapped him, hard, across the face. “I was so focused on the kid, I forgot about you.” 6 Mark looked up, stunned. “You hit me.” I picked up my ruined handbag. I had just gotten a promotion. I needed something professional for client meetings, so I had saved for a long time before finally splurging on this bag. I was always so careful with it. Now, it was covered in scratches. He felt I didn’t deserve it, just like he felt I didn’t deserve a single duck leg. I held up the bag, my eyes filled with disappointment as I looked at Mark. “Let’s get a divorce.” Children are incredibly perceptive. Mark’s tacit approval of our son’s behavior, coupled with his own teasing put-downs of me, had shown Alex that my position in the family was at the very bottom. That I could be treated however they pleased. That’s why he felt I didn’t deserve nice things. He had become this way because of his father’s influence. Mark panicked, forgetting his swollen cheek. “Honey, we were just kidding around, don’t take it so seriously. Why are you talking about divorce over something so small? Think about how it will affect Alex’s mental health.” In the past, any mention of our son would make me back down. But now, I glanced at the boy who had absolutely no room for me in his heart and let out a cold laugh. “Isn’t this what our good son suggested? Don’t you always say we should respect our child’s wishes? Well, I’m just doing what he wants.” He was speechless for a moment, then frowned at Alex. “That’s not what I meant. Look at you, always blowing things out of proportion. Can’t you take a joke?” Alex snuggled into his father’s arms, glaring at me. “Dad, don’t give her another chance. Divorce her. I’d like to see how she survives without us. She’ll regret it then.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. I looked at Mark and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure without a burden like me holding you back, the two of you will live like kings.” Alex pumped his fist in the air. “We will! And when you come crawling back, you tigress, we won’t take you back!” Mark awkwardly tried to quiet him. “That’s enough.” Alex didn’t know the truth, but Mark certainly did. I bought everything for the house. I paid for all the monthly expenses. His salary was just his own pocket money. 7 The next morning, the house was clean, and breakfast was on the table. Mark, wearing an apron, was acting as if nothing had happened. “Honey, breakfast is ready,” he said with a cheerful smile. I was taken aback. The last time he’d been this helpful was when I was pregnant. Back then, I thought I was so lucky to have found such a caring husband. After our son was born, he never set foot in the kitchen or lifted a finger to clean again. As I ate, Alex glared at me resentfully from across the table. “You’re a woman making a man do housework. Have you no shame?” “If other people find out, they’ll call Dad henpecked.” “Besides, this is all your job. Don’t keep bothering Dad. Even if he spoils you, you can’t just take it for granted. At least say thank you. You have no manners.” “Can you just stop making trouble? Let Dad have some peace. He works so hard to support us, it’s already hard enough for him.” I looked at the son I had raised for ten years, and a deep chill settled in my heart. Did he have no empathy for the mother who gave birth to him and raised him? Mark cleans the house and makes breakfast one time, and my son’s heart breaks for him. What about me? I had cooked for him for ten years—three meals a day, his clothes, his home, everything taken care of—why had he never felt sorry for me? Why had he never once said thank you? The boy I once thought was lively and cute suddenly seemed monstrous. I looked down at my plate, unable to look at him any longer. After breakfast, I walked out of the bedroom with a suitcase. Mark stared at me. “What are you doing?” I said flatly, “I’m serious about the divorce.” He rushed to grab my suitcase. “No, I don’t agree. I’m not divorcing you.” But Alex pulled on his arm, a happy look on his face. “Dad, let her go! You’re handsome, gentle, caring, and you make good money. You can find any woman you want without her.” “Let her go. Once she’s gone, she’ll realize how good she had it here. She can just wait and regret it.” I snorted and looked at Mark. He was decent-looking, I suppose. As for gentle and caring… please. I walked out the door with my suitcase. The moment it clicked shut, I could still hear Alex chattering on to his father about all the benefits of divorcing me. And on Mark’s face, a look of pure bewilderment.

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I went undercover at the company my sister owns. Three months into my internship, HR informed me that I wouldn’t be offered a full-time position. And that they were docking my entire probationary salary. “The reason?” “You took three days off.” I had to stop myself from laughing. “First, it was bereavement leave.” “Second, I followed all legal procedures.” “Third…” I turned my head and looked at Ryan, another intern from my cohort. “He took a total of twenty-one days off to take care of his girlfriend’s period cramps.” “On what grounds was he offered a full-time position?” The HR manager shot me a look of pure contempt. “This company is his family’s. On what grounds do you think?” “Besides, his girlfriend has severe cramps. It can be life-threatening.” “You? It was just your grandmother who died. What right do you have to take time off?” 1 On the last day of my internship, I was summoned to the office of Sharon, the HR manager. “Cole, your application for a full-time position has been denied by the company.” I wasn’t surprised by the outcome. “Furthermore,” she continued, a smug look on her face, “due to your excessive absences during the probationary period, which severely impacted your work progress, your entire three-month intern salary will be forfeited as per company policy.” This time, I did laugh out loud. “Sharon, I’m going to need an explanation.” My reaction seemed to infuriate her. She sat bolt upright, her sharp, narrow eyes fixing on me like a hawk. “An explanation? What is there to explain? It’s written in black and white: absences cannot exceed two days. How many did you take?” “Three,” I answered calmly. “First, it was bereavement leave for my grandmother, which is a legally protected right.” “Second, I submitted all the required documentation, and it was approved by my department supervisor.” “Third…” My gaze drifted past her to a figure clowning around with colleagues just outside her office. “Ryan, who started at the same time as me, took three separate leaves of absence over the last three months, each one for seven days, to care for his girlfriend during her period. That’s twenty-one days total. Why was his position made permanent?” Sharon scoffed, leaning back in her chair with an air of lazy superiority. “Cole, did your internship turn your brain to mush? You’re comparing yourself to Ryan?” “Don’t you ever bother to find out who runs this place?” “Besides,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain, “Ryan’s girlfriend has menstrual pain. It’s excruciating. It could affect their ability to have children one day. That’s a serious matter. And you?” She looked me up and down, her lip curling. “It was just your grandmother who died.” “Old people die. It’s not a big deal. Was that really worth taking three days off? So dramatic.” I lowered my eyes and stopped arguing. As she continued her tirade of sharp, petty insults, I silently reached into my pocket. My finger slid along the side of my phone and pressed the lock button. Just before the screen went dark, I saw it clearly: the bright red, pulsing timer of a voice recording. Perfect. I had all the evidence I needed. 2 I walked back to my desk in the Marketing Department, my expression blank, my water bottle in hand. The usually bustling office fell silent. Every eye in the room swiveled toward me like a searchlight. I could sense the pity, the curiosity, but mostly, the schadenfreude. The low hum of whispers was like the buzzing of flies. I ignored them all and walked straight to my desk to pack my things. My keyboard, my mousepad, a coffee mug I’d had for three years, a few textbooks. My fingers paused as I picked up the proposal for “The Starlight Initiative.” This plan, born from countless sleepless nights, had ended up being the crowning achievement on Ryan’s resume. I remembered it vividly. My direct supervisor, Greg—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline whose favorite phrase was “better to let sleeping dogs lie”—had presented the proposal to Ryan in front of the entire department, praising him for his “raw talent and promising future.” And me, the actual creator, had received a dismissive, “Cole contributed as well. Keep up the good work.” All of this happened because everyone in the office was convinced that Ryan was the CEO’s fiancé. “Hey, Cole, what are you doing?” Ryan sauntered over, looking down at me with a disgusting, feigned surprise. “Packing up so suddenly? Did Sharon say something harsh?” “Don’t take it to heart. Her bark is worse than her bite.” He reached out to hold down the flaps of my cardboard box, but I sidestepped him. I couldn’t be bothered to look at him, continuing to sweep the last of my belongings into the box. He seemed to lose interest, his voice taking on the gloating tone of a victor. “Well, don’t feel too bad about it. Just because you didn’t make it here doesn’t mean you won’t make it somewhere else. Tell you what, in a few days, I’ll have my girlfriend keep an eye out for you, find you a good job somewhere. How does that sound?” I finally stopped and looked up at him, saying nothing. My direct gaze seemed to make him uncomfortable, but he puffed out his chest anyway. I picked up my box, turned, and walked away. “Cole!” Jenny from reception ran over and grabbed my arm, her eyes red. “They’re being awful! This is just bullying!” Jenny was the only person in the company who had treated me like a friend. I patted the back of her hand and discreetly slipped the digital recorder into her pocket. “Keep this safe for me,” I whispered. She blinked, then nodded firmly. I didn’t look back again. I walked toward the elevator, one step at a time, the box in my arms. As I passed the large glass wall of the office, I could see the faces inside, all scheming and self-satisfied. The elevator doors slid shut, sealing me off from their world. 3 Three days later was the company’s welcome gala for new employees. I had no intention of going. An intern who’d just been fired attending a party to welcome himself sounded like a bad joke. But Jenny’s calls kept coming, one after another, until my phone was about to die. “Cole, are you really not coming?” “The food is free! It’s a waste not to eat it!” I looked at my pale face in the mirror. The refusal was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it. Maybe I should go. Maybe I should see Ryan in his moment of triumph, accepting everyone’s congratulations. Before I could decide, I received an unexpected call. It was my sister, Seraphina. “Cole, where are you?” Her voice on the other end was familiar—a little tired, but as steady as ever. “At home. Sis, aren’t you supposed to be in Europe for business? Did you finish early?” “Change of plans. I just landed.” She paused, a hint of a smile in her voice. “I have a surprise for you tonight. A gift, to celebrate my little brother’s successful new job.” My stomach dropped. “What kind of surprise?” “I’m not telling you yet. Get ready. I’m on my way to pick you up.” She hung up before I could ask anything else. I stared at the dark screen of my phone, a sense of foreboding creeping over me. Meanwhile, in the grand ballroom of the Starlight Hotel, the gala was in full swing. Seraphina, dressed in an elegant, custom-made gown, captured every eye in the room the moment she entered. Her presence seemed to suck the air out of the room for a few seconds. No one had expected the rarely-seen, almost mythical CEO to personally attend a simple welcome party for new hires. She ignored the executives who rushed over to greet her, her sharp gaze sweeping across the room as if searching for someone. Once. Twice. A slight frown creased her brow. Cole wasn’t here. Her eyes finally settled on the reception desk area, where she spotted a familiar face—Jenny. She knew about Jenny; Cole had mentioned she was his only real friend at the company. Seraphina strode toward her. “Ms. Vance!” Jenny was so startled she nearly dropped her champagne flute. She shot to her feet, a nervous wreck. “Where is Cole?” Seraphina’s question was direct. Her voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable weight of authority. “C-Cole… he…” Jenny’s eyes darted around nervously. “He… he wasn’t feeling well today, so… so he didn’t come.” Seraphina stared at her, her fingers unconsciously twisting the ring on her finger. “Not feeling well?” she repeated, her tone unreadable. “I just spoke to him on the phone a few minutes ago. He didn’t mention anything about not feeling well.” The color drained from Jenny’s face. Her lips trembled, but no words came out. Her reaction was more telling than any excuse. Seraphina’s heart sank. Something was wrong. 4 Just as Seraphina’s patience was wearing thin, the ballroom lights dimmed. A single spotlight hit the center of the stage. The host cheerfully announced that the welcome gala had officially begun. HR Manager Sharon, dressed in a brand-new suit, walked onto the stage, beaming. She savored the attention, cleared her throat, and began in a dramatic, sing-song voice. “Good evening, leaders, colleagues, and friends!” “Today is a day for celebration, a day we welcome fresh talent into our company.” “After three months of rigorous evaluation, a group of outstanding interns has distinguished themselves and will now officially join our big family!” Polite applause rippled through the room. Seraphina sat in the VIP section in the corner, her fingers tightening around her wine glass, her icy gaze locked on Sharon. “And now, I will announce the names of the interns who have successfully been offered full-time positions!” Sharon’s voice rose with unconcealed pride. She lifted her cue card. “From the Tech Department, Kevin Wang and Michael Lee…” “From Administration, Jessica Zhao…” With each name, a small pocket of cheers and applause would erupt from the crowd. But Seraphina’s expression grew darker by the second. The atmosphere around her became so cold that several executives who had planned to offer her a toast thought better of it and stayed away. “And finally,” Sharon drew out the word, a sycophantic grin plastered on her face, “I want to introduce a true prodigy from our Marketing Department. Not only did he contribute several brilliant ideas during his internship, but his performance was leagues ahead of everyone else. He is the future star of our company—Ryan!” The spotlight instantly swung to Ryan in the audience. He rose gracefully from his seat, dressed in a designer suit, and waved to his colleagues with the smug, self-assured air of a winner. The entire room erupted in the loudest applause of the night. Sharon continued to gush from the stage. “Mr. Ryan’s excellence is clear for all to see! His joining our team will undoubtedly bring a new wave of energy to the Vance Corporation! Let’s give him one more round of applause to officially welcome him aboard!” The applause was thunderous. Seraphina’s gaze swept over Ryan without lingering, then returned to Sharon’s face. She listened silently. She listened until Sharon closed her cue card and, with a triumphant smile, announced, “That concludes the list.” She had not heard the name she was waiting for. Cole. Her brother, Cole’s name, was not on the list.

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After our daughter died, I removed every part of myself that my husband—head of a global arms syndicate—had despised. I stopped questioning his whereabouts. When he stayed out all night, I slept soundly. When I was injured in an explosion, the surgeon told me to notify my family. I simply said, “I have no family.” A nurse recognized me. “You’re Mrs. Ivanov, aren’t you? Roman is right next door. Should I tell him you’re here?” I shook my head softly. No. Half an hour later, Roman arrived anyway. His sharp features were tense, his presence heavy with hostility, like gunpowder smoke. His voice was low and cold. “You’re hurt. Why didn’t you call me?” I lowered my eyes. “Just a graze from shrapnel. I’ll live.” My detached tone seemed to irritate him. He was about to speak when the guards’ conversation drifted in. “The boss is really something with Miss Isabelle. She just twisted her ankle, and he called a helicopter. Carried her on and off himself, wouldn’t even let her feet touch the ground.” Roman’s heart clenched. His eyes darted toward me, expecting the storm of questions and accusations my old self would have thrown at him. But I didn’t flinch. I just leaned back against the bed and closed my eyes to rest. … The pressure in the room dropped several degrees. Roman’s voice was a low growl of an explanation. “Don’t listen to their gossip. Isabelle is a key specialist on the compound. An injury could compromise the mission. It was purely professional.” I gave a soft, “Mm-hmm,” and said nothing more. A sudden rage flashed in his eyes. “You don’t believe me?” “I believe you.” I answered every word, but my heart wasn’t in any of them. “Isabelle is your protégée, your subordinate. It’s only natural for you to look out for her.” A volatile pressure built in his chest. This was wrong. All of it was wrong. Just then, the clatter of falling medical equipment echoed from the hallway. Isabelle was clinging to the wall, stumbling dramatically right at my doorway. Roman was at her side in an instant, sweeping her into his arms. “What are you doing wandering around? I told you to stay in bed.” “I heard the Madame was hurt.” Isabelle’s eyes, shimmering with tears, fixed on me. “I came to see how she was.” Then she shrank into Roman’s embrace as if I were some kind of monster, her voice breaking. “Sera, please don’t hate me… I never meant for what happened to Lily to happen.” The old me would have been hysterical. I would have grabbed Roman by the collar, screaming, demanding to know why he was protecting the woman who killed our daughter. But now, I said nothing. I just stared quietly at the ceiling. Roman’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I’m taking her back to her room. I’ll be right back.” He turned and left, carrying Isabelle. He never came back that night. Instead, a call came from the Defense Technology Agency. “Engineer Ross, are you certain you want to join the ‘Aegis’ project? This is top secret. Once you’re in, you’ll be stationed at the research base for a minimum of twenty years, completely cut off from the outside world. That includes your husband.” “I’m certain,” my voice was flat. The person on the other end hesitated. “Understood. You have three days to withdraw your application if you change your mind. We know how much Mr. Ivanov used to mean to you…” I didn’t let him finish. “I won’t change my mind. Because I don’t love him anymore.” The words had barely left my lips when the door was thrown open. Roman stood there, his eyes chips of ice, his voice laced with danger. “Don’t love me? Seraphina, say that again.” Hearing the noise, I silently ended the call and feigned sleep, my eyes shut tight. Roman stalked closer, a frigid aura rolling off him, but he stopped short when he saw my closed eyes. She was talking in her sleep. His brow relaxed slightly, but the nameless fire inside him only burned hotter. Even in her dreams, he wouldn’t allow me to erase him. He grabbed my wrist, shaking me awake. “Sera, were you having a nightmare?” I looked down. “I dreamt of Lily.” A sharp pain lanced through Roman’s heart. He pulled me into his arms, his voice hoarse. “Sera, we can have more children. Lots of them.” I didn’t respond. My heart was a barren wasteland, too dry even for tears. My daughter was dead. Did he think another child could just replace her, as if nothing ever happened? “Roman, why are you here so late?” He stiffened, his expression turning slightly unnatural. “Sera… Isabelle’s stomach is bothering her. She was hoping for some of the calming broth you make.” My body went rigid, a chill seeping into my bones. I had just survived an explosion, with shrapnel still embedded in my skin, and he was waking me in the middle of the night to make soup for another woman. A humorless smile touched my lips. “Get me a pen and paper. I’ll write down the recipe.” Roman immediately had one of his men fetch them. But as I handed him the finished recipe, his fingers trembled. He suddenly remembered what I’d said years ago when he’d asked for it. “I’ll give it to you the day we part. As long as we’re together, I’ll be the one to make it for you.” And now, I had given it away so easily. “Sir, Miss Isabelle is in a lot of pain. She’s calling for you,” a guard reported urgently from the door. Roman frowned, then turned and strode out of the room. I was already used to it. I closed my eyes and lay back down. But I had barely drifted into a light sleep when a brutal force yanked me upright. “Seraphina, why did Isabelle start vomiting blood after she drank the broth?” Roman’s fingers dug into my chin, his gaze as cold and deadly as the barrel of a gun. “What the hell did you put in that recipe?” I lifted my heavy eyelids and gave him a faint glance. “If you think there’s a problem with the recipe, have your medics test it.” Roman’s chest tightened. His tone softened, but only just. “Sera, if you have a grievance, you can talk to me. Don’t be like this, so cold. I’m your husband, not your enemy.” I just closed my eyes again. “There’s nothing left for us to talk about.” His heart felt like it stopped. “What do you mean, nothing left to talk about?” I didn’t answer, treating him as if he were no longer there. Outside, a subordinate reported in a low voice, “Sir, Miss Isabelle’s stomach has been pumped. She’s out of danger, but she’s frightened and keeps asking for you…” “I know,” Roman bit out. He looked back at me, a long, deep look. “Sera, you get some rest. Tomorrow, I’m taking you back to the main compound.” The night was as long as an eternal winter. I stared into the darkness until dawn. The daughter I had carried for nine months, the daughter I had brought into this world, would be turned to ash tomorrow, sealed in a cold urn, and buried in the dark earth. The next day, Roman arrived on time, driving me himself back to the mountain fortress that served as their main base. I leaned on a cane, moving one slow step at a time toward the memorial hall, wanting one last look at my daughter. But as soon as I stepped inside, his mother lunged at me like a madwoman. “You venomous bitch! How dare you come back here?” She slapped me hard across the face, twice, her voice a shriek. “You killed my granddaughter! You knew Lily was terrified of heights, yet you took her to the observation deck! You did it on purpose!” An icy numbness spread through me. It was Isabelle who took Lily to the observation deck. Why was I the one being blamed? I turned to Roman. He looked away. At the same time, the other Ivanov family members in the hall swarmed forward, joining his mother in beating and cursing me. “Kill her! She murdered her own child!” “Get out! You don’t deserve to mourn Lily!” Clubs rained down on my body, stones cut my forehead, and my own cane was snatched away and used as a weapon against me. I fell to the ground, blood and dirt smearing my face. “Enough!” Roman finally roared, pushing through the crowd to shield me with his body. “Lily’s death was an accident. It had nothing to do with Sera. Anyone who touches her again will be dealt with according to family law.” His hawk-like gaze swept over them, and the crowd slowly backed away. Roman’s face softened slightly as he lifted me into his arms and carried me back to our bedroom. He took out a first-aid kit and began to clean my wounds himself. But my eyes were empty, devoid of any emotion. I stared at him coldly. “Roman, Isabelle was the one who took Lily to the deck. Why does your mother say it was me?” The gauze in his hand stilled. His voice was dry. “Sera, Isabelle is a weapons specialist, groomed by the family. Her position is… sensitive. If the family knew she was indirectly responsible for what happened to Lily, her career here would be over.” “But you are my wife,” he continued, his voice strained. “With my protection, no one will dare to truly harm you. If you take the blame this time, I’ll compensate you. I’ll transfer thirty percent of the Ivanov Corporation’s shares to your name.” He finished, looking at me with a flicker of unease. He expected me to scream, to fight, to question him. But my expression was so calm it terrified him. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just glanced at him. “Do what you want. I don’t care.” I had agreed. Roman should have been relieved, but his heart only twisted tighter. “Sera, don’t overthink it. My feelings for Isabelle are purely professional. She’s an asset,” he explained, though I hadn’t asked. “I understand,” I said, my gaze dropping. “No need to explain.” Explanations are for those who still love you. I didn’t. His words were meaningless noise. Frustration coiled in Roman’s gut. He opened his mouth to say more, but a guard burst in. “Sir, it’s an emergency! Miss Isabelle came to pay her respects and ran into your sister, Cassandra. They’re fighting!” Cassandra was a true Ivanov, born and bred in this world of violence. The color drained from Roman’s face. “Sera, finish bandaging yourself. I have to handle this.” He was gone in a flash. The moment he left, his mother stormed in with several of her loyalists. “Seraphina. No one’s here to protect you now.” Her eyes were filled with venom. “You killed Lily. I’m going to let you taste what it feels like to fall.” She had her men drag me to an abandoned ventilation shaft on the compound. The opening was a deep, dark maw, a cold wind howling up from its depths. “Lily fell from the thirtieth floor observation deck. Do you have any idea how hopeless that feels?” His mother grabbed my hair, forcing the upper half of my body over the edge. “You were right there. Why didn’t you save her?” Vertigo hit me instantly. The darkness below was like the mouth of a great beast. Again and again, she shoved me to the brink of falling, only to yank me back at the last second. “Breathe! Can’t you breathe?” she screamed in my ear. “When my granddaughter fell, she didn’t even have time to cry!” After several agonizing rounds, a sharp pain tore through my chest. The metallic tang of blood filled my throat, trickling from the corner of my mouth. “She could have internal injuries!” someone shouted. “She’ll die if this keeps up!” Only then did his mother let go. I collapsed to the ground, my consciousness fading. When I woke again, I was in the compound’s med bay. Roman was sitting by my bed. “Sera, you’re awake.” He took my hand, his eyes bloodshot. “I’m sorry. I failed to protect you.” “Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with the ones who hurt you. And I warned my mother. She won’t touch you again.” A profound chill settled over me. I had nearly died, and his response was to “warn” his mother, still concealing the truth. When it came to disappointing me, Roman never missed.

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The day I “woke up” was supposed to be the dramatic climax of this trashy Hollywood melodrama. According to the script, I should have been wearing a limited-edition couture gown at the Metropolitan Museum’s charity gala, publicly dousing Gavin Harrington’s fiancée, Bella Whitmore, with a glass of vintage red wine. Then, I was meant to break down in hysterical sobs, screaming: “I’ve loved you longer! We’ve known each other for ten years!” Then, Gavin would coldly shove me aside, delivering the killing blow: “Maddy, you make me sick.” The next morning, the headlines would be brutal: #MaddyBeckettDesperate, #HarringtonIndustriesBlacklistsMaddy, #MaddyBeckettIsOver. Three months later, my family’s business would go bankrupt. I would lose my mind and eventually freeze to death on a snowy night outside a psych ward. But right now, I’m standing in the wings of the gala, clutching the very glass of Cabernet I’m destined to throw, staring at my perfectly contoured reflection in the vanity mirror. 1. “Ms. Beckett, Mr. Harrington has arrived. Miss Whitmore is on his arm,” my assistant, Jo, whispered, her eyes brimming with pity. She knew how much I supposedly loved Gavin—a love so consuming I’d lost my dignity, my friends, and my sanity. I blinked, then tipped the glass back and drained the wine in one go. “Not bad,” I remarked, smacking my lips. “A ’82 vintage? The Harringtons really didn’t skimp on the bar tonight.” Jo froze. “Maddy… that… that was a prop. For the scene…” “Prop or not, I was thirsty.” I shoved the empty glass back into her hand. “By the way, call the PR team for this dress. I’m keeping it. Put it on my personal tab.” “You’re not… you’re not going to find Mr. Harrington?” I touched up my lipstick in the mirror—a limited-edition Chanel red. It was bold, lethal. Before today, I’d only ever worn pale nudes to look “innocent” for him. “Why would I? He’s not going to reimburse me for the dry cleaning,” I said, fluffing my train. “Let’s go. I heard the catering tonight is by a Michelin-star chef. I’m starving.” Jo looked like she’d seen a ghost. I stepped into the ballroom, my four-inch stilettos clicking rhythmically against the marble. The spotlights found me instantly—after all, I was the designated villainess of the evening. Gavin and Bella were at the center of the room, the quintessential power couple, basking in the sycophantic praise of the elite. Bella was in white, looking ethereal and fragile, like a lily about to wilt in a light breeze. Per the script, this was my cue to charge. Instead, I plucked a miniature wagyu slider from a passing waiter’s tray and found a plush velvet sofa in a quiet corner. The slider was incredible—the truffle aioli was perfect. I closed my eyes, savoring the richness, completely ignoring the fact that half the room was whispering behind their hands, waiting for the explosion. “Why hasn’t she moved?” “Maybe she’s playing hard to get?” “I heard she was willing to trade her father’s shares just for a date with him…” The gossip drifted over like a foul scent. I didn’t care. I reached for a macaron. Gavin eventually noticed my lack of initiative. He kept glancing toward my corner, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and annoyance. He was probably wondering why his “number one stalker” wasn’t following the plan. Bella tugged gently on his sleeve, whispering something. Gavin shook his head and began walking toward me. Ah, here it comes. The narrative’s “corrective force.” I finished my last bite of dessert and daintily wiped my mouth with a silk napkin. “Maddy.” Gavin stopped in front of me, his voice as icy as a New York winter. “What kind of game are you playing now?” I looked up. Objectively, Gavin had the credentials of a leading man—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of bone structure that made photographers weep. Unfortunately, the “author” had nerfed his brain to make him a stubborn ego-maniac. “Mr. Harrington,” I smiled. “Can I help you?” He flinched, clearly not expecting the polite distance. “I’m warning you, don’t you dare try anything with Bella. If you do—” “If I do, you’ll ruin my career? You’ll make sure I never work in this town again?” I finished the sentence for him. “Yeah, I know. You’ve said it a thousand times. It’s getting a bit repetitive, don’t you think?” Gavin choked on his next word, his face flushing a dark, angry red. “Maddy, I have no feelings for you. Give it up.” “Done and done,” I said, nodding vigorously. “Anything else? If not, I was going to grab a third slider before the tray disappears.” Gavin stood there, paralyzed like a marble statue. I bypassed him, headed straight for the buffet. As I passed Bella, she shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Maddy, please don’t be mad at Gavin, he just…” “Oh, I’m not mad at all,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “You two are perfect together. A match made in heaven. Send me a Save the Date, okay?” Bella’s mouth fell open. For the rest of the night, I ate four sliders, three crab cakes, and drank two glasses of premium champagne. I even spent twenty minutes talking to a high-profile producer about a new pilot—purely professional, no strings attached. When it was time to leave, Gavin intercepted me in the parking garage. “Maddy, what is this?” He stared at me, his eyes burning with a strange, frustrated intensity. “Some new psychological tactic? It won’t work.” I let out a small, satisfied burp and patted my stomach. “Gavin,” I said, using his first name without the usual tremor of devotion. “Seriously, do you actually think you’re that irresistible?” “…” “Okay, sure, you’re hot,” I shrugged. “But even the best-looking face gets boring after ten years of rejection. As of tonight, I’m retired from the ‘Gavin Harrington Fan Club.’ You’re free. Be happy.” He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I hopped into the back of my town car and looked at Jo. “Let’s go home. Oh, and tomorrow, delete every piece of contact info I have for Gavin Harrington.” “All… all of it?” Jo stammered. “Everything. The private cell, the office, his Instagram, his burner accounts… and there’s a folder on my laptop labeled ‘Future Mr. Beckett’ full of his schedules and photos. Wipe the drive. Burn it if you have to.” Jo’s hands shook as she took notes. As the car pulled away, I caught a glimpse of Gavin in the rearview mirror. He was still standing there, looking remarkably… lost. I smiled. Giving up felt better than winning ever had. 2. The Script is Breaking The day after I blocked Gavin, I was jolted awake by a ringing phone. It was my mother. “Madeline! What on earth have you done? Gavin’s mother called me, livid! She said you humiliated him at the gala?” My mother’s voice was high-pitched with panic. “Go apologize! Right now!” In the original story, I would have sobbed, begging my mother to help me win him back. My family would have liquidated assets and sacrificed board seats just to keep me in Gavin’s orbit. But that Maddy was dead. “Mom,” I yawned. “I’m tired. Call me in three hours.” “Madeline! Do you have any idea how important the Harrington connection is to your father’s new project?” “Then tell Dad to find a better partner,” I said, rolling over. “Mom, Gavin doesn’t like me. You can’t force a guy to fall for you. It’s pathetic.” “Feelings can be nurtured! You two grew up together—” “Ten years of ‘nurturing’ and I’m still the villain in his story,” I lied through my teeth. “Mom, I had a dream last night. A spiritual awakening. A voice told me if I keep chasing Gavin, I’ll bring a curse upon the family. We’re talking ‘fall of the House of Usher’ levels of bad.” Silence on the other end. Before she could process that nonsense, I added, “Gotta go, Mom. Sleep is the new self-care. Love you.” I hung up and turned the phone off. The world was finally quiet. I slept until noon, and when I finally checked my phone, I had 99+ notifications. Aside from thirty voicemails from my mother, there were three texts from Gavin: Pick up the phone. Maddy, are you being serious right now? We need to talk. I ignored them all, ordered a massive amount of extra-spicy Thai food, and opened Twitter. Unsurprisingly, #MaddyBeckett was trending. A “source” from the gala had leaked that I had “suffered a nervous breakdown” and “was seen wandering the buffet in a daze after Gavin rejected me.” The attached photo was of me in the corner eating a slider. The angle was terrible—I did look a bit like a woman who had lost her mind, but mostly I just looked like a woman who really enjoyed wagyu. The comments were a cesspool: Can Maddy Beckett just take the hint already? Get a life! Gavin wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. Bella Whitmore is a literal saint. Maddy is just a social climber with a trust fund. I slurped my noodles, scrolling through the hate with total indifference. I even “liked” one particularly creative insult: If Maddy put as much effort into her acting as she did into stalking Gavin, she’d have an Oscar by now. Then, I switched to my secret burner account and posted: Extra spicy Pad Thai is the only soulmate I need. #Blessed. Ten minutes later, my doorbell rang. I thought it was the delivery guy returning for a forgotten drink. I threw the door open, wearing my silk pajamas and hair that looked like a bird’s nest. Gavin was standing there. We stared at each other. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled. His suit jacket was slung over his arm, his tie was loosened, and he had a slight five o’clock shadow. This version of him was actually more tolerable than the “Golden Boy” persona. “How did you get up here?” I frowned. This was a high-security building. “The guards know me,” he said stiffly. “You… you gave them standing orders to let me up whenever I wanted.” Right. I remembered now. In my previous life, I’d bribed the security staff and put his plates in the system just so he could “surprise” me. God, I was a loser. “What do you want?” I didn’t move to let him in. Gavin stared at me, his eyes searching mine for a flicker of the old devotion. “Why did you block me?” “Because I didn’t want to talk to you,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Isn’t that usually why people block each other? Is the billionaire life so sheltered you’ve never been ghosted before?” “Maddy,” he stepped forward, “what is this really about?” “It’s about me wanting you to stay the hell away from me,” I said sincerely. “Honestly, looking at you right now is like looking at a cake that went past its expiration date. It looks fine on the outside, but I know if I take a bite, I’m going to regret it for a week.” Gavin’s face turned several shades darker. In that moment of tension, the elevator dinged. The delivery guy walked out, clutching my Thai food. He looked at the two of us and hesitated. “Ms. Beckett? Delivery for…” “Thank God,” I said, taking the bag. The smell of peanuts and chili filled the hallway. Gavin looked at the bag in disbelief. “You’re eating… that?” “What, you want me to order a five-course meal for one?” I pulled out my phone to tip the guy. “Gavin, can you move? You’re blocking my dinner.” He didn’t budge. “Maddy, is this about Bella? What happened at the gala, she didn’t mean to—” “Stop.” I held up a hand. “I don’t care about Bella. I don’t care about you. I don’t care about whatever ‘us’ you think existed in my head. Are we clear?” I pointedly tapped my phone, paying the delivery guy via the app. “Enjoy your meal!” the guy said, practically running back to the elevator. I looked Gavin in the eye one last time. “I’m revoking your security clearance. Don’t come back.” I slammed the door in his face. I heard him linger for a few minutes before his footsteps finally receded. Finally. I set my food on the table, turned on a mindless reality show, and started eating. Two bites in, my phone rang again. This time, it was my manager, Tracey. “Maddy! Have you seen the news? What is going on with you and Gavin?” “Nothing is going on. I’m officially retired from the Harrington hunt,” I said around a mouthful of noodles. “Tracey, if there’s work, send it over. If not, let me enjoy my retirement.” Tracey was silent for a beat. “Did you hit your head?” “I had an epiphany,” I said. “By the way, all those scripts, shows, and endorsements I turned down to stay close to Gavin? See what’s still on the table. I’m not being picky anymore.” “Seriously?” Tracey’s voice jumped an octave. “What about “The Crimson Crown”? That prestige period drama? The director loved you for the Duchess, but you turned it down because Gavin wanted to go skiing in Switzerland that month…” “I’ll take it,” I said without hesitation. “What about that reality competition, Off the Grid? High ratings, but Gavin said he ‘didn’t want his woman making a fool of herself on TV’…” “Sign me up.” “What about the luxury jewelry campaign? The one that competes with the Harrington family brand? You were afraid he’d be angry—” “Take it all, Tracey,” I interrupted. “From now on, my professional philosophy is simple: high pay, high exposure, and legal. Everything else is up to you.” I could hear Tracey catch her breath. “Maddy… you’ve finally grown a backbone.” “It was always there,” I laughed. “It was just buried under ten years of bad decisions.” I hung up and went back to my Pad Thai. Outside, the sun was shining. The world felt bigger, brighter. And the noodles were delicious. 3. The Villainess Goes to Work A week later, I was on the set of “The Crimson Crown”. At the table read, I met my co-star: Nate Miller. He was the current “It Boy” of Hollywood—sharp jawline, brooding eyes, and a reputation for being intensely private. According to the old script, I should have kept my distance from him. Gavin was the jealous type, even when he didn’t want me. But the new Maddy walked right up to Nate with a thermos of herbal tea in her hand. “Mr. Miller, looking forward to working with you,” I said with a bright smile. Nate glanced at me, gave a curt nod, and went back to his script. Cold. I liked it. The director, sensing the tension, hurried over. “Maddy, Nate, you two have a lot of scenes together. Try to build some chemistry.” “Of course, Director,” I said. “Nate, can I get your number? For, you know, ‘character research’?” The crew went silent. Everyone knew Maddy Beckett was Gavin Harrington’s “property.” She never looked at another man. Nate raised an eyebrow, but he pulled out his phone. Once we exchanged numbers, I sent him a quick text: I’m Maddy. Please be patient with me, I’m a bit rusty. He replied with a single word: Fine. Hey, it wasn’t a “no.” Our first scene was a confrontation. I played the Duchess—a woman of cold ambition, masking a ruthless heart. She was supposed to frame the protagonist, only to be caught by the King (Nate). “Action!” I shifted instantly. My posture straightened, my expression softened into a mask of wounded pride. I trailed a finger along the edge of a silver chalice, looking up at Nate with eyes that were 30% hurt and 70% calculation. “Does my King truly believe her word over mine?” My voice was a velvet whisper, laced with poison. Nate was visibly caught off guard by the intensity. He paused for a fraction of a second before delivering his lines, his eyes suddenly sharp and focused. When the director finally called “Cut,” the set remained silent for a few heartbeats. “Beautiful!” the director shouted, clapping. “Maddy, that was incredible! Nate, great reaction!” I exhaled, slipping out of the character and back into my “tea-drinking girl” persona. “Thanks, Director.” Nate walked over to me, leaning in close. “You’re better than they said.” “And what did they say?” I asked, amused. “A spoiled brat with no talent who bought her way into the industry.” I laughed. “The ‘spoiled’ part is true. The ‘bought my way in’ part is also true—my family did invest in the production. but the ‘no talent’ part? I’m working on proving them wrong.” Nate didn’t say anything, but there was a new glint of respect in his eyes. The following weeks were a blur of hard work. I spent my days filming and my nights studying scripts and taking notes. I occasionally grabbed coffee with Nate to discuss our scenes. I was so busy I almost forgot I was supposed to be a “bitter ex-lover.” Until Bella Whitmore showed up on set. She was there under the guise of “visiting” her uncle—one of the executive producers. But everyone knew why she was really there. I was in the middle of a scene with Nate—a moment of dangerous intimacy where the Duchess tries to seduce the King to save her own life. I was draped across a velvet chaise, my gown slightly loosened, looking up at him with predatory hunger. “My Lord…” I purred. Nate’s pulse was visible in his neck. It wasn’t in the script, but he was playing it perfectly. “Cut! That’s a wrap on that scene! Perfect!” As I stood up and Jo draped a coat over my shoulders, I saw Bella standing by the monitors. Her face was pale, her expression pinched. During the break, she approached us with two cups of expensive coffee. “Maddy, Nate,” she said with that trademark “angelic” smile. “You guys are working so hard. I thought you might want some caffeine.” “Thanks,” I said, taking the cup and immediately handing it to Jo. “I don’t drink coffee on shoot days. It makes me jittery.” Bella’s smile faltered. Nate was even more blunt: “I don’t take drinks from strangers.” Ouch. Bella’s eyes immediately welled up. “Nate, I just wanted to be nice…” “Miss Whitmore,” I interrupted, “we’re in the middle of a production. If you don’t have a job here, please stay behind the yellow tape. You’re distracting the talent.” She bit her lip, looking like I’d slapped her, and scurried away. Nate looked at me. “You don’t pull any punches with her, do you?” “I don’t pull punches with anyone who wastes my time,” I said, sipping my herbal tea. “Time is money, Nate.” He actually smiled. It was a small, fleeting thing, but it was there. That evening, after wrap, I received a text from Gavin: Did you harass Bella on set today? I rolled my eyes and typed back: Who is this? The “typing…” bubbles appeared for a long time. Finally: Maddy, stop this. Come home. We need to talk. Talk to the hand, buddy. I blocked that number, too. The world was quiet again.

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My boyfriend just spent three months backpacking across Europe with the woman of his dreams—the one who got away. Now, he’s back, staring at my slightly rounded stomach with a look of pure, unadulterated rage. “Who the hell did you sleep with, Piper?” Harrison barked, his voice echoing through the penthouse. I didn’t answer. Instead, I let my gaze flicker toward his best friend, Hudson Wilde, who was standing by the bar, nursing a drink and watching the drama unfold. Harrison froze. Then, without a word, he swung. His fist connected with Hudson’s jaw, the sound sickeningly wet. Hudson, who had been enjoying the show a second ago, stumbled back, stunned. He wiped a streak of blood from his lip, and before Harrison could pivot, he lunged back. He landed a clean hook right across Harrison’s nose. “Are you out of your mind? I never touched her!” Hudson roared. They went at it, blow for blow, a messy, expensive brawl on the designer rug. I watched them for a moment, completely unfazed, and then quietly slipped out of the lounge. Once I was safely in the hallway, I gave my stomach a firm pat. The “bump” flattened instantly. Who said I was pregnant? I just overdid it at the all-you-can-eat pasta bar for dinner. 1 To avoid the inevitable barrage of frantic calls, I blocked both Harrison and Hudson on my way home. I retreated to my apartment and sank into a lukewarm bath, trying to wash off the scent of Harrison’s expensive cologne and his even more expensive betrayal. I was just drifting into a half-sleep when my phone buzzed on the tile floor. A message from an unknown number lit up the screen: Open the door in sixty seconds, or I’m breaking it down. I mean it. Harrison was the type to act without speaking, but this had Hudson’s signature all over it. Hudson was petty, vindictive, and never let a grudge go cold. I knew he’d come looking for me to settle the score for that punch, I just didn’t expect him to be this fast. Knowing him, the “breaking down the door” part wasn’t an exaggeration. I folded. I’m in the bath. Give me five minutes. Hudson replied instantly: Fine. Five minutes. Clock is ticking. I didn’t dare linger. I scrambled out of the tub, rinsed off the bubbles, and threw on a silk slip dress—the first thing I grabbed. When I swung the door open, Hudson was standing there, chest heaving, looking ready to burn the building down. But the moment his eyes hit my bare shoulders and the damp silk clinging to my skin, he went rigid. “Could you maybe put some actual clothes on?” he snapped, his ears turning a frantic shade of pink. I gave him a look of feigned innocence. “I was getting ready for bed. Is there a dress code for my own apartment?” Hudson choked on his next words, then pivoted. “Why did you tell Harrison I was the one who knocked you up?” “Wasn’t it you?” I countered, leaning against the doorframe. Out of all Harrison’s friends, Hudson and I were the ones who hated each other most. It was a simple dynamic: I loathed his sharp tongue and elitist attitude; he loathed my “social climber” persona. For the three months Harrison was away with Isabella—his “Golden Girl,” his untouchable muse—Hudson had hovered over me like a vulture. He claimed he was just making sure I didn’t embarrass his best friend by sleeping around, but he was a constant, suffocating shadow. If he hadn’t made my life such a misery, I wouldn’t have turned to emotional eating as a coping mechanism. Every meal for ninety days had been a twelve-course feast of spite. Hudson looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “I haven’t so much as brushed a finger against you, Piper. How the hell could I get you pregnant? Was it immaculate conception?” I smiled, saying nothing. I stepped closer, looping my arms around his neck, my breath ghosting over his skin. “Well, you’re touching me now, aren’t you?” Hudson froze. Then, as if he’d been scorched by a hot iron, he practically leaped back, shoving my hands away. “What is wrong with you?” I watched the flush creep from his neck to his forehead and laughed. “I’m just giving you what you wanted, Hudson. Attention.” “You… you are absolutely shameless!” He was stammering now, his usual cool composure shattered. “You’ve told me that a thousand times,” I said, checking my nails. “Get a new line.” He ground his teeth, muttered something about not wasting his time on a “lost cause,” and turned to leave. But he only made it three steps down the hall before he spun back around. I arched an eyebrow. “Change your mind, Hudson?” He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Are you really… is there really a baby?” “Don’t you have eyes?” I pushed my stomach out again, holding my breath to mimic the bloat. Hudson glanced down, his face darkening. “You’re dead, Piper. Harrison might let a lot of things slide, but if you actually cheated on him? He’ll ruin your family. You’ll be lucky if you’re not out on the street by morning.” I didn’t flinch. I reached out and toyed with the collar of his jacket. “Then why don’t you help me?” In terms of net worth, the Wilde family was on par with the Montgomerys. In terms of sheer political clout, they were actually a step above. Hudson let out a sharp, bitter laugh. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Why would I help you? You just framed me for an affair. I should be the one handing you the eviction notice.” “Because,” I said, my voice dropping to a shameless purr, “I know I’m special to you.” The laugh he let out this time was louder, incredulous. “What part of your delusional brain thinks you’re ‘special’ to me?” “You spent three months watching my every move,” I said simply. “Nobody stares that hard at something they don’t care about.” “I was watching you because I can’t stand you! I was looking for a reason to get rid of you!” “And yet,” I smiled, “you never looked away.” Hudson’s face went through three different shades of Pale. He looked like he wanted to scream. I decided to twist the knife, running my thumb over his bottom lip—a slow, provocative move. “Admit it, Hudson. You’re obsessed. You just haven’t realized it yet.” He turned a shade of red I didn’t think was biologically possible. He ripped my hand away, his voice trembling with fury. “Harrison is going to destroy you.” With that final threat, he practically fled toward the elevator. It wasn’t a walk; it was an escape. I leaned against the door, a cold smirk playing on my lips. Poor boy. 2 Hudson might be a hothead, but he was surprisingly sheltered when it came to women. He was an easy mark. However, he was right about one thing: Harrison Montgomery was not a man to be trifled with. And he certainly wasn’t the type to take a blow to his ego—or his “property”—lying down. Harrison was the heir to a multibillion-dollar empire. My family’s assets were essentially pocket change compared to his. If he decided to go nuclear, the West family would be vaporized within a week. But honestly? I didn’t care. My family consisted of a father who viewed me as a bargaining chip, a stepmother who hated my existence, and two half-siblings who took after her. They could lose everything for all I cared. My only real concern was that once Harrison threw me out, my father would try to sell me off to some ancient, lecherous business associate to cover his debts. But I’d cross that bridge when I burned it. I had barely closed the door for thirty seconds when the bell rang again. Thinking Hudson had come back for a round two of shouting, I yanked it open. Instead, I found myself staring into Harrison’s icy, shadowed eyes. Before I could even breathe out a sarcastic greeting, he grabbed my arm and shoved his way in, slamming me against the foyer wall. His hand clamped onto my jaw, his grip borderline painful. “Who was it, Piper? Tell me who you slept with.” Harrison was usually the embodiment of ‘old money’ restraint. Seeing him this unhinged was a rare thrill. I’d managed to break his mask twice in one day. I couldn’t shake him off, so I did the next best thing—I brought my heel down hard on his polished leather shoe. “None of your business,” I hissed. Harrison grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to duck under his arm and bolt for the living room. But he was faster. He caught me from behind, his arm wrapping around my waist like a steel band, and hauled me toward the bedroom. He threw me onto the bed and hovered over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. I stopped fighting. I just lay there, limp and indifferent. “Go ahead,” I said, my voice flat. “If you don’t mind the leftovers.” Harrison flinched as if I’d slapped him. His gaze dropped to my stomach, and the rage in his eyes flickered into something darker, something almost disgusted. He reached out and grabbed my throat—not to hurt, but to possess. “You have three days,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “Get rid of the brat. Do it, and maybe I’ll consider giving you a chance to explain yourself. If not… don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He let go of me as if I were something contaminated and stood up, straightening his cuffs. I sat up slowly, staring at him with cold clarity. “I think we should just end this, Harrison.” His hand paused on his tie. A flash of genuine shock crossed his face, followed quickly by a sneer of pure condescension. “You think you have the right to end this? You’re a placeholder, Piper. Nothing more.” “Isabella is single now,” I reminded him. “You don’t need a placeholder.” Harrison had been in love with Isabella for a decade. But Isabella had chosen his older brother. Six months ago, his brother died in a freak accident, leaving her a grieving widow. Three months ago, Harrison took her on that trip to “help her heal.” Marrying your brother’s widow was a bit of a scandal, even in their circles, but for a man like Harrison, it was just another acquisition. Harrison leaned over me one last time, his voice a chilling whisper. “Remember this, Piper: no one tells me what to do. This relationship ends when I decide I’m bored, and not a second before. You’re a smart girl. You know what happens to people who lose my protection.” My heart sank. He was right. In this world, I had no leverage. I was just a ghost inhabiting someone else’s life. 3 Three years ago, my father tried to marry me off to a sixty-year-old billionaire with a reputation for “unusual” tastes. I was desperate. I noticed that Harrison Montgomery looked at Isabella with a hunger that bordered on madness. Since Isabella and I shared a certain… aesthetic—the same high cheekbones, the same dark, wavy hair—I leaned into the resemblance. I mimicked her grace, her soft-spoken nature, her wardrobe. I seduced him on a night when he was drowning in whiskey and self-pity over Isabella’s engagement to his brother. He had been aggressive at first, but once he had me in bed, he stopped, as if realizing I was just a counterfeit. But he kept me anyway. For three years, I was his shadow-version of Isabella. We were “dating” in name, but everyone knew I was just a high-end mistress. Hudson, in particular, made sure I never forgot it. But the weirdest thing happened. Despite knowing I was just a stand-in, I actually started to care for him. Once, while he was drunk, he promised he’d marry me after his brother and Isabella were settled. I was naive enough to believe in “growing to love someone.” Then his brother died. And I knew the moment I heard the news that my time was up. Harrison would finally get the real thing. I’d been waiting for the axe to fall for months. When he told me he was taking her on a world tour, I expected the breakup. Instead, he told Hudson to “look after” me. And Hudson, the loyal dog, took it literally. He watched me so closely I couldn’t even go to a bar without him appearing like a vengeful spirit. I was so stressed and miserable that I ate my feelings, gained six pounds, and ended up being accused of carrying his best friend’s secret child. I was starting to think Hudson did this on purpose. That bastard. 4 Harrison gave me seventy-two hours to “fix” the problem. Since there was no problem to fix, I spent the time at home, lounging in my pajamas and ignoring the world. On the second night, a text came in from Hudson. Are you dead yet? Sometimes, when you hate someone enough, it starts to feel like a twisted kind of intimacy. I didn’t block him this time. Still here, unfortunately, I replied. Hudson: Shocking. I’m surprised Harrison didn’t kill you on the spot. Me: Don’t worry. Bitchy weeds never die. Hudson: True. You’ve always had a high survival instinct. There was a long pause. The “typing…” bubbles appeared and disappeared for nearly a minute. Hudson: What are you going to do about the kid? I blinked. He actually sounded concerned. The mischief in me bubbled up. The kid is innocent. I’m keeping it, obviously. Hudson: Are you insane? He’ll ruin you! Me: So let him. I have nothing left to lose anyway. My grandmother—the only person who ever truly loved me—was gone. I was just drifting. Hudson didn’t reply for a long time. Then: Who’s the father? Really? Me: Too many candidates to count. Hudson: Dammit, Piper! I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my sofa. Hudson knew he’d been watching me, but he wasn’t there 24/7. There was one night he’d been busy, and I’d gone to a club and ordered a round of male models just to spite him. He’d found me at dawn and dragged me out. He clearly thought that was the night. 5 By the third day, the walls were closing in. I went to a high-end hotel bar to lose myself in a few martinis. I was halfway through my third when Harrison’s security detail swarmed the booth. They didn’t ask; they just grabbed me, hauled me out to a waiting black SUV, and drove me straight to a private surgical clinic. When we arrived, Harrison was already there, standing in the sterile hallway like an avenging angel. Between the gin and the sheer exhaustion, my filter was gone. “Harrison! Are you so obsessed with your sister-in-law that you’ve lost your mind? This whole ‘substitute’ thing is pathetic. It’s sick!” Harrison didn’t yell. He just stepped forward, his hand like a vise on my jaw, forcing me to look up. “I’ll ask one last time. Whose is it?” “Your father’s!” I spat. Harrison’s eyes went dark. A terrifying, cold smile touched his lips. “Fine. You want to be difficult?” He turned to the surgeon waiting nearby. “Do it. And don’t bother with the anesthesia. She should feel every bit of it.” The doctor blanched. “Mr. Montgomery… that’s… we usually—” “I said do it,” Harrison snapped. I stared at him, my blood turning to ice. “You’re a monster. Harrison, stop!” “You chose this, Piper,” he said, stepping back as the nurses moved in. “You couldn’t keep your legs closed. Now you pay the price.” I started to struggle, panic finally setting in. “Harrison! Wait! I’m not—!” “Harrison!” A sharp, mocking voice echoed down the hall. Hudson Wilde walked toward us, his hands in his pockets, looking as casual as if he were at a garden party. Harrison frowned. “Hudson? What the hell are you doing here?” Hudson looked at me, then at the doctors, and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I’m the father, Harrison. I figured I should probably be present for the ‘procedure.’” I froze. What?

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I was doom-scrolling in the back of an Uber, exhausted from overtime, when the algorithm decided to ruin my life. It was a thread on a relationship advice forum, the title screaming in bold: [My husband’s sexual appetite is insatiable. I physically can’t keep up. Help.] A top comment, with thousands of upvotes, shattered my worldview in two sentences: [Outsource it. Find him a mistress—someone clean, fresh out of college. Those wide-eyed, naive girls are the easiest to manipulate.] Someone had replied underneath: [Aren’t you afraid he’ll actually fall in love with her?] The original poster—OP—replied instantly. You could practically hear the smirk through the screen: [What is there to be afraid of? My puppy is obedient. He doesn’t even dare hold her hand without my permission.] [I decide the position. I decide the frequency. I write the script.] [And all it takes is one phone call from me. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-climax; if I call, he comes home.] My spine locked. A cold shiver, unrelated to the AC, traced its way down my back. I thought of Cole. I thought of the half-dozen times he had abandoned me in the middle of a date, or even in bed, because of a “work emergency.” He never gave an explanation, just a frantic, apologetic look before rushing out the door. I didn’t want to believe it. My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling, but I scrolled down. [That little girl’s birthday is today. I told him he wasn’t allowed to go. He dropped to his knees and begged.] The attached photo showed a man kneeling on a hardwood floor, his head bowed in religious devotion, kissing the tip of a woman’s stiletto heel. Dangling from a silver chain around his neck, catching the light, was a ring. Our promise ring. 1 I opened the photo. Closed it. Zoomed in. Zoomed out. I did this five times, as if manipulating the pixels could rearrange reality into a misunderstanding. As if I could force it to be a coincidence. It’s just my anxiety, I told myself. I’m overthinking. But a voice in the back of my head, quiet and lethal, whispered: It’s all true. I felt unmoored. I couldn’t reconcile the Cole I knew—the man who tracked my cycle, who remembered to pick the cilantro out of my tacos because he knew I hated the taste, who dressed specifically to please my eye—with the submissive creature in that photo. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. My mind flashed back to a month ago. The weight of his hands as he slid the matching bands onto our fingers. “Next year,” he had said, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m taking you to meet my parents in Vermont. And then we’ll go see yours. I want to ask them properly. I want to be worthy of you.” He had sounded so reverent. So careful. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I kept scrolling, desperate for a discrepancy. A mole. A scar. Anything to prove it wasn’t him. The replies were piling up—envy, disgust, curiosity. But the OP, whose handle was LadyStarling, replied with the terrifying calm of a woman who holds the leash: [Why the jealousy? Hate the game, not the player. If you want to blame someone, blame the girl. She’s painfully naive. It’s pathetic.] [Valentine’s. Christmas. Her birthday. Unless I sign off on it, he doesn’t spend a single holiday with her.] [And the apologies? The ‘makeup gifts’? All my cast-offs. Purses I’m bored with. Freebies from events. Even those rings—they were made from the scrap metal of a custom piece I commissioned.] The further I read, the colder I got. My vision blurred, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. It was like picking at a scab—painful, but necessary. Everything she wrote aligned perfectly with the last three years of my life. Cole never spent holidays with me. We never celebrated our actual birthdays together. “Fiscal year-end,” he’d say. “Inventory audits.” “Client crisis.” But the next day, there was always a gift. “To make it up to you, Mayer,” he’d say. I didn’t know if the handbags were used. I didn’t know if the necklaces were freebies. But I knew about the ring. His ring had a delicate engraving on the inner band—a small bird in flight. Mine was a simple, thin band. Unadorned. It looked like something you could buy at a mall kiosk. I had asked him once why his had the bird and mine didn’t. “Swallows return home,” he had said, kissing my knuckles. “It represents my loyalty. I will always return to you.” Loyalty. To me? Or to her? My finger hovered over her username: LadyStarling. Her avatar was a sketch of a bird. Coincidence? No. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I clicked on her profile. It was curated, minimalist, expensive. No daily clutter. Just posts about her and her “insatiable” husband. The latest post was from two hours ago. [Year six. He proposed. Fireworks, hydrangeas, the exact ring I wanted. And, of course, the man I wanted.] The photo showed her back to the camera, holding a massive bouquet, locked in an embrace with a man. You could only see the back of the man’s head. But I knew the slope of those shoulders. I knew the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. It was Cole. I had spent three years staring at that back while he slept away from me. I ignored a tear that splashed onto the screen and kept scrolling. [Three days until our six-year anniversary. He replaced our bands. He engraved our names inside. She doesn’t suspect a thing.] Photo: A man’s hand, wearing the new ring. I remembered the day Cole gave me the rings. He had kissed the metal band on my finger. “From this moment on, Mayer. You and me. Unwavering.” Unwavering. Me and him? Or him and her? [The day after her birthday. I went with him to pick out the apology gift. Pearl earrings. They came free with my brooch.] I remembered that day perfectly. He had handed me the velvet box, kissing my forehead. “I’m so sorry, baby. The partners called an emergency meeting. I had to fly to Chicago.” “Don’t worry,” he’d said, looking me in the eye. “It won’t happen a second time.” It wouldn’t happen a second time. Because it was already the third time. I wiped the screen with my thumb, smearing the moisture. I scrolled back three years. To the very first post. [His drive is too much. I need a break. I picked out a subordinate from his firm. A sweet, stupid girl from the Midwest. I told her I was setting her up with a great guy. Funny thing is, she actually believed me.] A notification banner dropped down: LadyStarling just posted. I tapped it. [Sending him home now. He’ll walk through the door at exactly 12:00 AM. His first sentence will be: ‘I’m sorry, work got crazy, I didn’t mean to be late.’ his second move will be to kiss her forehead. Then he’ll give her the brooch I decided I didn’t like.] A horrific realization bloomed in my chest. The subway hadn’t even reached my stop, but I lurched forward, covering my mouth as I dry-heaved. A girl sitting next to me, noticing my distress, leaned in. “Miss? Are you okay?” I looked up. In her clear, concerned eyes, I saw my own reflection. Wretched. Broken. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Thirty-six months. What I thought was a love story was a curated, scripted lie. I wasn’t a girlfriend. I was a pressure valve. To him, I wasn’t even a person. “I’m fine,” I whispered, accepting the tissue she offered. I wiped my face. Then, with a steadying breath, I screenshot every single post. Every comment. Every timestamp. The subway doors opened. I had missed my stop. I crossed the platform to catch the train going back. It was time to go home. 2 Cole walked through the door at midnight. 12:00:00. Not a minute early. Not a second late. Honestly, I had to hand it to this LadyStarling. She had trained her dog well. I was sitting in the living room in the dark. When he flipped the switch, flooding the room with light, he didn’t even flinch at the sight of me sitting on the sofa like a statue. He walked over, his expression the picture of exhausted regret. “I’m sorry, Mayer. Work got crazy. I didn’t mean to be late.” Then, he leaned down and kissed my forehead. Finally, he handed me a small gift bag. Every word. Every movement. Identical to the post. He was a robot executing a line of code. I took the bag. Inside was a brooch. It wasn’t new. The clasp had a microscopic scratch I recognized from one of LadyStarling’s high-res photos. A chill radiated from my bones outward. I looked up at Cole. My voice trembled, betraying me. “Was it really work?” Cole frowned, a micro-expression of confusion, as if the script had encountered an error. He didn’t know how to process a deviation from the routine. After a beat, he recovered. “Of course. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Wouldn’t lie to me? He hadn’t done anything but lie to me since the moment we met. He knelt—a comfortable position for him, apparently—and kissed my earlobe. “Mayer, trust me, okay? If you don’t trust me, it would kill me.” Kill you? How? Would you die in Blythe—LadyStarling’s—bed? Once, I thought Cole’s sweet nothings were poetry. Now, they sounded like a death sentence. I bit my lip, tasting iron, and said nothing. Cole stood up and ruffled my hair, dismissive and affectionate. “I promise, no next time. Don’t overthink it, okay?” Just then, his phone pinged. A specific, sharp chime. He froze. “I need a shower,” he muttered, turning away too quickly. He left his ring on the kitchen island—a habit he had when washing dishes or showering. The bathroom door clicked shut. I walked over to the island. I picked up the ring. Inside, the engraving was clear. C & B. Cole and Blythe. I assumed her name was Blythe. It fit the profile. Old money, sharp edges. The shower was running, but over the noise of the water, I heard the murmur of a voice. He wasn’t showering. He was checking in. The water stopped sooner than usual. Cole emerged, his hair completely dry. He walked over to me, pulling me into a hug that felt like a shroud. “I’m so sorry, Mayer. There’s an issue with the schematics. The partners need me back at the office now to fix the proposal.” He pulled away before I could answer, grabbing his keys, not even looking back. “Cole,” I called out. He paused at the entryway, one hand on the doorknob. “Do you have to go right now?” Maybe it was the tone of my voice—flat, dead—but his shoulders stiffened. He recovered quickly, though. He didn’t turn around. “Mayer, don’t make this hard for me, okay?” “I know I missed your birthday dinner, and I know you’re upset. But I can’t control the workload.” “Go to sleep. I’ll bring you those pistachio cronuts you love in the morning, okay?” I stood frozen in the center of the living room. I have a severe nut allergy. I don’t eat pistachios. I never have. The person who loves pistachios is LadyStarling. The last brick of the fantasy I had built crumbled. The door clicked shut. He was gone. He couldn’t wait to leave. I stood in the silence for a long time. Then, I grabbed my coat. 3 Cole didn’t take his car. He called a Lyft. I hailed a cab and told the driver to follow the grey sedan. We drove across the city, ending up in a neighborhood I couldn’t afford. He got out in front of The Hawthorne. I paid the driver and watched. Cole punched in the gate code without hesitation. Muscle memory. He was texting as he walked, head down, unaware of the ghost trailing him. I slipped through the gate before it closed behind him. I followed him into the lobby of Building 2. I watched the elevator numbers climb. It stopped at the 7th floor. The Hawthorne, Building 2, Floor 7. The name on the directory listed in the vestibule for 7A was B. Montgomery. Blythe Montgomery. My boss. My mentor. The woman who introduced me to Cole. The answer was so obvious it was insulting. I didn’t need any more proof. I touched my hand to my chest. Strange. Knowing for sure didn’t make it hurt more. It actually made the pain recede, replaced by a cold, heavy numbness. I closed my eyes, turned around, and walked away. 4 I didn’t sleep. I sat on my sofa as the sun bleached the sky from charcoal to gray. When the clock hit 7:00 AM, I sent a text to a contact I hadn’t spoken to in years. A rival firm. [Five hundred grand. I’ll give you the raw files for the Elysium Project.] The reply was instantaneous. [Surprising. I thought you said you’d never betray your mentor?] I ignored the jab. [Do you want them or not?] [Deal.] Cole didn’t come back that morning. I showered, dressed, and went to work. I sat at my desk for thirty minutes before Blythe Montgomery breezed in. She placed a paper bag on my desk, her smile warm, conspiratorial. “Ran into your boyfriend in the lobby. He asked me to bring this up to you.” The logo on the bag was from Le Rêve. The bakery where I usually ran errands to buy pistachio cronuts for Blythe. I didn’t take the bag. I just looked at her. Blythe’s smile didn’t falter, pristine and practiced. “What’s wrong? Trouble in paradise?” I lowered my gaze, staring at the grain of my desk. “I think Cole is cheating on me.” “He told me he was at the office last night. But I tracked his phone. He was at The Hawthorne.” I looked up, catching her eyes. “Blythe, I’ve been to your place to drop off files. Did you see him?” Her pause lasted exactly two seconds. Just long enough to calculate. “I went to bed early last night, Mayer.” “But don’t worry. If Cole is stepping out on you, I’ll handle him. I won’t let anyone treat you like that.” She squeezed my shoulder, her voice dripping with maternal concern. “You look terrible. Why don’t you take the day off?” I shook my head. “I’m fine.” Blythe went to her private bathroom. I waited a moment, then walked into her office with a stack of paperwork. There it was. On the corner of her mahogany desk, resting on a velvet tray. The ring. It was her habit. She told me once she always took her rings off before washing her hands; she was terrified they’d slip down the drain. I picked it up. Inside the band, the engraving mocked me. C & B. I snapped a photo. I walked out. Ten minutes later, LadyStarling posted again. [She seems to be getting suspicious. How do I kill the doubt? Hard to find a girl this stupid and useful. Can’t let her go yet.] [Maybe I’ll have him recreate my proposal for her. She’s a decent draftsman; her genes aren’t bad. I don’t want to ruin my body with pregnancy. Maybe I’ll let her have a kid for me.] The words were cold, sharp objects. I trusted this woman. When I was blacklisted from the industry for a plagiarism scandal I didn’t commit, Blythe was the only one who hired me. I was grateful. I gave her my loyalty. I gave her my designs, letting her put her name on my work because I thought she saved me. But she hadn’t saved me. She was just grooming me for the slaughter. 5 Suddenly, Cole became the perfect boyfriend. He stopped disappearing at midnight. He stopped leaving me on the curb for a phone call. He drove forty minutes to get the specific dim sum I liked. He bought me gifts that still had the price tags on them—new things. He hovered. But I didn’t feel loved. I felt sick. My stomach felt like it was full of wet wool. It was a nausea I couldn’t vomit up. LadyStarling updated: [Recreating my proposal at Point Dume. Everything is exactly what I like, except the ring. Cheap prop for a cheap girl.] Photo: Hydrangeas (Blythe’s favorite, not mine) and unlit fireworks. And, of course, the thin, plain band. Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzed. [Mayer, meet me at Point Dume. I have a surprise for you.] I went. Not for the surprise, but because I needed to end this farce with my own hands. I found him standing in the center of a circle of hydrangeas, holding a bouquet of pink lisianthus—a flower I hated. I stood ten feet away. I didn’t step into the circle. Cole didn’t seem to notice. He looked like an actor hitting his mark. He walked up to me, extending the flowers. “Mayer, will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you be my only one?” I didn’t reach for the flowers. Before silence could stretch into awkwardness, his phone rang. The special ringtone. His reflexes were Pavlovian. He answered it immediately. “Yes. Okay. I understand. Don’t cry. I’m coming.” He hung up, looking at me with those sad, puppy eyes. “Mayer, I’m so sorry. It’s the firm. Crisis.” “I have to go fix the schematics. I’ll call you, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and practically ran, clutching the lisianthus to his chest so they wouldn’t get crushed. He wasn’t protecting them because they were for me. He was protecting them because Blythe had paid for them. I realized then why Blythe was so confident he would never betray her. Because he truly loved her. He loved her enough to humiliate himself. He loved her enough to destroy me just to keep her entertained. LadyStarling posted: [Realized I couldn’t handle watching him propose to someone else. So I cried a little. He dropped everything and came running.] I didn’t watch him go. Calmly, I took out my phone. I logged into the company’s main social media account—Blythe had given me the passwords ages ago to manage her “brand.” I uploaded the thread I had been compiling for days. Then, I shut down the phone. I popped the SIM card out, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a trash can. I walked away. At that exact moment, on the massive digital billboard across from our office building—a billboard Blythe rented for client prestige—the scheduled ad loop was interrupted. Instead of architectural renderings, it began to cycle through screenshots. The “Dog” post. The kneeling photo. The matching rings. The timestamps proving Blythe Montgomery was LadyStarling. And one final slide: My original design files for the last three years of “Blythe Montgomery’s” award-winning work. When Cole rushed into Blythe’s apartment, she was sitting on the sofa, calmly eating a croissant. For no reason he could name, a wave of exhaustion hit him. He opened his mouth to speak, but both their phones began to ring. It was a mutual friend, voice high with panic. “Check your phones. Mayer knows. She knows everything.”

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My new laptop cost me twenty-five hundred dollars. It was a high-end beast, custom-specced for the kind of heavy rendering my job demands. When my nephew asked to borrow it to finish his senior capstone project, I didn’t even hesitate. I said yes. The next day, he posted on Instagram: “Just flipped this used rig for eight hundred bucks. Pure profit! Living my best life!” I clicked the photo. There it was. My laptop. The same specs, the same serial number sticker on the corner, the same custom finish. I didn’t call him. I didn’t scream. I simply pulled up my admin portal. After remotely bricking the hardware, I sent him a single text: “Are you finished with that project yet?” The comments section on his post was already starting to burn. 01 When the phone rang, I was deep in a flow state, eyes glued to a wall of cascading code. The caller ID read: Sarah. My older sister. I swiped to answer but didn’t get a word out before her voice blasted through the speaker, sharp and demanding. “Grant? You busy?” “A little,” I said, my eyes still tracking a bug in the script. “Listen, I need a favor. Tyler—you know he’s finishing his degree this semester—his laptop is a total piece of junk. It’s freezing up every time he tries to run his data models. He was wondering if he could borrow your new one for a bit.” My fingers froze over the keyboard. My new laptop. I’d bought it last month—a top-of-the-line machine that had eaten through a significant chunk of my savings. I needed the high-tier GPU for my rendering work; it wasn’t just a computer, it was my livelihood. “Sarah, I use that for work,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “Ugh, I know you work. But he only needs it at night. You use it during the day, he uses it in the evening. It’s not a big deal. Besides, how long does it take to write a paper? A week, tops.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact, as if she were asking to borrow a stapler rather than a three-thousand-dollar setup. “We’re family, Grant. You’re his uncle. Don’t you want to see him succeed? If he doesn’t graduate because he can’t finish his project, how’s that going to look on all of us?” There it was. The “Family Tax.” I felt a familiar throb of irritation behind my eyes. I minimized my coding window and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Sarah, the software and project files on that machine are sensitive. If he accidentally deletes—” “Oh, please. Just back it up. Tyler is twenty-two, not five. He knows how to use a computer. Just put your secret stuff in an encrypted folder and tell him not to touch it. It’s just a laptop, Grant. Don’t be so stingy.” I stayed silent. It was always the same routine. Whenever she wanted something, she draped herself in the mantle of “Family Values.” If I hesitated for even a second, I was the selfish one, the cold-hearted brother who didn’t care about blood. “Anyway, that apartment of yours isn’t exactly Fort Knox,” she added, her voice breezy now that she sensed my silence as a white flag. “It’s probably safer at our place anyway. We’re always home. It’s settled, then. I’ll have Tyler swing by later to pick it up.” In the background, I could hear Tyler’s muffled, impatient voice: “Mom, why are you still talking to him? He’s my uncle, he’s supposed to help me out.” The entitlement in his voice made my blood pressure spike. “Sarah, wait,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. “Now what?” “That machine is a tool, not a toy. If Tyler takes it, there are rules. One: he doesn’t touch my files. Two: if so much as a pixel is out of place, he pays for the repair or replacement. Three: I want it back in seven days. Exactly.” There was a beat of silence. Sarah clearly wasn’t used to me setting hard boundaries. “Fine, fine. Whatever. You’re so dramatic,” she huffed. “He’s on his way. Have it ready.” She hung up before I could say another word. I stared at the dead screen, a hollow feeling settling in my chest. I opened a folder and started backing up my active projects to the cloud, trying to convince myself I was just being paranoid. Tyler was a bit of a brat, sure, but he wouldn’t do anything truly stupid. He just needed to graduate. 02 Thirty minutes later, the doorbell buzzed. I opened it to find Tyler standing there, AirPods shoved in his ears, jaw working rhythmically on a piece of gum. He was wearing an oversized designer hoodie that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. He looked at me with an expression that bordered on bored contempt. “Hey. Mom said you’re letting me use the rig?” “Yeah.” I stepped aside to let him in. He wandered into my small apartment, his eyes scanning the space with a faint, judgmental smirk. He didn’t say a word about the decor, but the way he tilted his head told me he thought my place was beneath him. “Where’s the bag?” he asked. I pointed to the black, reinforced laptop case on the desk. I’d spent sixty bucks on that case specifically for its shock-absorption. He walked over and slung the strap over his shoulder with a reckless, one-handed motion. The bag swung and hit the edge of the desk with a dull thud. My heart did a painful somersault. “The password is 1-1-2-2-3-3,” I said, my voice tight. “There’s a folder on the desktop labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH.’ Leave it alone. All the software you need for your data models is already installed and pinned to the taskbar.” “Got it, got it. Chill out,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. The music bleeding from his AirPods was so loud I could hear the bass line from three feet away. He turned to the door, stepping back into his sneakers without ever looking at me. “Later.” “Tyler,” I called out. He stopped, turning his head just enough to show he was annoyed. “What now?” “Be careful with it. Seriously. It’s expensive.” He let out a short, mocking laugh, the kind that implied I was an idiot for even stating the obvious. “Yeah, okay.” The door slammed shut behind him. I stood there in the silence, a bad taste lingering in my mouth. It didn’t feel like I’d just done a favor for a relative. It felt like I’d been shook down for protection money. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the anxiety. It’s just a week, I told myself. If I fight Sarah over this, Mom will be calling me tonight to give me a lecture on ‘harmony.’ I sat back down at my desk and realized how empty it looked. I usually ran a dual-monitor setup. Tyler hadn’t just taken the laptop; he’d taken the 27-inch 4K monitor too, unplugging it without even asking if it was part of the deal. I reached for my phone to call Sarah, then hesitated. I forced myself to take a deep breath. One week. Just survive one week. I hooked up my old, flickering backup monitor. As the screen hummed to life, I felt a strange, sinking sensation in my gut. 03 The next morning started with a frantic call from my project manager. We spent the entire morning in a remote sprint, trying to put out fires on a new client launch. By noon, I was exhausted. I ordered some takeout and, out of habit, opened Instagram to kill a few minutes while I waited for the delivery. I hadn’t scrolled three inches before a familiar handle popped up. It was Tyler. He’d posted a carousel of photos. The caption read: “Liquidating some assets. Flipped this used setup for $800. Pure profit! Thanks for the quick cash, boys. Drinks on me tonight!” My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against my ribs. I tapped the first photo. It was a screenshot of a Venmo notification. Someone had sent him $800 with the caption “For the laptop.” I swiped to the second photo. It was a picture of a sleek, black laptop. In the upper right corner was the tiny, silver logo sticker I’d put there so I wouldn’t mix it up with my old work machine. The third photo was a spec sheet of the hardware. CPU, GPU, RAM… everything matched my twenty-five hundred dollar investment perfectly. The fourth photo showed the laptop sitting next to the 4K monitor on a coffee table I recognized from Sarah’s living room. The blood rushed to my head so fast it made me dizzy. Then, just as quickly, it went cold. My hands were shaking. Fury. A cold, crystalline rage I hadn’t felt in years. I had lent him that machine yesterday. He had sold it today. A twenty-five hundred dollar laptop and a six-hundred dollar monitor—over three thousand dollars of professional equipment—sold for eight hundred bucks. And the bastard called it “pure profit.” I reached for the dial pad, ready to tear Sarah and Tyler apart. My thumb hovered over Sarah’s name, but I stopped. What would that accomplish? I knew exactly what she would say. “Oh, Grant, he’s just a kid, he didn’t know.” “He was short on rent, you’re his uncle, can’t you just help him out?” “It’s already sold, what do you want me to do? I’ll tell him to give you the eight hundred.” Eight hundred dollars for three thousand dollars worth of my life? I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I scrolled down to the comments on Tyler’s post. “Bro, $800 for those specs? You robbed that guy,” one friend wrote. “Nice flip, Ty. We hitting the club tonight?” another chimed in. Tyler’s reply was a smug smiley face: “You know it. Table service at midnight.” I tossed the phone onto the desk and stood up, pacing the length of my tiny living room. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a lead weight. I couldn’t breathe. I walked to the window, lit a cigarette—a habit I’d quit a year ago—and took a long, harsh drag. The smoke burned my lungs and made me cough, but the nicotine hit my system and began to clear the fog of panic. I couldn’t just scream at them. They didn’t speak the language of logic or respect. To them, my hard work was just a resource for them to mine. I needed a better way. I needed a way to make Tyler cough up the hardware, and to make sure both he and his “smart” buyer regretted ever crossing me. My eyes fell on my desktop tower, still humming as it compiled code. A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. The laptop was a professional workstation. For security and insurance purposes, I had registered it through the manufacturer’s enterprise cloud service and bound the hardware ID to my account. That account gave me master-level permissions. Including… the “Nuclear Option.” 04 I crushed out the cigarette and sat back down. Stay cold, I told myself. Stay clinical. I opened my browser and navigated to the manufacturer’s portal. Login. Password. Two-factor authentication. The page loaded, showing my device management dashboard. A single line of text sat at the top of the list: “Model: Precision Series X. Serial: XXXXXXXXXXXX. Status: Online.” Online. That meant the buyer had already hooked it up to Wi-Fi. I stared at that green “Online” indicator, and a slow, jagged smile spread across my face. Perfect. I clicked on “Device Actions.” A menu of options appeared: Locate Device, Play Sound, Lock Hardware, Wipe Data. My cursor hovered over Lock Hardware. If I clicked this, a low-level command would be sent via the cloud directly to the laptop’s BIOS chip. It wasn’t just a Windows password lock. It would physically disable the motherboard, the CPU, and the SSD controller. The laptop would become a literal brick. No amount of reformatting or part-swapping would fix it. It would be a three-thousand-dollar paperweight. The only way to unlock it was for me—and only me—to send the authorization code from this specific account. It was a feature designed for corporate theft. I never thought I’d be using it on my own nephew. I began to map out the moves in my head. Step one: Lock the device. Turn that buyer’s “steal” into a piece of junk. When he realizes he’s been scammed, he’ll go straight for Tyler’s throat. Step two: Apply pressure. Tyler, desperate to keep the buyer from calling the cops or kicking his door in, would have to come crawling back to me. Step three: Recovery. I’d get my gear back, and Tyler would learn that actions have consequences. No screaming. No family drama on the phone. Just a clean, digital execution. I didn’t need to argue with people who didn’t value me. I just needed to show them what happens when you steal from a man who knows how the machine works.

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The year I turned twenty, I sold my body to my greatest enemy. I crawled into his bed and let him ruin me, all for the sake of a plea—that he’d show mercy and let my mother go. But mercy never came. My mother died anyway, crushed in a horrific multi-car pileup. By the time they pulled her from the wreckage, half of her head was gone. I remember storming into the boardroom, my body still aching and torn from him, screaming with a hysteria that rattled the glass walls. “Silas, I gave you everything you wanted! Why did you still kill her?” His response was a backhand so violent it sent me spinning to the floor. Silas didn’t even blink. He looked down at me, his eyes two chips of frozen Atlantic ice. “When my mother jumped from that balcony right in front of me, I wanted to ask ‘why,’ too,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Why was your mother such a pathetic whore? Why did she have to seduce my father? Why did she have to drive my mother to her death?” He leaned down, his shadow swallowing me whole. “June, the debt is only beginning to be paid. If you’re crying now, you’re far too early.” He forced me into a marriage license using the ninety-nine private photos he’d taken of me that first night as blackmail. Then, he turned around and made sure the entire city of Chicago watched as he dropped millions to woo his socialite childhood sweetheart. He forced me to hand-fold nine hundred and ninety-nine paper roses for her, until my fingertips were raw and bleeding. He forced me to deliver a box of condoms to their hotel in the middle of a torrential rainstorm, a night that left me with a fever so high it turned into a week-long stint in the ICU with pneumonia. Silas wanted me to watch him love someone else. He wanted me to witness the way he cherished her, pampered her, and adored her, until the sheer weight of the contrast made me want to claw my own heart out. What he didn’t know was that after six years of this mutual destruction, I was actually dying. And of those ninety-nine photos, only three remained. … I had been unconscious in the hospital for seven days after my last round of chemotherapy failed. I didn’t expect to find Silas waiting outside my cramped apartment the moment I was discharged. He didn’t greet me. He just grabbed me, slamming me against the door with a rage that vibrated through his grip. “June, Madeline asked you for those things. Why haven’t you given them to her?” he hissed. “Don’t think for a second I won’t leak those photos.” The photos. Those hazy, intimate, shameful captures of a night that should have never happened. If he leaked them, the world would see exactly what he called me: a whore. The familiar jolt of panic finally cleared the fog in my brain. I lifted my head with great effort, my voice a raspy whisper. “I’ll give them to her. What does she want?” I vaguely recalled Silas sending me a series of voice notes before I started chemo. But back then, every ounce of my soul had been focused on begging God for a chance to live. I hadn’t had the strength to listen to his demands. I pulled out my phone. The chat history was a graveyard of missed connections—hundreds of voice notes. I tapped one. The high-pitched, pampered lilt of Madeline filled the air, Silas’s voice murmuring in a low, soothing tone in the background. “Silas, why did you ever write her love letters? Why did you make her a custom snow globe? I want them. They’re mine now. Tell her to give them back!” She wanted the relics of our past. The matching sets—the gloves, the mugs, the pens. Back when Silas loved me most, everything had to be a pair. His and hers. Those memories felt like they belonged to a different century, a different girl. My eyes began to sting, but Silas caught my jaw in a bruising grip, forcing me to meet his mocking gaze. “What’s the matter, June? Can’t let go?” The last time I’d hesitated—when I refused to give Madeline my mother’s heirloom jade bracelet—Silas had arranged for my mother’s grave to be desecrated. If I hadn’t made it there in time, I wouldn’t even have been able to save her urn. I shook my head violently. “No! No, I’ll get them. I’ll give them to you right now.” I leaned against the doorframe, my legs shaking, and fumbled with the lock. Once inside, I began to scavenge through my life for his scraps. The voice notes continued to play in the background, a soundtrack to my humiliation. “Have those things at my office by 6 AM tomorrow.” “Where the hell are you?” “June, you’ve got balls ignoring me for this many days. Get out here!” Then, the final one: “Madeline and I are getting engaged tomorrow. If you don’t show up, you know the consequences.” Engaged? My heart skipped a beat, stuttering in my chest. The glass snow globe I was holding slipped through my numb fingers and shattered on the floor, rolling to a stop at Silas’s feet. He leaned over and picked it up, eyeing my ghostly pallor. “What? Did you think that because we have a piece of paper, I was still holding a candle for you? After six years?” He flipped the snow globe over. On the base, “S & J” was engraved in a youthful, hopeful script. He let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “You don’t deserve to have your name next to mine.” He grabbed an X-Acto knife from my desk and brutally gouged the letters out. The plastic shavings fell on me like grey snow. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. He was right. I didn’t deserve it. Everyone knew Silas hated me. To the world, our six-year marriage was a joke, and I was just a social climber who had trapped a king. No one knew I had been ready to sign the divorce papers years ago. I had even tried to end it all once—tried to leave this world entirely. But Silas had thrown those ninety-nine photos in my face. “You want to die, June? Go ahead,” he’d sneered. “And the second your heart stops, I’ll hit ‘send.’ I’ll let the world know the daughter is just like the mother. I’ll make sure your mother’s name is synonymous with ‘trash’ for eternity.” So I stayed. For my mother’s dignity, what little was left of it. For six years, we had a system: for every act of penance, for every time I let him degrade me, he deleted one photo. Now, there were only three left. He was getting married to the woman he actually loved. It was almost over. I packed the items into a bag with trembling hands and looked at him, my voice devoid of emotion. “What else do you want from me? To delete the last three?” Silas stared at me, then his gaze drifted to the framed photo of my mother on the wall. His expression curdled into something dark and ugly. A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I turned to run, but he caught my ankle and hauled me back onto the sofa. “Silas, stop! You’re crazy! My mother is right there!” I thrashed, pointing at the photo. He was brutal, his movements stripped of any lingering tenderness. “The daughter of a woman who crawled into her best friend’s husband’s bed doesn’t get to talk about dignity,” he spat. I stopped fighting. Suddenly, I was eighteen again. The day Silas told me he loved me. We were so happy, so young. And then we walked through the front door and saw my mother and his father together. I saw Silas’s mother on the balcony, her face a mask of white marble before she stepped into the air. Silas had screamed then—a sound of pure, jagged despair. The same sound he was making now with his body, trying to break me. I pulled a throw pillow over my face to blot out the world. “Fine, Silas. Do it. But it costs you two photos.” He stayed all night. When I tried to look away, he forced my head toward the wall. I strained my neck, watching the ceiling light flicker and sway. Across the room, the incense smoke curled in front of my mother’s picture, obscuring her face. I imagined she was smiling sadly at me. Years ago, I asked her why. Why Silas’s mother? If she hadn’t taken us in when we were homeless, we would have died in the snow. My mother had cried, telling me that Silas’s mother was dying of a hidden illness, and she was terrified we’d be thrown out on the street again. She did it out of survival. But after the suicide, Silas’s father had a heart attack and died. Creditors swarmed. Silas’s legs were broken by thugs who took the company. They made him crawl; they called him garbage. My mother realized her sin too late. She worked three jobs, sold her blood, sold a kidney, just to put Silas through school. I dropped out of college to wait tables and entertain clients, drinking myself sick so he wouldn’t have to. But Silas would just rub his legs—the ones that still ached on rainy nights—and look at me with bloodshot eyes. “My family is gone because of you. You think a few years of playing saint makes us even? You’re dreaming.” Once he took back his empire, he crushed everyone who had ever touched him. I was the only one left to bleed. I had tried to hate him back, but after my mother died, I investigated the accident. It really was just a car crash. I couldn’t even blame him for her death. Loving him was just too exhausting. By dawn, it was over. I was cold, aching in places I didn’t know could hurt, curled into a ball on the sofa. I drifted into a dream of that first snowy night his family took us in. He had cupped my face and told me not to cry. His hands were so warm. I woke up. The warmth was gone. Only the cold, drying tracks of tears remained. Silas was standing over me, his silhouette lost in the shadows. I reached out and grabbed his sleeve, my voice a ghost. “Two photos. Delete them.” He didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away. “Silas! Delete them! Do you hear me?” I tried to stand, but my legs gave out. I hit the floor face-first. Blood erupted from my nose. I wiped at it frantically, my vision blurring. “Delete them!” “You’re so desperate to protect that bitch’s memory?” his cold voice drifted back to me. “Fine. You want the last ones gone? Come to my engagement party tonight. Work as a server. Do that, and I’ll wipe the slate clean.” The word “cruel” echoed in my mind. Today would have been our tenth anniversary—from the day we first became “us.” But my body was running out of time. “Okay,” I whispered. When I arrived at the ballroom, Silas’s secretary shoved a uniform at me. When I stepped out, Silas was waiting. He stared at my face with a strange, unreadable expression. The fall had left a massive purple bruise across my cheek. I’d tried to cover it with powder, but the greyish-white over my sickly skin made me look like a corpse. I’d added blush in a panic, and now I looked like a Victorian ghost. I didn’t know what to do, so I just smiled. He tossed a piece of cake onto a tray. “You look like a freak. Eat that. I don’t need you fainting and making a scene.” The smell of the sugar made my stomach turn. I wanted to vomit, but he stood there, watching me until I forced every bite down. Only then did he leave. I drifted through the crowd, the room spinning. I needed to get to the bathroom. “June? I thought you’d have more pride than this.” It was Madeline. She swirled her champagne, leaning in close to my ear. “Silas still loves me. I’m the one who hired the guys to break his legs back then, and he’s still marrying me. You were the one who stayed by his side, and he wants you dead.” I froze. I had always thought Silas hated the people who ruined him. But when he took over, he brought Madeline back into the fold immediately. When I asked him why, he told me it was because Madeline was “smart.” She had betrayed her own father to help Silas at the very end. I was the one who wasn’t “smart.” The stomach acid was rising. I couldn’t breathe. “Move,” I managed. Madeline smirked, blocking my path with her voluminous skirt. “Don’t go yet. Look at my dress.” I lost it. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I vomited, the liquid splashing right across the pristine white silk of her designer gown. “Oh god,” I gasped, reaching out to wipe it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” My vision tunneled. I grabbed for the nearest table to steady myself, but I only succeeded in dragging the tablecloth down with me. Glass shattered everywhere. A heavy hand grabbed my collar and yanked me back. “June! What did I tell you?” Silas roared. I tried to explain, but I just retched again. He looked at me with pure loathing, then turned to the sobbing Madeline. I looked at her dress again. I recognized the pattern. It was a sketch Silas had made for me when we were eighteen. He had told me then that he’d have a snowflake embroidered on the lapel of his suit to match me. I looked at his chest. There was the snowflake. Now covered in my filth. I reached out with trembling hands to clean it, but he shoved me away. “Your pathetic act isn’t working. You did this on purpose.” He pointed to the floor. “Clean it up. Use your hands.” I fell to my knees, the broken glass slicing into my palms. Silas led a crying Madeline away, and the guests followed, their faces twisted in disgust. The wedding march began to play in the distance. Or maybe it was close. I couldn’t tell. I don’t know how long I was on the floor. Eventually, a pair of polished shoes appeared in my field of vision. A toe lifted my chin. “June, do you regret it yet?” I looked up blindly. Regret what? Regret not abandoning my mother? Silas, that woman you hate so much… she raised me. She saved me from the man who tried to hurt me when I was a child. She gave me her last crust of bread when we were starving. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t answer. I was too tired. Suddenly, Madeline’s voice rang out from the other side of the room. “Is it true, Silas? The demolition for that slum redevelopment has started today?” My heart stopped. “Which slum?” I croaked. “Silas! Which neighborhood!” By the time I hailed a cab and got back, half the block was rubble. My mother’s ashes were in that apartment. The roar of the excavators was deafening. I ran toward the machines, trying to scream, trying to grab a foreman’s radio. Someone shoved me down. Blood and tears smeared across my face as I scrambled back up. “Stop! You can’t! I still live here! I haven’t moved my things!” A pair of leather shoes appeared. I looked up. It was Silas. He was supposed to be at his engagement party, but he was here, watching the destruction. I grabbed his pant leg. “Silas, please! You know my mother is in there. Please, just ten minutes. Let me go in and get her.” But his eyes were dead. I went still. The realization hit me like a physical blow. “You… you did this on purpose?” A project this big… he must have paid off the landlord not to notify me. He’d kept me in the hospital for seven days, then dragged me to the party today just to ensure I wasn’t here. He wanted to erase the last trace of her. “Why?” I whispered. Silas closed his eyes, his voice tight. “Today is also my mother’s anniversary, June. Do you know what your mother said to mine ten years ago? She said, ‘You’re dying anyway. He’s going to remarry. Why not me? I’m just getting a head start.’” “She was her best friend for thirty years. And she killed her. So why should I give your mother any dignity in death?” At that exact moment, a thunderous crash shook the ground. The three-story building collapsed into a heap of dust. Through the haze, I saw it. The framed photo of my mother, smashed under a concrete slab. The ceramic urn, shattered into a thousand pieces. Her ashes—the last physical remains of the woman who loved me—were scattered into the Chicago wind, mixing with the dirt. I didn’t want to cry. I had no tears left. But they came anyway. “But Silas… I thought I was paying for her sins?” I whispered. “We had a deal. Ninety-nine photos. Ninety-nine acts of penance. I gave you six years. Six years of hell. Wasn’t that enough?” I saw a flash of something like panic in his eyes. “Not enough,” he barked, his voice trembling. I snapped. I lunged at him, screaming. “It’s enough! It’s enough! I slept with you, I watched you marry her, I bled for you! Give me the phone! Delete the photos! I’m taking my mother and I’m leaving!” A sharp slap sent my head spinning. Silas looked like a stranger. His knuckles were white. He laughed, a jagged, broken sound. “You want to leave me that badly, June?” He shoved his phone in front of my face. There they were. All ninety-nine. Every shameful, private moment I had sacrificed my soul to delete. They were all back. “What is this? Why are they back?” His eyes were full of a manic, desperate kind of hate. “I’m giving you one last chance. Behave. We’ll replace the bride today. It’ll be you. We’ll spend the rest of our lives together.” “Or, you can keep paying the debt.” The images flickered on the screen—a slideshow of my humiliation reflecting in my wide, dead eyes. I started to laugh. I was a joke. The last six years were a punchline. “I don’t want either,” I said. Warm blood began to drip onto my wrist, splashing onto Silas’s white collar. He looked down, his face suddenly contorting into a mask of pure horror. But I couldn’t hear him anymore. The world was tilting. “Silas,” I whispered as I hit the ground. “I don’t want you.”

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I returned from a grueling business trip in the dead of night, only to find a complete stranger in my apartment. He was in nothing but a pair of low-slung gym shorts, mid-pushup in the center of my living room. His shoulders were broad, his waist tapered into that lethal V-line, and the deep groove of his spine looked sculpted. He was radiating heat, drenched in sweat, his skin glistening under the dim amber lamps. He looked like a surge of raw testosterone with nowhere to go. My flight-or-fight response short-circuited. Naturally, I chose “police.” I called 911 and had him hauled away in handcuffs. “In all my years, I never thought I’d be the one bailing someone out of a precinct at 2:00 AM!” My best friend, Maddie, was practically wailing as we stepped out of the station into the biting winter air. “Technically, you weren’t bailing me out.” The wind sliced through my parka. I didn’t stop walking toward the curb. “Gia, I’m the only one with your spare key! Couldn’t you have just texted me first?” she groaned, jogging to catch up. I pulled out my phone, opened Uber, and punched in my home address. Once the ride was confirmed, I turned to her with a sugary, dangerous smile. “And did you happen to ‘text me first’ before you rented out my guest room to a stranger?” “It was supposed to be a surprise…” Maddie gave me a playful, albeit guilty, wink. “You’ve been complaining for months that the mortgage on that two-bedroom is eating you alive. I thought I was helping.” “Surprise? Maddie, it was a horror movie intro.” I glanced over my shoulder. Standing a few feet behind her was the man in question. He was easily a head taller than me, possessing the kind of physical presence that felt like a localized weather system. If he had actually been a home intruder, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Maddie looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and exasperation. “Gia, seriously. Have you lived alone so long that you’ve developed a full-blown persecution complex?” 1 “Have you ever seen that movie 3-Iron?” I asked, stopping at the edge of the sidewa She blinked, confused. “The Korean one? No, what’s it about?” “To summarize: it’s about a creep who breaks into people’s houses while they’re away. He lives in their space, eats their food, uses their shower, and sifts through their closets.” I tilted my chin up, looking past her at the man. “He sleeps in their bed, uses their mug, and stares at their photos. It’s a violation.” Maddie’s eyes went wide. “We live in a civilized society, Gia! People don’t just do that.” “Don’t they?” I gestured vaguely behind her. “Ask him. He’s the world traveler. He’s seen it all, hasn’t he?” Maddie turned slowly toward him. “Is that… a real thing? Do people do that?” “They do,” Brooks Miller said, nodding solemnly. He raised his right hand, a boyish, slightly mocking grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I swear on my life, I’m not a ‘creep.’” “The jury’s still out on that,” I muttered. My Uber pulled up. I checked the plates and gave Maddie a curt wave. “I’m going home.” “Be nice to him!” Maddie hissed in my ear as she leaned in for a quick goodbye. “I picked him specifically based on your ‘type.’ He’s gorgeous, right? Consider him my late Christmas present to you.” My jaw tightened. I didn’t even know how to respond to that level of delusion. “Just go home, Maddie. I’ll call you if I’m murdered.” I climbed into the back seat, ready to sink into the upholstery. But before the door could click shut, the front passenger door swung open. Brooks slid inside like he owned the car. 2 “Get out,” I snapped. “We’re going to the same place.” He buckled his seatbelt with practiced ease. “And I’m paying for the ride.” I thought about my $4,000 monthly mortgage payment. I thought about the twenty-minute drive ahead. My pride wavered. Before I could protest further, the driver engaged the child locks and pulled out into traffic. “Lovers’ quarrel?” the driver chuckled, glancing at us through the rearview mirror. “It’s a cold night to be fighting, folks. The man apologized by paying for the ride; give him a break, sweetheart.” “He is not my boyfriend,” I said, my voice flat. “Sure, sure. I get it,” the driver said with a knowing wink. He clearly did not get it. But the heater was blasting, and the bone-deep exhaustion of a two-week business trip finally hit me. I didn’t have the energy to argue with a stranger about my non-existent love life. I closed my eyes and drifted. When we arrived, Brooks handled the payment without a word. Inside the lobby, the silence between us was heavy. I hung my coat in the entryway, feeling like a ghost in my own home, and stumbled toward the bathroom. “We need to talk,” Brooks said. His long stride easily cut me off. My reflexes were shot. I tried to stop, but my momentum carried me straight into his chest. As I started to lose my balance, his hand shot out, catching me firmly by the waist. The scent of him—something like cedarwood and cold rain—hit me instantly. I looked up, startled. I saw the sharp line of his jaw, the slight pulse in his throat, and then his eyes—deep, dark, and currently reflecting a very disheveled version of me. My heart did a sudden, traitorous trip-wire skip. “Sorry.” He let go immediately, stepping back to give me air. “It’s fine,” I said, waving a hand as if I could brush away the tension. “I’m just… I’m dead on my feet. Can this wait?” I had been traveling for fifteen days. I had spent the last three hours in a police station. I was done. “Fine.” A faint, almost tender smile touched his lips. “Get some sleep, Gia.” Tender? Was I so starved for affection that I was hallucinating subtext? I shook my head, walked into the bathroom, and locked the door. I scrubbed my face, took the fastest shower in history, and collapsed onto my pillows. I fell asleep instantly, only to dream of a warm, shirtless man holding me close. In the dream, I didn’t call the police. In the dream, I leaned in and kissed him. I was startled awake by a series of muffled thuds and high-pitched shouting from the unit next door. I checked my phone: 1:15 AM. The “Night Owls” were back. My neighbors were a couple who seemingly lived to argue and rearrange furniture between the hours of midnight and 4:00 AM. Even with my noise-canceling earplugs, the vibration of their voices bled through the drywall. Unable to get back to sleep, I wandered into the living room for a glass of water, only to nearly jump out of my skin when I saw a shadow on the couch. 3 “What are you doing out here?” I exhaled, my heart hammering. The remnants of that dream flashed in my mind, making my cheeks heat up in the dark. He held up a glass. “Still adjusting to the climate here. My throat’s like a desert.” “You’ll get used to it,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “By the way,” he gestured toward the wall shared with the neighbors. “Is this a regular thing, or a special occasion?” “How long have you been here?” I asked. He thought for a second. “Four days.” “And how many nights has it been quiet?” He went silent. The answer was zero. “They run some kind of wholesale business,” I explained, leaning against the counter with my lukewarm water. “They get home at 1:00 AM, screaming at each other, then they start cleaning and moving boxes until 4:00. I have spare earplugs if you want them.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you just… accept this?” “What choice do I have?” I looked around my beautiful, expensive prison. “I bought this place. I spent a fortune on the renovations. I’m locked into a thirty-year mortgage. You can’t just ‘not accept’ a neighbor in a high-rise.” I didn’t mention the other sounds they made—the ones that were even more awkward to overhear. Brooks frowned. “Have you called the cops?” “Of course. And the HOA, at least a dozen times.” I shrugged, feeling the familiar weight of helplessness. “It doesn’t matter. In a building with three hundred units, the management doesn’t care about one noisy couple.” His expression shifted into something unreadable. “Let me try.” He set his glass down and started for the door. “Wait—” I lunged forward, grabbing the hem of his shirt. Because of the angle, my eyes landed directly on his abs—perfectly defined, even in the shadows. I yanked my hand back like I’d touched a hot stove. “They aren’t… they aren’t nice people, Brooks.” He looked at me, waiting for more. “See that dent in the bottom of my door?” I whispered, my hand trembling slightly. “The husband did that. He kicked it because I asked them to keep it down once. They’re bullies.” Brooks’s eyes darkened. “Stay inside. Don’t come out until I’m back.” He reached out and briefly, gently, ruffled my hair. Before I could process the “head pat” or the weirdly protective surge it gave me, he was out the door. 4 Brooks knocked on their door. Not a frantic pounding, but a steady, rhythmic, polite thrum. The muffled shouting inside continued, ignoring him. Brooks didn’t lose his temper. He just kept knocking. Three beats, a pause. Three beats, a pause. It was relentless. “It’s the middle of the night! What the hell do you want?” The neighbor’s door flew open. I knew that man—he was a wall of aggressive muscle with a temper like a live wire. Panic flared in my chest. I grabbed the baseball bat I kept under my bed and crept toward my front door, ready to intervene. “Hey, man. I’m the guy from next door,” Brooks said. His voice was incredibly calm, almost conversational. “You the owner of this unit?” “Yeah—so what?” the neighbor barked. “Look, I get it,” Brooks said smoothly. “You and the wife work hard. Long hours, late nights. It’s a grind, and I respect that.” I blinked. What was he doing? “But here’s the thing,” Brooks continued, his tone softening but gaining a razor-sharp edge. “We’re corporate types. We need our sleep to keep the paychecks coming. Any chance you could dial the volume down a bit?” “I pay my taxes! I can talk however I want in my own damn house!” the man yelled. I could hear his wife chiming in with some choice insults from the background. “You absolutely have the right to speak,” Brooks agreed. “But rights have limits. Between 10:00 PM and 6:00 AM, anything over forty-five decibels is a city ordinance violation. I can call the precinct—the one I was just at tonight, actually. I’m on a first-name basis with the sergeant.” “Call ’em! I don’t give a damn about the cops!” “I figured you might say that,” Brooks said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re a business owner, right? Public records make it very easy to find your LLC and your tax filings. If the cops don’t work, I’ll just go through the City Council and the Better Business Bureau. I’ll make sure there’s a formal noise and nuisance investigation tied to your business address. Constant city inspections are a real pain for wholesale operations, aren’t they?” There was a long, pregnant silence. “Listen, man… let’s not get crazy,” the neighbor muttered, his bravado springing a leak. “I’m not being crazy. I’m being neighborly,” Brooks replied cheerfully. “I’d hate to see your reputation suffer over something as simple as a loud conversation. So, are we good? Or do I need to start filing paperwork?” “We’re good. We’ll keep it down,” the neighbor grumbled. The door slammed shut. I leaned against my door, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. For years, I had lived in fear of that man’s temper. Brooks had dismantled him in three minutes with nothing but a calm voice and a subtle threat to his wallet. For the first time since moving in, I felt safe. Truly safe. I looked at the door. Maddie’s “gift” was looking better by the second. Now I just had to figure out how to handle him.

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The notification hit my phone like a dopamine spike: a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars from my husband’s company finance department. My heart leaped. A bonus? Finally? After the year we’d had, this was salvation. Then the phone rang. It was the finance manager, a woman whose voice usually carried the friction of sandpaper. “That transfer was a mistake,” she barked, skipping the pleasantries. “It’s for the partner, not you. Send it back. Now.” I froze, phone pressed to my ear, confusion clouding my brain. “Excuse me?” She mistook my hesitation for resistance. Her tone sharpened. “Listen, if you don’t return it, and the actual wife finds out, you’re going to be in a world of pain.” The room seemed to tilt. My husband, Russell? The man known throughout our neighborhood as the patron saint of family values? The man who listed my bank account for his direct deposit because he ‘didn’t trust himself with money’? Every month, like clockwork, three thousand dollars hit my account. Every penny of his salary. I forced my voice to remain steady, though my hand was trembling. “Does he… does he send her ten thousand every month?” The finance manager scoffed, a sound dripping with disdain. “Yes. And honestly? As the mistress, you should be grateful for your three grand allowance. Don’t try to compete with the wife.” The air left my lungs. “How long?” I whispered. “How long has he been paying her?” “Seven years,” she snapped, her patience evaporating. “Now, wire the money back.” I felt the cut deep in my gut, severing reality from fiction. My devoted, frugal husband had been funding a second, luxurious life. And apparently, to the world, I was the other woman. “I’ll handle it,” I managed to choke out. “Thank you.” 1 The finance manager hung up, relieved, assuming I was a compliant side-piece who knew her place. I walked out into the biting November wind, heading toward the office building where Russell had worked for seven years. My body felt numb, like I’d been submerged in ice water. I replayed the last fifteen years of our marriage, hunting for the cracks, the missed clues. But there were none. No late nights. No unexplained absences. Even at 2:00 AM, he was always in our bed. This was a man who saved cardboard boxes from deliveries to resell for pennies. A man who wore his boxer briefs until the fabric disintegrated, stitching them up rather than spending five dollars on a new pack. How could that man spend ten thousand dollars a month on a mistress? It wasn’t just him. Our entire family lived in a state of carefully curated poverty. His three-thousand-dollar salary. One thousand for his mother’s medical bills. Five hundred for rent in this crumbling apartment complex. I gave him two hundred for pocket money and five hundred for gas. That left eight hundred dollars. Eight hundred dollars to feed a family of four, pay utilities, and keep our daughter in school supplies. We bought vegetables at the grocery store minutes before closing to get the discounted, bruised produce. We lived in the cheapest unit in the worst part of town. We split pennies. We survived. He quit smoking to save money. He drove Uber after work until his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. To our neighbors, we were the gold standard of hardworking, blue-collar struggle. It was all a lie. A performance art piece. I entered the lobby of his office building. The receptionist, a bright-eyed girl no older than twenty, smiled professionally. “Can I help you?” “I’m looking for Russell,” I said. “Russell Davis.” “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Davis?” My stomach turned. The finance woman had called him Mr. Davis. Not Russell from accounting. Mr. Davis. “Just tell him Meredith is here.” The girl’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the owner is out of the office right now. Perhaps you could call his cell?” Owner. The word echoed like a gunshot. Russell didn’t work here. He owned this place. And for seven years, I had been completely blind. 2 I swallowed the scream building in my throat and glanced past the receptionist. It was a boutique operation, maybe thirty employees, sleek modern furniture. Not a Fortune 500, but definitely not the warehouse job he claimed to have. There was a small coffee shop downstairs. I bought a four-dollar lemonade and sat by the window. Normally, that four dollars would have haunted me for days. That was a dinner for my family. That was two pairs of socks for my daughter, Hallie. That was a treat she’d beg for but I’d have to deny. I took a sip. It was sour, stinging my tongue. With shaking fingers, I downloaded a business registry app and typed in Russell’s name. There it was. Russell Davis. CEO. Founder. Board Member. Registered seven years ago. Capital: $200,000. E-commerce. I remembered that year. He had come home, lifting me off the ground, spinning me around until we were both dizzy. “Babe, I got a job! Three thousand a month! We’re going to be okay!” I believed him. God, I believed him. Back then, we were both nobodies. I was stocking shelves; he was inventory management. We fell in love in the breakroom of a logistics center. When Hallie was born, his mother’s health collapsed. I quit my job to care for the baby and the invalid. I ran the house. I nursed his mother through strokes and bedsores. When my back ached so bad I couldn’t stand, Russell would massage my shoulders, whispering, “I’m sorry, Meredith. I know it’s hard. Thank you.” The irony tasted like bile. When my lemonade was half gone, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. Russell stepped out. He wasn’t wearing the faded, stained sweatpants he’d left the house in this morning. He was in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him perfectly. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. A woman stepped out. High heels. A dress that hugged curves I hadn’t possessed in a decade. Glossy black hair, porcelain skin. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Russell took her hand, interlacing their fingers, and led her into the building. My heart didn’t break; it shattered. It felt like my chest was caving in. I had imagined this scene a thousand times in nightmares—storming in, screaming, tearing his reputation to shreds. But in reality? I just felt… empty. My phone buzzed. A text from Hallie. Mom, where are you? I’m starving. The tears finally came, hot and fast, splashing onto my cracked phone screen. My daughter. Hallie was in middle school. She didn’t buy lunch; I made it every morning. I picked her up every night at 9:30 PM after her extracurriculars because we couldn’t afford the bus fare. Her father wouldn’t spend five dollars on her lunch, but he was spending ten thousand a month on this woman. I took a deep breath, wiping my face with my rough sleeve. I opened Uber Eats and ordered ribs, fries, and a salad to be delivered to Hallie’s school. The internet was right: If you don’t spend your husband’s money, someone else will. I waited. I waited until Russell and the woman came out. I followed their SUV in a cab, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. They drove to a gated community in the suburbs—the kind of place with manicured lawns and HOA fees higher than my rent. Thirty minutes later, they emerged. But there was a third person. A boy. Maybe six years old. I watched through the tint of the taxi window as the boy ran to Russell, shouting, “Daddy!” He had a son. The boy looked exactly like him. The eyes, the chin. It was a dagger twisting in my open wound. 3 When I gave birth to Hallie, I almost died. An amniotic fluid embolism. It was chaos. Russell had been a wreck. The nurses told me later that he fell to his knees in the hallway, sobbing, begging the doctors. “Save my wife. I don’t care about the baby. Just save Meredith. I’ll sell everything. Just save her.” He wasn’t a religious man, but that night he prayed to every god he could name. When I survived, he held me for hours, weeping. “No more,” he had whispered into my hair. “One daughter is enough. I’m never putting you through that again.” Even when his father threatened to disown him for not producing a male heir, Russell flipped the table. He cut ties with his dad to protect me. “Nothing matters more than Meredith’s life,” he told his relatives. Everyone said I was lucky. Everyone said Russell was a saint. It was all a joke. He didn’t stop having kids because he loved me. He stopped because he was having his son with someone else. I followed them to a high-end steakhouse. From a distance, I watched him order—filet mignon, lobster, expensive wine. I watched him cut the meat for the boy, wiping the kid’s mouth with a tenderness that made me sick. Last month, Hallie had asked, “Dad, can I go to the hibachi place with my friends? It’s twenty dollars.” He had looked at her sternly. “If you get straight A’s this semester, maybe.” Hallie was a B-student. He knew she wouldn’t get the money. Rage, cold and sharp, replaced my sorrow. I pulled out my phone and texted Grant, my nephew. He was a lawyer, sharp as a whip. I sent him everything. The location. The photos. The company details. Grant: Aunt Meredith, stay calm. Do not confront him yet. Let me dig. We need undeniable proof. I left the restaurant and went to pick up Hallie. I didn’t have a car. I drove a rusty 2004 sedan with no heater that sounded like a lawnmower. The wind cut right through the door seals. Hallie hopped in, shivering but beaming. “Mom! Did you win the lottery? That food was amazing!” I forced a smile, looking at her innocent face in the rearview mirror. “Something like that. I won fifty bucks on a scratch-off. I saved the rest so we can go get dinner together later.” “Really?” Her eyes widened. “Can we go to that hibachi place? I want you to try it.” 4 When we got home, Russell wasn’t there yet. My mother-in-law, Barbara, was in her room, shouting. “Where have you been? I’m starving in here! Useless…” Hallie sighed. “I’m hungry too, Mom.” I went to the kitchen. I boiled water for pasta. Simple. Cheap. Russell walked in just as I was draining the noodles. He was back in his costume—the faded hoodie and stained jeans. “Dinner’s ready,” I said, my voice flat. He patted his stomach, grimacing. “I grabbed a slice of pizza while I was driving Uber. My stomach’s acting up. I’m just going to crash.” He always did this. ‘I ate a cheap hot dog, my stomach hurts.’ It was his excuse to avoid eating our meager food. I used to worry about his nutrition. Now I knew he was just full of lobster. “Take a bowl to your mom first,” I said. He smiled, that boyish, charming smile. “You’re such a good wife, Meredith.” The words felt like a slap. He went into Barbara’s room. I walked past the door a moment later and heard whispering. “You’re a big shot boss now, Russell,” Barbara hissed. “Get me a nurse. What good is she? She can’t even give you a son. Thank god I have my grandson. When are you going to put him on the family tree? I can’t face your father in the afterlife like this.” My blood froze. She knew. The old witch knew everything. I was the only one playing the fool. Later, in bed, Russell turned to me. “Babe, I found a gig for you. My friend needs a housekeeper for his parents. Cooking, cleaning. Two grand a month.” I stared at him in the dark. “A housekeeper?” “It’s easy money,” he said. The next day, he drove me to the address. It was a nice condo. As we walked in, I saw a framed photo on the mantel. It was the mistress. Kinsley. And her parents. He wanted me to clean his mistress’s parents’ house. I turned to him, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and disbelief. “Is that what I am to you? A servant? I’m supposed to scrub their toilets?” He looked panic-stricken for a split second, then recovered. “Meredith, don’t be like that. It’s just a job…” I walked out. That night, while he slept, I unlocked his phone. My hands shook as I scrolled. The things I found… It wasn’t just infidelity. It was criminal. Grant sent me a file the next morning. This is it, Auntie. It’s over. I saw the calendar notification on Russell’s phone: Company Gala. The Grand Hotel. I made my decision. The next morning, Russell left in his rags. I followed him. I waited until the gala was in full swing. I waited until he was on stage, holding Kinsley’s hand, soaking in the applause as the “power couple” of the year. I dialed 911. Then I called the FBI tip line number Grant had given me. As the sirens wailed outside the hotel, police officers and agents marched into the ballroom. They approached the stage. “Russell Davis?” an officer asked, handcuffs glinting under the chandelier. Russell looked confused. “Yes?” “We have a warrant for your arrest regarding multiple counts of wire fraud and human trafficking schemes. You have the right to remain silent.” Russell’s face went white. He looked out into the crowd, searching for an ally, and his eyes landed on me. I was walking down the center aisle, slow and steady.

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