Five years. That’s how long I’ve been pining for my icy, untouchable adoptive brother. Five years of starving for a man who looked at me like I was a budget report he couldn’t quite balance. Finally, I snapped. I didn’t just snap; I went nuclear. I slipped a heavy sedative into his drink, waited for him to go down, and then—feeling dangerously bold—I climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. Just as I was about to savor my victory, a flurry of translucent text started scrolling across my vision, like a frantic livestream chat: [Girlie, you are literally signing your own death warrant. You think he’s some celibate saint? This man is a high-functioning sociopath with severe touch-starvation and a literal addiction to the bedroom. Run!] [I’m telling you, stop acting. You look like a strawberry cupcake—sweet, soft, and totally out of your league. The real monster is lying right under you, just biding his time.] [It’s over. I can’t even imagine what he’s going to do to her once the meds wear off. RIP to her spine.] I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Before I could process the “glitch” in my reality, the man beneath me stirred. His long lashes fluttered, and his eyes snapped open. 1 Bennett’s eyes—dark, bottomless, and terrifyingly sharp—locked onto mine. I’d already stripped him to the waist. He was lying there in nothing but a pair of charcoal-grey lounge pants. I had to give it to him: his physique was top-tier. Broad shoulders, lean muscle that looked like it had been carved from marble, and a core so defined it felt like iron under my thighs. His brow was furrowed, a storm brewing in his expression. Even with his wrists handcuffed to the headboard, he radiated the kind of suffocating authority that usually made me want to hide in the basement. His voice was a lethal frost. “Sadie. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Old habits die hard. Having been under his thumb for a decade, I instinctively flinched. But then I remembered the “spoiler” from those strange floating words. I forced myself to smirk, leaning in close. “Can’t you tell? I’m finally taking what I want. I’m sleeping with you.” The catalyst for my madness had happened a few days ago. He’d been trending for twenty-four hours with that A-list starlet, Mia Rossi. Papparazzi had caught her entering the Foster Group headquarters multiple times. There were even rumors that Bennett had dropped nine figures on a rare pink diamond just to make her smile. That same night, Mia had tweeted: My favorite color? Pink, obviously. I had stared at that tweet until my vision blurred, then smashed my phone against the wall. I went straight to the liquor cabinet, picked the strongest bottle, and spiked it with enough sedative to put down a grizzly bear. Then I’d dragged him to bed, stripped him, and locked him down. One smooth motion. I was going to wait for him to wake up and give him an ultimatum: Marry me, or I make sure there’s no turning back from tonight. But I never expected to find out—via some cosmic hallucination—that Bennett might actually want me back. A massive surge of adrenaline, bright as a firework, exploded in my chest. I shifted, grinding slightly against his hips, and leaned down to nip at his prominent Adam’s apple. I felt a surge of intoxicating power. “Come on, Ben. You’ve been wanting this for a long time too, haven’t you?” As I leaned over him, the hem of my wine-red lace nightgown rode up, exposing my thighs. If the “feed” was right, my brother was a man with a very specific, very repressed hunger. And here I was, offering myself up on a silver platter. I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning, and whispered in his ear, “Maybe I should give you an heir, Ben. Think about it. Would the kid call you ‘Daddy’ or ‘Uncle’?” 2 Bennett’s face went from icy to thunderous in a heartbeat. He looked at me with the same sharp, disciplinary gaze he used when I was ten and failed my math tests. “Sadie! What kind of garbage is filling that head of yours?” he barked. “Say one more word like that and I swear I’ll break your legs.” He yanked at the handcuffs, the metal clinking violently against the frame. “Get off me. Now.” The shout made me jump. My instinct was to obey, to scramble off the bed and apologize. I started to slide down, pouting. “Fine, fine. So grumpy. Let’s see how much you’re yelling when that ‘hunger’ hits you.” My eyes drifted down, following the lines of his chest, past the eight-pack, and further down… I squinted, waiting for the inevitable sign of his “addiction.” Nothing. The grey lounge pants remained frustratingly flat. No “salute,” no reaction. I rubbed my eyes, baffled. “This isn’t scientifically possible!” Bennett let out a cold, mocking laugh. “You’re my sister, Sadie. What kind of reaction did you expect? Unlock these cuffs. Don’t make me ask a third time.” He sounded so much like the stern guardian who had raised me that my confidence began to crumble. Was the “feed” lying to me? Just then, the text flickered back into existence: [Girlie, don’t believe him! The old fox took a heavy-duty suppressant this morning. He’s literally forcing himself to be ‘out of order’ right now!] [Exactly. Think about it—living under the same roof as a girl who looks like a literal angel, smelling her vanilla perfume every day… with his ‘condition,’ he’d have devoured her years ago if he didn’t have a moral compass made of titanium.] [He’s the ultimate ‘tragic villain’ trope. He’d rather make himself ‘incapable’ than touch his sister. It’s honestly kind of hot.] [+1. This slow burn is killing me. Don’t worry, Sadie—that suppressant only lasts seventy-two hours. Once it wears off, he’s going to be a weapon of mass destruction.] I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I looked back at my brother, my smirk returning, wider than ever. “Oh, Ben. You’re the one in the cage, not me. Stop trying to play the big, bad CEO.” “Sit tight and be a good little captive. If you keep me happy, maybe I’ll let you go by the weekend.” 3 Day two of Bennett’s “captivity.” As the head of Foster Group, he couldn’t just vanish without the world ending. I played the part of the dutiful captor—I dressed him in a crisp white shirt, tied his silk tie, and even set up his laptop for a high-level board meeting via Zoom. Of course, he was still in his lounge pants below the camera’s view, and his wrists were still tethered to the bedpost. I leaned in, just out of the camera’s range, and whispered a warning: “Don’t you dare mention being kidnapped, Ben. You wouldn’t want the whole world to know that the formidable Mr. Foster is his sister’s little pet, would you?” Bennett’s expression was so dark it could have curdled milk. But, as I expected, he was a professional. He sat through the entire hour-long meeting with a stone-cold face, never breathing a word about his predicament. Day three. I stripped the elite suit off him again, leaving him bare-chested. I even looped a decorative body chain over his shoulders—it looked devastatingly erotic on his tan skin. I set up my easel and gave him a foxy little grin. “My oil painting class needs a model, Ben. And honestly, your physique puts those professional models to shame. Just consider this your contribution to the arts.” Bennett turned his head away, jaw clenched, refusing to utter a single word. By day four, my resolve was starting to waver. I whispered to the “voices” in my head: You guys said he likes me! It’s been four days and he still looks like he wants to file a restraining order! The response was instant: [That’s because his self-control is legendary! If you hadn’t moved first, he would have locked YOU up in about six months. The guy is obsessed.] [In the original story, he has a safe in his study filled with ‘toys’ and ‘special equipment’ all labeled with your name. He’s a total deviant under that suit.] My eyes widened. I bolted for the study and cracked the safe—I’d known the combination for years (it was my birthday). The door swung open. There were no toys. No deviant equipment. Instead, there was a will and a series of trust fund documents. The papers stated in black and white: Upon Sadie Foster’s 21st birthday, 5% of Foster Group shares will be transferred to her annually. In the event of Bennett Foster’s death or incapacitation, Sadie Foster is to inherit the entirety of the estate and controlling interest of the company. I stood there, the papers trembling in my hand, feeling like I’d been hit by a freight train. A wave of crushing guilt washed over me. Bennett wasn’t my biological brother, but he had given me everything. He was the one who had pulled me out of that terrifying foster-care situation when I was seven. I had clung to him then, begging my parents to keep him. When our parents died in that tragic accident two years later, leaving us with nothing but debt, fifteen-year-old Bennett had grabbed my hand at the funeral. “Don’t be scared, Sadie,” he’d said, his voice cracking but firm. “I’ve got you. I’ll always take care of you.” And he had. He was a man of his word. He’d worked three jobs while getting his PhD, built a tech empire from the ground up by twenty-five, and protected me from every predatory relative who tried to cash in on us. He’d even come home with bruises once because he’d taken a job at an underground gym just to buy me the designer dress I wanted for prom. And how did I repay him? By drugging him and humiliating him for my own selfish crush. My throat tightened. I ran back to the bedroom, tears blurring my vision. “Ben… Ben, I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.” Bennett looked up, his eyes weary. “What’s the new game, Sadie?” He looked thinner. He hadn’t eaten much in three days. Seeing him like this broke something inside me. I wiped my face, pulled the key from my pocket, and sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m letting you go. Right now.” Suddenly, the “feed” went absolutely ballistic: [OH MY GOD! STOP! I just remembered—the suppressant only lasts 72 hours!] [TODAY IS DAY FOUR! IT’S OVER! THE DRUG IS OUT OF HIS SYSTEM!] [SADIE, DON’T DO IT! DO NOT UNLOCK THOSE CUFFS! He’s been repressing a decade of lust and three days of pure rage—he’s a powder keg!] [He is going to ruin you! You won’t be able to walk for a week! ABORT MISSION!] At the same time, Bennett’s calm demeanor vanished. His face flushed, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous register. “Sadie… wait. Don’t touch that lock yet.” But I was too fast. I’d already slid the key in. Click. The cuffs fell away.

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When the tenth attempt failed—when the System chimed in my head, coldly declaring that I had “not only failed to redeem the heroine but had driven her to absolute loathing”—something inside me finally snapped. I didn’t just break; I went full-blown manic. We were at the engagement gala, a high-society merger between two dynasties. Noah, Margot’s foster brother—the boy she protected with a ferocity that bordered on the divine—had just pulled his latest stunt. He claimed I’d taken the sentimental heirloom he’d bought for his “future brother-in-law” and tossed it into the deep end of the estate’s decorative koi pond. Standing there, flanked by my parents’ disappointed glares and Margot’s murderous, icy stare, I suddenly realized how exhausted I was. Living felt like a chore I no longer wanted to perform. So, without a word, I turned and threw myself into the dark, frigid water of the pond. Splash. I let the weight of my tuxedo pull me straight to the bottom. My parents went into a frantic tailspin. They had the security detail haul me out, my father’s face ashen, my mother looking like she was seconds away from a heart attack. I stood there, dripping, shivering, as Noah huddled against Margot’s side, playing the wounded bird. Margot didn’t even look at me with concern. She just rubbed Noah’s back, her eyes boring into mine like twin daggers. “Bennett, I’m warning you,” she hissed. “If you ever try a pathetic stunt like this to scare Noah again, the engagement is off. You’ll never set foot in the Sinclair estate again.” I wiped the pond water from my eyes and started walking—not toward the house, but toward the heavy traffic of the main road outside the gates. “Message received, Margot,” I called back over my shoulder. “Why go through the hassle of a breakup when a funeral is so much cleaner? I’m going to go find a semi-truck to play chicken with.” Margot’s composure shattered. She looked at me like I was a lunatic before sprinting after me, grabbing my arm just as I reached the curb of the bustling highway. A freight truck roared past, the wind nearly knocking us over. That night, in the hospital, Noah was at it again. He was standing on the edge of the second-floor terrace, sobbing for the benefit of the nurses. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t be here. I’m just the foster brother. I’ll leave Margot to Bennett… I’ll just end it now!” I watched him. He wasn’t even close to the edge; his toes were firmly planted on the concrete. I sighed, walked up behind him, and shoved him aside. “You’re taking too long,” I muttered. “Watch a pro do it.” Before anyone could scream, I vaulted over the railing and plummeted toward the pavement. 1 The whistling of the wind was the last thing I heard before the lights went out. When I drifted back into consciousness, the first thing I heard was Noah’s whimpering, high-pitched voice. “Margot, I swear, I didn’t say anything. Bennett just… he just jumped. I don’t know what happened to him…” I opened my eyes to see Margot standing over my bed, shielding Noah like a mother hen. My parents had arrived, looking haggard. “Arthur, Diane,” Margot said, her voice hard as flint, “this is clearly another one of Bennett’s performances. He’s obsessed with the idea that I care more about Noah than him. He’s trying to frame a traumatized boy just to force me to send Noah away.” She turned her gaze toward me, her eyes flashing with a cruel kind of brilliance. “If he actually wanted to die, why jump from the second floor? He knew there was a terrace below. He calculated the fall so he’d survive. He’s manipulative, and he’s dangerous.” She saw the flicker of doubt in my parents’ eyes. Then, she noticed I was awake. She didn’t offer a hand or a kind word. Instead, she grabbed my arm and dragged me off the bed toward the large hospital window. “Look, Bennett,” she snarled, pressing my face toward the glass. “We’re on the thirtieth floor now. No terraces. Just a straight drop to the concrete. If you’re so determined to end it, why aren’t you jumping now?” I was still groggy, every bone in my body feeling like it had been through a meat grinder. I was genuinely disappointed I was still breathing. But when I looked down at that dizzying, lethal height, a genuine smile spread across my face. “You’re right,” I whispered. While Margot was mid-sentence, lecturing my parents on my “wicked intentions,” I didn’t hesitate. I unlatched the window and started climbing out. The room went silent for exactly one second. Then, chaos exploded. Screams, chairs flipping, hands grabbing at my waist. I fought them. I thrashed like a wild animal, desperate to hit the air. It took four of them to pin me back onto the bed and lock the window. Margot stood there, chest heaving, trying to find her voice to scold me again. But before she could speak, my father’s hand cracked across her face. Snap. “Enough! Margot, shut your damn mouth!” My father locked the window and pointed a trembling finger at her. “Have you ever seen an ‘actor’ gamble with his life like that? This is your fiancé! Look at what you’ve turned him into!” My parents turned to me, their eyes red-rimmed. “Bennett…” Before they could speak, Noah let out a choked sob, clutching his chest. “It’s my fault. Bennett is like this because of me. Margot, maybe I should just move out. I shouldn’t be between you two…” The room shifted instantly. My parents’ expressions turned awkward and complicated. Margot stepped in front of Noah, her protective instincts flaring like a raw nerve. “Noah, stop it,” she said, her voice a vow. “We might not share blood, but you are my brother. As long as I’m alive, no one kicks you out.” If this were the first time I’d heard that speech, my heart would have been in tatters. But I had lived this exact moment ten times before. I knew the script by heart. It didn’t hurt anymore; it just made me want to vomit. A wave of nausea hit me. I closed my eyes, memories of the “Before” flooding back. I was a loser in my past life. I’d lost my job and been diagnosed with a terminal illness in the same week. So, when the “System” told me I could have a billion dollars and a healthy body if I could just win over this cold-hearted heiress, I didn’t think twice. But the System was a glitchy piece of shit. It kept dropping me into “Hard Mode” scripts where I was the punching bag for her foster brother. I had developed literal PTSD from being a “Tragic Fiancé.” I had been ready to take my “consolation prize” from ten failed lives and just retire into oblivion, but then the eleventh reboot started. “Host, are you really giving up?” the System’s voice echoed in my mind. “I swear, her emotional metrics are shifting this time…” “If you want out,” it continued, “the rules haven’t changed. You just have to die permanently in this world.” I was busy haggling with the voice in my head when Margot’s sharp tone snapped me back to reality. “Bennett! Look at what you’ve done!” I looked up. Her face was a mask of fury. 2 She pointed at Noah, who was slumped against the wall, looking pale. “Because of your little stunt, Noah’s heart condition flared up. The doctor says he needs an emergency transfusion.” I leaned back against the pillows. “If he’s sick, treat him. If he’s dying, let him. Why are you bothering me?” “If he doesn’t know how to die properly,” I added, “I can give him some pointers.” Margot’s face went white. My parents had stepped out to find a specialist, and the moment they were gone, she slapped me. Hard. “You caused this! He’s a universal donor, but his specific subtype is rare—and you’re the only match in the building! You’re giving him the blood, Bennett. You don’t get a choice.” Noah began to weep. “Forget it, Margot. Bennett hates me. He won’t save me. Just let me fade away. I’m just an orphan anyway…” Margot’s rage boiled over. She grabbed me by the collar, shaking me. “Bennett, if you want any hope of this marriage happening, you will give him that blood!” My vision swam. She slammed me back onto the mattress. “Don’t make me use force. Sign the consent form and—” Before she could finish, I snatched the pen and scribbled my name. I tossed the pen aside without looking up. “Take it.” Margot blinked. “What?” “I said, take the blood. Take it all. Drain me dry for all I care. I’m done with this anyway.” Noah shot a quick glance at Margot. Her expression darkened. “Bennett, quit the dramatics. It’s just a pint of blood. Do you have to act like a martyr just to make us feel guilty?” “Fine,” she sighed, her tone shifting to that bizarrely clinical, “negotiator” voice she used. “What do you want? Name your price for the blood. Money? A new car? Just tell me what it takes for you to do this willingly.” My head throbbed. This woman was a sociopath. Nothing was ever enough. I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice for one more second. I bolted upright and screamed at her, “I said I’ll give it to him! I’ll give him my blood, my heart, my damn soul if it’ll make you shut up!” Before she could react, I grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on the bedside table and drove it toward my wrist. The pain didn’t come. Margot’s reflexes were terrifying; she caught the blade with her bare hand. Blood seeped through her fingers. Noah screamed and ran out to call a nurse. Margot pinned my arms down, her face livid, her voice trembling with something that almost sounded like fear. “Bennett! Are you insane?! Is this the only trick you have left? To hurt yourself for attention?” “You used to just be jealous,” she spat, “but this? This is pathetic.” I thrashed under her grip. “Let go! What I do with my life is none of your business!” “I’m your fiancée!” I kicked, I bit her hand, I fought like a feral cat. My mouth tasted like iron from her blood. Finally, I went limp. I looked at her and gave her a soft, terrifyingly sweet smile. “Fine, Margot. You win. I was just acting. I just wanted to be the center of the universe. I wanted to steal you away from Noah.” “You’re so smart,” I whispered. “You saw right through me. The play is over. I’m not going to die today. Can you let go now?” She searched my eyes. I made sure they looked as sincere as a saint’s. Eventually, she exhaled, releasing her grip. “Bennett, I don’t like forcing people. But Noah is my brother. Saving him is the right thing to do. You were being a child.” “I promise,” she added, “if you give the blood, the Sinclair family will still honor the engagement…” Before the sentence left her lips, I grabbed the knife and drove it into my throat. The world went silent. My parents walked in with a bag of takeout—warm porridge for their recovering son. My blood sprayed across their faces before they could even say hello. The bag hit the floor. A scream ripped through the room: “Doctor! Get a doctor!” 3 I had a long, vivid dream. In the dream, I was still that wide-eyed idiot who first bonded with the System. I believed that if I were just kind enough, or patient enough, I could earn Margot’s love. Every time Noah framed me, I would scramble to explain, sweating and stuttering, dragging my dignity through the mud just for a chance at being believed. I tried everything: hunger strikes, ten-page letters of apology, standing in the rain outside her office. I was the textbook definition of a “simp.” By the ninth failed attempt, Margot had thrown the annulment papers at my face. She told me I was “too dark and twisted to be loved” and told me to vanish. So I did. I walked into traffic and was crushed into nothingness. My last memory was the sound of my own bones snapping and the screams of onlookers. Then I woke up for round ten, my brain already fractured from the trauma. I tried to endure it, but when Margot stood me up at our engagement party to take Noah to the movies, I finally understood. To hell with love. To hell with the mission. I had more affection for a plate of cold lasagna than I did for Margot Sinclair. I was woken up by her voice. It was coming from outside the hospital door, thick with that nauseating self-righteousness. “Arthur, Diane, I know it looks bad. But Noah’s heart attack was triggered by the shock Bennett gave him!” “Think about how Bennett has treated him in the past!” Her voice dropped an octave, sounding conspiratorial. “Weren’t you the ones who let me hire those nine girls to ‘seduce’ him? You wanted to see if his ambition was too high, to break his spirit so he’d be a submissive husband for the Sinclair family.” “You really think a suicide attempt means he’s changed? I don’t buy it. He’s been spending too much time on the streets. He’s learned how to act. This is Oscar-level stuff…” “Enough!” my father barked, though I could hear the guilt beneath his anger. Silence followed. A dead, heavy silence. I sat up in bed, picking at the stitches on my neck. My ears were ringing. They hired nine girls to ruin me. The System erupted in my head like a boiling kettle. “Holy shit! I knew something was wrong! No wonder every ‘love interest’ I gave you turned out to be a gold-digging snake! It wasn’t a bug in the code—it was these people! They were trying to gaslight you into a puppet!” “Host, how can you stand this? Good thing you’ve got that billion-dollar exit fund ready in another world. We can leave this trash heap whenever you want.” I didn’t wait for it to finish. I ripped the IV out of my arm and swung my legs over the bed. “Wait, Host, why do you look like a vengeful spirit? What are you looking for?” My voice was a raspy ghost of itself. “A knife.” 4 I didn’t find a knife. My parents and Margot caught me and dragged me back to my family’s estate like a prisoner under guard. The moment I got home, I tore the house apart. But they had been thorough. Not a single sharp edge remained—not even a nail clipper. I tried the windows, but they had installed security bars that would have made a prison warden jealous. The stairs were covered in triple-thick carpeting. The table corners were padded. Even the chopsticks were rounded plastic. A parade of psychiatrists shuffled through my room, looking at me like I was a broken engine. They prescribed enough sedatives to kill a horse. My mother spent every day crying into a bowl of soup, trying to force-feed me while telling me it was “for my own good.” My father, in a desperate attempt to cheer me up, hung photos of Margot and me from our childhood all over the living room. “Pathetic,” Margot sneered one afternoon as she walked past the gallery of photos. “Is this the new plan? Looking like a ghost to guilt my parents into sending Noah away?” She leaned in, her voice cold. “I told you, Bennett. As long as I’m breathing, you won’t touch a hair on his head.” She turned and swept out of the room. I looked at the photo of ten-year-old me—a boy who looked like a happy idiot—and felt nothing. Days passed. I was trapped. But the tiny sliver of familial love I had left had been incinerated the moment I learned my parents had helped destroy my life nine times over. I didn’t just want to die anymore. I wanted to take the whole world down with me. The opportunity came at Noah’s birthday party, hosted at our estate to “show a united front.” The moment I appeared, Noah grabbed my arm. “Bennett, I’m so glad you came. I know you’re mad, but I really want to be friends.” I let him lead me away from the crowd like a hollow shell. When we reached the deep end of the swimming pool in the back garden, his smile vanished. He leaned into my ear, his voice a venomous hiss. “Don’t think playing the victim will win her back. You want to die so bad, right?” “I had the cameras turned off yesterday,” he whispered, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “When they find you at the bottom, they’ll just say you finally succeeded in your little madness. Do us all a favor.” He shoved me. Hard. Splash. The icy water swallowed me whole. This time, I didn’t fight. I didn’t even hold my breath. I let the water pour into my lungs like liquid concrete. The suffocating pressure was almost blissful. The System’s countdown started in my head—a heavenly sound. “Five… four… three…” Just as the darkness was closing in, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me violently back to the surface. Margot’s voice exploded in my ear, hysterical with rage. “Noah says you stole his engagement ring! You tried to humiliate him in front of everyone!” She threw me onto the tiles. I lay there, shivering, my lungs burning, unable to even cough. She let go for a second, startled by how weak I looked, but then she remembered Noah’s face. “Bennett! Give it back! Stop pretending to be dead!” “You really threw yourself in the pool over a ring? How childish can you get?” I didn’t move. My heart was a faint, stuttering rhythm. “Are you addicted to this drama?!” she screamed, grabbing my limp, cold wrist to drag me upright. She froze. Her face went as white as a sheet. At that exact moment, my parents and a group of guests burst into the garden. They were staring at their phones—specifically, at the live feed from the micro-camera hidden in my lapel pin. Margot looked back at the crowd, then down at me—a broken, blue-lipped doll. She stumbled back, her knees giving out, and collapsed onto the wet concrete.

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I was at my high school reunion when I saw the post. I’d spent the last hour nursing a drink I didn’t want, scrolling through social media to avoid eye contact, when Jackson’s latest update popped up on my feed. [Ran into the guy I hated most in high school at the reunion tonight. Seeing how pathetic his life turned out? Absolute peak satisfaction. Karma is a beautiful thing.] The comment section was already a sea of “likes” and “congrats” from people I used to share a homeroom with. I sat there, my thumb hovering over the screen, before I slowly typed out a single line: “By ‘hated,’ do you mean the way you led the entire grade to ostracize him? Or the part where you knew he and his childhood sweetheart were in love, yet you inserted yourself into their lives under the guise of being a ‘bro’ just to sabotage them, eventually bullying him into moving across the ocean?” The second I hit send, the comment vanished. Deleted. I looked up. Jackson was standing three feet away, a smug, punchable grin plastered across his face. “Miles, man, why are you dressed so… casual?” he asked, his voice carrying just loud enough for the nearby tables to go quiet. “Is life in London not treating you well? Or did you just give up?” He leaned in, the scent of expensive bourbon and cheap malice radiating off him. “Are you married? Got a girlfriend? Or are you still just drifting? Don’t tell me you’re still living paycheck to paycheck, waiting in line for a government handout.” He chuckled, glancing at the crowd for approval. “If you’re struggling, just come back home. We won’t laugh at you. Or is the reason you stayed away for ten years because you’re still holding a grudge against me?” The room went dead silent. Every head turned. I could feel those eyes—sharp, judgmental, and heavy with the same casual cruelty they’d wielded a decade ago. But I wasn’t that seventeen-year-old boy anymore. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t look at the floor. I didn’t bother telling them that I owned more than just a house and a car. I didn’t mention that I held a significant stake in the very hotel group hosting this pathetic gathering. Instead, I looked Jackson dead in the eye and asked one question: “What about you, Jackson? It’s been ten years. Are you and Tina finally together?” 1 The words hit the room like a sudden drop in temperature. Tina, who had been standing a few feet away, finally broke her ten-year silence. She looked exactly the same, yet entirely different—the girl I once thought I’d spend my life with was now just a stranger in a cocktail dress. “Miles, stop it,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Don’t be like that. Jackson and I… we’re just friends. We’ve always just been friends.” She stepped closer, trying to reclaim some ghost of the intimacy we once had. “I know you’re still bitter about the past, but it’s been so long. I’ve wanted to get everyone together for years just so we could finally talk, clear the air, and start over. Can’t we just move past it?” Jackson, sensing an opening, raised his glass. He tried to throw an arm around my shoulder, the way he used to do when he was mocking me. “Exactly! We’re all adults here, Miles. If I did anything to offend you back in the day, don’t take it to heart. You know me—I’ve always been a straight shooter. I never understood all that sensitive, brooding stuff you had going on.” The crowd followed his lead like clockwork, standing up with their glasses raised. “Yeah, don’t be a buzzkill, Miles. Jackson’s just a high-energy guy.” “It’s all in the past. Who keeps a grudge for ten years? That’s just petty.” “Be the bigger person. Jackson was the one who went out of his way to make sure you were invited tonight.” They framed his forced invitation as an act of charity, a seat at the table I should be grateful for. They wanted the satisfaction of my forgiveness so they could stop feeling like the villains of my story. But I’ve never been good at following a script I didn’t write. I didn’t touch my glass. “I can’t drink,” I said quietly. “My wife is pregnant. I have to go pick her up in a bit.” The sound of shattering glass sliced through the room. Tina’s drink had slipped from her hand, splashing red wine across the hem of her dress. Everyone stared, but Jackson was the only one whose eyes betrayed a flicker of genuine relief. Tina forced a jagged, painful smile. “You’re… you’re joking. You don’t have to lie just because you don’t want to drink with us.” “I’m not joking,” I replied calmly. “I’m married. My wife is expecting. I’m only back in the States to handle some family business acquisitions.” Jackson couldn’t hide his excitement. It was the most honest he’d been all night; with me married, he finally didn’t have to pretend to be Tina’s “just a friend” anymore. “When did this happen?” he asked, his voice booming. “Why wasn’t there an announcement? Congratulations, man!” Tina’s voice was brittle, like dry leaves. “But… you always said… Miles, you’re lying to me, aren’t you?” One of Jackson’s flunkies stepped forward, his face reddening with secondhand indignation. “Miles, seriously? You’re going to pull this? Do you have any idea how long Tina has been waiting for you to come back?” He gestured wildly. “Look at her. You didn’t come to this reunion to move on; you came to get back with her. Be a man. Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t miss out on a woman like her—you’ll never find another one.” I’d forgotten how much I hated the sound of their voices. I gave them a thin, effortless smile. “I really am married. As for the things I said back then? They were just the foolish promises of a kid who didn’t know any better.” I looked directly at Tina, taking the very words she’d used to destroy me ten years ago and handing them back to her. “Surely you can take a joke, right?” 2 Tina and I were “the” couple. We grew up in houses that shared a fence, went to the same schools, and shared every secret from kindergarten through sophomore year. Then came Jackson. He moved to our town junior year and blew through our lives like a hurricane. He was loud, athletic, and had that “golden boy” charisma that made every guy want to be his brother and every girl want his attention. That included Tina. Suddenly, they were always together. They sat together in the back of the class, whispering about things I wasn’t part of. They gamed together until 2 AM. Our walk home from school, which had been a private ritual for a decade, slowly became a trio. At first, I told myself I was being paranoid. He was just a new friend. Until the day Jackson, while “play-fighting” with Tina, knocked my glass water bottle off my desk. It shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. It was a custom-etched bottle Tina had given me for my birthday. Part of a set. “Whoops!” Jackson said, his voice loud and performative. He patted my shoulder with a heavy hand. “My bad, bro. I’ll buy you a new one. Don’t get all worked up about it.” I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s fine. It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.” Jackson leaned down, but his voice stayed loud enough for the whole room to hear. “No, really, let me replace it. I know how you sensitive types are. You say you’re not mad to our faces, then you go home and stew about it for a week.” The air left my lungs. He was framing me as the “delicate” one, the guy who was secretly petty. The guys around us started snickering. “I said it’s fine,” I muttered, my face heating up. Jackson pointed at me, laughing for the crowd. “See? Look at that face! He’s already sulking. It’s just a bottle, man. Just tell me to buy you a new one instead of being so passive-aggressive. I hate it when people can’t just be real.” He nudged Tina. “Tess, talk to your boy. Tell him to cheer up before he ruins the vibe for everyone.” Tina looked at the glass on the floor, then at me. “Miles, honestly, stop being so sensitive. I’ll just buy you another one. It wasn’t even that expensive.” “You think I’m being sensitive?” I asked, a lump forming in my throat. “I’ll buy it myself. Forget it.” Tina looked like she wanted to apologize, but Jackson threw an arm around her neck, pulling her away. “Man, what did you say to him? You broke the Prince’s heart!” he joked. “Let’s go, let’s go. We’ll come back when His Royal Highness has cheered up.” And just like that, I had a nickname: The Little Prince. Every time I handed out papers for a teacher: “Careful, don’t want our delicate Little Prince getting a paper cut.” Every time I sat quietly to read: “Look at that royal posture. So much more refined than us peasants, right?” The laughter followed me through the hallways like a physical weight. The smirks, the side-eyes, the whispered jokes—they were everywhere. And Tina? She did nothing. Eventually, even she started using the narrative. When she was annoyed with me, she’d sigh and say: “God, Miles, stop acting so entitled. You don’t actually live in a castle. Drop the ‘Little Prince’ attitude.” 3 The cold war between Tina and me set in, and Jackson used the silence to sharpen his knives. He started targeting every little thing. If I had a simple keychain on my bag, he’d gasp: “Whoa! Look at the accessory on Miles’s bag! So chic. You really put a lot of thought into being ‘aesthetic,’ don’t you?” He’d mimic me, primping his collar with exaggerated, feminine movements while the other guys howled. If I wiped down my desk after lunch, he’d sneer: “So refined, Miles. You think the rest of us are pigs? If we’re too gross for you, why don’t you just get a private tutor at home? Why bother slumming it with us?” I could feel the resentment from the other kids growing. He was making my basic habits look like an insult to them. During the weekly seat rotation, I was moving a heavy box of books. I couldn’t carry it all in one trip. Jackson walked over and put his foot right on top of the remaining box. “Man, I’m exhausted,” he shouted to the room. “Is there a brave soul willing to help our Little Prince? He’s got such frail, dainty arms, I’m worried he might snap.” The classroom erupted. People were literally doubling over, some even mocking the way I walked. Tina didn’t look back. She just muttered, “That’s enough, Jackson.” Jackson gave a loud, mocking Tsk. “Oh, looks like someone’s still protective of her childhood crush.” Tina flared up, her face turning red. “I’m not protective! I’m not ‘hearting’ anyone, especially not a crybaby!” Jackson grinned, satisfied. “Exactly. We’re just trying to toughen him up, right? He’s too soft. He’ll never survive in the real world if he’s this in his head all the time.” Tina looked at him, her expression softening into something familiar and warm. “Yeah… I guess guys should be a bit more… rugged.” Jackson playfully punched her shoulder. “Now you’re talking! Men should act like men!” My heart didn’t just break; it felt like it had been shredded. I thought if I just ignored them, Jackson would get bored. But after a month of silence, it was Tina who broke first. She caught me by the lockers. “Miles, please stop being mad. Don’t ignore me.” She looked at me with those big, tearful eyes she’d used since we were six. And like an idiot, I softened. I couldn’t imagine a life without her. We were supposed to go to the same college, move to the same city. I couldn’t leave her behind. So, we made up. Or at least, we pretended to. I still waited for her after her extracurriculars. We still walked home together, the streetlights casting our long shadows on the pavement. But I could feel Jackson watching us from a distance, whispering to his friends and laughing. That laughter made my skin crawl. It made me feel like I was the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard yet. I tried to tell Tina how I felt. She groaned. “You’re overthinking again. They’re just kidding around. That’s just how guys are with each other.” When she saw my face fall, she softened her voice. “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them to back off the jokes.” She walked over to Jackson across the quad. I watched as Jackson threw his head back and yelled, “Oh, we can’t even joke now? Does he think he’s a god? Does everyone have to bow down to him?” “Jackson!” Tina snapped, but it sounded performative. Jackson shrugged and shot me a look of pure, unadulterated malice. During those months, Jackson’s voice and his subtle cruelties were like invisible fists. The whispering in the back of the room felt like insects crawling over my skin. But I was weak. I told myself it was only two more years. Just two more years and I’d be free. I could endure it. And then, out of nowhere, Tina confessed she loved me. 4 She asked me to meet her at the football bleachers after practice. We’d spent our whole lives hanging out at the fields, so I didn’t suspect a thing. Until a few guys from class started acting weird. They kept asking me what my “big plans” were for the weekend and what I was going to wear. “Just a workout set,” I told them. “We’re hitting the gym, then the library. Just a normal Saturday.” They looked disappointed. “You’re going on a date with the prettiest girl in school and that’s the best you can do? So boring.” Boring. The word stung. Was that why Tina was spending so much time with Jackson? Because I was boring? The next day, following the “advice” of those guys, I bought a new athletic set. They told me it was “high-fashion” and “fitted” to show off my build. I wasn’t the biggest guy, but I was lean and toned from years of swimming. When I met Tina, her eyes lit up. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking almost shy. I felt a surge of hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe we were finally going back to how things used to be. We sat down in the shade of the bleachers, and she started acting fidgety. “Miles,” she said, her voice small. “I’ve been holding something in for a long time. I need to tell you.” My heart started thumping so hard I could hear it in my ears. “Will you be my boyfriend?” Blood rushed to my face. I felt dizzy with relief. After a moment, I whispered, “If it’s you, Tina… then yes.” I remembered when we were seven, and she’d held my hand and told me I was the best boy in the world and she was going to marry me one day. I remembered her standing up to middle-school bullies for me like a mother hen. Miles is mine, she’d said. If you mess with him, you mess with me. Ten years of history. How could a guy like Jackson ever stand a chance against that? Tina leaned in, asking me to repeat myself. I took a deep breath and said it louder. “Yes! I love you too, Tina!” “HAHAHAHAHA!” A roar of laughter erupted from behind the bleachers. A dozen kids from our class spilled out, phones in hand, recording everything. Their faces were twisted with mockery. Jackson was at the front. “God, Tina, you really are the best. I can’t believe you actually got him to say it.” I looked at Tina. She turned her head away, refusing to meet my eyes. Jackson walked up to me, his face a mask of fake pity. “Oh man, Miles. Are you serious? You wore that outfit to a fake confession? What are you trying to prove? That you’ve actually been to a gym once?” The guys who had “recommended” the outfit were in the back, smirking and looking away. Jackson reached out and yanked the collar of my shirt, pulling it so hard the fabric strained. I stumbled back. “I was wondering why you looked so ‘buff’ today,” Jackson laughed. “It’s because the shirt is two sizes too small! He’s literally squeezing himself into a kid’s size to look tough!” “I’m not!” I shouted, my voice cracking. The crowd went wild. “Is it true, Jackson?” someone yelled. “I felt the fabric myself!” Jackson yelled back. “It’s stretched to the breaking point! Talk about overcompensating!” A few guys started whistling, their eyes scanning me like I was a freak in a circus. I looked at Tina, my face pale, my voice trembling. “What is this? What did they mean?” 5 Tina finally looked at me, but her eyes were cold. “Miles, you’re just so… uncool. You never fit in with anyone. Jackson thought this would be a good way to get you to loosen up. To stop acting like you’re better than everyone.” The betrayal felt like a physical blow to the chest. My eyes burned. “You think humiliating me like this is ‘helping’ me?” Before she could answer, Jackson stepped in. “Don’t you dare talk to her like that. You’re always playing the victim, banking on the fact that she feels sorry for you.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. “She didn’t even want to talk to you anymore. It took me five minutes to convince her this would be funny. She even bet me that the second she showed you a little affection, you’d come crawling like a pathetic puppy. And look at you. She was right.” The world tilted. The air felt like lead. Without thinking, I lunged forward and shoved Jackson as hard as I could. “MILES!” A sharp shout came from the edge of the field. Before I could move, a massive force slammed into me. I was hoisted up by my collar and slammed against the equipment shed. Pain flared in my back. Panic and rage flooded my system.

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“Isolated and bullied by the entire office just because I refused the eighty-hour work week?” I’m the new Audit Lead. I’ve been here three months, and in that time, no one has spoken a word to me. My reports are hijacked, and “accidental” coffee spills are a weekly occurrence. At the annual gala, Linda—the woman who’s spent the last quarter stealing my credit—stands on stage as ‘Employee of the Year.’ She smirks into the microphone, throwing shade for the whole company to hear: “Some people are just dead weight. They don’t understand what it means to truly sacrifice for the team.” I just smile. I walk up to the stage and take the mic. With one sentence, the room turns to ice. And Linda? Her face doesn’t just drop—it shatters. 1 My name is Andrea Lawson. I’m twenty-five, and I didn’t exactly take the traditional route into my family’s empire. My father’s mandate was clear: start at the bottom, keep your head down, and find the rot. He sent me to one of our most troubled subsidiaries in Charlotte to serve as the Audit Lead. My mission wasn’t to manage; it was to excise the cancer of internal corruption. I accepted without hesitation. From day one, the atmosphere was glacial. My desk was tucked into a dim corner, buried under mountains of legacy files no one bothered to explain. Every “good morning” I offered was met with a dismissive nod or a cold, calculated stare. Then there was Linda Vickers. She was in her late thirties with a gaze that screamed corporate shark. She was the first to test my limits. I’d barely finished my first comprehensive audit when she intercepted the file before I could present it to the Director. By the afternoon meeting, her name was on the cover. The Director showered her with praise while Linda beamed, soaking in the stolen glory. I sat there, a ghost in the room. Afterward, I caught her by the breakroom. “Linda, about that report—” She didn’t even look up from her phone. She just curled her lip in a way that felt like a slap. “Listen, honey, you’re young. You need to learn how things work around here. Don’t be so eager to take credit. I did you a favor by polishing that mess of yours.” I didn’t argue. I just walked away, knowing I had the original digital timestamps saved on an encrypted drive. This was only the beginning. Lunch was a solitary affair. It was a choreographed dance; the moment I stood up, the rest of the office would leave in clusters. One afternoon, as I was pouring a fresh cup of coffee, Linda “happened” to brush past me. Her elbow caught my arm, and the scalding liquid surged over the brim, soaking my laptop keyboard. The screen flickered once and went black. Linda gasped—a sound so hollow it made my skin crawl. “Oh, Andrea! You really need to watch where you’re going. You’re so clumsy.” The Director, Howard Bennett, came over to see what the commotion was. He didn’t ask if I was okay; he just told me to go fetch a replacement from IT. I didn’t lose my temper. I wiped the coffee from my desk in silence, already weaving a net they couldn’t see. 2 My life as the “Invisible Woman” continued. I was the girl who clocked in at nine and left at five. In a culture that worshipped “hustle” and “toxic productivity,” I was a heretic. Howard was a master of the corporate gaslight. He’d hold these mandatory meetings, preaching that the company was a “family” and that “sacrifice” was our highest calling. He rebranded the grueling overtime as “passion” and “personal growth.” I refused to play. My investigation required a sharp mind and hours of quiet, uninterrupted work—not performative exhaustion. My refusal to stay until 10:00 PM became their favorite weapon to use against me. “Andrea, we’re a team here,” Howard said during a staff meeting, his voice dripping with forced concern. “When everyone else is grinding and you’re out the door at five, it really hurts morale.” Linda chimed in from the side, her eyes full of scorn. “It’s hard to trust someone who isn’t ‘all in,’ isn’t it?” I looked Howard straight in the eye. “My productivity isn’t measured by how many hours I sit in this chair. The data in my reports speaks for itself.” The room went silent. Howard’s face flushed a deep, angry red. He cleared his throat and ended the meeting abruptly. I didn’t care about the icy glares following me out. The more they hated my calm, the more mistakes they’d make. A week later, I submitted a proposal for optimizing our procurement process. I’d spent weeks agonizing over it, identifying loopholes that were costing us millions. Howard barely glanced at it before tossing it onto a pile of junk mail. Three days later, it appeared on the company intranet—word for word—with Linda Vickers listed as the sole author. Howard hailed it as a “revolutionary breakthrough.” I didn’t confront them. I just saved the version history, the metadata, and the submission logs. My patience was fraying, but the trap was almost set. Then came the “technical issues.” My thumb drive vanished from my desk; files were remotely deleted from my shared folder. I didn’t make a scene. I simply used recovery software to pull them back and started backing everything up to a private cloud server. I even installed a tiny, discreet camera at my workstation. I wasn’t just taking the hits anymore; I was collecting receipts. 3 I became a ghost in the machine. Every suggestion I made was vetoed. Every insight was ignored. Under Linda’s “leadership,” the rest of the audit team treated me like a leper. They’d stop talking the moment I entered the room, exchanging knowing, cruel smirks. I leaned into the silence. I started staying late—not for their “hustle,” but for my hunt. In the quiet of the empty office, I tore through the layered financial statements they thought were hidden. I found the threads. A web of vendors all tied back to shell companies owned by Linda and Howard’s relatives. The “clean” procurement contracts were actually bloated with kickbacks. It was a sophisticated laundering scheme, funneling millions into offshore accounts. I compiled it all. Every transaction, every shell company, every forged signature. I mapped the rot with surgical precision. They mistook my quietness for weakness. Linda got bolder. She’d stand near my desk and whisper to Howard about “top-secret projects,” throwing me looks of mocking pity. One afternoon, she handed a quarterly report that was legally my responsibility to a brand-new intern. “Watch and learn from a pro, kid,” she told him, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. The intern looked at me, embarrassed. “It’s fine,” I told him with a small, tight smile. “Do your best.” I walked away without a word. Every insult they threw was just another nail in their professional coffins. I even started “failing” on purpose. I’d leave minor, obvious errors in unimportant files just to watch them pounce on me during meetings. They’d tear me apart, feeling superior, feeling invincible. They thought I was a sacrificial lamb. They had no idea I was the butcher. 4 The three-month mark arrived, and with it, the annual company gala. The office was buzzing with a fake, frantic energy. Everyone was obsessed with the year-end bonuses and the “Employee of the Year” award. Linda was the shoo-in. Howard was already bragging about his upcoming promotion to the regional office. They thought they were untouchable. I knew it was just the eye of the storm. I moved all my evidence—the recordings, the bank statements, the video footage—onto a single, encrypted external drive. I kept it on my person at all times. I’d already made a quiet call to the Chief Legal Officer at the corporate headquarters. I didn’t give details; I just told them to be ready. The night before the gala, Howard called me into his office. He sat behind his mahogany desk, looking like a man who had already won. “Andrea, look. You’re a bright girl, but you’re just not a ‘culture fit,’” he said, using that classic corporate euphemism for ‘we hate you.’ “You’re an outsider. You don’t blend. I’m going to give you a graceful way out. Sign this resignation, and I’ll give you a glowing recommendation.” He pushed a paper toward me. I didn’t even pick it up. “Howard,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “I didn’t come here to blend in. I came to fix what’s broken. And my employment isn’t your decision to make.” His face turned a sickly shade of purple. He waved me out of the office, his hand shaking with rage. We were past the point of no return. 5 The gala was held in a gilded ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton. Crystal chandeliers, open bars, and a sea of people in expensive suits pretending to like each other. I wore a simple, charcoal-grey suit and sat at the furthest table in the back. I was an island in a sea of forced laughter. I watched them. I watched the people who had mocked me and stolen from me as they hovered around Howard and Linda like moths to a flame. The awards ceremony began. Howard took the stage, glowing with self-importance. He gave a nauseating speech about “vision” and “loyalty” before announcing the Employee of the Year. “This person represents the very heart of this branch,” Howard boomed. “A leader who gives everything to the team. Please join me in congratulating Linda Vickers!” The room erupted. Linda floated to the stage, her face a mask of practiced humility. She took the trophy, her eyes gleaming. Howard added that she was a “model for the entire organization.” Linda stepped to the mic. She thanked Howard, thanked the “family,” and then her gaze found me in the back of the room. A cruel, triumphant light sparked in her eyes. “But we all know,” she said, her voice amplified and sharp, “that a team is only as strong as its weakest link. There are some people who are just dead weight—people who refuse to sacrifice, who think they’re above the grind. Those people don’t belong here.” The room chuckled. Heads turned. A hundred pairs of eyes landed on me, filled with pity, mockery, and cold indifference. I didn’t look down. I didn’t flush. I stood up, smoothed my jacket, and started walking toward the stage. My footsteps were the only sound in the suddenly quiet room. Linda’s smirk faltered for a second as I approached, but she held her ground, thinking I was coming up to beg for a second chance. I didn’t look at her. I walked straight to the center of the stage.

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On New Year’s Eve, my husband’s “one who got away” showed up at our house and turned on the gas valves. I didn’t rush downstairs to call him for help. Because in my previous life, Mark saved me and our son, but his first love, Jolene, died because she wasn’t treated in time. On the surface, he said it didn’t matter. He was unnervingly patient, taking care of me with a tenderness I’d never seen before. But on the day I was discharged from the hospital, he drugged my parents and our son with sleeping pills. Then, he turned on the gas, letting the fumes take them all while they slept. Before I drifted into that final, dark sleep, I heard his hysterical laughter. “You and that brat are the reason Jolene is dead. Your parents are just as guilty for bringing a curse like you into this world. Your whole bloodline deserves to end!” “I’ve finally avenged her! I’m going to make sure you feel every ounce of the agony she suffered!” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on New Year’s Eve. … A pungent, acrid smell flooded my nostrils. My vision blurred, and my head spun so violently I could barely keep my footing. A small, choked sob pulled me back to reality. “Mommy, I’m scared.” I looked down to see my son, Toby, gripping my leggings with trembling hands. That’s when I knew. I had really come back. I dragged my leaden limbs toward the door, intending to shut off the gas valve in the kitchen. The bedroom door was locked from the outside. My heart hammered against my ribs. In my last life, the door had been fine. What changed? I pounded on the wood with everything I had. From the other side, Jolene’s voice came through, muffled but dripping with malice. “Save your breath, Claire. No one is coming for you.” “Jolene! Open this door!” I screamed, my throat already raw from the fumes. “This is murder!” Outside, she let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “It’s a tragic accident, honey. You forgot to turn off the stove while cooking. What does that have to do with me?” Same old Jolene. Always the victim, always shifting the blame. And Mark? He always swallowed her lies like they were gospel. I used to wonder why. It wasn’t until I checked the GPS on Toby’s smart-watch in my past life that I realized they had been sleeping together behind my back for months. I had planned to wait until after the holidays to file for divorce. I never expected Jolene to be this psychotic—she couldn’t even wait for the new year. She broke in while we were sleeping and turned our home into a gas chamber. But I was awake now. And I would not let her touch my son. “Jolene, do you really think you’re going to walk away from this?” I yelled. “If I die, they’ll find you. They’ll trace everything!” “Open the damn door!” There was a flicker of hesitation in her silence. But it was gone in a second. “I checked,” she said, her voice dropping to a smug whisper. “The cameras in the hallway are ‘malfunctioning.’ I wore a mask and a hoodie. No one saw me. I’m not making the same mistakes I made last time.” My blood ran cold. Last time? She remembered too. Jolene had also come back. That’s why the door was locked. She was making sure there was no escape. “Just die already,” she spat. Then, I heard her footsteps retreating. A moment later, the heavy thud of the front door shaking echoed through the apartment. Then came a frantic rattling. She was trying to leave, but she couldn’t. Our neighbor’s kid had a sensory habit of mashing the buttons on our smart lock. If you hit too many wrong codes, the deadbolt engaged into a hard-lock mode that could only be opened with a physical backup key. That brat’s annoying habit had just trapped Jolene in this poison-filled apartment with us. And the backup key? It was right here, in my bedroom nightstand. “Jolene, open this door right now. It’s the only way we both survive!” “In your dreams! I am never letting you out to take Mark away from me again!” It was pathetic. Even with her lungs filling with gas, her only thought was her obsession with my husband. The air was getting thicker, shimmering with invisible lethality. Toby’s breathing was becoming shallow, his little face turning a terrifying shade of pale. I couldn’t let history repeat itself. I crawled toward the window on my hands and knees. I didn’t have the strength to heave it open, so I grabbed a heavy glass paperweight from my desk and smashed it against the pane. The crash was loud enough to alert the neighbor who usually watered his balcony plants around this time. Within minutes, I heard the sound of the front door being kicked. I thought it was help. Then I heard Mark’s voice, along with a few of his low-life friends. “Jolene? Oh my god, Jolene! Are you okay?” Mark roared, his voice thick with panic. Jolene let out a weak, performative whimper. “It’s… it’s Claire… she tried to…” “I’m getting you to the ER! Hang on!” “Mark, wait! Your wife is still in the bedroom!” That was Nate, the neighbor’s son. His voice was frantic. “The door is locked and the gas is everywhere! You have to get her out!” I waited for the sound of the lock turning. Instead, I heard my husband’s cold, mocking sneer. “She’s fine. She’s faking it.” “She’s done this a dozen times, Nate. Anything for a little attention. But taking it this far? Putting Jolene in danger? I’m done with her games.” Mark’s “bros” chimed in, their voices echoing in the hallway. “Seriously, Claire is a piece of work. Remember how she trapped Mark into that marriage? She’s finally getting what’s coming to her.” “She’s the queen of playing the victim. If Jolene hadn’t come back from London, Mark would still be under that psycho’s thumb. Let her stew in there for a minute.” My lungs were burning. Toby had gone limp in my arms. I didn’t care about their insults. I just wanted my son to live. I used the last of my strength to crawl to the door and hammered on it once, hard. A final signal. A heavy silence fell over the hallway. Nate spoke up, his voice stern. “Even if she’s ‘faking,’ you can’t just leave her in a gas-filled room, Mark. That’s insane.” Mark groaned, his impatience palpable. “I told you, it’s an act! You’re so worried about her—what, you two got something going on? Is that kid even mine, or is he some neighborly side-project?” “You… you prick! That’s your wife! How can you joke about her life?” The words cut deeper than the lack of oxygen. In my last life, he had at least pretended to care. Now, he had convinced himself I was a monster just to justify his own betrayal. He wouldn’t even give me the chance to breathe, let alone explain. My only hope was Nate. I heard his footsteps rushing toward the door. But then, the sound of a scuffle. Mark’s friends were holding him back. “Take it easy, Nate. You really want to catch a charge for ‘saving’ a woman who’s clearly just trying to ruin her husband’s New Year?” One of them kicked the door back, laughing. “Hey, Claire! Nice try with the gas! But maybe next time, don’t lock yourself in the one room that isn’t getting any airflow! You’re a terrible actress!” They all thought I was the villain. Every single one of them. The gas was starting to win. My brain felt like it was being wrapped in wet cotton. I looked down at Toby. He wasn’t moving. No. Not again. I wouldn’t let him die. Not for these people. I dragged my body up and slammed my fist against the door. Again. And again. A rhythmic, desperate plea. “Does that sound like acting to you?” I heard one of the friends mutter, his voice losing its edge. “She’s been at it a long time. Maybe she’s actually stuck?” “Please,” Mark snapped. “You remember the time she called me crying saying Toby was in the hospital just to get me to bail on a client meeting? It was a head cold. She’s a liar.” “The ambulance is downstairs for Jolene. I’m taking her now. Claire can sit in there and think about what she’s done. I’m done being her puppet.” No. Don’t go. Save Toby. My throat was a desert. I couldn’t make a sound. I just kept hitting the door, praying he had one shred of humanity left for his son. The footsteps approached the door. A glimmer of hope. Then, through the wood, Mark’s voice boomed—not with concern, but with pure, unadulterated rage. “Claire, stop it! Stop the damn banging! It’s New Year’s Eve—can’t you give me one night of peace without a mental breakdown? I don’t believe you anymore! I’m done!” I knew he wasn’t the man I married anymore. But five years… surely five years earned us a look through the door? I reached for the handle, but he delivered a violent kick to the other side. The force sent me sprawling backward. I gasped in shock, and a lungful of concentrated gas rushed into my system. My nerves went numb. My mind was sharp, screaming, but my body was a statue. “Go ahead, Mark,” I heard one of them say. “We’ll stay here and make sure she doesn’t follow you to harass Jolene at the hospital.” The distant wail of the ambulance siren grew louder, then began to fade. No. Please. Toby was five. If he survived the hypoxia, the brain damage could be permanent. He’d be a shell of himself. With a final, agonizing surge of will, I lifted my hand and slapped the door frame. “Save… him…” It was a raspy, broken croak. Nate must have heard me. He started shouting at the others. “Get out of my way! I’m breaking the door down!” “You touch that door and it’s trespassing, kid! You’ll go to jail!” “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY!” A woman’s scream pierced through the chaos. My mother. “What are you doing to my daughter? Why are you blocking her door?!” Tears finally stung my eyes. They were here. I tapped the door one last time and the world went black. Before I lost consciousness, I heard my mother’s heartbroken cry. “Claire! My baby girl!” And my father’s roar of command. “Get the paramedics up here now! Move!” I drifted through a long, feverish dream of the life I’d lived with Mark. We met in college. He was the golden boy, the one everyone wanted. I was the one who actually got him. When he accepted my confession, I thought I’d won the lottery. Five years of marriage, a beautiful son—I thought I was living the dream. Until the day I followed Toby’s watch to a cat cafe. Mark was inside, laughing with Jolene, while our son played outside alone. I had been ready to confront him, to demand a divorce. But then New Year’s Eve happened. In my first life, Mark had played the hero. He saved us, but Jolene died of smoke inhalation because he was “too late” for her. He spent the rest of his life punishing us for her death. In this life, he didn’t even try to save me. He blocked my rescue. He accused me of being a whore. Every sacrifice I made for five years—the career I paused, the nights I stayed up—meant nothing. He traded it all for Jolene’s whispers. My heart throbbed with a sharp, physical pain. I jolted awake. My parents were by my side, their faces etched with exhaustion and relief. “She’s awake,” my mom whispered, clutching my hand. I was alive. The moment I could sit up, I demanded to see Toby. He was still unconscious, but the doctors said we got to him just in time. The damage wasn’t permanent. A miracle. On my way back from the pediatric wing, I ran into Mark’s parents. They tried to push past my parents to see Toby. “Get out!” my father barked. “Your son disowned that boy the second he let him rot in a gas-filled room. You don’t get to play grandparents now!” My mother-in-law looked distraught. “He’s our grandson! Mark was just… he was confused!” My father-in-law tried a different tactic when he saw me. “Claire, stop this. Whatever Mark did, I’ll make it right. You’re stressed, taking care of the house alone… Mark is under a lot of pressure at the firm. You have to be the bigger person.” Just then, Mark appeared, supporting Jolene as they walked out of another room. He must have caught the tail end of the conversation. “She’s the ‘bigger person’? Please. This whole thing was her own damn fault.” His parents turned on Jolene, their faces souring. “Mark, what is this? This woman has brought nothing but trouble to our family!” Mark stood his ground, his chin tilted defiantly. “Jolene and I are just friends. We have nothing to hide. Unlike Claire, who probably had Nate over the second I left for work.” I almost laughed. The audacity. To stand there in a hospital hallway and claim “innocence” while his wife and son were nearly killed by his negligence. Jolene, ever the actress, let out a soft, dainty cough. “I never thought Claire would misunderstand us so much… she invited me over just to… to do that to me…” She started to cry. “It’s all my fault. Claire, I’m so sorry. I just got back to the States and I had no one else to turn to but Mark…” Mark cut her off, pulling her closer. “You did nothing wrong. It was Claire’s jealousy. Her sick, twisted mind did this to you.” It was a revelation. Mark, the cold, stoic businessman, was capable of such fierce protection—it just was never for me. He didn’t even care about his own flesh and blood anymore. The last flickering spark of affection I had for him died right then and there. “Mark,” I said, my voice steady and cold as ice. “I want a divorce.” Mark froze. For a second, he looked stunned. But the mask of rage returned quickly. “Is this another performance? You almost killed our son to get a reaction, and now you’re threatening me with divorce? Fine. You want out? Leave. But Toby stays with me. And you leave with nothing but the clothes on your back.” I stared at him, my eyes burning. “You will never take my son from me.” “I raised him while you were out ‘working’ or playing house with her. You think you can just claim him now? Not a chance.” Jolene’s eyes darted between us. “But Claire, Mark is his father. A boy needs his father, doesn’t he?” She was poking the bear. Mark’s jaw tightened. “The boy stays.” My mother-in-law chimed in, suddenly emboldened. “Claire, you’re clearly unstable. You can’t take our grandson. You’ve been a housewife for five years—how are you going to support him?” Jolene nodded sympathetically. “Exactly. You have no income, Claire. Toby would suffer with you.” I turned my gaze to Jolene. It was a look that would have withered a normal person. “I’ve handled his schooling, his therapy, his nutrition, and every single milestone for five years. Mark doesn’t even know the name of his pediatrician. You think I’m the one who can’t raise him?” “And as for money? Don’t you worry about his lifestyle. You won’t be part of it.” My father-in-law stepped in my way. “You aren’t taking that boy out of this city, Claire. I have friends in the DA’s office. I’ll make sure of it.” The masks were all off now. The “supportive” in-laws who praised me for being a devoted mother were now ready to crush me the moment I demanded my rights. “I know you have connections,” I said, leaning in. “But we live in a world of social media and public records now. Let’s see how your ‘connections’ handle the video of your son leaving his family to die in a gas leak.” They sputtered, losing ground. Mark stepped forward, looking like he was about to explode. “You want to play hardball, Claire? Fine. Don’t blame me when I take everything you’ve ever cared about.” I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a stranger. “I’m coming for you, Mark. And you, Jolene. Neither of you is getting away with this.” Jolene flinched, hiding behind Mark’s sleeve. She deliberately stepped into my path as I tried to walk away. I reached out to brush her aside, barely touching the fabric of her coat. Jolene suddenly shrieked and threw herself backward, as if I’d shoved her with all my might. Mark caught her instantly. His eyes were red with fury. “You dare lay a hand on her? Right in front of me?!” He raised his hand, his palm flat and swinging toward my face.

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I woke up in the middle of a “Tragic Wife” novel—the kind where the heroine dies a slow, miserable death just so the hero can finally realize he loved her all along. Right now, I was at the part where the husband brings his pregnant “soulmate” into our home and demands I wait on her hand and foot. He’d just finished warning me not to try any “pathetic little tricks,” reminding me that his heart belonged only to her. Knowing how the plot was supposed to go, I nearly burst out laughing. Why? Because that baby isn’t even his. When I told him, he didn’t believe me. He thought I was just being a jealous, delusional bitch. He was so enraged by my “slander” that he locked me in the cellar, practically intending to starve the truth out of me. To survive, I had no choice but to seduce his best friend—the very doctor overseeing the mistress’s pregnancy. So, when the mistress tried to frame me for spiking her tea with abortifacients and my husband forced me to my knees to beg for forgiveness, his best friend stepped forward as my alibi. “Gavin, leave her alone,” he said, his voice cold and steady. “She couldn’t have done it. She was with me all night. She never even came home.” My husband’s face turned a shade of white I didn’t know was humanly possible. … Before I ended up here, I thought I had it made. I had a solid career, a fat savings account, and zero drama. After waking up in this body, all I could think was: I am screwed. I had been dropped into a “Dead Protagonist” story. The life of Riley Prescott, the woman I now inhabited, had been a relentless sequence of tragedies. Orphaned young, bullied in school, starving and cold—she was the poster child for misery. By some twist of fate, she had saved the male lead, Gavin West, when they were younger. But her bully, Melanie Hart, stole the credit. Riley, being the quintessential martyr, never said a word. She just watched as Gavin fell for her tormentor. When they eventually married—a business arrangement Gavin’s mother forced—Gavin treated it like a prison sentence. Now, he was forcing Riley to serve the woman who had made her childhood a living hell. In the original book, Riley works herself to the bone until she develops terminal cancer and dies. Only then does Gavin see Melanie’s true colors. Cue the “husband’s funeral regret” and the tear-jerking redemption arc. Readers were supposedly moved to tears, claiming Gavin “just didn’t know how to love” and was “blinded by the villainess.” To hell with that. Blinded? He was a sociopath. The second I realized where I was, I didn’t waste time trying to punch Gavin or run away. I went straight to the hospital for a full work-up. When the results came back clean, I let out the longest breath of my life. Thank God. No cancer. Not yet. But then, my phone buzzed. It was Gavin. “Riley, Melanie is at the house. Where the hell are you? Stop acting out.” I blinked, trying to ground myself. “Who? Who did you say is at the house?” “Melanie Hart,” he snapped. “Her pregnancy is high-risk, and I need you there to look after her. Don’t do anything stupid. Be the bigger person for once.” “When the baby is born, I’ll let it call you ‘mother.’ But that’s all I can give you. Melanie is the only woman I’ve ever loved.” So, here it was. The pivotal moment. The next step in the script was me becoming a literal servant until my body gave out. I wasn’t going to follow that script. “Gavin,” I said, my voice dripping with forced pity. “Don’t be a sucker. That kid isn’t yours.” In my head, I figured if he saw Melanie for who she was, we could reach a civil truce. I’d ask for a divorce, take a nice settlement, and be free. Gavin’s voice turned icy. “Is this your new game, Riley? Slander? Just wait until I get my hands on you.” … It didn’t take long. A group of his “security” team cornered me and dragged me back to the estate. He didn’t put me in a bedroom. He put me in the reinforced cellar, a literal gilded cage. Gavin looked down at me, his expression cold. “No food until I say so. Maybe a little hunger will clear your head.” I grabbed the bars, my heart hammering. “Gavin! I’m telling you the truth! Just run a DNA test. Check her phone!” Melanie’s baby belonged to some guy named Travis—a deadbeat she’d been seeing on the side. She only came to Gavin for the bank account and the social standing. Gavin just sneered. “You think I’d believe a word out of your mouth?” Damn it. I was too naive. By the end of the first day, the hunger was unbearable. I wasn’t the type who could skip a meal without getting a migraine, let alone a whole day. I decided to fake a collapse. It didn’t take long for someone to find me. The man who came to check on me was Sebastian Mercer—”Bash” to his friends. He was Gavin’s best friend, a top-tier OB-GYN, and coincidentally, Melanie’s doctor. I realized immediately that I couldn’t fool a doctor with a fake faint. As his hand reached for my wrist to check my pulse, I shifted it away. He tried again; I moved again. Finally, Bash sighed. “Riley. Stop it.” I opened one eye. Before I could speak, my stomach let out a thunderous growl. “I’m starving,” I whispered. Bash started to stand up, his face an unreadable mask of professional detachment. I reached out, grabbed his hand, and pulled it firmly against my chest. “I’m actually in a lot of pain,” I said, looking up at him through my lashes. He tried to pull his hand back, but I held on tight. Bash was one of the few characters in the book who wasn’t a total monster. He had a code. He had a conscience. Eventually, he caved. He brought me a tray of food from the kitchen, and I inhaled it like it was my last meal. When I finished, he stepped back. “You can go back to the room now.” I shook my head. I wasn’t going back into that cellar. But Gavin’s men were everywhere. I couldn’t run. I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I can’t. I’m dizzy. Blood sugar… I think I’m going down again.” Bash frowned, but before he could react, I “fainted” right into his arms. “Riley, get up,” he muttered, his breath hitching. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face against the solid muscle of his chest. “I’m not going back down there. Help me. Or I’ll tell Gavin you were feeling me up during the exam.” “To a doctor, there is no gender, only patients,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. I leaned up and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his jaw. “How about now? Still just a patient?” … I was going to ruin Sebastian Mercer. I had to. In the original story, Bash was the one who eventually handled Riley’s funeral arrangements. He was the only one who showed her a shred of dignity in death. That meant he had a crack in his armor—a latent guilt regarding how Gavin treated me. In this world, I needed an ally. Bash’s ears turned a deep shade of crimson. “You’re my best friend’s wife. Have some self-respect.” But he didn’t pull his hand away from my waist. “Best friends shouldn’t keep secrets, right? Melanie’s pregnant. I’ll be out on the street the second that baby breathes. I won’t be ‘the wife’ for long.” Just then, the housekeeper’s voice drifted from the hallway. “Dr. Mercer? Ms. Hart says she wants the mistress to prepare her dinner.” I looked up at him, my eyes welling with practiced tears. “See? This is my life. The legal wife, serving the pregnant mistress. It’s pathetic.” Bash looked toward the door, then back at me. “You can order takeout. I’ll handle the staff.” He handed me his phone. When the food arrived, I didn’t just plate it. I went into the kitchen and added a few “special” ingredients—bitter herbs, extra salt, and some stuff I’d found in the back of the pantry that definitely wasn’t meant for human consumption. I stirred it until it was a homogenous, disgusting mess. I carried it up to Melanie’s room, playing the role of the defeated wife. Melanie was lounging in bed, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Oh, Riley. You’re so pretty. It’s a shame, really. Even with that face, you couldn’t keep Colton interested. He loves me.” “Thank you,” I said sweetly. “I agree. I am very pretty.” Melanie’s smile faltered. She picked up a crystal vase from the nightstand and hurled it at me. I ducked with a grace I didn’t know I possessed. She threw something else. I dodged again. “You should eat,” I said, grinning. “Before it gets cold. You wouldn’t want the baby to go hungry.” Melanie touched her stomach protectively. “Give it here. And if my son doesn’t like it, I’ll have Gavin skin you alive.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing as I handed her the tray. I watched her take a big, greedy bite. It wasn’t poisonous—I wasn’t a murderer—it was just… filthy. The original Riley was too good for this world. She actually served this woman. Me? I was going to enjoy every second of the payback. When she finished, she held out the plate. As I reached for it, she let go. The porcelain shattered against the hardwood. Then, she scrambled out of bed and threw herself into Gavin’s arms as he walked through the door. “Gavin! I don’t know what I did to upset her! I just wanted to bond over dinner, and she… she smashed the dishes and threatened me!” Gavin wrapped an arm around her, his eyes burning with disgust as he looked at me. “Riley, is your life really so empty that all you can do is play these petty, jealous games?” I almost laughed. This guy was the hero? This was what readers “forgave”? “Gavin, you’re pathetic,” I said, my voice clear and sharp. “Bringing a mistress into our home? I’ve never seen a man with so little dignity.” He deserved the horns he was wearing. Gavin’s face twisted. He wasn’t used to me talking back. Before he could erupt and throw me back in the cellar, I did the only logical thing. I fainted. Again. Practice makes perfect. I even managed to fall in a way that looked elegant. Gavin froze, his instinct to reach for me warring with his loyalty to Melanie. Melanie saw it and immediately moaned, “Gavin, the baby… he kicked. Hard. I feel sick.” His attention snapped back to her. “I’ll get Bash to check on you.” I stayed still until they left. When I opened my eyes, I was staring directly into Sebastian’s gaze. He was standing there in his white lab coat, looking down at me. “I heard you collapsed. Again.” I sighed. Gavin was a lost cause, but Bash… Bash actually looked concerned. I reached out a hand to him. “Help me up. My blood sugar is crashing.” The moment he pulled me up, I tucked myself against him, letting my hands wander over the firm lines of his chest and abdomen. “You smell amazing, Doctor,” I whispered, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne and sterile soap. Bash stiffened, but he didn’t push me away. “Riley, stop. I’m not Gavin.” “I know,” I murmured, leaning in closer. “You’re much better. You’re the one taking care of me.” I squeezed his arm, letting my fingers linger. Suddenly, Gavin’s voice boomed from the doorway. “What the hell is going on in here?” Bash didn’t flinch. “I’m helping her up, Gavin. She’s hypoglycemic. She needs medical attention, not a jail cell.” Gavin bought it instantly. In his mind, Riley was too obsessed with him to ever cheat, and Bash was too “noble” to ever touch another man’s wife. I stayed slumped against Bash, sounding as pathetic as possible. “It’s my fault, Gavin. If only you’d let me eat, I wouldn’t be such a burden. Now I’m too weak to even look after Melanie.” Gavin’s expression soured. He hated being reminded of his own cruelty when it wasn’t framed as “discipline.” “Stand up, Riley,” he barked. He ignored my words, but his eyes kept darting to where Bash’s hand was resting on my waist. It was bothering him. Good. I tried to stand, but I let my knees buckle, “falling” backward. Bash caught me by reflex. One hand on my shoulder, the other sliding right under my thigh to steady me. “Oh… sorry,” I whispered. “I’m just so weak.” Gavin’s pulse was visible in his neck. He was losing his mind. He shoved Bash aside and grabbed my wrist, hauling me out of the room. “Riley! We’re leaving!” As he dragged me away, I looked back at Bash and mouthed three words: Tonight. My room. I knew Bash was hooked. Men like him—the “good” ones—can’t resist the thrill of something forbidden. He hadn’t pushed me away once. That primal reflex when he caught me? That wasn’t a doctor’s move. That was a man’s. Gavin threw me onto the sofa in the living room. “Riley, faking illness won’t get you my sympathy. You are going to take care of Melanie, and you’re going to do it with a smile.” I stared at him, genuinely puzzled. “We have a dozen maids, Gavin. Why me?” “Because you owe me,” he whispered, leaning down. “You’re the one who insisted on this marriage. You’re the reason Melanie and I were separated. You brought this on yourself.” What a load of horse-shit. The original Riley only married him because Gavin had been drugged at a party, wandered into the wrong room, and forced himself on her while she was working as a waitress. Gavin’s mother found out and forced the marriage to avoid a scandal. She threatened to cut off the funding for the orphanage Riley grew up in if she didn’t comply. Gavin knew this, but in his twisted head, he was the victim. Before I could tear into him, Melanie’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Gavin! The baby moved! Come see!” He dropped my arm and ran to her without a second thought. Bash stepped out of the bedroom, and I turned to him, my eyes red and shimmering. “Dr. Mercer… my heart hurts. Can you check it for me?” I was laying it on thick. Bash turned to leave, but I reached out and hooked my pinky around his. He could have broken the hold easily, but he stood there, frozen. “Sweetheart, it hurts,” I whispered. “I need you.” Bash’s face went pale. He looked around to make sure the coast was clear. “Riley, if you don’t love Gavin, divorce him. But don’t play with me.” I interlaced our fingers and kissed the back of his hand. “Take me for an exam. Somewhere private.” … Thanks to Bash, I actually got out of the house. I don’t know what medical jargon he used, but he convinced Gavin that I needed “specialized monitoring.” He took me to his private apartment. I spent the first hour poking around like a curious cat, eventually “discovering” that beneath his serious scrubs, he wore boxers with SpongeBob on them. He kept saying “no,” but his body was saying “yes.” By the time the sun started to go down, his interest in my “anatomy” had become very, very thorough. He explored, and I enjoyed. I’d picked a winner. The next morning, I was woken up by the shrill ringing of my phone. It was Gavin. “Riley! I thought you were finally behaving, but you’re still a monster!” Bash stirred next to me, his face groggy as he pulled my naked body against his chest. I snuggled into him, leaving a mark on his collarbone. Gavin’s voice was screaming through the speaker. “You dared to give Melanie abortifacients? I told you, I’d let you be the mother! Is your heart really that small?” Bash couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and spoke into the phone. “Gavin, she’s been with me all night. She hasn’t been anywhere near your house. She didn’t do it.” The silence on the other end was deafening. Bash hung up.

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At my mother’s funeral, my husband and my best friend vanished at the same time. I reached out to touch the mahogany casket, wanting one last look at my mother’s face before they closed it for good. The moment my fingertips brushed the polished wood, a sharp, needle-like jolt of static electricity shot through my arm, straight to my brain. Suddenly, I wasn’t just standing in a silent funeral parlor. I was hearing the frantic, muffled screams of my husband’s conscience. [Madeline! Why the hell is she back already?] [She can’t open this. If she opens this casket, Tess and I are dead. We’ll never show our faces in this town again!] My heart skipped a beat. A wave of nausea, cold and sharp, washed over me. It was absurd. It was grotesque. My husband was having an affair with my best friend. And they had chosen my mother’s casket as their cheap motel room? Fine. Since you picked this spot for your little tryst… Stay in there. Stay locked in and go down with her. 01 Fury erupted in my chest, hot and blinding. I lunged forward, my palms flat against the heavy lid, ready to shove it aside and drag those two animals out into the light. But the lid was dead weight. It didn’t budge an inch. I turned to the funeral director standing nearby. “Sir, I need a hand. I want to open the casket one last time. Just a moment more.” Before the man could move, a figure blurred in front of me, springing up like a coiled wire to block my path. It was Parker, Harrison’s personal assistant—a man who had been his shadow for eight years. Parker practically draped himself over the casket, his face a mask of frantic, sweating desperation. “Madeline! Maddie, please! What are you doing?” he stammered, his voice climbing an octave. “The service is timed perfectly. You already said your goodbyes. Opening it now… it’s bad luck, isn’t it? You’ll disturb your mother’s peace. Let her rest, Maddie. Please.” He shot a panicked look at the funeral staff, waving them off. [Good man, Parker! God, you’re a genius. This is why I pay you the big bucks. Just hold her off! Keep her away!] Hearing Harrison’s thoughts shift from sheer terror to smug relief made my blood run cold. The fire in my veins died out, replaced by a crystalline, predatory focus. So, he had a loyal dog guarding the door. Fine. I turned away from the casket and walked toward the grand, double oak doors of the chapel. Outside, dozens of relatives and business associates were mingling, their voices a low hum of performative grief. I raised my voice just enough to command the room. “Everyone. May I have your attention?” The room fell silent. Eyes turned to me—some pitying, some curious. “While going through my mother’s things this morning, I found a note she left behind. She always loved a full house. She said her biggest fear was being alone at the end. She wanted everyone who cared for her to come up, one by one, and say a final word to her. She wanted to feel the warmth of her friends before the lid is sealed.” A murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. People began to nod, touched by the sentiment. They started moving toward the chapel doors. Inside the casket, Harrison’s thoughts turned into a jagged, high-pitched scream. [You bitch… Madeline, you’re insane! Not now! Not with everyone here!] [Does she know? Does she know I’m in here? She wants the whole world to see me crawl out of her mother’s coffin buck-naked?!] I ignored the psychic noise. I stepped aside, playing the role of the grieving daughter perfectly, my face a portrait of somber grace. As the crowd filtered in, filling the once-quiet chapel, my mother-in-law, Lydia, rushed to my side. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “Maddie, dear,” she whispered, clutching my hand. “Where is Harrison? The final service is starting. He should be at your side.” I lowered my gaze, letting a hitch catch in my throat. “Oh, Lydia… he saw how much I was struggling. He went to the car to get my medication and some water. He told me he’d be right back. He’s just… taking a moment to compose himself.” Lydia nodded, her gaze drifting toward the dark casket. Her grief deepened. “We were friends for forty years, your mother and I. I should go first. I need to tell her one last thing.” She began to walk toward the casket. Just as her hand reached for the edge of the lid… [MOM!!! Stop! Don’t do it! I’m running out of air! Get away from here! DON’T OPEN IT!] 02 “Wait, Lydia. Go to the car and find my cufflinks first.” Arthur Miller’s voice—deep, authoritative, and cold—echoed through the chapel. My father-in-law stepped out from the crowd, his presence demanding order. Lydia’s hand dropped. She sighed and turned away, heading toward the exit. Arthur’s brow was furrowed, his eyes scanning the empty seat where the primary mourner should have been. Finally, his gaze landed on me. “Where is my son? Where is Harrison?” The guests began to whisper. It was a breach of etiquette that even a funeral couldn’t mask. “Where’s the son-in-law?” “A Miller missing his own mother-in-law’s service? It’s disgraceful.” I stepped forward, my expression a fragile blend of sorrow and concern. “Arthur… uncles, aunts, friends,” I said softly, my voice carrying to the back of the room. “Harrison has been a rock these last few days. He hasn’t slept a wink, and I think the grief finally caught up to him. He collapsed in the lounge just a few minutes ago.” I looked at them with wide, pleading eyes. “The paramedics are with him now. He’s stable, but he won’t be able to join us for the final seal.” [Dad! Dad, don’t listen to her! She’s lying! She’s trying to kill me!] Inside the casket, Harrison was like a trapped animal, his thoughts a frantic, muffled roar of desperation. Arthur’s face darkened. “Nonsense! He is the son-in-law. He is the future CEO of Miller-Sinclair. He stays until the end, no matter what. Letting his wife stand up there alone? Think of the optics. Think of the family name!” Several of the elder board members nodded in agreement, the air in the room turning brittle. I leaned in, whispering into Arthur’s ear, my voice a sharp blade: “Arthur… do you really want to go looking for your son right now? I think you know exactly where he is. And more importantly… who he’s with.” [Dad! Stop her! She’s going to open it! Don’t let her!] Harrison’s mental voice had dissolved into a terrified shriek. Arthur went pale. He looked at me, then at the casket, then back at me. I didn’t give him a second to think. I turned back to the guests, my spine straight, my voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument. “Everyone, my mother visited me in a dream last night.” The mention of a “dream” made the older, more traditional guests go still. “She told me that her life was a series of battles—highs, lows, and more than a few enemies made in the boardroom. She feared that she was carrying the weight of those old grudges with her. She was afraid that if we didn’t seal her away properly, the ‘shadows’ of her past would haunt our families. She feared for the Miller legacy and the Sinclair future.” I took a deep breath, looking directly at the most superstitious investors in the room. “Her final wish was for us to complete the Sealing Ceremony immediately. She wanted the ceremonial locks fastened now, to keep her peace and our prosperity intact. She wanted to leave this world clean, so she could protect us from the other side.” As the crowd hummed with the weight of “legacy” and “fortune,” I pressed on. “As many of you know, our foundation has always prioritized the future of the next generation. In honor of that responsibility, and on behalf of my husband who—as I mentioned—is currently under medical care, I will perform the Final Sealing myself.” My voice rose, echoing off the marble walls. “To ensure my mother’s peace and our family’s security, I ask for your understanding. We must lock this chapter for good.” [She’s insane! She’s using the company’s reputation to bury me! Dad! Mom! Help me!] The voice from within the casket was fading, becoming a pathetic, breathless whimper. The chapel was silent. Not a single person dared to object. Not when I had framed it as a matter of “family fortune.” I turned to the funeral director, my face like stone. “Seal the casket.” “And please… bring the guests forward for the final procession.” 03 “Seal it,” I repeated. Inside, Harrison’s thoughts were a distorted mess of agony: [Don’t! If you seal this, I’m finished! Dad, do something!] The funeral staff stepped forward, their gloved hands reaching for the lid. “Wait! Wait! Maddie!” Parker, the assistant, threw himself in front of the casket again, his arms spread wide like a human shield. He was hyperventilating, tears streaming down his face. “Everyone! Listen to me! Margaret… she didn’t look right when she passed. Maddie was adamant about a high-spec restoration, and the chemicals… the makeup… it’s incredibly delicate!” He was babbling now, his voice cracking. “Opening it, or even disturbing it too much… the air, the light… it will ruin the image. Let’s just let her go in peace. She knows we’re here! She can feel us!” [Yes! Yes, Parker! Keep it going! Delay them!] Harrison’s mental voice erupted in a burst of frantic joy. [If I get out of this, I’ll give you a VP slot! Stocks! Anything! Just get me out!] VP? Stocks? I looked at Parker’s sweating, desperate face. I had given them chances. Multiple chances. Every time, they chose the shadows. They chose the lie. They chose to hide like rats in a tomb. If you won’t choose dignity, then stay where you are. My mother always did call Tess her “second daughter.” I suppose it’s only fitting she takes her favorite people with her to the afterlife. Finally, I nodded slowly, as if Parker had convinced me. “You’re right, Parker. You’re absolutely right.” “We won’t open it. We’ll perform the Sealing as it stands. Everyone, please… say your final words through the wood. She can hear you.” [Phew…] A long, psychic sigh of relief echoed from the casket. Parker nearly collapsed, a look of pure, sickly triumph flickering across his face. The guests, though confused, accepted the “preservation” excuse. They began to file past, whispering their goodbyes to the polished mahogany. As the line ended, the officiant stepped up to the microphone. “The family would like to thank you. We will now proceed with the Ceremonial Locks.” But just as the words left his mouth, a young staff member carrying the tray of heavy brass locks stumbled. He went down hard, the tray flying from his hands. The locks and the ceremonial silk ribbons scattered across the floor, sliding under pews and rolling toward the altar. “Oh no!” Parker cried out, lunging forward—not to help the boy, but to “accidentally” kick a bundle of the ribbons even further away. He looked up at me, his voice shrill. “The locks are dropped! The ribbons are soiled! This is a terrible omen! It’s a sign!” He dropped to his knees, crawling toward me. “Maddie! Your mother is speaking to us! she doesn’t want to be sealed yet! She’s waiting for something! Please, we have to wait! At least until Harrison or Tess gets here!” He looked up, his face a mask of fake piety. “Tess was so distraught at the wake, she fainted! Her devotion to your mother was legendary. Surely, Margaret wants to see her one last time!” I looked down at him. The “loyalty” in his eyes was nothing more than a thin veil for his own cowardice. “Parker.” My voice was soft, but it cut through the room like a cold wind. “Harrison really did pick the right man for the job, didn’t he?” He flinched, his whole body trembling. “Since this service began, you have done nothing but disrupt the peace of my mother’s passing.” I turned to the two security guards at the back of the room. “Take him out.” “Take him to the private lounge next door. Lock the door. No visitors, no phones, no messages. He stays there until the burial is over.” Parker’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Maddie! No! I’m doing this for you! For the family!” The guards didn’t hesitate. They hauled him up, one of them clamping a hand over his mouth as he began to scream. They dragged him out of the chapel, his muffled protests fading into the hallway. Silence returned to the room—thick, heavy, and suffocating. I slowly leaned over and picked up the largest brass lock from the floor. The metal was ice-cold against my skin. I gripped it tight and walked over to Arthur Miller. I held the lock out to him. “Arthur.” “As the patriarch of the Miller family, and as my mother’s oldest partner… I ask you to place the first lock.” “Seal her in. For her peace… and for ours.” Scritch. A sound like a fingernail dragging against wood echoed from deep within the casket. 04 That tiny, scratching sound vibrated through Arthur’s nervous system. He stared at the brass lock in my hand, then his eyes darted to the casket like he’d been burned. His lips trembled, his throat worked, but no words came out. The veins in his forehead looked like they were about to burst. “Arthur!” Mr. Sterling, a long-time family friend, broke the silence. His voice was hard. “What is your son’s deal? He ditches his mother-in-law’s funeral, and now you won’t even step up for the ceremony? Is this how the Millers do business now?” “It’s disrespectful,” another board member added, standing up. “If this gets out, what does it say about the family’s character? Where is the dignity?” One of the major shareholders sneered. “Arthur, if your son can’t handle a funeral, the board is going to have to seriously re-evaluate his position as successor.” Every word was a scalpel, cutting Arthur deep. I could see the gears turning—he was weighing his son’s life against the Miller empire, the stock price, and his own pride. [Dad! Don’t lock it! I’m in here! I’m alive! Listen to me!] Inside, Harrison’s mental voice had descended into pure madness. Between my hints, Parker’s freak-out, and that scratching sound… I knew Arthur finally understood. I saw the moment his eyes changed. The panic faded, replaced by a cold, murderous resolve. He took a breath, and his voice came out through clenched teeth. “…It seems I haven’t raised my son well. Harrison’s ‘collapse’ is no excuse for this absence.” He turned to the casket and bowed deeply, his back stiff with a tragic kind of finality. “Margaret, I apologize for that boy’s failures. I will make this right.” He snatched the lock from my hand, held it high above his head, and roared: “For the peace of our families—I will seal this myself!” [DAD! NO!!! I’M YOUR SON!!] The silent scream was cut short. Clack. The first heavy bolt slid into place. [It’s okay… Margaret’s antique letter opener is in here… the one with the horn handle… it’s sharp…] [I can dig a hole… a vent… I can breathe… I can make it…] [Parker will get Mom… Mom will find a way.] The letter opener? Yes. I had put it there myself—a “keepsake” for my mother. I watched silently as Arthur’s muscles bunched. He took the ceremonial sealing tape. Rip. He ran the tape along the seam of the lid, pressing it down with a violence that looked like he was punishing himself. Finally, he picked up the Master Lock—the heavy, industrial-grade seal that signaled the end. His hand shook, just for a fraction of a second. He slammed it home. The chapel held its breath. The shadows on the wall looked like ghosts. [No… Dad… Mom… I’m scared of the dark…] Harrison’s final thought was a pathetic, whimpering sob. “IT IS FINISHED!” the officiant’s voice boomed, shattering the silence. The pallbearers stepped forward, their black suits sharp. They used heavy silk straps to reinforce the casket, wrapping it tight. Eight men took their positions. “Proceed to the cemetery.” The funeral march began. The casket was lifted, steady and heavy. I walked behind it in my black silk dress, my hand resting lightly on the side of the wood. A long line of black limousines followed us out of the chapel, heading toward the hills. Outside the window, the city blurred by. To anyone watching, I was the picture of the grieving, dutiful daughter. But only I knew the truth. My palm was pressed firmly against the side of the casket. Right over the tiny, hair-thin crack Harrison had managed to gouge into the wood from the inside with that letter opener. A faint, nearly imperceptible wisp of air was leaking out. It blew against my palm. It was ice cold.

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I was auditing our credit card statements when I found it: a recurring monthly withdrawal of $3,450. The memo simply read “Mortgage Payment.” The thing is, we’d paid off our house three years ago. I stared at the screen for a long time, the blue light stinging my eyes. The withdrawal was coming from Madeline’s salary account, but the recipient was a loan contract number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t ask her about it. Instead, I copied the contract number into a locked note on my phone. 1. Madeline came home late that night. It was 11:30 PM when she pushed through the door, a gust of November chill clinging to her coat. “Work was a nightmare,” she muttered, barely looking at me before heading straight for the bathroom. I sat on the sofa, my gaze fixed on her coat draped over the armchair. The left pocket was bulging. I didn’t move. I waited until I heard the shower start, the steady hiss of water masking my footsteps. Inside the pocket was a crumpled property management bill. The Lantern, Building 18, Unit 603. Quarterly HOA Fees: $1,260. I flipped the paper over. Under the owner’s name, it read: Madeline Vance. I stood there in the living room for three minutes, just staring at that name. The Lantern. I knew the place—a luxury high-rise downtown that had finished construction last year. Units there started at seven figures. I snapped a photo of the bill and tucked it back into her pocket exactly as I’d found it. The next morning, after she left for “an early meeting,” I opened my laptop. I’m a forensic accountant by trade; digging through digital footprints is what I do. I logged into the county property records using her social security number. There it was. The Lantern, Unit 603. 1,200 square feet. Purchased March 2022. Three years ago. The down payment had been $150,000. The mortgage was $1.1 million. The monthly payment? $3,450. I felt a phantom chill settle in my marrow. $150,000. In March 2022, Madeline had been two months pregnant. That was the same month our joint savings account had dipped by exactly $155,000. She told me she’d invested it in a friend’s tech startup. I had believed her. I had kissed her forehead and told her I trusted her instincts. I scrolled down to the title registration, and my heart skipped a beat. Owner of Record: Nathan Brooks. My name. I stared at those ten letters. Not Madeline. Not “The Brooks Family Trust.” Just me. Then the memory hit me like a physical blow. Back in 2022, the city had passed a luxury tax and zoning restriction—residents who already owned two properties faced massive surcharges on a third. Madeline already had our primary residence and the cottage she’d inherited from her parents. She couldn’t buy a third. So, she had used me. She’d used my identity, forged my signature on the digital loan documents, and bought a secret life in my name. She probably thought that since she was the one making the payments, the title didn’t matter. I looked at the screen and started to laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound that echoed through our empty house. I screenshotted everything and moved it into an encrypted folder. I didn’t know who she’d bought that condo for yet. But I knew that while she was carrying our child, she was stealing our future to build a nest for someone else—using my own name as the foundation. I’d keep that receipt. I just needed to see who was currently living in Unit 603. 2. I didn’t go there right away. I waited a week. In that week, I did my homework. I pulled Madeline’s personal bank statements. We’d been married for ten years; I knew every password she had. The trail was fascinating. Aside from the $3,450 mortgage, there was a steady, monthly transfer of $1,500 to an account held by someone named Silas Thorne. When I saw the name, the air left my lungs. Silas Thorne. Three years ago, he was the intern in my department. I was the one who interviewed him. I was the one who mentored him through his first big project. I was the one who wrote the glowing recommendation that got him hired full-time. On the day he got his permanent offer, he’d bought me a coffee and called me his “hero.” “Nathan,” he’d said, “meeting you is the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me.” I’d clapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d earned it. I closed my eyes, doing the math. $1,500 a month for three years. That’s $54,000. Add the $150,000 down payment and the $124,200 in mortgage payments… I grabbed a calculator. Total: $328,200. Nearly a third of a million dollars of our marital assets, poured into the pocket of the kid I had hand-reared at work. On Saturday morning, Madeline said she had to go into the office to “catch up on some filings.” I waited thirty minutes, then drove to The Lantern. It was a sleek, glass-and-steel needle of a building. I sat in my car for twenty minutes. Then I saw it. A black Audi pulled into the underground garage. Madeline’s car. Five minutes later, a young man walked out of the lobby to meet her by the elevator bank. He had that messy-cool hair, an expensive linen shirt, and a smile that looked like sunshine. Silas. He looped his arm through Madeline’s, and they walked into the building together. It was intimate. Practiced. It wasn’t the first time, or even the tenth. It was the rhythm of a couple that had been living together for years. I sat in my car, watching their silhouettes disappear behind the frosted glass doors. I didn’t cry. My grip on the steering wheel was so tight my knuckles turned a ghostly white. I drove home, stopping at a 24-hour printing shop. I printed out a fresh copy of the property deed. Owner: Nathan Brooks. I folded the paper neatly and tucked it into my laptop bag. When Madeline came home at 7:00 PM, she looked exhausted. “I’m wiped,” she said, dropping her keys. “I’m sure,” I said, setting a bowl of homemade soup in front of her. “Drink this. You need your strength.” She smiled, oblivious, and took a sip. I watched her face—the face that had been pressed against another man’s all afternoon. “This is delicious,” she said. “Good,” I replied. I could wait. I wasn’t in a hurry. 3. For the next month, I played the part of the doting husband. I went to work, I cooked dinner, I played with our daughter. I was the perfect picture of domestic stability. But at night, while Madeline slept, I went to work. I spent two nights scrolling through her cloud backups. Her phone was set to auto-sync, and the password was our anniversary. She’d clearly forgotten she’d ever set it up. The message history was a map of betrayal. It started in January 2022. The first suggestive text was dated March 8, 2022. International Women’s Day. That evening, Madeline was at the clinic for an ultrasound. She’d texted Silas: Are you alone? I’m coming over. I remembered that day. The ultrasound results had shown the baby’s position was a bit precarious. The doctor told her to rest. I’d called her, and she’d told me she was at a “late dinner with a client.” “Don’t worry, honey,” I’d told her. “Just get home safe.” She hadn’t come home until 11:00 PM, claiming her client had too many martinis and she had to call him an Uber. Now I knew exactly who she’d been taking care of. I kept scrolling. March 17, 2022—the day I signed Silas’s permanent contract recommendation. That night’s chat: Silas: I’m officially in! Nathan signed the papers today! Madeline: We need to celebrate properly. Silas: Where? Madeline: Your place. I’ll bring the champagne. Silas sent a suggestive emoji. There were no messages after that. They didn’t need messages for what happened next. I put the phone down, my hands shaking. While I was helping this kid build his career, he was in bed with my wife “celebrating.” I went further. May 2022. Madeline’s text: The mortgage is approved. We get the keys next month. How do you want to decorate? Silas: Seriously?! I want that Scandinavian look. Light wood, warm tones, cozy everywhere. Madeline: Whatever you want, baby. Silas: Our home. Madeline: Our home. “Our home.” Madeline was five months pregnant then. I was spending my weekends painting the nursery, making sure every corner was safe for our baby. And she was on her phone, building a “home” with a twenty-four-year-old. I saved every screenshot. From 2022 to 2024. 487 images. Each one was a razor blade. But I didn’t use them yet. I had a much better plan. 4. Four details in the chat logs caught my eye. First: August 2022. Madeline was eight months pregnant. Madeline: I’m coming over for a couple of hours. The doctor says I shouldn’t overexert myself, so I have to be back early. Silas: Okay, hurry up then. I checked my calendar. In August 2022, she had visited him at least three times a week. Even when she was struggling to walk, she made sure she saw him. Second: January 2023. One month after our daughter was born. The baby was colicky. I remember those nights vividly—waking up four times a night to fix bottles, rocking her until my back screamed, then going to work on three hours of sleep. Madeline had moved to the guest room, saying she “didn’t want to disturb my sleep since I had to work.” In the logs, at 3:00 AM while I was warming a bottle in the kitchen, she was on a video call with Silas. Duration: 47 minutes. She hung up right as I finished burping the baby. Third: June 2023. Silas: Are you sure about the money for the down payment? Madeline: It’s from our savings, don’t worry about it. Silas: But… isn’t that his money too? Madeline: I earned that money. I’ll spend it how I want. Silas: But what if he finds out? Madeline: He won’t. And once I file for divorce, everything in that condo will be ours. She had been planning to leave me for three years. While she was pregnant. While she was “recovering.” While I was doing the 3:00 AM feedings. She was already mentally moved into Unit 603. Fourth: September 2024. Just two months ago. Silas: The contractor says the HOA is flagging the renovation. They’re saying it’s not to code and we have to tear it out. Madeline: What? Silas: They said the owner hasn’t signed off on the permits. Madeline: I’ll handle the HOA. I’ll just forge the signature again. Silas: I already spent $15,000 on those floors, Madeline. I’m not losing that money. Madeline: I’ll give you more. Just find a better contractor. Silas: No, I want to use my own savings for this part. I want to feel like I’m contributing to our home. Madeline: You’re so sweet. I read that last part twice. He wanted to use his savings to renovate “their home.” The home that, legally, belonged to me. I smiled. By all means, Silas. Renovate away. 5. I called my oldest friend, Bennett. He’s a high-stakes divorce attorney who eats people like Madeline for breakfast. I laid it all out for him. The bank statements, the deed, the 487 screenshots. He spent half an hour reviewing the file before looking up at me. “Nathan,” he said, “this is a bloodbath.” “Is it enough?” “It’s more than enough,” Bennett said. “The down payment was marital property. The mortgage was paid with marital property. But the deed? The deed is solely in your name. Legally, that condo is 100% yours.” “I know.” “If she tries to fight for it, she has to prove she used her separate funds, which she can’t because it’s all coming from your joint existence. You hold all the cards.” “Good.” “So, when do we file?” “Not yet,” I said. “I want him to finish the renovations first.” Bennett blinked. “Excuse me?” “He told her he wants to use his own life savings to fix up ‘their home.’ I think I should let him. It’s only polite.” Bennett leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “Nathan Brooks. You are a much colder man than I thought.” “I’m not cold, Bennett,” I said. “I’m just an accountant. I’m making sure the books are balanced.” That afternoon, I visited the property management office at The Lantern. I met with the manager, a guy named Miller. I showed him the original deed and my ID. “I’m the owner of 603,” I said. Miller checked his system. “Mr. Brooks. Nice to finally meet you. We’ve had some… issues with your unit.” “I know. The renovation?” “Yes, a young man has been spearheading it. He claimed to be family.” “He isn’t,” I said. “He’s a tenant. And apparently, he’s been doing work without my authorization.” Miller looked nervous. “Oh, God. We’ve already issued several stop-work orders.” “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said, sliding my business card across the desk. “From now on, any issue regarding 603 goes through me. Not her. Not him. If a single nail gets driven into a wall, I want to know. But for now… let them keep working. Just keep a very close eye on the ‘safety violations’.” “I understand, Mr. Brooks.” I walked out into the sunlight. Building 18 loomed above me. Through the sixth-floor windows, I could see the faint flicker of a construction light. Work hard, Silas, I thought. Make it beautiful. 6. Silas’s first renovation attempt, according to the chat logs, cost him about $20,000. He went for the “Scandi-chic” look—expensive oak floors, custom grey cabinetry, and imported Italian tile. He was obsessed. He spent a week picking out light fixtures. I watched the progress through the photos he sent Madeline. Every picture was captioned with a string of heart emojis. Madeline: It looks stunning, baby. Silas: It’s our sanctuary! On the day the floors were finished, he posted a photo of himself standing in the middle of the empty living room, arms wide, grinning like he’d won the lottery. Caption: Finally, home. That caption felt like a needle in my heart. Then, I made a phone call. “Mr. Miller? It’s Nathan Brooks. I was looking over the HOA bylaws. Does Unit 603 have a valid permit for those new floors? Because I never signed one.” Three days later, Silas messaged Madeline in a panic. Silas: The HOA showed up! They’re saying the renovation is unauthorized! They’re demanding an owner’s signature or they’re going to fine us $500 a day!

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I stumbled upon a post online. [I’ve been chatting with my crush online for three months, only to find out I’ve actually been talking to his girlfriend the whole time.] I complained about it to my best friend, but her eyes nervously darted away. That very night, I caught her making out with Ezra. She told him: “Don’t tell her we’re dating. I don’t want to break her heart.” A group of wealthy heirs laughed and made a bet that I would willingly become his side piece. I pretended not to know anything. Dropping my usual conservative style, I publicly announced that I would confess to my crush in exactly one month. The game of hearts had officially begun. 1. “Babe, when are you going to confess to Ezra?” Chloe asked, resting her chin on her hand. Her bright red nails looked like snake tongues. I looked at the sexy black lingerie in her other hand, raised an eyebrow, and replied, “In a month. We’ll talk about it after you get back from your trip abroad.” Chloe grinned at me, hooking a finger under the lingerie strap. “You complimented this set last time, so I bought it. I’m going to try it on today. You better not run off with a man behind my back! I have to be there when you confess!” I nodded in agreement, my smile as gentle and mild as ever. Chloe didn’t suspect a thing. In her eyes, I was never a threat. After all, I always listened to her. Back then, she had said, “Babe, you’re so pretty. You don’t even need makeup. You have that natural, ‘girl-next-door’ beauty. Ezra is definitely into your type!” So, I followed her advice. I straightened my gorgeous, wavy hair, wore thick, nerdy glasses, and dressed in baggy clothes that hid my figure. Like an ugly duckling, I played the perfect foil to her for three whole months. During those three months, I played the role of the clueless, plain friend perfectly, making her look like a blooming, exquisite rose by comparison. Chloe looked at my drab outfit, her eyes lingering on the faint, artificially darkened spots on my face. Her smile deepened as she pinched my earlobe. “There’s a party tomorrow night, and Ezra will be there. There’ll be a lot of people, and I know you’re timid. If anything happens, just tell me.” I obediently replied, “Okay.” With a crisp click of the door, the scent of rose perfume and the click-clack of her heels faded away. Chloe was a fantastic actress. If I hadn’t accidentally caught her straddling Ezra’s lap, begging for a kiss, I probably would have genuinely believed she had my best interests at heart. I opened the video saved on my phone. The deafening club music assaulted my eardrums. Ezra hooked a finger under her slip dress strap. The look in his eyes was pure lust—a stark contrast to the aloof, untouchable persona he maintained at school. The burgundy dress hitched up, revealing a large expanse of pale skin. The crowd went wild, cheering and screaming. “Kiss! Kiss!” “If the little blockhead saw this, she’d be heartbroken.” Laughter erupted from the crowd. “Why even bring her up? She’s so boring. She’s impossible to invite out, always acting so high and mighty. She’s nothing compared to Chloe.” The “little blockhead” they were talking about was me. I opened my phone and scrolled through my recent chat history with Ezra. Five minutes ago, he had taken a moment to send a cute cat sticker that said “Goodnight.” I scrolled through our three months of messages, comparing their use of stickers and speech patterns, confirming one thing. All these flirtatious messages were sent by Chloe. Because Chloe liked breaking long sentences into multiple texts and always used stickers. When Ezra texted people, he preferred sending complete sentences with proper punctuation. Every single one of them knew the truth. They were all just hiding it from me. 2. I expressionlessly closed the video, sat at my desk, and started making a meticulous plan. I had spent the last few weeks intentionally making myself look ugly, using my “shy personality” as an excuse to avoid officially meeting them in person. I spent three months—treating it with the same intensity as the SATs—digging up every shred of information on these vicious rich kids, and I even took extra acting classes. The remaining month would be more than enough to deal with them. I held up a picture from the club and cross-referenced it with my database. Ezra had three close friends in his inner circle. They were all at the club last night. The guy who called me a “blockhead” was Elias, Ezra’s younger brother. He was a hotheaded kid with no ex-girlfriends, making him the easiest to manipulate and use. But that was just his facade. Chloe had used him as a stepping stone to get to Ezra. She thought she had succeeded, but she was really just playing the clown. That night, Elias offered fake compliments to Chloe while constantly putting me down, calling me a blockhead at every turn. Chloe laughed wildly, completely missing the disdain in Elias’s eyes. No one respects someone who stabs their own friend in the back. Chloe had lost from the very beginning. The guy making out with an influencer in the corner was Asher. He was Ezra’s childhood friend, an extreme sports junkie with an endless rotation of bedmates but no actual girlfriends. He was the dirtiest of the bunch, always stirring up trouble. He was the one who had added me and invited me to the club last night. I sent him a voice message: “Sorry, I was already asleep by 11 last night. I didn’t see your message.” Then, I ignored his reply and tossed my phone aside. A guy like Asher didn’t need a complex strategy; he just needed to be ignored. If he was interested, he would come crawling on his own. He was a playboy who had been with countless women. Looking for genuine feelings in his eyes was like looking for gold in a pile of shit. 3. [Ezra: Summer, I’ll pick you up tomorrow.] My phone lit up with a new message. This message was sent by the real Ezra. It had only been half an hour since Chloe left my dorm. It seemed Chloe didn’t get what she wanted from Ezra tonight. After all, Ezra was meeting me tomorrow. He naturally wouldn’t sleep with another woman and risk ruining the “untouchable saint” image he had so carefully crafted for me. In the middle of the night, Chloe sent me a picture of herself in the black lingerie. I replied with a deadpan “Beautiful.” During the time I had been talking to Ezra, I constantly praised him for being an unapproachable “snow lotus on a high peak.” To maintain this image in front of me, he had to give up a lot of his social life and even change his style to match my preferences. When people are doing something terrible, they often exhibit extraordinary patience. Ezra had deliberately learned about my hobbies. After discovering I liked hand-woven bracelets, he bought one and claimed he made it himself. Unfortunately for him, the person who sold it to him was a close friend of mine. I called him out on the spot and deleted him without a second thought. Unwilling to lose the bet, Ezra actually went and learned the traditional weaving technique, making one with his own two hands. Because of that incident, I earned the nickname “blockhead” among his friends. But I didn’t regret it. To them, money meant nothing; time was their most valuable asset. And that hand-woven bracelet was the anchor I threw him. After that, Ezra never half-assed anything I asked him to do. At least, until the bet was settled, he would force himself to patiently complete every task. From woven bracelets to fondant cakes, he learned everything from scratch. If I didn’t know the truth, I might have actually been moved. After all, who wouldn’t be touched by someone so wealthy putting so much time and effort into pursuing them? Plus, he faked his appearance and temper perfectly. I was currently wearing that very bracelet. It was sky blue, perfectly matching my outfit. I still hadn’t replied to his message. I simply picked a plain white maxi dress from my closet. My initial persona was the pure, innocent “white lotus.” For moral degenerates like them, this persona made it easiest for them to let their guard down. I took a picture of the dress and sent it to Ezra. After adjusting my voice a few times, I sent a sickeningly sweet voice memo: [What do you think of this dress?] [Ezra: Not bad.] Two quick, dismissive words. I knew those words were typed by someone with a face full of impatience. I didn’t feel surprised or sad. I just kept playing the role of a girl utterly consumed by the whirlwind of love. [Then I’ll wear this to see you tomorrow.] [Ezra: Okay.] Ezra’s voice sounded casual. Like everything else about him, he didn’t seem to care about anything. He deliberately lowered his voice, expertly creating an atmosphere of indulgence. He was a top-tier player. Chloe and I were just pawns in his romantic game. Asher had made a bet with him, betting 30 million dollars on how long it would take him to conquer the two new “sister beauties” at our school. He had already conquered Chloe. I was the only one left. Ezra felt this conquest game was too easy, so he upped the difficulty. He declared he would make one of us willingly become a side piece. And the woman he chose for that role was me. To properly focus on conquering me, he had already bought Chloe a plane ticket and sent her out of the country. He planned to use the next month to completely break me down. 4. I put on the seemingly ordinary dress and admired myself in the mirror. The exquisite tailoring perfectly accentuated my curves. I took off the nerdy glasses, revealing a pair of alluring, captivating eyes. I used waterproof eyeliner to draw a small beauty mark at the corner of my eye, adding a touch of seductive charm. Men are visual creatures. For our first official meeting, I naturally had to leave a deep, thrilling impression. Before heading out, I meticulously adjusted my dress, making sure every inch was perfectly smooth, without a single stray wrinkle. Wrinkles ruin the quality of an outfit, making you look sloppy and ruining the vibe. My ears weren’t pierced, and I wore absolutely no jewelry. I looked completely plain, but every detail was calculated. My face in the mirror was flawless. I checked my angles repeatedly until I was certain there wasn’t a single imperfection. I looked out the window. Ezra was already standing outside my dorm building, looking like a painting—cool tones, slightly vintage and faded. A hibiscus bush was blooming next to him. Some people are truly born at the top of the pyramid. No wonder he was so confident he could conquer an “ugly duckling” like me in just one month. A hint of sarcasm flashed in my eyes. Men should always pay a price for their arrogance. Chloe, terrified I would steal her man, rarely mentioned my family background to them. She only told them my family was drowning in debt. Because of this, everyone believed I was a poor, innocent girl. This was exactly what I wanted. It was the perfect cover for a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 5. I brushed my hair, which I had spent thousands of dollars treating until it looked like liquid silk, and offered a pure, innocent smile. “Ezra.” I appeared with a bright smile. In the brief moment he was stunned, I grabbed his hand intimately. Ezra instinctively squeezed back, his eyelashes fluttering. “Summer?” It wasn’t until he saw the familiar blue bracelet on my wrist that he called my name. I quickly caught the flash of awe in his eyes. Ezra was a master at setting the mood. He quickly recovered, a smile playing on his thin lips as he looked down at me. “Summer, you look beautiful today.” His gaze lingered for a second on the short sliver of skin exposed at my waist, and he let out a soft laugh. “I’m not lying.” I played along, blushing and tugging at his shirt. “Ezra, are you taking me to meet your friends today? What if they… don’t like me?” “They will. Summer is so cute.” Ezra’s looks were very deceiving. He looked at me with such intimacy and affection, as if he were gazing at the love of his life. If he really cared about me, why would he bring someone who supposedly hated parties to a club filled with rich playboys? This was just another one of his tactics. The club was members-only, offering everything from a shooting range and race track to horseback riding and golf. Obviously, none of this was something someone with my “status” should be exposed to. Ezra was using PUA (Pickup Artist) tactics and control on me. First, he would make me feel the massive gap in our social classes, then he would swoop in like a hero to save the day, showcasing his power and making me fall for him. 6. Ezra placed a black card in my palm, not allowing me to refuse. “Summer, I have something to handle first. If you need anything, just give this card to the manager.” I nodded. In this playboy club, luxury logos were everywhere. Dressed so plainly, I looked completely out of place. But precisely because I stood out so much, they spotted me immediately. “Well, well, look who finally decided to show up.” Asher was the first to speak, his tone incredibly frivolous. He walked over and looked me up and down. Scrutinizing, flirtatious, mocking. And finally, a hint of genuine interest. The gazes of the men and women around me kept landing on me. I was used to it; these kinds of looks were nothing new. “Looks like a seductress.” Elias spoke next, his voice dripping with malice, loud enough for the whole room to hear. His tone was nasty, but his eyes never left my face. When his gaze met the tears welling up in my eyes, he quickly looked away. “I hate women who cry all the time.” He muttered, crossing his arms in an extremely defensive posture. But I was absolutely certain Elias did not hate my face. No one knew that my main target today was actually him—Elias. They bet I would willingly become a side piece. Let’s wait and see who loses their dignity in the end. 7. I adjusted my position. From an angle Elias could see, I stood awkwardly and nervously, looking incredibly helpless. My acting classes weren’t for nothing. The instructor taught me exactly how to cry to evoke the most pity—let the tear hang like a dewdrop on a rose petal, crystal clear. Wait until everyone is watching, waiting for it to fall, and then let it drop like a pearl. I had practiced this in front of a mirror hundreds of times while watching videos. When Elias started walking toward me, I knew my acting had worked. But life isn’t a script; there are always unexpected twists. Elias stopped in his tracks. Asher intercepted, grabbing my chin. Seeing my slightly teary eyes, a terrifying urge to destroy flashed in his gaze. A sharp pain shot through my chin, and I let out a soft whimper. Asher had a slight sadistic streak. My sound seemed to trigger something in him, and a bizarre excitement filled his eyes. “Nice voice.” His thumb rubbed against my chin, and I felt nothing but pure disgust. I was certain that in this moment, Asher wanted to make me cry. Filthy dog! I cursed him in my head. The pressure on my chin increased. I silently counted down in my head, waiting until I saw Ezra approach with a cold expression out of the corner of my eye. Without hesitation, I punched Asher square in the nose. Like a baby bird returning to its nest, I threw myself into Ezra’s arms, sobbing and calling his name: “Ezra.” Asher didn’t expect my reaction. He covered his nose with a grunt of pain, a burning heat flaring in his eyes. That intense, predatory stare followed me like a spotlight. I caught Elias hesitating halfway toward me out of the corner of my eye. I lowered my eyes, adjusting my expression, then gripped Ezra’s sleeve tightly, playing the role of a terrified, trembling victim perfectly. Ezra looked down to comfort me. In the exact moment he lowered his head, I looked up. My lips accidentally brushed against his chin, a fleeting, accidental kiss. Ezra froze. I acted as if I didn’t notice, consumed entirely by my fear. My hair, like black silk, slipped through his fingers. This performance was for Ezra’s eyes only. Ezra crouched down, wiping my tears away one by one, then asked Asher coldly, “What did you just do to Summer?” Physical contact with other men was not part of Ezra’s plan. When he saw the red mark on my chin, Ezra’s eyes darkened. His gaze lingered for a long time, a flash of irritation appearing in his eyes, and he spoke faster than usual. This attitude wasn’t love; it was just a man’s possessiveness acting up. To seize and possess—that is the natural, inherent flaw of these so-called high-society elites. “Just playing a little joke.” Asher was completely relaxed, playing with a strand of my hair he had just pulled out. To him, this overstepping meant nothing; after all, they were close enough to “date” the same girl. I touched my head, complaining like a child by tugging on Ezra’s hand. Ezra’s expression toward Asher grew even colder. He comfortingly patted my head. Elias, standing off to the side, suddenly spoke up: “Bro, give her to me in a month. She looks familiar.” Ezra stopped moving. 8. Elias said that sentence in French. I looked at Elias and blinked. Asher sneered, looking at Elias sarcastically. “What a garbage excuse. If you want her, just say you want her. ‘Looks familiar’… tsk.” After mocking Elias, Asher turned to Ezra. “It’s rare to find someone like this. Why don’t we cancel the bet? You step out, and your brother and I will play with her. Besides, aren’t you getting pretty serious with Chloe lately?” Elias’s sharp eyebrows furrowed, a hint of coldness in his eyes. He cursed directly in French, “Play with my ass. Last time, it was your stupid idea that got Ezra deleted by the blockhead when he used my burner account.” Asher’s face darkened. “How is that my fault? Who knew she was so difficult? Deleting someone over a bracelet. Don’t you hate girls who look like her? Why are you getting involved?” Elias tugged at his collar, not saying another word. He just stared at me intently, his eyes dark and probing. Asher let out a short laugh, mocking Elias without mercy: “Elias, you better be careful. What if you get scammed by the same type again? Once bitten, twice shy. Why don’t you give this little kitten to me so I can train her?” Seeing them fighting over me, Ezra’s face turned dark. His arm around my waist tightened abruptly, and he swore: “What the hell is wrong with you two?” No one knew that pure, innocent “white lotus” girls were actually Elias’s exact type. Everyone just heard the rumor that in high school, Elias had an online relationship with a girl in a white dress, only to get scammed out of millions before even meeting her. Since then, the rumor was that Elias despised innocent-looking girls. No girl ever dared to wear a white dress around him. Even Chloe specifically avoided that style. But how can someone escape what they’re biologically attracted to? Coincidentally, Elias had been my main target from the very beginning. Ezra wanted me to be his side piece. Coincidentally, I had the exact same thought. After all, the more, the merrier. I met Elias’s gaze and offered a shy, bashful smile. Elias’s eyes grew even darker. As for the fact that the account Ezra used to chat with me was actually Elias’s burner account, I knew that perfectly well. To be precise, I knew they were lying even before Chloe did. Because, unluckily for them, the girl from the rumor who scammed Elias out of millions—was me. 9. In middle school, Elias and I were in the same class. He sat right behind me. Every class, he would either shove his desk into my back or pull my hair. Relying on his family’s wealth, no one dared to cross him, and he did whatever he wanted all day. I complained to the teachers, but they just tried to smooth things over. I had a bad temper back then. I got into a fight with him, and he pushed me down the stairs. My leg was injured, leaving lasting damage. From then on, I could never study the dance I loved so much. His arrogant family wanted to settle it with money. Faced with the massive compensation, my family quickly agreed. No one cares about the personal grudges of children. Adults make choices based on their own interests. I was furious and fought with my mother. “If my dad were here, he wouldn’t do this to me! I don’t want the money! I just want Elias to apologize! You’ve always demanded I be number one in everything! Why are you making me transfer schools now?!” I slammed the door and left home, refusing to answer my mother’s calls. The last thing I received was a text: “Mom might not be able to stay with you much longer. There’s 800,000 on the card, it’s what Mom saved up over the years. Go find your father.” I only realized later that she agreed to take the money because she didn’t have much time left, and she wanted to save one last sum for me. But after my mother died, the Sterling family never sent the money they promised. I went to find the father I had never met. Relying on my innate acting skills, I quickly won his pity and the meager fatherly love he had to offer. I hid my true personality, carefully trying to please everyone, observing every single person. When I realized my stepmother didn’t actually like me as much as she pretended to, I proactively asked my father to send me abroad, wanting to escape the tension. By pure coincidence, in my first year abroad, I ran into Elias and recognized him. I always felt he was the root of all my misfortune. So, the moment I recognized him as an adult, I spent over a year setting a trap for him. What a twisted fate. Both these brothers wanted to ruin me. What was even more ridiculous was that my former bully actually fell head over heels for me. During the years I unilaterally cut off contact, Elias constantly switched accounts, sending emails to my inbox. To this day, I have over a thousand unread emails from him. He would send emails and unsend them, constantly testing to see if someone was reading them. Young love is always so passionate and direct. But who would cherish the love of a terrible person? If I hadn’t prepared a safety net for myself, my life would have been ruined because of him.

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On the day of the Spring Festival Gala, my childhood best friend’s microphone suddenly malfunctioned, causing a massive broadcasting disaster that earned her nationwide condemnation. Mysteriously, I also lost my voice on the same day and was subsequently sued by the production company for a staggering breach of contract fee. Unable to pay the debt, I was sentenced to prison. Before turning myself in, I sent my husband and son abroad.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391753”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel