The year-end performance bonus had finally hit my account, so Gary and I went to celebrate at that high-end Omakase place downtown I’d been dying to try. I hadn’t even finished my first piece of toro when his mother called. She was hyperventilating on the other end, her voice a jagged edge of panic. “Gary… your father… he’s at the hospital.” Gary practically knocked his chair over as he scrambled to his feet. “What happened? What did the doctor say? Mom, breathe—stop crying and tell me what’s going on.” My mother-in-law began one of her trademark long-winded sagas. It started three days ago when his father bit down on a piece of hard sourdough and cracked a tooth, and meandered through a twenty-minute critique of how “cold and dismissive” the ER nurses were. Finally, she got to the point. “The specialist says his case is complicated. He needs a full set of dental implants.” Gary let out a breath he’d been holding. “Mom, you scared me. I thought it was a heart attack. If he needs implants, he needs them. Just get it done.” There was a pregnant pause. “It’s… it’s expensive, Gary.” “How expensive can it be?” “Twelve thousand dollars.” Gary went silent. I sat there, calmly savoring the delicate sweetness of the sea urchin. For weeks, I’d been living with a tight knot of anxiety in my chest, wondering when the other shoe would drop. Now, finally, the knot unraveled. I felt a strange, cold sense of peace. 1 “Gary? Gary, are you there?” His mother’s voice was so shrill I could hear it from across the table. Gary glanced at me, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m here. Look, I’m out at dinner. I’ll call you back in a bit.” I felt a ghost of a smirk pull at my lips. I’d bet my entire bonus she wouldn’t let him hang up. This was the routine. Every time Arthur and Evelyn needed a infusion of cash, they followed the same playbook. Evelyn would lead the charge with the tears. If Gary folded immediately, the call ended there. If he hesitated, Arthur would take the handoff. Evelyn did the crying; Arthur did the shaming. They’d start piling on the “guilt crowns”: You’re so ungrateful. We sacrificed everything for you. Why are we even alive if we’re just a burden? In the end, Gary always broke. Tonight was no different. I counted down in my head. Three, two, one. “Here, talk to your father,” Evelyn snapped. Gary sighed, his shoulders slumping. In that light, he looked exactly like his father—a man defeated by his own drama. On the other end, Arthur’s voice was a low, martyr-like groan. “Look, Gary, I know I’m putting you in a spot. It’s my fault. I’m the one who didn’t save enough when I was younger. I’m an old man; if my teeth rot out, I guess I’ve lived long enough anyway. Forget it. Go back to your fancy dinner with Nora. Don’t ruin your night over me.” Gary panicked. “Dad, don’t talk like that—” The line went dead. Arthur had hung up. Gary stared at me. I stared at the Omakase chef’s hands. They were precise, elegant, moving with a grace that Gary had lost long ago. I could have eaten thirty more pieces of that yellowtail. It was fresh, melting on my tongue like a dream. But I only got one. Because Gary suddenly slammed his hand on the table. “My father is literally suicidal over his health, and you’re just sitting there eating?” 2 We’ve been married for three years, and I’ve heard variations of that accusation more times than I can count. The first time was three months after our wedding. His parents were walking home from a community gala when it started to pour. Instead of calling an Uber or waiting under an awning, they decided to “tough it out” and walk the two miles in the rain. Predictably, they both ended up with nasty chest colds and took to their beds like they were on their deathbeds. As Arthur put it: “Gary needs to know how we’re suffering.” When I heard, I sent a polite message to the family group chat, telling them to drink plenty of fluids and rest up. The chat stayed silent. No one acknowledged me. That evening, I was excitedly unboxing a new dress I’d ordered for a work event, checking myself out in the mirror. I asked Gary if he liked the color. He exploded. “My parents are bedridden, and you’re playing dress-up? How can you be so selfish? So cold?” The vitriol in his voice stunned me. He stormed out and didn’t come home that night. Back then, I was still deeply in love with him. Being called “cold” by the person I adored felt like a knife to the gut. I spent the night agonizing over it. Was I a bad person? Did I lack empathy? They had colds, for God’s sake. Was I supposed to drive three hours to hold a thermometer? I ended up sending them each a $500 “get well” check, telling them to treat themselves to some nice takeout and whatever they needed. Arthur cashed it instantly and called me “his favorite daughter.” Evelyn followed suit, praising my “good heart.” I didn’t say anything, but a hollow feeling started to grow in the pit of my stomach. The next morning, Gary was in the kitchen making me breakfast, wearing his “I’m sorry” face. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said, flipping a pancake. “My parents told me I overreacted. It’s just a cold. But—” his tone shifted, “we have to look at the big picture. Why did they get wet? Because they don’t have a reliable car. If they had a decent SUV, this wouldn’t have happened, right?” I stayed quiet. “I found a used RAV4,” he continued. “It’s only eight grand. It would give them so much independence.” Eight thousand. It wasn’t a sixty-thousand-dollar luxury car. It seemed… reasonable? I nodded. Gary hugged me, promising the money would come out of his personal savings and I wouldn’t have to worry. But for the next six months, he didn’t contribute a dime to the mortgage or our shared bills. I was annoyed, but every time I tried to bring it up, I felt like I was being “petty” about money. I told myself he was just a “good son.” Marriage is about support, right? He was broke; I had a good career. It was only natural for me to carry the load. Except the “emergencies” never stopped. 3 A year later, Gary closed a big deal at work. A $45,000 commission. I was ecstatic. I made a spreadsheet showing how we could pay down a huge chunk of our mortgage. Cutting that monthly interest would change our lives. Gary was all in. He kissed me, calling me his “brilliant, practical wife.” But the very next day, a neighbor from his hometown called. Apparently, Arthur had climbed onto the roof to fix a shingle and “fell,” breaking his leg. Evelyn, in her rush to help him, had “thrown out her back.” Now, they were both “incapacitated.” We rushed down to their house. Arthur was lying in bed with a pristine white cast, looking like he was auditioning for a Victorian tragedy. Evelyn was clutching her waist, sobbing rhythmically. The relatives were already there, circling like vultures. “It’s a disgrace,” one aunt hissed. “Leaving your parents in this old, drafty house while you two live it up in the city.” “If a neighbor hadn’t checked in, God knows how long they would have lied here,” a cousin added. “Gary, don’t let a woman turn you into a man who forgets his own flesh and blood.” “And Nora… I don’t know how you sleep at night, living so far away when they’re in this state. You’re part of this family now, aren’t you?” I felt the heat rising in my face, the shame heavy and suffocating. Gary kept his head down, his eyes red, promising over and over that it would never happen again. Arthur waved a weak hand, coughing for effect. “Now, now, don’t blame Gary. He’s busy. He can’t just take time off work for his old man…” Evelyn wiped her eyes. “He’s right. We’re fine. If something happens… well, I guess that’s just our fate.” They clung to each other, weeping silently. It was a masterclass in emotional blackmail. Gary dropped to his knees by the bed. “Mom, Dad, come live with us in the city. I’m not letting you stay here.” He looked at me, his jaw set. “It’s settled.” I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. How do you say ‘no’ to a man kneeling in front of his “dying” parents? 4 Our three-bedroom house suddenly felt like a cage. Arthur and Evelyn insisted on having their own rooms. Arthur took the master bedroom because the “natural light” was better for his recovery. Evelyn took the second bedroom because of the “airflow.” As for Gary and me? Arthur had a suggestion. “If you knock down the wall between the living room and the office, you could make a very nice, large sleeping area.” It was absurd. I fought with Gary that night, our voices echoing through the thin walls. I didn’t care if they heard. I wanted them to live with us, sure—but I didn’t want to be a guest in my own home. By morning, the guest rooms were empty. They’d left a note saying they were heading back to the “village” because they didn’t want to be a “burden.” But of course, they got “lost” on the way to the bus station. The police called Gary at 2 AM. The three of them had a tearful reunion at the precinct. Gary begged them to stay. He tried to pull me down to my knees with him. I just stared at him like he’d lost his mind. As I turned to walk away, Arthur spoke up. “Look, Gary, we really do want to go home. Your place… it’s just too small. We can’t breathe. But… if you had a little extra cash, maybe we could just renovate the old house? Make it safe?” Gary agreed on the spot. He wired them forty thousand dollars that night. When I confronted him, he turned on me with a cold, sharp edge. “Nora, I know you have thoughts, but shut up. Just this once. Was that your money? No. It was my commission. Stop being so possessive over things that aren’t yours. It’s my money, and I’m taking care of my parents. What is wrong with that?” I was speechless. He softened his tone then, sensing he’d gone too far. “The house is a death trap, Nora. You saw it. Once it’s fixed, I can finally focus on us. Just forgive me this once. I’ll find another way to cover the mortgage.” He was usually so good to me. He did the laundry. He cooked. When my own mother was in the hospital, he was there every night, bringing her favorite soup without me even asking. He was a perfect husband—unless his parents were in the room. I forgave him. Again. 5 They didn’t renovate the house. They took that forty thousand dollars and used it as a down payment on a three-bedroom condo in the suburbs, with a fifteen-hundred-dollar monthly mortgage. “The medical facilities are better here,” they explained. Gary was blindsided. “Who’s paying the mortgage?” he asked. Evelyn looked at him like he was thick. “You are, honey. We’re old. How much longer do we have? Eventually, the condo goes to you anyway. You’re just investing in your own future.” So, we bit the bullet. Again. After that, things were quiet for a while. But it was the silence of a predator waiting in the tall grass. Soon, the “micro-transactions” started. They needed a part-time housekeeper because Evelyn’s back was acting up (500 a month). They found a “miracle” supplement that promised to add ten years to their lives (800 a bottle). They needed a specialized orthopedic mattress ($3,000). Every time, Gary hit ‘send’ on Venmo. “They worked hard their whole lives,” he’d say. “They deserve a little comfort. Since I can’t be there to take care of them, the least I can do is provide.” I wanted to point out that they were only fifty-five. I wanted to point out they’d never saved a dime in their lives. I wanted to tell him to stop subsidizing a lifestyle we couldn’t afford. I said nothing. Gary was like a programmed machine. Mention his parents, and he’d glitch into this unrecognizable, irrational version of himself. He makes $120k. I make $100k. We eat at the office cafeteria. We buy clothes on clearance. We spend our vacations at my mom’s house to save money. We should be thriving. But after three years of marriage, our joint savings account had less than five thousand dollars in it. Arthur and Evelyn were like leeches attached to our jugular. Every time we gained a little ground, they’d suck us dry. And Gary wasn’t just letting them do it—he was holding the straw. I was working sixty-hour weeks, enduring a toxic boss, all to build a life that he was dismantling behind my back. He was an anchor, dragging me into the depths of his family’s dysfunction. The clarity hit me in a single, sharp moment. One second I was texting Gary to complain about his mom’s latest request, and the next, the exhaustion just… evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, hard realization. This marriage was over.

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I was born with a glitch in my DNA. The moment the diagnosis came in, my father vanished, taking what little pride he had left and leaving us with a mountain of medical bills that swallowed my mother’s savings in months. To keep me alive, my mother moved us into the homes of strangers—men she didn’t love but who had the means to keep my heart beating. David was the third “uncle.” The arrangement was simple, though never spoken aloud: David wanted a legacy, and my mother needed a miracle. Within a year, her belly was swollen with my brother. Ten months later, she handed David a healthy baby boy. In exchange, he settled the initial $80,000 for my specialty treatments. When she was ready to pack our bags and move on, David stopped her. He told her that if she stayed, he would treat me like his own. He slid a credit card across the kitchen table, promising to cover every experimental trial, every vial of the expensive stuff. My mother looked at me—pale, fragile, and tethered to a nebulous future—and she nodded. They had a small ceremony a few weeks later. That night, she peeled off the modest lace dress she’d bought for the courthouse and put back on her faded, oversized flannel shirt. She pulled me into her lap, her voice a soothing hum. “Don’t be scared, Daisy,” she whispered, rocking me. “I’d do anything to keep you here. You’re my heart. You’ll always be the one I love most.” To prove it, she kept my brother, Toby, at a distance. She rarely held him when I was in the room; she rarely smiled at him if she thought I was watching. She was trying to protect me from the one thing she couldn’t fix: the feeling of being replaced. But everything shattered when Toby turned three. He found my pills on the nightstand, thinking they were those bright, sour candies he saw on TV. He swallowed a handful before my mother found him. I remember the terror in her eyes as she shoved her fingers down his throat, trying to make him gag, before she finally collapsed into a scream that tore through the house. “You monster!” she shrieked at me, her face contorted in a way I’d never seen. “I’ve given up everything for you! Isn’t it enough? Why do you have to destroy your brother too?” “I’m so tired, Daisy. I’ve been tired for years. Why… why won’t you just die already?!” David rushed in, scooped up a sobbing Toby and my shaking mother, and ran for the car. I stood by the window, watching the taillights fade into the rainy October night. I turned back to the room. I knelt on the floor and picked up the stray pills, one by one. Each one represented a day of her life she’d sold for me. Mom, I thought, swallowing the bitter tablets without water. I’m done being the weight around your neck. 1 My insides felt like they were being eaten by wildfire. I couldn’t stop the low, ragged moans escaping my throat. But even through the haze of pain, my mind drifted back to her. “At least Mom bought the expensive ones,” I whispered to the empty room. I remembered the day at the clinic. The doctor offered two options: the generic brand, which was harsh and unpredictable, or the premium version—devastatingly expensive, but with fewer side effects. My mother hadn’t even blinked. She chose the premium. She’d literally sold her body’s future to David to ensure I suffered just a little bit less. “Mom doesn’t mind,” she used to tell me, brushing the hair from my damp forehead. “I just want my girl to have a little peace.” The burning shifted into a sharp, stabbing agony. My breath came in short, jagged hitches, and tears leaked onto my pillow. I wanted her. I wanted her to hold my hand and tell me about the stars. But the thought died as soon as it formed. She was at the hospital with Toby. She was exhausted. I couldn’t be her emergency anymore. I tried to mimic her touch, patting my own back with a trembling hand, pretending it was her soothing me to sleep. Then, a cold realization hit. If she came home and found me like this, she’d scream. She’d call 911. She’d spend more money she didn’t have to “save” me again. She’d cry until her eyes turned red. I didn’t want her to be tired. I didn’t want her to pay. I didn’t want to be the reason she cried ever again. With every ounce of strength I had left, I pushed myself off the bed. I crawled, inch by agonizing inch, out the door and up the narrow stairs to the attic. I found a corner behind a stack of old holiday decorations and tucked myself away. As the darkness started to bleed into my vision, my last thought was a question: This time, will the medicine finally defeat the monster inside me? I don’t know how much time passed, but I woke up. I was back in my bedroom. Or rather, I was hovering in it. The room looked the same. My handmade stuffed bunny was sitting on the nightstand. Mom had been knitting it for weeks. If it weren’t for Toby constantly interrupting her, demanding she make him a superhero instead, she would have finished it yesterday. She’d snapped at him for it, too. “It doesn’t matter how much you cry, Toby! I’m finishing the bunny for your sister first!” she’d yelled. “And shut up! Daisy just took her meds. If you wake her, God help me!” Toby had wailed louder, and she’d dragged him out of the house. Now, I heard muffled voices coming from the hallway. “Toby is your flesh and blood too, Sarah,” David was saying, his voice thick with frustration. “Why are you so cold to him? You’re obsessed with her, but look at the reality. The doctors said she won’t even make it through the year.” “Keep your voice down!” Mom hissed. “What if she hears you? I won’t have her last months filled with your pessimism.” A moment later, the door creaked open. Mom stepped in. She looked at the bed—at the shape under the covers—and let out a long, shuddering breath. She walked over and pressed a soft kiss to the forehead of the girl lying there. I felt a pang of ghostly guilt. I’d always been so proud of how well I could “fake sleep” so she wouldn’t have to explain her tears to me. It’s okay, Mom, I thought, reaching out to touch the bunny. If you’re happy, I’m happy. But my hand passed right through the plush fabric. It was like trying to touch a shadow. The sound of keys jingling at the front door pulled my attention away. They were home. 2 Mom was carrying a white box from the local bakery—the one with the expensive strawberry shortcake. I did a little spin in the air, a giggle bubbling in my chest. “Mom! How did you know I had a craving for strawberries today? You really are the best.” Then I heard Toby’s weak, small voice. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” Mom knelt beside him, stroking his hair with a tenderness I rarely saw her show him. “I know, baby. This cake is just for you. Come here, let Mommy feed you.” She took him from David’s arms and sat him at the kitchen island, spooning bits of cream and cake into his mouth. “It’s sweet, Mommy. I like it.” Mom smiled, a genuine, glowing look that reached her eyes. “Then Mommy will buy it for you every single day.” Toby’s eyes darted around, a bit of toddler mischief returning. “Mean sister made Toby’s tummy hurt. She doesn’t get any cake.” I hovered near them, crossing my arms and making a face at him. “Nice try, Toby. Strawberries are my favorite. She bought that for me.” But then Mom leaned down and kissed Toby’s forehead. “You’re right, baby. Only for Toby. Not for the mean sister.” I froze. Was she still angry about the pills? I’d tried so hard to keep them safe. I always tightened the child-proof caps until my fingers were raw. “Mom, look!” I cried out, holding up my hands. “I tried! I really tried!” But my hands were translucent. No marks, no scars. And she couldn’t hear a word I said. Because Daisy was dead. David broke the silence. “Sarah, that cake is huge. Toby can’t finish it. I’ll go wake Daisy so she can have some too.” He took a step toward my room, but Mom’s voice stopped him cold. “She doesn’t deserve a bite.” The venom in her tone made me flinch. “If I hadn’t been fast enough to clear Toby’s throat, we’d be at a funeral right now. I’m done with her tantrums.” I threw myself into her lap, trying to wrap my arms around her. Mom, I’m right here. I’m right in front of you. You said no matter what I did, if I gave you a hug, you’d forgive me. Please. David sighed, walking to my door and knocking softly. “Daisy? You awake, honey? Toby’s okay now. Just come out and apologize, and we can move past this, okay?” Silence. Toby started fussing again. “She won’t come out. She’s being bad.” Mom’s brow furrowed. “She’s hiding because she knows she’s wrong. Does she really expect me to go in there and coddle her? I’ve spent every waking hour of the last eight years catering to her. Not once has she shown an ounce of gratitude. Honestly, David… sometimes I think about how much easier our lives would be if I’d just stopped the treatments years ago.” She looked at David, her expression terrifyingly calm. “We could have been a normal family. We could have been happy.” I clung to her, my soul shaking. “Mom, you’re just tired. You don’t mean that. Tell me you don’t mean that.” I looked for a tear, a crack in her mask. There was nothing. She looked relieved, as if a weight had already been lifted. But you told me I was your happiness, I whispered. You told me I was the only thing that made it all worth it. Was it all a lie? David rubbed her shoulders. “Go put Toby to bed. Daisy’s meds are due in ten minutes. I’ll go in and talk to her. Let’s just try to make her last few months… peaceful.” Mom didn’t answer. She just picked up Toby, gave him a quick bath, and disappeared into his room. David filled a glass of water and walked toward my door. 3 He stood outside the door for a moment, listening. He knocked again. “Daisy? Time for your pills. I’ve got your water.” Nothing. “Come on, kiddo. The doctor said you can’t miss a dose if you want to stay healthy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I stood next to him, trying to tug on his sleeve. “David, I’m not in there. I can’t open the door. Just go sit down.” His face darkened. “You’re being stubborn, Daisy. Your mother has sacrificed everything for you. The least you can do is show a little maturity.” I knew. I knew better than anyone. She’d married a man she didn’t like because her family needed the dowry. When I was born with the “glitch,” she was the only one who fought for me. My biological father called her a fool; he’d even tried to smother me in my crib one night to “end the misery.” Mom had chased him out of the house with a kitchen knife, her eyes bloodshot and wild. She’d worked three jobs. She’d spent every penny. And then, she’d found David. She’d traded the possibility of a “normal” child for the survival of a “broken” one. She’d had Toby just to pay for my vials. She’d nearly died on the delivery table twice, but she always went back to the hospital the next day to buy my medicine. One night, I’d told her, “Mom, it’s okay if we don’t buy the pills this month.” She hadn’t hesitated. “You have to take them, Daisy. You’re the only reason I have to wake up in the morning.” Back then, I didn’t fully understand. I just nodded and promised to be good. But now, listening to her sing a lullaby to Toby in the other room, I realized she’d found a new reason to wake up. The pain in my chest—my phantom chest—was worse than the medicine. David knocked a third time. His patience snapped. He reached for the handle. “Daisy, if you won’t talk, I’m coming in.” Suddenly, Mom marched out of Toby’s room, her face a mask of fury. She pushed past David and shoved the door open. “This is exactly what happens when you coddle her!” she yelled. “Daisy Miller, I am counting to three. If you aren’t sitting up and ready for these meds, I swear to God, I won’t even bother showing up to your funeral!” My heart skipped a beat. If she saw the empty bed, she’d know. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight. In the weak light from the hallway, the life-sized bunny Mom had made—the one sitting propped up against the pillows—looked just like a small girl curled under the blankets. Mom saw the silhouette and her rage boiled over. “One!” “Two!” “Three!” The silhouette didn’t move. Mom let out a harsh, jagged laugh. She snatched the water glass from David’s hand and stormed toward the bed. 4 A loud thump echoed from the hallway, followed by Toby’s piercing scream. Mom spun on her heel, the water slopping over the edge of the glass as she ran back to Toby’s room. He’d tumbled out of bed. She scooped him up, hovering over him with frantic apologies. “Oh, Toby, Mommy’s so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you…” As he calmed down, he sniffled, clutching her neck. “Mommy stay with Toby tonight? No sister?” Mom sighed, a heavy, final sound. “She’s old enough to sleep on her own. It’s time she learned.” I felt the air go cold around me. Every night, after Toby fell asleep, Mom would come to my room. She’d say that hearing my steady breathing was the only thing that made her feel safe. I had been greedy enough to think that her favoritism would last until my very last breath. I started to cry, but then, a strange smile touched my lips. Someone was finally there to love her back. Toby would be the one to make her laugh now. Toby, I thought, I’m going now. You have to love her twice as much for me. Toby cheered up at her promise. Mom bopped his nose playfully. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Daddy and I are taking you to the carnival.” She raised her voice, clearly intending for “me” to hear it in the other room. “Sister is being a brat, so she doesn’t get to go.” David looked surprised. “Really? You’re leaving her behind?” Mom waited a beat, her jaw set. “Yes. I won’t let her hold Toby’s childhood hostage anymore.” Because of my health, we never went anywhere. The furthest I’d been was the hospital. Toby was three and had never even seen a carousel. David nodded. “You’re right. It’s heartbreaking, really. Toby falls and cries, and she doesn’t even peek her head out to check on him. She’s turned into a cold little thing.” Mom’s eyes hardened. “She’s just like her father. Ungrateful. Let’s sleep. We have to be at the gates early or the lines will be blocks long.” The lights went out. I curled up on the floor by the side of her bed, shivering even though I had no body to feel the cold. The next morning, Mom glanced at my door. The wind had blown it shut during the night. “We’re going to be out late,” David said, jingling the car keys. “Should we bring her? She’s light. I can carry her if she gets tired.” Mom shook her head. “No. Today is for Toby. If she’s there, we’ll just be walking on eggshells all day.” They left. But Mom, I whispered to the empty house, I’ve never been to a carnival either. Since I was a ghost, I figured it didn’t matter. I followed them. Toby was electric with joy. He saw the brightly colored horses of the grand carousel and bolted toward them. Mom chased after him, laughing. “Slow down, Toby! You’ll trip!” I watched from the sidelines as they rode the horses. Mom was glowing. It was a smile I hadn’t seen in years—one without the shadow of a hospital waiting room behind it. She looked beautiful. Without me, the wrinkles around her eyes would fade. The dark circles would disappear. She would finally be the woman she was meant to be. After the ride, David bought two huge strawberry ice cream cones. Mom started humming a song—my favorite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Toby licked his ice cream. “Mommy, let’s come here every day. Just us. No mean sister.” Mom’s face clouded over for a second. “Toby, don’t say that. Your sister is very sick. We have to take care of her.” Toby pouted, but Mom didn’t smile this time. He realized he’d crossed a line. “Sorry, Mommy. Nice sister.” David, who had been checking his phone, suddenly frowned. “That’s weird. The security app hasn’t sent a single notification from Daisy’s room. The door hasn’t opened once. Did she miss her morning meds too?” The color drained from Mom’s face. She stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. “David, we have to go. Now. If she hasn’t taken her pills, she’s in danger.” Ignoring Toby’s protests, they sprinted for the car. When they got home, Mom burst through the front door and slammed open my bedroom. “Daisy Miller! If you’re playing games with your medicine, I swear—” But the room was empty. The bed was perfectly made, the bunny sitting exactly where she’d left it. I wasn’t in the bathroom. I wasn’t in the kitchen. Then, a thunderous pounding came at the front door. “Open up! It’s the police! We found a kid in the attic of the building next door… is she yours?”

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After marrying Silas West, the world’s most idolized rock star, I became the most envied “civilian” wife on the internet. Silas was the ultimate anomaly in the industry. He avoided scandals, never chased clout, and lived entirely for his music. His chart-topping single, January Embers, was a hauntingly beautiful ballad he wrote for me. It played in every coffee shop and car radio from coast to coast. In a recent Rolling Stone interview, he said: “My heart has only ever beat for one person: Rose.” But there was a secret I kept buried deep, one I would never dare tell him. Rose… was actually my sister’s name. 1 Backstage at the Staples Center. I was staring, lost in thought, at the new lead guitarist. “See something you like?” Silas appeared behind me out of nowhere, his voice a low, melodic vibration. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. “Is he better looking than me?” “Impossible,” I said, tilting my head back to smile at him. “He doesn’t even have a tenth of your charm.” Silas’s expression remained mock-stern. “Only a tenth?” I softened my voice, leaning into him. “He’s not even a shadow of a single hair on my husband’s head. Satisfied?” That finally coaxed a smirk from him. He picked up a strawberry from a nearby fruit platter and held it to my lips. “Since you’re being so sweet… I’ll have to give you your real reward tonight. All night.” I felt the heat rush to my cheeks instantly. Just then, his assistant rolled in a small cart with a cake. The topper read: TO ROSE. I froze. He had been in rehearsals for ten hours straight, yet he still remembered. “Happy birthday, baby.” Silas’s eyes held a galaxy of tenderness. I stared at the flickering candles, at the man who loved a woman who didn’t technically exist, and closed my eyes to make a wish. When the lights came up, Silas reached out and wiped a smudge of frosting from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, then naturally licked it off. “Oh, come on!” the bassist groaned from across the room. “West, the cake is for everyone, but I guess the frosting on Rose’s face is your private reserve?” Silas just arched an eyebrow and pulled me closer into his side. The room erupted in laughter. Outside, the muffled roar of forty thousand fans chanting his name vibrated through the floorboards. As Silas turned to head toward the stage, he ruffled my hair, leaving it a mess. My manager, sitting across from me, couldn’t help but chime in. “To think, the man who’s notoriously impossible to handle—the Silas West—is actually just a golden retriever for you. Honestly, Rose, I don’t think anyone else on this planet could have tamed him.” I forced a smile, my heart heavy. When no one was looking, I quietly took the TO ROSE topper and dropped it into the trash can. They didn’t understand. Rose was my sister. And I was just a ghost inhabiting her life. 2 My sister, Bianca, was the legitimate heiress of the Sterling corporate empire. I, Tess, was the family’s dirty secret—the illegitimate daughter kept in a drafty apartment on the outskirts of the city. We weren’t from the same mother, but we looked enough alike to be twins. My father had forced me to spend years mimicking Bianca’s cadence, her posture, her every move. At first, it was just to fill in for her at boring charity events or press junkets she didn’t want to attend. But then, they pushed me in front of Silas West. The reason was as absurd as it was cruel. Years ago, when Silas was first asked about his “dream girl” in an interview, he had mentioned how much he admired Bianca’s poise. At the time, my sister was having a public spat with her billionaire boyfriend, Preston Whitlock. To spite Preston, she flirted with Silas through the media, causing a firestorm of speculation. But a week later, she and Preston made up. The Sterling Group’s stock had skyrocketed during that brief “romance.” My father wasn’t about to let that profit margin slip away. He ordered me to keep the flame alive, sending me on dates with Silas in her place. And that was how, by a series of tragic accidents, I ended up married to the man. Silas was a god among men. He was devastatingly handsome, with a sharp, arrogant edge that softened only for me. In an industry full of players, he was a ghost; he had never been in a serious relationship before us. I felt like I had won the lottery, but the ticket was stolen. During the first few months of the marriage, I lived in a state of constant terror, waiting for the moment he’d realize I wasn’t the girl he thought I was. But slowly, I let my guard down. He was too good to me. He loved me with a ferocity that made me feel that, even if the truth came out tomorrow and he ended up hating me, it would have been worth it just to have known this version of him. My only wish was for Bianca and Preston to stay locked in their toxic, high-society bubble forever. If they stayed together, I could stay with Silas. I could keep being “Rose.” The concert reached the encore. The jumbotron cut to the VIP section. The camera was supposed to land on me, but for a split second, it lingered on a couple a few rows back. In the midst of the deafening music, my sister’s boyfriend, Preston, was passionately kissing a woman I didn’t recognize. 3 The giant screen magnified every detail. The way Preston’s hand gripped the back of the woman’s neck. The unmistakable shimmer of a massive pink diamond on her ring finger. I remembered that diamond. It was the rare stone Bianca had been obsessed with for months. She’d seen it in a Christie’s catalog and talked about nothing else. My world went black. Knowing Bianca’s temper, if she found out Preston was keeping a woman on the side—and giving her that diamond—she would burn the whole world down. The camera finally found me, and I quickly looked down, pretending to reach for a tissue. But in that last second, I caught Preston’s reflection in the screen. He looked stunned, realizing he’d been caught. I spent the rest of the night in a haze of anxiety. On the ride home in the darkened SUV, I clung to Silas, burying my face in his neck and refusing to let go. I was terrified that if I loosened my grip, this stolen dream would finally shatter. 4 The night was intense. I was more desperate, more active than I had ever been, and it pushed Silas to a point of near-losing control. “I have to be in the studio all day tomorrow,” he murmured against my skin, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “I’m going to miss you.” “I’ll miss you too,” I whispered. “You say it like you’re already gone,” Silas said, his eyes searching mine in the dark. “Say you’ll be here when I get back.” “I’ll be here.” He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear, then handed me a black card from the nightstand. “If you get bored, go buy something pretty. Anything you want.” I didn’t care about shopping. I planned to stay home and learn how to cook his favorite meal—honey-balsamic glazed ribs—the way my mother used to make them. I wanted to give him something that was truly mine. But the next day, it wasn’t a text from Silas that arrived. It was a call from my sister. 5 Preston’s affair hadn’t stayed a secret for long. Bianca demanded I meet her at the family estate immediately. I hadn’t seen her since the wedding. She looked haggard, her usual polish cracked. “He’s cheating,” she spat the moment I walked in. “Who?” I played dumb. “Preston. He’s been sleeping with some new assistant for three months.” I didn’t understand how she found out. I had made sure the concert footage was scrubbed from the internet, and Preston wasn’t stupid enough to tell her. Seeing my confusion, she laughed bitterly. “You remember that pink diamond? The one from the magazine? I finally decided to buy it for myself as a birthday gift. The jeweler told me it had already been sold… to Preston.” She took a shaky breath. “I tracked the delivery address. It wasn’t our house. It wasn’t the office. It was some condo I’d never heard of. I went there. I saw them.” Her eyes suddenly snapped to mine, sharp and predatory. “I’ve changed my mind, Tess. I want it back.” My breath hitched. “What?” “I thought I had it all figured out,” she said, her words like a chisel hitting stone. “Silas was a star, sure, but he’s an orphan. No family connections, no old money, too much risk. Preston was stable. He was one of us. We grew up together.” She sighed, pacing the room. “I always liked the bad boys, the ones I thought I could tame. I thought fifteen years of history meant something.” She stopped and looked me dead in the eye. “I was wrong. Preston is a pig. Silas, on the other hand… he’s become the biggest name in the world, and he treats you like a queen. I want my place back.” My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. “Tess, that life belongs to me. It’s time to switch.” 6 I stood there, trembling. “But we’ve been married for a year. He… he knows me.” Bianca laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “Does he? He fell for me. You’re just the stand-in. A body double.” Her words tore open the box of memories I’d tried so hard to bury. I thought of the glass case in Silas’s study. Inside was an old, cheap hair clip that Bianca had thrown away years ago. I thought of his new album title, The B-Sides. I had tried to convince myself it was just a musical term, but I knew Bianca’s middle name started with B. And then there were the lyrics to January Embers: The way you looked in the falling snow, a grace I’ll never let go. Silas and I had never seen the snow together. I’d also found an old book of poetry in his nightstand with a letter tucked inside. The opening line was: To my golden girl. I hadn’t had the heart to read the rest. He had always been in love with the radiant, untouchable Bianca. Every ounce of tenderness he showed me, every soft touch, was meant for the girl he thought I was. Bianca watched the color drain from my face and softened her tone, though her eyes remained like ice. “You feel guilty, don’t you? Living a lie? Be a good girl and give it back. You can go deal with Preston for a while—keep him distracted while I settle back in with Silas. I’ll make sure you’re compensated.” “No,” I whispered. “I won’t do it.” “No?” Bianca’s voice rose. “Tess, let’s be real. Your mother’s medical bills? The dialysis, the imported meds? My father paid for all of it. Your mother was a homewrecker, and we still kept you both fed. You owe us. You know your place. Don’t make me remind you of it.” Every bit of defiance I had was crushed under the weight of the truth. Silas didn’t love me. He loved a phantom. I lowered my head, my voice cracking. “Fine. We’ll switch.” 7 I brought Bianca back to the villa late that night. Before I left, I tried to give her the details. “He can’t have dairy for two hours before a recording session. It messes with his vocal cords.” “The water in his thermos should never be over 120 degrees.” “His stomach is sensitive; don’t let him drink black coffee on an empty stomach.” “And he hates sleeping in total darkness. Always leave the dim light in the hallway on…” “Ugh, shut up!” Bianca snapped. “Are you his wife or his nanny? Does he not have people for this?” She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. “He needs a woman, Tess, not a maid. Trust me, I won’t need to do any of that to keep him obsessed with me.” She was so confident. As we reached the front door, I saw Silas coming out of the house. I instinctively ducked behind a stone pillar, watching from the shadows. He ran toward her, a bright, genuine smile on his face. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms. Bianca buried her face in his chest, hugging him tight. Silas froze for a second, a look of mild surprise on his face. But then he softened, resting his chin on her head. “Back so soon? And empty-handed?” I had told Bianca about the shopping trip he’d suggested. She played it cool. “I’ll go tomorrow, babe. I just wanted to come home to you. Why don’t you hold onto the card for now?” Silas looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘babe.’” Bianca lowered her gaze, acting shy. “Is it? Sorry. I won’t do it again if you don’t like it.” Silas immediately tightened his grip. “No, I like it. Keep doing it. I love hearing it from you.” Bianca said something else, her voice a flirtatious purr, and Silas’s laugh drifted through the night air. They walked into the house together, arm in arm. My heart hit rock bottom. The fake could never compare to the original. Bianca was clearly better at being the woman he wanted than I ever was. I had been greedy, wanting every bit of sweetness he offered, but I was never the intended recipient. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. That night, back at my father’s house, I didn’t sleep. My mind was a loop of every moment I’d spent with Silas over the past year. I cried until my pillow was soaked, finally drifting into a fitful sleep at dawn. The next morning, a loud, aggressive knocking at the door woke me. I opened it to find Preston Whitlock, looking like he’d been on a three-day bender. 8 “What do you want?” I stood in the doorway, blocking him. “I fired the assistant,” he said, his voice raspy. I expected him to beg for forgiveness, to plead for Bianca to take him back. But his next words caught me off guard. “Bianca… let’s just call it. We’re done.” Done? He was breaking up with her? He wasn’t here to crawl back to his “golden girl”? I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for Bianca or just exhausted by the whole mess. I stayed silent. He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “What, no screaming? No throwing things?” When I still didn’t speak, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a check. “Here. This should cover… whatever. Let’s just make this a clean break.” If I took the check, it meant the breakup was official. If I didn’t, Bianca would lose her mind when she found out. I couldn’t make this choice. “Keep it,” I said. Preston went rigid. In his mind, Bianca was a woman defined by her appetite for luxury. She had never turned down a check in her life. This was new. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk. We need to talk about this.” I didn’t have the energy to fight him, so I followed him out. We hadn’t gone a block when a teenager on a bike came flying down a steep driveway, straight toward Preston. “Watch out!” I yelled. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back, but he still tripped, his knee slamming into the concrete steps. His dress slacks tore, and blood began to bloom through the fabric. The kid on the bike didn’t even look back; he just sped off. I knelt down immediately, my brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Can you move it?” I couldn’t just ignore him, even if he was Preston. Preston looked down at me, his expression shifting from pain to something else. Something intense. “I’m fine. Thanks.” The way he looked at me in that moment was… strange. Like he was seeing me for the first time. 9 A few days later, I saw on the news that Silas had gone to San Diego for a three-night residency. Strangely, he hadn’t taken Bianca with him. In the past, Silas hated being away from home for more than twenty-four hours. If he had to travel, he always insisted I come along. My thoughts were interrupted by a call from Bianca. She sounded agitated. “Tess, what the hell is wrong with him?” “What are you talking about?” “Silas! He… he hasn’t touched me!” she hissed. “I’ve tried everything. Hints, lingerie, everything. He just looks at me like I’m a stranger and says he’s tired.” A tiny, wicked spark of joy lit up in my chest. But I kept my voice flat. “Maybe he’s just stressed.” “He was never too stressed for you,” she snapped. “Tell me. What did you do? How do you… you know, get him going?” I didn’t do anything. I just existed, and he couldn’t keep his hands off me. If I told her that, she’d think I was rubbing it in. “He likes it when things are simple,” I lied. “Simple? I tried simple! Before he left for San Diego, I even bought some of those ridiculous outfits you used to wear—the soft sweaters and the no-makeup look. You know what he said?” “What?” “He said I looked like I was wearing a costume. Then he went to sleep on the sofa!” I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “He’s probably just focused on the shows,” I managed to say. There was a long silence on the other end. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Anyway, what’s happening with Preston?” I told her Preston wanted to break up. She let out a string of curses. “Don’t you dare agree to it. String him along. And make sure you keep that check he tried to give you. I’m not losing both of them.” “Sure,” I said, dismissively. I didn’t care what happened to Preston. And I had a feeling Preston wasn’t going to be as easy to manipulate as she thought. 10 Two weeks later. Preston asked to meet me at the Grove. He said he had something important to discuss. I arrived early. The mall was packed, the central plaza buzzing with people. Huge digital screens were flashing an ad for a luxury watch brand. I suddenly realized why the brand sounded familiar. Silas was their global ambassador. And he was here. Today. For a promotional event. Panic flared in my chest. I pulled my hat down low and adjusted my face mask. I should leave. I should turn around and run. But I missed him. The longing was like a physical ache in my bones. Just one look, I told myself. From a distance. He took the stage. He looked thinner, his jawline sharper, but under the stage lights, he was still the most captivating thing I’d ever seen. I meant to leave after a minute, but I was rooted to the spot. Then came the “fan interaction” segment. The host announced they would pick a few random people from the crowd to play a “compatibility game” with Silas. The crowd went wild, everyone screaming and waving. I turned to push my way out of the throng, but at that exact moment, a spotlight swung across the plaza and stopped dead on me. I froze. Every eye in the vicinity turned toward me.

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To save my husband’s life, I had to do the unthinkable: I left my newborn son behind to become a live-in wet nurse for a billionaire family. I had just received my six-month bonus from my employer, Serena Vance—payment for the milk that should have been my own son’s. I was rushing home, clutching the check, dreaming of the moment I’d finally reunite my husband and child. But when I stepped into the foyer of the Vance estate to say my final goodbyes, the world stopped. There, in the sun-drenched living room, Serena wasn’t alone. She was draped over a man’s lap, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw in a way that was sickeningly intimate. I turned to leave, my face flushing with the shame of witnessing something I shouldn’t have, until I heard her voice—saccharine and mocking. “Dominic, honey, how much longer are we going to keep this charade up? I almost feel bad for her. I just gave her a two-hundred-dollar bonus, and she looked like she’d won the lottery. It was pathetic.” A deep, familiar voice chuckled. “The toilet paper I buy for you costs more than two hundred dollars.” The sound hit me like a physical blow. My heart skipped, then hammered against my ribs. I must be hallucinating. My husband’s name was Dominic, too. But my Dominic was a mute. He couldn’t speak a word. Then, the man turned his head. He smirked, that same crooked smile I had fallen in love with in a dim hospital room three years ago. “Keep it going a little longer. You were too vain to breastfeed, and the brat likes her milk. Having her here to look after both of you makes my life easier.” Serena leaned in, nipping at his ear. “What about her kid? If she finds out you’re worth twenty billion dollars and you’ve been playing ‘poor husband’ just to trick her into being our nanny, won’t she lose it?” Dominic pulled her chin up and kissed her deeply. “She worships me,” he murmured against her lips. “Even if she found out, she’s too desperate to leave. She’d settle for being your maid just to stay in my orbit. Besides, how else was I supposed to know if her love was ‘pure’ unless I pretended to have nothing?” “And her baby?” Serena purred. “That kid isn’t royalty,” Dominic said, his voice cold and indifferent. “He can survive on rice water.” My blood turned to ice. My eyes locked onto the small, jagged birthmark on the side of his neck. Tears blurred my vision, hot and stinging. Dominic. If you aren’t a mute, then I don’t owe you a damn thing. I stepped back into the shadows, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t touched in years. “Dad?” I whispered, my voice trembling with a rage so cold it felt like glass. “I’m done playing this game. I’m tired of being poor. Come pick me up.” 1 I don’t remember the drive home. By the time I regained consciousness of my surroundings, I was standing in the middle of our cramped, peeling apartment, drenched in a cold sweat. A faint, pathetic whimper—like a dying kitten—echoed from the bedroom. It jolted me awake. I sprinted inside. “Charlie!” I reached the crib. My son was nearly six months old, but he looked like a skeletal newborn. He was fragile, his skin sallow and tight over his tiny bones. On the bedside table sat a bowl of crusty, dried-up rice water. “He can survive on rice water.” Dominic’s words played on a loop in my head, carving out my heart. He had actually done it. He had let our son starve. Whenever Serena’s baby went an hour without feeding, she would go into a frantic state, and I would be summoned. I could rarely get away to come home. I had sent every cent of my wages to Dominic’s account. I didn’t spend a penny on myself; I ate Serena’s leftovers just to save more for Dominic’s “medical treatments.” He had promised me he would take care of Charlie. And this was his version of care: he wouldn’t even spend a few dollars on formula for his own flesh and blood. Charlie’s cries were getting weaker, fading into a terrifying silence. Panicked, I gathered his limp body into my arms and ran for the hospital. It was well past midnight by the time he was stabilized. Standing outside the Neonatal ICU, watching Charlie through the glass, I couldn’t stop shaking. I checked my phone. The frantic texts I’d sent Dominic three hours ago were still unanswered. Then, I saw a familiar movement down the hall. Dominic was there. He was carrying Serena’s baby, and Serena was clinging to his arm, looking distraught. He was cornering a doctor, his face a mask of paternal agony. “He coughed twice on the way here,” Dominic said, his voice urgent and articulate. “Are you absolutely sure he’s okay?” The doctor sighed, looking exhausted. “Sir, we’ve run every test twice tonight. Your son is perfectly healthy. You can go home.” I stood frozen, still struggling to reconcile the man I knew—the man who communicated in clumsy sign language—with this commanding, eloquent stranger. My phone chimed. A notification. I watched as they disappeared around the corner, heading toward the private exit. Then I looked down at the screen. Dominic had finally replied. [Sorry, babe. My boss had an emergency and needed a driver. It’s going to be a long night. I’ll be home late.] I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. How could I have been so blind? Dominic drove ten-million-dollar cars and wore bespoke suits. I had actually believed him when he said he was just a chauffeur for a wealthy family and that the clothes were “hand-me-downs” from his employer. [By the way, is Charlie okay?] He finally remembered to ask. Serena’s son coughed twice, and Dominic rushed him to the hospital, demanding the best care money could buy. Our son had a fever of 104, and Dominic had ignored my messages for three hours. I scrolled up through our chat history. It was a graveyard of my one-sided conversations. I’d share every milestone, every worry, and his replies were always short, functional, or just a thumbs-up emoji. I remembered Serena bragging about her husband. She said he was “obsessive,” that he checked in on her every hour when he was away. I thought Dominic was just stoic. Quiet. He wasn’t quiet. He just had nothing to say to me. He had spent three years pretending to be a mute because he couldn’t be bothered to hold a conversation with a woman he considered beneath him. I cleared the chat history with a trembling thumb. Then, I saw Serena’s latest Instagram post. 2 The photo showed the silhouette of a man rocking a baby. In the foreground was a designer bottle—the kind that retailed for five thousand dollars. Serena’s caption read: “Daddy bought a whole warehouse of these for our prince. Nothing but the best.” One of those bottles could have paid for a year’s worth of Charlie’s formula. But in Dominic’s eyes, Charlie didn’t even deserve the cheap stuff. He was a “rice water” baby. And the worst part? The milk inside that designer bottle had come from my own body. Dominic had tricked me into being a human fountain for his mistress’s child while our son withered away. I started to laugh, the sound turning into a sob that choked me. My phone vibrated again. A text from a private number. [Miss Thorne, the private jet will be ready in three days to collect you and the young master.] Attached to the message was a file. Everything I needed to know about the man I thought I loved. I wiped my eyes and stared at the screen. Dominic Vance. CEO of the Vance Group. Net worth: $22 Billion. Marital Status: Married to Serena Vance. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone. Married. He was already married. When I got back to the apartment, I dug through the closet and found our marriage certificate. I looked at it under the light. There was no official seal. No state registration number. It was a prop. A fake. The paper fluttered to the floor as I collapsed onto the bed. I sat there in the dark until the sun began to peek through the grime-streaked windows. The door clicked open. Dominic walked in, stopping short when he saw me. He rushed over, his face twisting into a mask of “mute” concern. He began to gesture frantically. [Honey, what’s wrong? You look terrible.] I looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. The scent hit me immediately—Serena’s perfume. Expensive, floral, and suffocating. I used to think rich people just all used the same soap. I never realized that the “mysterious owner” of the estate, the man whose muffled groans I heard through the nursery walls at night, was my own husband. He continued to sign, his expression earnest and apologetic. [Is it the baby? I’m so sorry. I’m a failure. I couldn’t get my wages today because I dented the boss’s car. I have nothing for you.] He hung his head in “shame.” Always the same story. His pay was always docked, always withheld. In the past, I would have thrown my arms around him, telling him it was okay, that I’d work an extra shift, that we’d get through it together. Now, I just watched him. When I didn’t respond, a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes. He tried to pull me into a hug, but I stayed stiff. He pulled back and signed again. [Tessa, talk to me. What happened?] My gaze landed on a faint red mark on his collarbone. A hickey. I reached out and touched it. He caught my hand, his face perfectly miming a panicked explanation. [A mosquito… it was a long night in the car.] I pulled my hand away. My voice was dead. “Charlie is in the hospital. He has a severe infection and malnutrition.” I watched his face. There wasn’t a single spark of genuine fear. Just a calculated shift into his “guilty” persona. [It’s my fault. I’m useless. I can’t even speak, I’m just a driver. I can’t even take care of my own son.] He used to say that to make me feel guilty. Because the reason he couldn’t speak—the reason he was “broken”—was supposed to be because of me. 3 Three years ago, I was on vacation in Aspen when my hotel caught fire. As the flames licked at my door, a stranger from the room next door had smashed his way in and carried me out. I walked away with minor scratches. He ended up with severe burns and, according to the doctors, permanent damage to his vocal cords. Consumed by guilt, I walked away from my life. I cut ties with my wealthy parents, who wanted me to come home to London, and stayed by his side. I spent six months nursing him. When he “couldn’t” speak again, I cried in the hospital stairwell. He found me there and wrote a note: “If you feel you owe me, why not marry me instead?” I was young, traumatized, and overwhelmed by his “sacrifice.” We married a month later. He took me to this hellhole of an apartment and signed: [I have nothing. If you want to leave and not suffer with me, I understand.] I stayed. I worked five jobs. I worked until my hands were raw and my back felt like it was breaking. I saved every penny for a vocal cord surgery that cost half a million dollars. I slept four hours a night. I even got hit by a car while delivering food, leaving a ten-inch scar on my leg and a permanent limp, all because I wouldn’t stop working. I thought I was paying back a debt of life. I was actually just the lead actress in his twisted psychological experiment. Dominic reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a used baby bottle and a half-empty tin of formula. He held them out like he was presenting a treasure. [I spent hours at the flea market bargaining for these. I know we ran out. Why don’t you feed Charlie today?] I looked at the bottle. I recognized the scratches on the plastic. It belonged to Serena’s dog. They used it to give the puppy water. To Dominic, my son was worth less than his mistress’s pet. I pushed the items back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve saved enough for your surgery. I don’t need to be a wet nurse anymore. I’ll be staying home with Charlie.” Dominic stiffened, but he didn’t argue. He led me to the bed, tucked me in, and made an excuse to go to the bathroom. Five minutes later, my phone rang. It was a “doctor” from the clinic. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thorne, but the estimate for the surgery was wrong. It’s not two hundred thousand; it’s five hundred. And we have a very limited window. If you don’t pay by the end of the week, your husband may never speak again.” Dominic walked out of the bathroom just as I hung up. He looked at me with “sorrowful” eyes and signed: [Forget it, Tessa. Let’s not do the surgery. I don’t want you to suffer anymore.] I looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll get the money. Don’t worry.” His brow smoothed over instantly. He turned away, his fingers flying across his phone screen. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window. He was smiling. A real, triumphant smile I had never seen before. That night, as I lay in the dark, I felt his hand reach under my shirt. But as he pulled the fabric up, he stopped. He saw my chest—the skin raw, bruised, and bleeding from where Serena’s greedy child had bitten me earlier that day. Dominic flinched. Not out of pity, but disgust. Even in the shadows, I saw the flicker of revulsion in his eyes. The mood died instantly. He sat up and signed: [I need to use the restroom.] A few minutes later, I followed him. I didn’t go to the bathroom. I went to the small storage room where we kept our junk. I peered through the crack in the door. Dominic was standing there, his phone glowing with a photo of Serena. He was touching himself, his breath hitching, whispering her name over and over in a low, husky baritone. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I nearly gagged. I turned and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door. Dominic was there a second later, knocking, his “mute” mask back on. [Tessa? Are you okay?] I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear his eyes out. But before I could open the door and end the lie, his phone rang. A real ringtone. 4 He answered it. He didn’t realize I was right behind the door. His voice was cold, sharp, and authoritative. “What? When? I’m coming now.” He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed his jacket and vanished into the night. I stood in the silence of the apartment. I walked to the wall and took down our “wedding” photo. I threw it into the trash. I gathered every note he’d ever written me, every fake “I love you” on a scrap of paper, and burned them in a pot on the stove. I scrubbed the apartment of any trace of me and Charlie. Then, I went to the hospital. By evening, the doctor told me Charlie was out of the woods and moving to a regular ward. I was finally holding him, my heart beginning to heal, when he was ripped out of my arms. Dominic appeared like a ghost. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing?” I screamed, lunging for him. “Give him back!” Suddenly, Serena Vance burst into the room. The elegant, haughty woman I had served for six months threw herself at my feet, sobbing. “Tessa, please! You have to save my son! My little boy… his heart is failing. Only Charlie is a match!” Dominic stepped between us, pulling Serena up and shielding her. He didn’t sign. He spoke. “It’s an emergency, Tessa. I’ll explain everything later. Charlie’s heart is the only one that can save him.” The world tilted. I finally understood why he’d kept me around. Why he’d kept Charlie alive just enough. We weren’t a family. We were a backup parts warehouse. I tried to grab the carrier, but Dominic’s security detail—men in suits I’d never seen before—pinned me against the wall. “You want to take his heart?” I shrieked, the sound tearing my throat. “If you take his heart, how does he live? How does Charlie live?” For a fleeting second, Dominic looked away. A ghost of guilt? Or just annoyance? Serena wailed, “Dominic! If he dies, I’ll die too!” Dominic didn’t hesitate again. “I’ve arranged for the best artificial heart team in the world for Charlie,” he said, his voice clipped. “He’ll be fine.” Charlie began to cry—a thin, terrified sound. “Dominic, please,” I sobbed, my strength failing. “I just got him back. Don’t hurt him. He’s your son!” Dominic paused. He looked at the baby, then at Serena. Then he turned his back on me. I fought like an animal. I bit a guard’s hand, drawing blood, and broke free. I ran for Dominic, but he turned and kicked me back. Hard. I slumped against the floor, gasping for air. “Stop being hysterical, Tessa,” Dominic said, his eyes filled with genuine loathing now. “Charlie should be honored to save a life like this. After this is over, I’ll settle enough money on you that you’ll never have to work again. You should be grateful.” The guards grabbed me again. I watched through the small window in the door as he carried my son into the operating theater. Hours passed. I was locked in a consultation room. Suddenly, fireworks exploded in the sky outside. I could hear the nurses in the hall cheering. “Mr. Vance is so generous! The transplant was a success. He gave everyone on staff a three-thousand-dollar bonus!” “They’ve already left for the airport. Taking the private jet to a recovery villa in Switzerland. What a perfect family.” I waited until the shift change, then I smashed a chair through the glass observation window and ran. I searched every floor. I finally found him in the basement. The morgue. Charlie was lying on a cold steel table, covered by a thin white sheet. I pulled it back. There was a jagged, horrific seam running down his tiny chest. There was no artificial heart. There was nothing inside him at all. I didn’t even scream. I just vomited blood onto the linoleum floor. It was all a lie. I picked up his cold, light body and held him to my chest. I didn’t cry until I heard the sound of the world ending outside. The roar of multiple helicopter rotors drowned out the hospital’s hum. The doors to the morgue were kicked open. A dozen men in tactical gear, led by a man in a grey suit who looked exactly like my father, marched in. “We’re so sorry, Miss Thorne,” the man said, bowing his head. “We were too late.”

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The day of my son’s wedding began with a sharp, metallic click. Nathan reached out and unpinned the “Mother of the Groom” corsage from my lapel. He didn’t look me in the eye. “Mom, don’t come up for the toast,” he said, his voice low and clinical. “I want Sonia to stand up there with Dad. We owe her this much, after all these years.” I felt the air leave my lungs. “You’re asking me to hide at my own son’s wedding?” “Don’t make a scene,” Nathan sighed, finally looking at me with a mix of pity and annoyance. “Dad has spent his whole life with a woman he doesn’t love. He’s sixty now. Let him have this one moment of peace. Just this once, let him be happy.” I was ushered to the back of the room, seated at a table near the service entrance—right next to Sonia’s lapdog in its rhinestone carrier. I watched from the shadows as Nathan stood at the podium, tears streaming down his face as he thanked his ‘parents.’ I watched my husband, Arthur, grip Sonia’s hand under the table, his face glowing with a radiance he had never once offered me. In that moment, something inside me didn’t just break. It died. That evening, the three of them—Arthur, Nathan, and Sonia—walked into our house like they owned the air I breathed. “It is what it is,” Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve been unfaithful. You have two choices. You can sign the divorce papers and give Sonia her rightful place.” He paused, glancing at the woman clinging to his arm. “Or, you can clear out a guest room. Sonia is moving in. We’re going to live here together.” Looking at their united front, a jagged, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Do either of you remember the oaths you swore?” I asked, my voice trembling. “The ones you insisted on making?” Arthur scoffed. “People change, Claire. Only a child clings to words spoken decades ago.” But they forgot one thing. My “System”—the Moral Arbiter that had governed my life since I arrived in this world—didn’t care about the passage of time. It was a cold, cosmic bookkeeper. And once the target of my devotion turned unfaithful, those “vicious oaths” weren’t just metaphors. They were debt notices. 1 [System Notification: Infidelity detected. The ‘Vicious Oath’ protocol has been forcibly initiated. Host is advised to finalize the divorce and distance herself from the targets immediately.] I looked at Sonia. I hadn’t even opened my mouth, but she already had that practiced, watery-eyed look. She was one of those women who had never married, never had children, and it gave her a preserved, fragile quality that made her look ten years younger than me. Pretty. Young. Vulnerable. She was the perfect bait for a man’s hero complex. Arthur grew impatient with my silence. “I meant it when I said I loved you back then,” he said, his tone darkening. “And I mean it now when I say I don’t. We aren’t kids. What’s the point in dragging up old ghosts?” He smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I remember what I said. I told you that if I ever betrayed you, I’d lose my reputation, my fortune, and die a slow, agonizing death. Does that sound realistic to you? It was pillow talk, Claire. Heat-of-the-moment nonsense.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “If every man who cheated actually dropped dead, the world would be an empty place.” Nathan stepped forward, siding with his father. “Exactly, Mom. Everyone makes dramatic promises when they’re young. Remember when you and Dad used to fight? I told you that if you ever left him, and if I ever called another woman ‘Mom,’ I’d go blind and deaf and end up starving on the streets.” He walked past me, dismissive and cold, and handed a cup of tea to Sonia with a reverence he hadn’t shown me in years. “Sonia is going to live here. She’s part of this family now. Effectively, she’s my mother too,” he said with a mocking grin. “I’ve accepted her, and look—I can still see, I can still hear. I’m doing just fine. Stop lying to yourself.” They were right about one thing: to them, a man’s word was no better than a dog’s bark. But when they had made those oaths, I had warned them. I had told them, with absolute clarity, what the consequences would be. Back then, they had been so sincere, so desperate to prove their loyalty. Now, they treated it like a joke. “Your oaths will be answered,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Just wait.” Their faces soured. They looked at me as if I were a delusional patient in a psych ward. Before they could speak, Sonia suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, tears overflowing. “Claire, please,” she sobbed. “I’m not trying to take your place. I just want a home with Arthur. Please, just let me stay. I’ll do anything.” The sight of her “humility” sent Arthur into a protective rage. He hauled her up, his eyes cold and sharp as glass. “Don’t beg her,” he snapped. “I wasn’t really asking for your permission, Claire. Sonia stays. If you don’t like it, we divorce. But let’s be honest—you’d never leave this life. You’re too comfortable.” Nathan rolled his eyes and signaled the maid to start moving things into the third-floor guest suite. “Mom, don’t be so selfish,” Nathan said. “You’ve had Dad all to yourself for thirty years. Wasn’t that enough? If Sonia were as greedy as you, you would have been out of the picture decades ago. They have a ‘True Love’ connection. They should be in the master bedroom. You should be the one to move…” “No need,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his nonsense. “I choose divorce.” Arthur froze. The smugness flickered for a fraction of a second. He hadn’t expected me to actually walk. Nathan, however, didn’t care. He turned to Sonia with a bright, triumphant smile. “That’s even better, Sonia! Once the papers are signed and you and Dad get hitched, we’ll be a real family.” I looked at their joyous faces and thought: Laugh while you can. I went upstairs, packed my essentials, and headed for the door. As I reached the handle, Arthur grabbed my wrist. 2 “Are you really doing this?” Arthur demanded, his brow furrowed. “I told you, I’ll still take care of you. You’re still my responsibility.” He sighed, the weary sigh of a man burdened by a nagging wife. “We’re old, Claire. We’ve spent a lifetime together. Why cause a scene now?” He leaned in, offering a ‘compromise’ that made my skin crawl. “Look, I’ll spend Monday, Wednesday, and Friday with you. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with her. Sundays, we’ll have a family dinner. How’s that?” Even though my heart had already hardened at the wedding, hearing those words felt like a physical blow to the chest. It wasn’t enough to humiliate me at the wedding. Now he wanted to schedule me like a chore, a “sister-wife” in my own home. “Do you really think you’re such a prize?” I pulled my arm away and laughed in his face. “You’re a stagnant, filthy man, Arthur. I don’t want you.” I knew Sonia. I knew her better than he did. Years ago, when I was pregnant with Nathan, I was an emotional wreck. The company—Harrison Global—was just starting. Arthur was working himself into a stomach ulcer, and I felt so guilty that I hired Sonia, a nutritionist, to help him manage his diet and health. Back then, she was already sending him suggestive texts. I had asked Arthur about it, and he had looked at her with genuine disgust. “I can’t stand women like that,” he’d told me. “One harsh word and she starts leaking tears. Claire, please, fire her. Get me someone who actually does their job.” But at the wedding, when I had asked him Why her?, he had completely rewritten history. “I tripped and hurt my ankle a few months ago,” he’d said. “We bumped into each other at the clinic. She burst into tears, terrified that I was seriously hurt. Seeing her cry for me… I realized she’d been waiting for me her whole life. I couldn’t fail her anymore.” Even Nathan, the boy I had raised with every ounce of my soul, stood by her. “Sonia used to be the nutritionist at my prep school,” Nathan added. “She was always so sweet to me. She actually cared if I was hungry or tired. Honestly, Mom, if you hadn’t fired her back then, Dad wouldn’t have been miserable for so long. You owe her.” Men always find a way to turn their betrayals into someone else’s debt. I moved into one of my private properties. Within the hour, the System pinged. [Status Update: ‘Ruined Reputation’ protocol has been activated.] The events of the wedding had leaked. A video of the seating arrangement and Nathan’s snub went viral on social media. People were eviscerating the three of them. Harrison Global’s stock began a slow, steady crawl toward the basement. Arthur’s PR team worked through the night, but it was like trying to hold back a landslide with a toothpick. The “Beloved Philanthropist” was now the “Cheating Scumbag.” Arthur didn’t see the warning signs. He saw an inconvenience. He barged into my new house, red-faced, demanding I issue a public apology to Sonia. “Tell them the wedding was your idea,” he barked. “Tell them Sonia isn’t a mistress—she’s the love of my life and you support us.” I leaned against the doorframe. “Why would I apologize for the truth? You brought your mistress on stage. You reap what you sow. Now, sign the papers.” I tossed the divorce agreement at his feet. I wanted it done before his downfall took my share of the assets with it. “What is this act?” Arthur sneered. “You leaked those videos, didn’t you? Sonia left a suicide note and vanished this morning because of the hate she’s getting. Is that what you wanted? To drive her away so I’d come crawling back? It won’t work.” His eyes were cold. “And watch your mouth. In this relationship, the one who isn’t loved is the interloper. That’s you, Claire.” I was about to retort when Nathan pushed his way inside. “Dad’s right! You’re the outsider now, Mom! Sonia is the one he loves!” He looked at me with pure vitriol. “Sonia is missing, and you’re sitting here acting like a queen. You’re cruel.” “So, in your mind, your own mother is the mistress?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I slapped Nathan across the face. Hard. Twice. I was glad I had already given up on them. If I hadn’t, that sentence would have killed me. “I carried you for nine months. I nearly died giving birth to you. And I raised a parasite who doesn’t know the meaning of loyalty,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “If you think I’m so terrible, then fine. I’m not your mother anymore. Go find Sonia. See if she’ll bleed for you the way I did.” Nathan’s face went pale. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “Enough!” Arthur yelled. “If you don’t apologize, you’re finished at the company. I’m stripping your title as Vice Chair.” 3 Harrison Global was built on my sweat, too. It was my child as much as Nathan was. Arthur thought he could use it as leverage. Then, the System chimed again. [Status Update: ‘Loss of Fortune’ protocol has been activated.] I looked at Arthur and smiled. Why would I want a seat on a sinking ship? I stepped forward and landed a blow on Arthur’s cheek that echoed through the room. “You don’t have to fire me. My resignation is already on your desk.” I leaned in close. “Are you going to sign the papers, or are you too pathetic to let me go?” In a fit of rage, Arthur scribbled his name on the divorce decree. “Fine! Get out! I hope you enjoy poverty. Let’s see how you survive without my name.” “Watch me,” I said. I don’t lose. I built Harrison Global into a powerhouse; I could do it again. The next time I saw them, I was celebrating the launch of my new firm at a high-end bistro. My old team—the ones who actually kept the lights on at Harrison—had all followed me. “Harrison Global is a mess,” one of my managers whispered. “They’re losing ten million a day. Stock is hitting the floor. Investors are pulling out. And Arthur? He’s too busy playing house with Sonia to notice.” As we left the restaurant, Arthur and Sonia were standing by the valet. “You think a few bad days mean I’m done?” Arthur laughed, though he looked haggard. “Nathan just closed a hundred-million-dollar contract yesterday. We’re fine.” He looked at me with pity. “Are you still waiting for those ‘curses’ to happen, Claire? Look at me. I have the woman I love. I’ve never been happier.” I didn’t bother arguing. I’d already heard from my sources that the “hundred-million-dollar contract” was a shell company setup—a classic bust-out trap. Arthur was so blinded by his ‘second youth’ that he was walking straight into a buzzsaw. As I walked toward my car, Sonia blocked my path. “Claire,” she said, her voice dropping its sweet facade. It was sharp, venomous. “I should thank you. You planted the tree, but I’m the one sitting in the shade.” She stepped closer, whispering so Arthur couldn’t hear. “You fired me all those years ago. You thought you won. But look at you now. You’re alone. And it’s not enough. You haven’t hurt enough yet for what you did to me.” My heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, Sonia screamed and lunged toward the street. An oncoming SUV slammed its brakes, but it still clipped her, sending her sprawling onto the asphalt. “Sonia!” Arthur shrieked, rushing to her side. She coughed up a bit of blood, looking at me with a shattered, fragile gaze. “Arthur… don’t be mad at Claire. She’s just… she loves you too much. She can’t stand to share you. Please, don’t…” She fainted perfectly on cue. Arthur looked at me with pure loathing. “You tried to kill her? You’re a monster.” The next day, Arthur and Nathan showed up at my new office with a crew of thugs and trashed the place. “You tried to take Sonia’s life,” Arthur said, stepping over a shattered computer monitor. “I’m just taking your office. Fair trade, right?” I stood in the wreckage of my lobby and pulled out my phone. I didn’t call the police. I took the security footage from the bistro—the angle that clearly showed Sonia throwing herself into the car—and I bought the ad space on the giant digital billboard in the center of the financial district. Then, I tracked Sonia down at the hospital. I dragged her out of bed by her hair and slapped her until she was unconscious. “You want to play the victim? Now you have the bruises to match the story,” I whispered into her ear before the nurses arrived. When Arthur and Nathan tried to confront me again, pointing at the “assault,” I simply pointed at the billboard above them. The entire city was watching Sonia’s “accident” on a loop. “She’s just insecure, Claire,” Nathan stammered, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. “She didn’t mean it. Dad will pay for the office repairs.” “Get out,” I said. The divorce was finalized. Arthur married Sonia the very next day. They threw a lavish wedding to “prove” their love hadn’t been shaken. During the reception, my phone rang. An unknown number. “Claire,” Sonia’s voice came through, cold and mocking. “I remember you had a daughter who died in infancy. Daisy, right? I found her urn at the chapel. I thought… wouldn’t it be poetic to mix her ashes into the fireworks for tonight’s finale? To celebrate our new beginning?” 4 I drove to the chapel like a madwoman. The niche where Daisy’s ashes were kept was empty. My lungs seized. “Sonia, if you touch her, I will end you!” I screamed into the phone. Sonia just giggled. “Come to the wedding, Claire. If you’re fast, you might catch her before she goes up in smoke.” I burst into the ballroom, my hair disheveled, my eyes wild. “Where is she? Where are my daughter’s ashes?” Sonia stood there in her million-dollar gown, twirling. “Kneel. Beg me, and maybe I’ll give her back.” I didn’t hesitate. I fell to my knees in the middle of the dance floor, in front of the entire high society of the city. I begged. I couldn’t gamble with Daisy. “Good girl,” Sonia sneered, kicking my shoulder with her silk heel. “You’re more obedient than my poodle.” She pulled a small ceramic jar from behind a flower arrangement. My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached for it. “Oops,” she said. Her hand ‘slipped.’ The jar arched through the air and splashed into the deep end of the decorative pool. I dove in. The winter water was bone-chilling, but I didn’t care. I scrambled to the bottom, grabbed the jar, and climbed out, shivering and sobbing. “I’ve got you, baby. Mommy’s got you.” But the lid was gone. The jar was empty. Blackness swiped at the edges of my vision. The wedding march began to play. I stood up, dripping wet and hollowed out, and stormed toward the altar. “Arthur! Stop the music!” I screamed. “Cancel the fireworks! Now!” Arthur looked at me like I was a rabid animal. “Claire, enough. I offered you a place in our lives and you refused. Don’t ruin this day with your insanity.” “Mom, get out! You’re embarrassing yourself!” Nathan tried to grab my arm to haul me away. I slapped him so hard he stumbled. “There are ashes in those fireworks, Nathan! Your sister’s ashes! Sonia is going to blow her up! Don’t you care? She was your sister!” Sonia’s eyes turned red. “I would never… Arthur, why is she doing this to me on our wedding day?” “Liar!” I shrieked. “Daisy died of SIDS, Arthur! You cried for weeks!” I gripped his sleeve, my heart breaking all over again. “I don’t care if you love her. I don’t care if you stay married. Just give me my daughter back. Stop the fireworks!” “You’re a lunatic,” Arthur said, signaling the security guards. As they dragged me toward the exit, the first explosion rocked the night sky. BOOM. A burst of shimmering silver light. In the reflection of the glass doors, I saw Sonia’s face. She was smiling at me. A sharp, triumphant curve of the lips. The strength left my body. All that remained was a cold, obsidian hatred. [System Notification: ‘Incurable Disease’ protocol has been initiated.] I stared at Arthur and Nathan through the glass. “I hope you enjoy what’s coming.” Arthur sneered. “Seat her at the back. Let her watch how happy we are.” The ceremony reached the exchange of rings. Arthur reached for Sonia’s hand. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. He gasped, clutching his chest, as thick, dark blood began to leak from his eyes, his nose, and his ears. He collapsed onto the white carpet, convulsing.

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Ever since Madeline came crawling back to the family after her affair, I’ve made it a ritual. Every single day, I post. Is infidelity an addiction? How much of a rush is the betrayal, really? After the act, does a woman feel more guilt toward her child or her lover? I tag her university in every single post. I make sure the algorithm does its job, pushing my words directly into the feeds of her students, her colleagues, and most importantly, her lover. Everyone tells me to stop. They tell me it’s “undignified,” that I should be the “bigger person,” the “gracious husband.” Madeline was the only one who defended me at first. She’d shield me from their judgment, her voice soft and martyred: “I’m the one who did wrong. Let Silas vent. He has every right to his anger.” That lasted until the ninety-ninth post. Madeline burst through the door like a hurricane, eyes bloodshot, and smashed my laptop against the hardwood floor. “Silas, for God’s sake, enough! I’m back, aren’t I? I’m here! What more do you want from me?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “How much longer are you going to torture me before you’re satisfied?” I didn’t give her an answer. I didn’t even look up. I just finished drying the last of the dinner plates, set it gently in the rack, and turned to her with a calm, practiced smile. “Are you hungry? I can fix you a plate if you’d like.” … Madeline stood frozen, her chest heaving with a fury that had nowhere to land. My question was a punch into a cloud of cotton—soft, yielding, and utterly infuriating. When she didn’t speak, I reached past her and picked up the silk dress she had discarded on the armchair. “This is getting wrinkled,” I noted idly. “I’ll go iron it for you.” “Silas!” She caught my arm, her voice vibrating with a frantic, suppressed edge. “Stop the act! Stop pretending to be insane! Do you have any idea what those posts are doing to my reputation? To my career? I’m a human being, Silas. I’m exhausted!” My hand stilled. My breath hitched, just for a second. “Are you afraid of the impact on your career?” I asked, looking her in the eye. “Or are you afraid of what it’s doing to Tristan?” That name was a landmine. It detonated between us, shredding whatever was left of the quiet. “Why are you bringing up Tristan again?” she snapped. “I told you, I had him transferred to a different research group. I cut him off. You know this. Do you want to drive everyone around you as crazy as you are? Is that the goal?” Her voice climbed to a shrill peak, but then she caught sight of my face—gaunt, shadowed, the face of a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. Her anger vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a suffocating, performative guilt. She reached out, pulling me into a desperate embrace. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have snapped. You know the pregnancy makes my emotions go haywire. I’m impulsive. I’ll buy you a new laptop tomorrow, I promise.” I recoiled from her touch as if her skin were live wire. I stumbled toward the door, my stomach rolling, and began to retch. “Don’t touch me,” I gasped. “You’re… you’re covered in it.” Madeline’s face darkened. Her eyes welled with tears, her hands trembling. “You think I’m disgusting?” Before I could move, she grabbed my wrists, shoving me back against the doorframe. She fumbled with my belt, her movements frantic and territorial. She leaned in, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. “The doctor said the second trimester is fine. Silas, let’s just… let’s just be us again.” “Get off me! It’s nauseating!” I shoved her away with a burst of desperate strength. I collapsed to the floor, frantically scrubbing at the skin she’d touched, rubbing until it turned a raw, angry red. The room filled with the sound of my heaving. “So dirty. I have to… I have to wash it off…” “Silas! Do you hate me that much? Tell me what I have to do to make you forgive me!” Madeline shrieked behind me, her voice ragged. I ignored her. I scrambled into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned the shower to a freezing needles-and-ice spray. I let the cold soak into my bones. Outside, the bedroom door slammed with enough force to rattle the pipes. I looked up, catching my reflection in the steamed-over mirror. A pale, ghost-like face looked back, eyes drowning in tears. The grief hit me then, a tidal wave that stole the air from my lungs. I clutched my chest, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. I never thought we’d end up here—the golden couple of the faculty, the high school sweethearts everyone envied—now reduced to this visceral, skin-crawling loathing. We used to be inseparable. Now, her shadow felt like a stain. I had tried. God, I had tried to be the “broad-minded husband.” I tried to bury the images. But every time I looked at her growing belly, I remembered. I remembered that she had been with him—the student I had personally mentored, the boy I had helped with his tuition—while she was carrying a child. I remembered that while I was at my father’s funeral, she was in our bed, in our home, doing things I couldn’t unsee. My stomach cramped, a sharp, surgical pain that felt like a knife twisting in my vitals. Why did she get to walk around so unburdened? Why did she get to act as if nothing had happened, while I was rotting from the inside out? Eventually, I stumbled out of the bathroom. The house was deathly quiet. Madeline was sitting on the sofa, her eyes rimmed with red. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was out of line tonight. It’s all my fault. I won’t do it again.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, cutting her off. “That’s your business.” I didn’t wait for her response. I walked into the bedroom and lay down. My tears soaked the pillow as I thought of the life inside her. I’m sorry, little one. Daddy’s just tired. As my eyes drifted shut, I began to count. One hundred days. Just one hundred more days until the baby was born. Then, I would be free. I woke up to a screaming pain in my gut. It was a jagged, rolling agony that made my vision blur. I tried to get out of bed to find my medication, but when I turned the handle, the door didn’t budge. It was locked. From the outside. Panic flared in my chest, competing with the pain. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Madeline. “Madeline… the stomach pain is back. The door is locked… I can’t get out. Please, you have to come back.” Madeline’s voice came through the line, cold and saturated with exhaustion. “Silas, enough. The awards ceremony today is a massive deal for the university. Stop acting out for attention.” “Madeline!” a fresh wave of pain made me cry out. “It’s real. I think it’s an acute flare-up. Please!” “Again with this!” her voice rose. “Are you really trying to ruin the ceremony? Is this your plan? You were so quiet last night just so you could pull this stunt now?” “Madeline, I’m not—” The pain spiked, stealing my voice. I doubled over, and a warm, metallic liquid surged up my throat. I coughed, and a spray of blood splattered across the white duvet. She started to say something else, but a younger, familiar voice broke in from her end. “Is Professor Miller okay? Is your husband causing trouble again?” Tristan asked, his tone dripping with fake concern. “Maybe you should go home, Madeline. You don’t have to stay for me…” “Ignore him,” Madeline said, her voice softening as she spoke to him. “The work comes first.” The sounds of the faculty lounge—laughter, the clink of glasses—swelled in the background. Then, she hung up. I fought for breath. I dialed 911. But as I tried to stand, my legs gave way. I collapsed into the pool of my own blood, tears streaming down my face. The paramedics arrived fast. When they kicked in the door, they found me unconscious in a red sea. I was out for an entire day. The doctor told me it was acute gastritis complicated by stress-induced myocarditis. If I’d been found an hour later, I wouldn’t have made it. Madeline was sitting by my bed when I woke up, clutching my hand, her face a mask of tears. “Silas, I’m so sorry. I’m a monster, a complete idiot!” she sobbed. “I was just so scared that seeing me on stage with Tristan would trigger you… forgive me, honey. Do it for the baby.” The last time I’d seen her cry like this was at our wedding. She’d held me tight and promised to love me for a lifetime. Everything was different now. The woman in front of me was a stranger wearing the skin of the girl I used to love. I stared at the ceiling, feeling a strange, sudden sense of relief. After coming so close to death, the need to force this marriage to work simply evaporated. The buzzing of her phone broke the silence of her confession. It was Tristan. To prove her loyalty, she immediately hit the speakerphone and barked into the receiver, “Tristan, I told you! Stop calling me!” The voice on the other end was shaky, hesitant. “Professor… the results came back. The baby… it’s mine.” My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it felt like it stopped entirely. “I won’t harass you,” the boy continued. “But as the mother, I thought you had a right to know.” My hands curled into fists, my lips trembling so hard I had to bite them to stay still. The child. It wasn’t mine. Madeline hung up instantly, her face a ghastly shade of grey. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a pathetic, desperate terror. “Silas… the baby… he’ll only ever know you as his father. I swear.” I started to laugh. It was a jagged, broken sound. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. “Madeline,” I whispered. “I want a divorce.” “No! No divorce!” Madeline stood up, lunging forward to wrap her arms around me. “Silas, I love you. Don’t say that. Please.” I ripped her hands away, the IV in my arm tugging painfully. “Then let’s go. Right now. We’re walking down to the OB-GYN wing, and I’m going to watch you terminate that pregnancy.” Madeline closed her eyes, trembling. “Tristan… he has severe clinical depression, Silas. He told me if I get rid of the baby, he… he’ll kill himself. I can’t have that on my conscience.” “And what about me?” I grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table and hurled it at her. It shattered against her shoulder, soaking her blouse. “I’m just supposed to wear the horns and raise another man’s child? I’m supposed to play house with the woman who let my mother’s son rot while she chased a student?” Her phone buzzed again. A text from Tristan. She looked at it, her face going pale. “Madeline, I can’t do this anymore. I’m ending it. Goodbye…” Madeline’s composure shattered. Without a word to me, without a second glance, she grabbed her coat and sprinted out of the hospital room. I watched her go. The silence she left behind was heavy. My mother, who had been waiting in the hallway, came in and took my hand. Her eyes were full of a mother’s fierce, protective sorrow. “My boy. No more. We aren’t taking this anymore.” “Divorce her, Silas,” she said firmly. “I’m going back to the house to pack your things.” But the next time I heard my mother’s voice, it wasn’t a call for help. It was the sound of her soul breaking over the phone. “Silas! The house… Madeline sent people. They’re tearing down the old cottage in the valley!” My heart felt like it had been lanced. That cottage… my father had built it with his own two hands, stone by stone. It was all my mother had left of him. “She’s demolishing it, Silas! She says it’s ‘unsafe’!” I called Madeline, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone. “How dare you?” I screamed. “How dare you touch that house? My parents treated you like their own daughter!” Madeline’s voice was ice-cold. “If I had been one second later, Tristan would have swallowed a bottle of Xanax, Silas. Your mother called the Dean. She tried to get him expelled, tried to destroy his life. She almost killed him!” “The cottage is gone. It’s for the best. Now your mother will have to move into the city, where I can keep an eye on both of you.” Ten years of marriage, and I finally understood her. She wasn’t just cruel; she was a warden. She wanted to cut off every exit, to force my family to live under her thumb, beholden to her “mercy.” “Madeline,” I hissed, “I hope you rot with him.” “You’re being hysterical,” she said, and hung up. I was still in the hospital, tethered to machines. My mother, overwhelmed by the shock and the loss, suffered a massive heart attack an hour later. The blows kept coming, one after another, until I felt numb. I opened my phone and posted the hundredth message. My wife is carrying her lover’s child. How do I make them burn? The post went nuclear. Within hours, it was trending on every major platform. The internet, in its beautiful, terrible collective rage, found Madeline. They found her university profile, her Instagram, her LinkedIn. She’s a predator. A disgrace to the profession. Check out the ‘happy couple.’ Hope they enjoy hell. Seeing the tide turn was the only thing that gave me a spark of life. I felt a grim, dark satisfaction. Until my account posted a new statement. I’m so sorry, everyone. All of my previous posts were fabrications. I was suffering a mental breakdown. My wife and her student, Tristan, are innocent victims of my delusions. I am deeply sorry for the harm I’ve caused. I tried to log in to delete it. Incorrect Password. Then I remembered. The smashed laptop. Madeline had taken it. She’d used my synced accounts to rewrite the narrative. Then, Madeline posted from her own verified account: Since my pregnancy began, my husband has struggled with paranoid delusions. He’s obsessed with the idea that I’m involved with one of my students. I’ve done everything to help him, including transferring the student to another department, but his condition has worsened. He will be making a public apology soon. Thank you for respecting our privacy during this difficult time. The reversal was instantaneous. The vitriol that had been aimed at her turned on me. You sick old man. Get help and stop ruining a woman’s life. This is pure misogyny. He can’t handle her success, so he invents a scandal. If you’re sick, just die quietly and leave her alone. Before I could process the messages, Madeline called. “Silas. Come to the university tomorrow. You’re going to apologize to Tristan in person.” I was shaking with rage. “Over my dead body.” “He’s innocent in all of this, Silas,” she said, her voice hard. “And the baby is coming whether you like it or not. If you want your mother’s heart surgery to stay on the schedule, if you want her to have a room in this hospital, you will do exactly what I say.” She was using my dying mother’s life as a bargaining chip for her lover’s reputation. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll be there.” I settled my mother as best I could and took a car to the campus. Tristan was standing behind Madeline, his eyes red, looking like a kicked puppy. When he saw me, he actually had the nerve to rush forward and slap me across the face. “You almost ruined me, Silas! You’re a sick, pathetic man!” The surrounding faculty and students watched with sneers of disgust. Someone was filming, the red ‘Live’ dot glowing on their phone. Madeline looked at me, her eyes warning. “Silas. Apologize.” I swallowed the blood in my mouth. I went to speak, but someone—a student, probably—kicked the back of my knees. I hit the pavement hard, kneeling right at Tristan’s feet. In the scuffle, my shirt caught and tore, exposing the jagged, ugly scar across my back. I’d gotten that scar years ago, shielding Madeline from a mugger with a knife. “Look at him,” someone jeered. “Ugly inside and out. Imagine being married to that.” “Disgusting. No wonder she looked elsewhere in his fantasies.” Madeline looked down at me, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face. She wasn’t moved; she was just ashamed to be associated with someone so broken. “Silas, don’t look so indignant. You posted a hundred lies. Tristan gave you one slap. Consider it a bargain.” “I’ve wired money to your account for your mother’s bills. Now, we’re even. Don’t ever mention this again.” I hauled myself up, my eyes burning as I looked at her. Even? We would never be even. I suppressed the scream in my throat and rushed back to the hospital to see my mother. When I arrived, the nurses were frantic. She had been moved to the ICU. “She fell,” the nurse told me, her voice trembling. “Down the stairwell. Internal bleeding, multiple fractures. We’re doing everything we can.” The security footage showed it all. It wasn’t a fall. Tristan had been there. He’d pushed her. The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen. I called Tristan, my voice a low, vibrating growl. “You pushed her. I will see you behind bars if it’s the last thing I do.” But it was Madeline who answered his phone. “Don’t blame Tristan for this, Silas. He went to the hospital to check on her, and she started screaming at him. He was scared. It was an accident. He barely touched her.” I was past the point of reason. I screamed into the phone, “She’s in surgery for a brain bleed, Madeline! You’re defending a murderer! Do you have a soul?” She hung up. When I tried to call back, I was blocked. I sat outside the ICU for hours, a ghost in a plastic chair. Finally, the surgeon walked out. He didn’t have to say a word. The tilt of his head said it all. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller.” The world tilted. The lights blurred into long streaks of white. I doubled over and retched blood onto the hospital linoleum. My mother was gone. The last person who loved me was gone. The hate that surged through me then was more powerful than the pain. I got into a cab and headed straight back to the university. They wanted a madman? Fine. I would give them a goddamn lunatic. When I arrived at the auditorium, Tristan was on stage giving a speech about “resilience.” I didn’t wait. I stormed the stage, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed my fist into his face. “Murderer! I’ll kill you!” The audience erupted. “Ah! Madeline, help me!” Tristan wailed. Madeline charged onto the stage, and before I could move, she kicked me squarely in the stomach—right where my gastritis was most inflamed. “Silas! What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?” She shielded Tristan with her body, her face contorted with loathing. “You’re ruining the symposium! You’re destroying everything!” Tristan started sobbing, throwing himself onto his knees, wailing for the crowd. “I can’t do this anymore! He won’t stop! I’ll just kill myself, I’ll end it right now so he can be happy!” I saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes as he ran toward the roof access. By the time the crowd reached the rooftop, Tristan was standing on the outer ledge, swaying. “Tristan, baby, don’t do this,” Madeline pleaded, her voice cracking. “I’m here. I’ll fix it.” Tristan’s face was a masterpiece of manufactured tragedy. “I can’t, Madeline. He’s driving me insane. I’m just a kid from a trailer park, I worked so hard for this, and he’s taking it all away…” From the back of the crowd, I barked out a laugh. “Then jump! Do it!” Slap. Madeline’s hand caught me across the face again. “Shut up, Silas! Are you trying to kill him?” She grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the edge where Tristan stood. “Kneel,” she hissed. “Kneel and apologize. Swear you’ll never touch him again, or so help me God…” “In your dreams,” I spat. Madeline pulled out her phone. She pulled up the live feed from the funeral home where my mother’s body had just been delivered. She looked at me, her voice a flat, robotic monotone. “I’ll give you ten seconds. If you aren’t on your knees, I’m calling the morgue. I’ll have them dump her body on the sidewalk like trash.” I stared at her, looking for a shred of the woman I’d married. There was nothing. Just a machine. “Five… four…” I looked at the screen. I saw a van pulling up to the back of the morgue. I broke. I fell to my knees in front of that sniveling boy. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, the words like glass in my throat. “It was my fault. I won’t do it again. Please.” Tristan smirked, then looked at Madeline with wide, watery eyes. “Professor… I don’t think he means it.” Madeline grabbed the back of my head and slammed my forehead into the gravel of the roof. Warm blood began to mask my vision. She whispered in my ear, “Just take it, Silas. Just get him down, and then it’s over.” I banged my head against that roof ninety-nine times. When Tristan finally stepped down and wrapped his arms around Madeline, he looked over her shoulder at me with pure, unadulterated venom. But then, the rooftop door burst open. Not with students, but with police.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391647”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It all started because the landscaper told her I’d ruined his prize-winning roses. That was the day Mom planted Dad in the dirt. I watched the muddy slush swallow his head, and I ran to her bedroom door, pounding until my small fists ached. “Mommy, Toby can’t pull Daddy out! I promise I won’t play in the garden anymore! Please, just pull him out!” From behind the heavy oak door, I didn’t hear my mother. I heard the landscaper’s low, rhythmic voice. Then, Mom’s voice cut through, sharp and jagged with a sob-like rage. “You useless little mistake! You’re just like your father!” she screamed through the wood. “Let him stay in the dirt and think about what he’s done!” A few days later, a storm tore through the valley. The torrential rain washed away the topsoil, and Daddy’s head emerged from the earth. He was “hosting” the landscaper for a viewing of the blooms. “Go on,” Mom said, nudging me toward the muddy pit. “Tell your father you’re sorry. He’s in a good mood today; he might actually forgive you for being such a brat.” I stared into the hole. “Daddy drank too much water,” I whispered. “He’s starting to sprout.” 1 Mrs. Benson from next door was passing by our collapsed fence when she saw me. I was sitting in the mud, gnawing on a tiny, pale mushroom that had pushed its way up near the rosebushes. She froze, then lunged forward, hooking her finger into my mouth to fish out the half-chewed fungus. “What are you doing? You can’t eat that, honey. Where are your parents?” I was so hungry the world felt like it was spinning on a tilted axis. “Mommy is the gardener’s assistant now. And Daddy… Daddy’s in the garden drinking water.” “Drinking water?” Mrs. Benson started to say, but then she recoiled, gagging. “Oh god… how long has it been since anyone took out the trash here? The smell…” The rain had carved a deep vein into the soil. A flash of lightning ripped across the sky, illuminating the pit. It lit up the back of a head. Hair tangled with wet grass roots, the face pressed deep into the muck. Daddy was sleeping. I’d told him I was hungry, but for the first time in my life, he hadn’t gotten up to make me grilled cheese. Mrs. Benson took one step closer to the edge, peered down, and let out a shriek that sounded like a dying bird. she collapsed onto the muddy grass. “Lord have mercy!” she wailed, clutching her chest. “Arthur! That’s Arthur!” “They buried him alive? My god, poor Toby… he thinks his father is just drinking…” She began to sob, her eyes filled with a terrifying kind of pity as she looked at me. With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone and called the men in uniform. When they arrived, they dug Daddy out. They started to put him into a long, heavy black bag. “Don’t take him! I’ll be good!” I screamed, lunging for the bag. “I won’t go in the garden anymore! I’ll go inside right now, I promise!” The backyard filled with the sound of grown-ups crying. Someone—a woman in a uniform—held me so tight I could barely breathe. Mrs. Benson knelt beside me. She told me Daddy was tired of being a person. She said that from now on, the worms in the earth, the trees in the wind, the flowers in the garden—that would be Daddy. He would watch over me quietly. But I didn’t want a ghost. I wanted the man who tucked me in. “Daddy! I want this Daddy!” I kicked and thrashed against Mrs. Benson’s embrace. As the sirens faded into the distance, she and I sat on the ground, covered in filth. I knew then that Daddy wasn’t coming back to wash my grass-stained clothes ever again. She carried me into her house. Behind us, the night sky erupted in a brilliant display of fireworks, lighting up half the city in neon pinks and golds. I could hear the neighbors gossiping over the fence, their voices carried by the wind. “Talk about a change in fortune. Some people have all the luck—spend a few months growing flowers and suddenly you’re royalty.” “Tell me about it! I heard that landscaper is the new ‘Golden Boy’ of the floral world. His patron is throwing money around the city like it’s confetti to celebrate. That pretty-faced boy really hit the jackpot…” I knew who they were talking about. My mother. Mrs. Benson took me back to our mansion to gather my things, but the house felt hollow and terrifying. She told me to call my mother. To tell her they had taken Dad away. One call. Two calls. No answer. Finally, Mrs. Benson snapped and called from her own number. When Mom finally picked up and heard the news, she didn’t scream. She laughed. “Look, Mrs. Benson, I appreciate the neighborly concern, but you can tell Arthur that faking his own death is a bit much, even for him.” “I’m busy. Tell Arthur to grow up. We’ll be home soon.” Mrs. Benson started screaming into the phone, her voice shaking with rage. “Fine!” Mom shouted back. “Yes, I put him in the dirt. It was a lesson! The soil was loose; Dominic went back to check on him before we left, and he said Arthur was already out and brooding in the tool shed. Tell Arthur I still love him, but he needs to stop testing me. I’ll be back for Valentine’s Day to make it up to him. When you marry into a family like mine, you learn to follow the rules.” I wanted to tell her that the landscaper had used a shovel to pack the dirt down hard. I wanted to show her my fingernails, torn and bleeding from trying to dig him out. But before Mrs. Benson could find the words to scream back, the line went dead. “Grammy, she hung up,” I whispered, tugging on Mrs. Benson’s sleeve. “This is murder,” she breathed, her eyes wet. “This is… god, it’s a nightmare.” She pulled me into her lap. “We’re getting you out of here, honey. This house is poisoned.” She helped me call my real grandmother—my dad’s mother. She was out in the countryside caring for my great-grandmother, but she promised she’d be there in two days. 2 When the police came back to the house, Mom was still gone. They handed me a small, heavy box. “This is your father,” they said. Daddy had sprouted, but he hadn’t grown into a tree. He had shrunk until he fit inside a box. Mrs. Benson stayed with me in the big, empty mansion. “Your mother… she’s lost to us. I’ll help you, Toby. We’ll give your father a dignified goodbye.” She and a few of Dad’s old friends set up a small memorial in the foyer. They began sorting through his things. “That belongs to the landscaper,” I said, pointing to a designer coat. “That one too.” Every time I corrected them, they sighed—that heavy, wet sigh that adults use when they can’t handle the truth. “Daddy says sighing makes you old,” I told them. “I know, honey,” one woman whispered, her back to me. I knew she was crying. I pretended not to notice. Just like Daddy used to pretend he wasn’t crying when he thought I was asleep, back when the landscaper first moved in. The night before we were supposed to lay the box to rest, Mom came home. Her belly was slightly rounded now. Dominic, the landscaper, held her as if she were made of glass. They were pressed together, their lips moving against each other in a messy, wet way that sounded loud in the quiet house. I stood in front of Dad’s memorial box. I didn’t want him to see this. “Ah!” “You little creep! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Dominic hissed. He lunged forward and backhanded me across the face. I hit the floor hard. Mom just watched him with an approving smile. Clink. One of my baby teeth hit the hardwood, slick with blood. Dominic flipped on the lights. “Madeline, look at this! He’s got funeral kitsch all over the foyer. He’s trying to curse the baby!” Mom’s face contorted with fury. She grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and began dragging me toward the stairs. “Arthur, enough with the lies!” she screamed, thinking my father was hiding somewhere. “No wonder Toby won’t admit he ruined Dominic’s roses. He’s exactly like you! Liars, both of you!” I struggled, my knees scraping against the carpet, then the sharp edge of the wooden stairs. My pajamas tore. I felt the warm sting of blood trailing behind us, making the drag smoother, easier. She threw me against my bedroom door. “I’m not lying! Daddy sprouted!” I sobbed. “He’s downstairs!” Mom let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Sprouted? Dominic saw him walk out of that garden with his own eyes! You’re still lying!” “I am going to beat the honesty back into you if it’s the last thing I do!” She grabbed a hanger from the closet—a bright blue, limited-edition hanger Dad had bought for me. I reached for it, wanting to save the gift, but the plastic whistled through the air and snapped against my back. “It hurts! Please, stop, Miss Gardener! Don’t hit me!” “I don’t want a mommy anymore! You can have him! Give the landscaper everything! Just give me back my hanger!” She hit me harder. “Calling me ‘Miss’? Is that what Arthur taught you? Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it!” My back felt wet, just like my knees. I lost count of the strikes. Eventually, the plastic snapped, the jagged edge digging into my skin. “You like phones so much?” she panted, shoving my kid-sized smartwatch into my face. “Call him! Call your father and tell him to stop this ghost act!” “I’m not lying,” I choked out. “Dominic planted him. I couldn’t pull him out. He was too deep.” Mom paused, then gripped the broken hanger again. “Dominic said he was just scaring him. He went back to check! You’re both trying to ruin him because you’re jealous!” “I told Arthur I’d be home for Valentine’s Day! To have this little patience, to pull a stunt like this… it’s disgusting.” She swung one last time, the broken end of the hanger catching me right in the forehead. “Like father, like son,” she spat. “Tell your dad to come down and apologize to Dominic, or you stay in this room forever.” Blood blurred my vision. “Daddy is right there,” I whispered to the empty room. “He’s in the box. He’s never going to speak again.” 3 Suddenly, the door flew open. “An urn?” Dominic’s voice was high and panicked. He suddenly hit the floor with a thud. “Madeline, I feel sick! I can’t breathe! Call the doctor!” Mom’s rage vanished, replaced by frantic concern. She immediately called the family’s private physician. As she stepped over me to carry Dominic downstairs, her foot caught my chest, knocking me back against the glass railing of the landing. “I’m scared,” I whimpered. No one answered. But a few minutes later, Mom came back up. She didn’t hug me. She scooped me up like a sack of flour and carried me to the basement clinic where the doctor was waiting. “Harvest his marrow stem cells,” she commanded. “Dominic is perfectly healthy, but he’s suddenly anemic. It has to be the stress these two put him through. A ‘spiritual’ clash. We need to boost Dominic’s system.” The doctor, a man named Dr. Miller, hesitated. He looked at my pale, bruised face. “The boy is malnourished, Madeline. He hasn’t slept. Stem cells aren’t for ‘boosting’ a healthy adult, and taking them from a child this small is…” Mom’s eyebrows drew together into a terrifying line. “Can you do it or not?” Dr. Miller looked at me with an apology in his eyes. They strapped me to the table with leather belts. When the needle went in, a scream tore out of me that I didn’t recognize as my own. “Daddy! Daddy, save me!” “Mommy! Please! It hurts! It hurts so much!” Mom just paced the hallway. “Hurry up,” she snapped. “He’s too loud.” The world went quiet then. Daddy, you said Mommy worked late just for us. You said she was so happy when I was born. Was that a lie too? “There, see? If you don’t scream, it goes faster,” the doctor whispered. My body was slick with sweat. My head felt like it was going to explode. But as the needle withdrew, Dominic’s voice drifted in from the next room. “Madeline, I’m still so scared. What if Arthur tries to hurt me again?” Mom didn’t hesitate. “Take more. Create a reserve for Dominic.” Dr. Miller’s hand froze. “Madeline, he can’t take any more. His vitals are dropping. If we continue, he might not make it.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Arthur is out there playing God, scaring my partner. Let Toby pay the debt his father owes.” The needle went back in. “Toby! Toby, wake up!” I opened my eyes to see Dr. Miller’s panicked face. “She’s gone, kid. We have to stop. If I hadn’t given you that shot of epinephrine, you… you were gone.” Mom’s face appeared in the doorway, but before she could speak, Dominic let out a soft moan from the recovery bed. She turned back to him instantly. “Madeline, can we leave? I’m so cold. I’m scared of what’s waiting out there… those funeral things…” She pulled him into her arms, cooing like she was talking to a toddler. “Don’t worry, my love. I’m here.” “I’ll go clear out all that dead-man trash. Just wait for me.” She started to leave, but Dominic grabbed her hand. “No, don’t! If Toby sees you, he’ll think… he’ll get the wrong idea.” Mom glared at me over her shoulder. “Let him. I’ve indulged him enough.” She picked up a heavy metal stool from the lab and walked toward the stairs. 4 Panic gave me a sudden, sharp strength. I rolled off the table, hitting the floor with a groan. Every inch of my back screamed in protest, but I began to crawl. “Please don’t!” I croaked. “Mrs. Benson said that’s Daddy’s new house! Don’t touch him!” “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Mom said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. She kicked me squarely in the chest. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as I was thrown backward. “Enough, Toby. The lie is over.” She turned and marched upstairs, leaving me gasping for air. “Toby, don’t move, let me help you,” Dr. Miller whispered. I pushed his hand away. “Daddy! Daddy!” By the time I crawled into the foyer, the memorial cloth was shredded. The incense burner was shattered on the floor. Mom was holding the box. I threw myself at her, clinging to her leg. “That’s Daddy! He’s inside!” “Give him back! Please, just give him back to me!” “I’ll admit it! I lied! I’m a bad boy! Just give me the box!” I saw her hesitate. For a second, her grip loosened. But then Dominic appeared behind her. “Such a cheap little box,” he mused. “Arthur couldn’t even pick out something decent for his own prank.” He reached out and flipped the lid open. “What is this? Gray dust? This is what made me so sick? This… dirt?” He tilted the box. Daddy’s ashes began to spill, drifting through the air like gray snow. I let out a guttural scream. “Give it back!” “You’re a monster! You buried him! Give him back!” “Oh!” Dominic cried out, stumbling backward though I hadn’t even touched him. The box fell. It hit the floor with a hollow thump, and a cloud of gray dust covered me. “Daddy…” I scrambled on the floor, my small hands trying to sweep the powder back together. But the dust was so fine, slipping into the cracks of the hardwood. The more I tried to gather him, the less there was. Tears began to fall, hot and fast. I choked back a sob, trying to stop the water. “No… I’ll get him wet. I have to keep him dry.” Mom didn’t even look at the floor. She was too busy fussing over Dominic. “Look at you! Acting! Still acting!” “You’re five years old, Toby. You’re too old for this. If you hurt Dominic or the baby again, I’ll drain every drop of marrow you have left.” Dominic’s oily voice cut in. “Be gentle, Madeline. He’s at the age where he remembers things. You don’t want him hating his new little brother.” Mom scoffed. “You’re right. He’s spent too much time with his father. He needs discipline.” “Let him spend some time with Titan. Titan will teach him how to be a good boy.” Dominic led Titan into the room. The Doberman was nearly as tall as I was, all corded muscle and bared teeth. He looked at me with cold, hungry eyes. Dominic leashed me to the same post as the dog and set a bowl of food down—next to the dog’s bowl. Titan lunged for his food, his saliva splashing into my small plastic bowl. “Eat,” Mom said. “And stop looking like a victim. No one is hurting you.” “Your father can call me and apologize for this ‘death’ stunt whenever he’s ready. Until then, you stay here. Dominic is far more forgiving than I am.” The house went silent. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t eaten since the day Daddy ‘sprouted.’ I was so hungry I couldn’t see straight. But every time I reached for the bowl, Titan curled his lip and let out a low, vibrating growl that shook my bones. “Eat!” Mom yelled from the other room. “Titan is perfectly trained. Stop being a coward.” She and Dominic walked out the front door, leaving me alone in the dark with the beast. I waited until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I reached for a piece of kibble. Titan didn’t growl this time. He lunged. His teeth sank into my shoulder, and he tore backward, taking a piece of me with him. I was going to be Titan’s dinner. The pain was so bright I couldn’t even scream. But then, the front door burst open. “Sarah!” I gasped. My grandmother was there. She didn’t hesitate. She began beating the dog with her heavy handbag, screaming with a primal rage until Titan backed away. She gathered me into her arms, shaking so hard I thought we’d both break. “God forgive them! Those monsters!” “My baby… my poor baby!” She carried me to a waiting car and sped to the emergency room. The nurses cried when they saw me. The doctor pulled my grandmother aside and asked if they should call the police. “I already called them,” she spat. “And I’m not stopping until they’re in cages.” Once I was stable, Sarah moved me to a private hospital near her home in the country. “It’s better there, Toby. We’re going to get you healthy again.” I clutched the small box—the one with just a dusting of gray powder left at the bottom—and nodded. It was Valentine’s Day. Dominic was twirling in front of a mirror, holding up a blood-red silk dress for Madeline. “Madeline, what do you think of this for tonight?” Madeline barely looked at him. “Who said I was spending tonight with you?” “But… you’ve been doing your makeup all morning. The flowers, the reservations… I thought we were having a candlelight dinner. Do you have a meeting?” She straightened her blazer, her eyes cold in the mirror. “I told you. It’s time. I’m going home.” “Don’t worry. You and the baby will be taken care of.” She drove back to the mansion, but the silence that met her was deafening. “Arthur! Enough!” she shouted into the foyer. “I’m home. If you don’t come out right now, I’m leaving for good.” She sent her staff to search every room. Nothing. Furious, she turned to leave, but the butler stumbled into the room, breathless. “Catch your breath, man. What is it?” The butler didn’t speak. He dropped to his knees. “Ma’am… Toby is gone. His grandmother took him. I couldn’t stop her.” Madeline laughed. “Of course. He’s involving his mother now. Arthur, this is pathetic! Using a child to win an argument?” She shouted at the empty air, then looked down at the butler. “Fine. Tell him I’m here. Tell him if he apologizes, I’ll forget the whole thing. The baby will even call him ‘Dad.’ He’s at the old farmhouse, isn’t he? I’ll go get him.” The butler was shaking, sweat pouring down his face. It took him a long time to find his voice. “Ma’am… Mr. Arthur has been dead for weeks.”

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At three in the morning, I got up to use the bathroom. Within minutes, my downstairs neighbor had turned on a floor-vibrating device, claiming that the sound of my toilet flushing was “maliciously disturbing her sleep.” She kept it running for three straight days. I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I simply packed my bags and moved out, letting my younger sister—who was in the middle of a high-stress final semester before her Ivy League applications—stay there instead. By the next evening, my phone was blowing up with frantic calls from the neighbors and the building manager. They were begging me to come back. 1 When I first moved into the Sapphire Springs complex, my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Higgins, was at my door before I’d even unpacked my second box. She told me she was a “pathologically light sleeper” and that she despised noise of any kind. She made it sound like a medical condition, a fragile state of being I was obligated to protect. To keep the peace, I spent a small fortune on thick, high-end rugs for every single room that same afternoon. After that, I lived like a ghost. I never wore shoes inside. My phone stayed on silent. I hadn’t turned on the television in months. I timed my laundry and vacuuming strictly for the hours she was out of the house. I thought I was being the perfect neighbor. I thought I was being kind. Then came the night I couldn’t hold it until dawn. Less than sixty seconds after I flushed the toilet, there was a violent pounding on my front door. It was so aggressive I thought the wood might splinter. My heart hammered against my ribs, all traces of sleep vanishing as I pulled the door open. Mrs. Higgins stood there, her face contorted with a suburban sort of rage. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Are you out of your mind? It’s the middle of the night! Are you trying to kill me with that racket?” I blinked, stunned. “Mrs. Higgins, I… I just used the bathroom.” Her eyes bugged out. “The bathroom? You couldn’t wait until the sun was up? The pipes sounded like a damn thunderstorm! I was finally in a deep sleep, and you snatched it away from me. You knew I was sensitive. You did this on purpose just to spite me!” I felt a surge of disbelief. “I’m not allowed to use the bathroom in my own home?” She stepped closer, her breath smelling of peppermint and resentment. “Don’t you dare get smart with me! This is about basic decency. You’re selfish, low-class, and clearly have no respect for anyone but yourself. I’m telling you now—this isn’t over!” She spat a bitter “Pathetic” at my feet and stormed back toward the stairs. I went back to my room, shaking my head, trying to tell myself she was just eccentric and tired. I climbed back into bed, pulled the duvet up, and closed my eyes. Then, the floor began to hum. It started as a low throb, then escalated into a rhythmic, violent thud-thud-thud that felt like a sledgehammer hitting the floorboards from below. It was a ceiling vibrator—a “revenge device” people buy online to harass their neighbors. My bed began to shake. The pendant light above me swayed. The vibration didn’t just rattle the furniture; it rattled my skull. 2 It was insanity. I had never imagined that a single flush of a toilet would lead to such calculated psychological warfare. The sound was unbearable. No matter how deep I buried my head under the pillows or how tight I jammed my earplugs, the vibration hummed through my bones like a swarm of angry hornets. While my head felt like it was splitting open, the building’s private community app—The Sapphire Circle—started lighting up. “What is that noise? It’s 3 AM! Some of us have work!” “It sounds like construction. Who is the jerk doing renovations in the middle of the night?” “My walls are literally vibrating. My kids are crying. Make it stop!” In the middle of the chaos, Mrs. Higgins chimed in. “If you want someone to blame, look at Apartment 703. She’s been up all night making noise just to harass me. I had to take matters into my own hands to give her a taste of her own medicine. Maybe now she’ll learn some respect.” The group chat exploded. “703, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you picking fights at this hour?” “I hate neighbors like this. No class, no consideration. You’re ruining the whole building’s vibe.” “@Unit703, you’re young. Learn some manners. Apologize to Mrs. Higgins and stop the noise before the police get involved!” “Seriously, one bad apple ruins the bunch. I can’t believe I pay this much in HOA fees to live next to a sociopath.” I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling as I read the insults. Since the day I moved in, I had been more than a neighbor; I had been a martyr to her “sensitivity.” I’d lived in total silence, avoiding even the crunch of a potato chip for her sake. And now, I was the “sociopath”? I typed a reply, my heart racing. “I wasn’t making noise. I used the bathroom once. She came up and screamed at me, and now she’s using a vibration device to retaliate. I’m the one being harassed here!” Immediately, a notification popped up. Mrs. Higgins had posted a voice note. “You think you’re so entitled, don’t you?” her voice crackled, dripping with condescension. “You couldn’t just drink less water before bed? You couldn’t just hold it? You know I have a nervous condition! If my blood pressure spikes because of your selfishness, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. You’re a disgrace. I can only imagine how poorly you were raised.” The neighbors didn’t care about the truth. They just wanted the noise to stop. “703, just apologize. Stop being difficult.” “Yeah, just fix it. I have a 6 AM shift. This is on you.” 3 The physical vibration and the digital stoning were too much. My vision blurred with tears of pure frustration. I wasn’t the one breaking the rules. I wasn’t the one torturing the building. Why was the burden of peace on my shoulders? I knew Mrs. Higgins had lived here for a decade. She’d spent years cultivating relationships with the “old guard” of the building. To them, she was the pillar of the community, and I was just the millennial interloper. I turned off my phone and sat in the dark, vibrating chair until the sun came up. At 9 AM sharp, I walked into the building manager’s office. Mr. Miller sat behind his mahogany desk, slowly sipping a latte. He looked up at me with a tired, practiced smile. “I’ve heard about the… situation, Ms. Sterling.” “Then you know it’s illegal,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “She is using a device to intentionally disturb my peace and compromise the integrity of the building. You need to tell her to turn it off.” Mr. Miller sighed, leaning back. “Look, neighbor disputes are tricky. It’s really best if you two work it out between yourselves.” “This isn’t a dispute! This is an assault on my living space!” He waved a dismissive hand. “Now, let’s be fair. I spoke with Mrs. Higgins. She’s a founding member of our community, and frankly, she’s my aunt’s best friend. She says you’ve been loud for weeks. Last night was just the final straw for her.” I was speechless. “I have rugs over every inch of my floor! I don’t even use my speakers! I flushed a toilet, Mr. Miller. One time!” “Enough,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Mrs. Higgins is a respectable woman. You’re new here. Maybe you should try to be a bit more accommodating. Try not to get up in the night. The pipes in this building are old, after all.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. Mrs. Higgins wasn’t just established; she was protected. “So you’re saying you won’t do anything?” I asked, my voice cold. “I’m saying you should look at your own behavior first,” he replied, turning back to his computer. “It takes two to tango, Ms. Sterling.” I didn’t argue further. I walked out. Mrs. Higgins kept the vibrator running for three days straight. I’m a freelance editor and novelist. My home is my workspace. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t focus, and the constant thrumming was giving me migraines that made me want to claw my eyes out. I called the police, but when they arrived, she simply turned the device off. She played the “sweet old lady” part to perfection, and as soon as the squad car turned the corner, the pounding began again. She even sent me a text: “If you can’t handle the heat, move out. Otherwise, get used to it.” Move out? Fine. I hope you’re ready for what comes next. 4 That afternoon, I checked into a quiet boutique hotel nearby. Then, I called my sister, Riley. “Hey, remember how you wanted to stay at my place for a few weeks to study for your exams away from the chaos of Mom’s house?” Riley’s voice perked up instantly. “The place with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the quiet neighborhood? Seriously? You said no before because you didn’t want me to ‘disturb’ the old lady downstairs.” I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “I’ve changed my mind. The place is all yours. You can move in tonight.” Riley was a straight-A student, the kind of girl who looked like a Sunday School teacher but had the tactical mind of a chess grandmaster and a hobby for tinkering with acoustics and electronics. She was the “golden child” of the family, but she was also the most vengeful person I knew if she felt someone she loved was being wronged. “I’ll be there by six,” she promised. I met her at the entrance of the building. She looked every bit the innocent student—braided hair, oversized college sweatshirt, and a backpack so full of “study materials” it looked like it could anchor a ship. “Thanks, sis,” she chirped, giving me a hug. “I really need the ‘peace and quiet.’” As we stepped into the elevator, the doors almost closed on Mrs. Higgins. She stepped in, clutching a bag of groceries, and immediately began scanning Riley with a look of pure disdain. “Leaving already?” Mrs. Higgins sneered at me. “I thought you had more ‘integrity’ than that. And who is this? Another little brat to stomp around?” I looked her dead in the eye and smiled. “This is my sister, Riley. She’s an honors student. She’s here to focus on her studies, so please… try to be a good neighbor.” A couple of other neighbors in the elevator chuckled. “Focus on her studies?” one of them whispered loudly. “Good luck with that. The girl will be crying for her mother by midnight once the shaking starts.” “I give her two days,” another muttered. “Actually, I bet she’s out by morning.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked Riley to the door, handed her the keys, and left. Back at my hotel, I pulled the blackout curtains shut and sank into the soft, motionless bed. For the first time in days, my head didn’t throb. Joanne Higgins, I thought as I drifted off, I hope you enjoy your new neighbor. Your ‘peace’ is about to become a very loud memory. I slept for twelve hours straight. I woke up the next morning to my phone vibrating—not from a device under the floor, but from a literal avalanche of notifications. The community app was a war zone. Mr. Miller had called me seventeen times. I hit ‘accept’ on the eighteenth call. “Ms. Sterling!” Mr. Miller’s voice was high-pitched, bordering on a sob. “Thank God! Mrs. Higgins… she’s sorry! She says she’ll never use the device again! Please, for the love of God, you have to come back and take your sister home! Everything is falling apart!” 5 I listened to Mr. Miller’s frantic, cracking voice and leisurely rolled over in my plush hotel bed. I checked my nails. “Mr. Miller, it’s quite early,” I said, my voice thick with mock-sleepiness. “And you wouldn’t believe it—since I moved out, I’ve been sleeping like a baby. No floor-vibrators, no harassment. It’s been heaven.” “Ms. Sterling, please! You don’t understand!” he stammered, his voice jumping an octave. “The building… the whole wing is about to explode! The neighbors are losing their minds! I’m begging you, come down here right now!” “My apartment?” I asked, feigning confusion. “What could possibly be happening? My sister is a quiet, studious girl. She’s probably just reading her textbooks. How much noise could a teenager make?” Mr. Miller sounded like he was on the verge of a breakdown. “How much noise? I can’t even describe it over the phone! Please, just come! Mrs. Higgins is a mess. We’ve confiscated her device—we’ll smash it in front of you if you want! Just make it stop!” I hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Mr. Miller. Riley is at a critical point in her SAT prep. I shouldn’t really disturb her flow. Besides, we all need to ‘accommodate’ each other, right? That’s what you told me. It takes two to tango.” 6 “This isn’t a tango!” Miller yelled. “It’s a massacre! The old lady in 704 says her heart can’t take it. The people in 702 have already called the cops three times, but the cops say they can’t find the source! You’re the only one who can talk to her!” I smiled at the ceiling. Riley was always overachieving. “Is it really that bad?” I asked innocently. “Maybe there’s a misunderstanding? My sister is very shy. I’d hate for her to be intimidated by a group of angry adults.” “Misunderstanding? Ms. Sterling, I am literally bowing to you through the phone! I’ll waive your HOA fees for six months! I’ll give you the premium parking spot by the elevator! Just. Come. Back!” “Well,” I said, “since you’re being so sincere, I’ll see what I can do. But I have some work to finish first. I’ll be there in a few hours.” I hung up before he could wail again. I took a long, hot shower. I had a slow breakfast. I watched the news. I waited until the “urgent” notifications on the app turned into genuine expressions of existential dread. The fire was burning. It was time to go see the ashes.

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The first Christmas after the world stopped spinning, Nathan showed up at our house like nothing had changed. His mother, a woman who had spent a decade trying to play matchmaker for us, leaned over the eggnog and nudged him. “Nathan, you have so many friends in the city. You should introduce Hailey to someone. She’s far too pretty to be single.” Nathan didn’t even look up from his phone, his lips curling into that familiar, arrogant smirk. “Sure. Tell me what you’re looking for, Hails. What’s the criteria?” Before I could answer, he finally met my eyes, his gaze heavy with a smugness that made my skin crawl. “But honestly? With me around, are you really going to find anyone else worth looking at?” The room went thick with an awkward, suffocating silence. Everyone in our circle knew the truth. I had spent five years orbiting Nathan like a lonely moon, waiting for a sign, a word, a single genuine look. He had taken that devotion and used it to build his own ego, never once reaching back to pull me into the light. I didn’t flinch. I just offered a small, cool smile. “That’s okay, Nathan,” I said, my voice steady. “I already have a boyfriend.” Because despite what he believed, no one stays waiting in the shadows forever. 01 Nathan caught me outside the guest bathroom, his arm barring my way like a physical claim. “Who is he?” His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual bravado. I looked up at him. From the living room, I could hear the muffled sounds of our parents laughing, the clink of silverware against china. Life was moving on just a few feet away, yet here we were, trapped in our old, toxic loop. I opened my mouth to answer, but Nathan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Wait, Hailey. You don’t actually think I’m going to fall for that, do you?” He leaned against the hallway wall, his posture radiating a forced indifference. “Don’t use these pathetic little games to test me. I couldn’t care less if you’ve found some rebound.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “I told you: if you chose Stanford, I would never be with you. You made your bed.” Nathan’s confidence was his greatest weapon—and his greatest delusion. He had been so sure that because he turned down his Ivy League dreams to stay local for Madison, I would follow him like a loyal dog. He was still convinced this was all a performance for his benefit. As he turned to walk away, a sudden wave of exhaustion hit me. I was tired of letting him win the scene. “Nathan.” He stopped, his shoulders tensing. “Is this me testing you?” I asked quietly. “Or are you just terrified?” He didn’t move. “Terrified that maybe, just maybe, you aren’t the center of the universe anymore. You’re right about one thing: we’re just neighbors. Who I date is none of your business. So do us both a favor—keep your distance. Don’t check in on me, and definitely don’t try to start conversations you don’t actually want to have.” I turned and walked into my bedroom, closing the door firmly. I didn’t see him pull a small, crushed velvet jewelry box out of his pocket, his knuckles white as he squeezed it until the hinges groaned. 02 Nathan and I were the “it” kids of the neighborhood. I spent ten years trailing behind him. He was the boy who would stand in front of me with a cold glare if anyone dared to bully me, and the boy who would stay up until 2:00 AM helping me map out a study plan when I was failing calculus. My love for him was an open secret. It grew from a childhood crush into a defining feature of my identity—unfiltered, unshielded, and completely unrequited. I remember a summer night after freshman year. The sky was a bruised purple, dripping with stars. I was sitting on the pegs of his bike, the wind whipping my hair, when his voice drifted back to me. “Hailey, you know I don’t deal well with people who can’t keep up. I’m going to Stanford. If you can get in, too… then maybe I’ll consider us being a real thing.” That was it. That was the carrot he dangled. I traded my novels and my sketches for prep books and extra credit. Stanford wasn’t just a university anymore; it was my ticket into Nathan’s heart. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I could finally stand beside him as an equal. I was too young to realize that real love doesn’t come with a minimum SAT score. Madison showed up on the first day of senior year. She was a scholarship student, quiet and ethereal, and she was assigned the desk next to Nathan’s. Nathan, who usually treated the world with practiced boredom, started bringing her lattes in the morning. He started cancelling our study sessions to help her with her essays. One Saturday, the three of us were supposed to go to the city to buy new textbooks. That morning, Nathan called. He said he and Madison had “stuff to do” and couldn’t make it. Two hours later, I saw them through the window of a boutique bookstore downtown, their heads bent close over a shared notebook. “Nathan, thank you for paying for these,” Madison murmured, her voice carrying in the quiet shop. “I hate being the charity case. I didn’t want anyone else to see me like this.” Nathan smiled, a soft, genuine expression I hadn’t seen in months. “It’s fine. Honestly, I’d rather be here anyway. Hailey makes a federal case out of every little thing she buys. It’s exhausting.” The world blurred as my eyes filled with tears. I turned to bolt, but as I reached the door, a heavy hand caught my wrist. Nathan was breathing hard, looking frantic, but his voice was still like iron. “Madison and I… it’s not what you think.” “Nathan, let go.” “We’re focused on our futures, Hailey. We don’t have time for distractions. Not everyone spends their whole day obsessing over ‘feelings’ and drama.” His words were a bucket of ice water. Distractions. Was that what I was? I realized then that in his eyes, my love wasn’t a gift. It was a nuisance. 03 After that day, I stopped asking him for help. I stopped waiting for him. I poured everything into my applications. I wanted to prove I wasn’t the “distraction” he painted me as. I wanted Stanford for me. On the day the results came out, I ran to his house, heart hammering. But when I opened the door, the living room was full of our classmates. They were throwing a surprise party for Madison’s eighteenth birthday. Nathan pulled me into the kitchen, his voice a low hiss. “Madison’s never had a real birthday party. I thought today was the perfect day to celebrate her win. I didn’t invite you because I knew you’d make it weird. You’re sensitive, Hailey. I was doing you a favor.” So, once again, it was my fault. If I felt hurt, I was “sensitive.” If I spoke up, I was “difficult.” Madison walked in then, holding a plate of cake, looking every bit the guest of honor. “Oh, Hailey! You’re here! Come in, make yourself at home. Don’t be a stranger.” The territorial subtext was deafening. When she left, Nathan looked at me. “By the way, when you fill out your final commitment forms, make sure you put down State.” “State?” I stared at him. “Your dad said your stats were high enough for Stanford. You were a lock.” Nathan cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. “Madison… her scores weren’t what she hoped for. She’s only getting a full ride at State. I can’t let her go there alone. She needs someone to look out for her.” It felt like a thousand needles piercing my chest. The “standard” he had set for me—the Ivy League requirement—had never existed for her. He would move mountains for her mediocrity while I had to be perfect just to be noticed. “And if I don’t?” I whispered. Nathan’s jaw set. “Then the deal is off. I’ll never be with you. The girl by my side will be Madison. She actually appreciates what I do for her.” He walked away, confident he had won. He thought he had me in a cage of my own making. I stood there for a long time, and then, I started to laugh. The tears came, but they weren’t for him. They were for the girl who had almost let him ruin her life. He knew exactly how Madison felt about him. He had been playing us both, keeping me as the backup plan while he chased the “damsel in distress.” He didn’t realize that I had finally learned the difference between a man and a shadow. When I submitted my commitment, I didn’t hesitate. I chose Stanford. 04 I spent the rest of the summer in a blur of productivity. I signed up for intensive French classes and prep courses, keeping my head down. Nathan was busy, too. His mom mentioned he was working double shifts at a local cafe, looking exhausted. He’d text me occasionally, asking about my “State paperwork.” I never replied. The day before I was set to fly to Palo Alto, Nathan showed up at my front door with a massive cardboard box. “Madison and I went shopping,” he said, stepping inside uninvited. “I got you some stuff for the dorms. LA is hot, and the bugs are no joke near the campus. Here’s some repellent, some light linens…” “I don’t need it, Nathan. Take it back.” I looked at him with a detachment that surprised even me. The heart-rot was finally being pruned away. “Still pouting?” He smiled, reaching out to pinch my cheek the way he used to. I flinched away. His hand hung in the air for a second before he pulled it back, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “I booked our flights for the day after tomorrow. I sent the info to your phone. Don’t be late. I have a surprise for you when we land.” He left, looking satisfied. He never got to give me that surprise. Because the next morning, I was already at 30,000 feet, heading north. While I was walking across the sun-drenched quad at Stanford with my new roommates, my phone started exploding. Ten missed calls. Twenty. Finally, I just blocked him. He messaged me through a mutual friend’s account: You’re really going to be like this? Fine, Hailey. Your loss. That night, I saw Madison’s post on my feed. [Photo: A delicate gold bracelet with a diamond charm.] Best graduation gift from the best boyfriend ever. It was the exact bracelet I had pointed out to Nathan two years ago. He had promised he’d work all summer to buy it for me. Now, it was on her wrist. I didn’t cry. I just blocked Madison, too. Anything that costs me my peace is too expensive. The girl who loved Nathan was dead. I wasn’t going to let him haunt the woman I was becoming. 05 The sound of fireworks outside snapped me back to the present. The confrontation in the hallway felt like a fever dream. I felt a sudden, sharp pang of longing—not for the past, but for the man who was waiting for me in the city. I pulled out my phone and texted Bennett: What are you doing? The reply came almost instantly: Wondering what you’re doing. A second later, another bubble popped up: I miss you, Hails. Like, actually hurts a little. Just like that, the weight Nathan had tried to press onto me evaporated. I remembered a post I’d shared with Bennett months ago: When someone asks ‘what are you doing,’ they’re usually just admitting they’re thinking about you. He remembered. He always remembered. Bennett’s love was a wildfire—direct, hot, and impossible to ignore. With him, there were no riddles. No “if you do this, I’ll love you.” He just said it. He showed up. He made me feel like I was the only person in the room, even when the room was full of people more “impressive” than me. That’s the thing about being chosen. It shouldn’t feel like a competition you finally won. It should feel like coming home. I stayed on FaceTime with him until the early hours of the morning, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. 06 The fifth day of the holidays brought the one thing I wanted to avoid: the “Class of ’22” reunion dinner. I didn’t want to go. I had zero desire to see Nathan and Madison play-acting as the local king and queen. But my best friend Tessa practically dragged me out of the house. She was planning to finally corner her crush tonight and needed me as her emotional shield. When we walked into the private room at the bistro, most of the old crowd was already there. Nathan and Madison were center stage. Madison went to stand up when she saw me, but Nathan pulled her back down by the waist, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. It was a performance—a calculated display of “look how happy we are.” I looked away, finding a seat at the far end of the table. When the menus came, Nathan started ordering for the table. “We’ll do the seafood towers. Three of them. Madison’s been craving oysters.” Tessa frowned. “Hailey’s deathly allergic to shellfish, Nathan. You know that. She can’t even have the cross-contamination.” Nathan raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to mine. “What, so because Hailey won’t eat it, the rest of us have to suffer? Or is the Princess just going to storm out again because things aren’t going her way?” The table went quiet. I just smiled at the group. “It’s fine. Order whatever you like. I’m not that hungry anyway.” I wasn’t here for the food. I was here for Tessa. Nathan’s eyes darkened at my lack of a reaction. He wanted the old Hailey—the one who would have teared up or started a fight. The conversation shifted to college. “So, Nathan, I heard you’re already killing it in the CS department at State. Winning gold at the regional hackathons? Not bad for a freshman.” Nathan leaned back, soaking in the praise, recounting his “genius” moments while casting side-glances my way. I ignored him, checking my phone. Bennett hadn’t replied to my last text in two hours. Probably out with his own friends, I thought. I sent him a photo of the menu: Looks like I’m starving tonight. The seafood tower is out for blood. Send help!!! Tessa, ever the instigator, decided Nathan shouldn’t have the floor to himself. “So, Hails,” she said loudly. “You’re at Stanford now. Do you run into Bennett Ward often?”

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The A-list movie star who happens to be my boyfriend is playing the lead in the film adaptation of my novel. He’s the one who secured the financing, handpicked the crew, and burned through every favor he had to ensure this movie would be his magnum opus. But on the first day of filming, he ignored the entire production team’s protests. He fired the A-list lead actress and replaced her with a total nobody—a girl who had just stepped off a bus from some small town. That night, the new starlet posted a sprawling manifesto on Instagram: “I have no family connections, no luck, and even the author of the original book couldn’t see my potential. Only Chase saw me—shivering and half-drowned in the gutters of this industry—and pulled me out. Thank you for believing in me. And thank you for the canary diamond necklace—the first real piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned.” Chase Montgomery’s public reply was three words long: “You’re worth it.” The internet went into a shipping frenzy. Immediately, the vitriol shifted toward me. “Who does this hack writer think she is? She’s just some shut-in who types in a cramped apartment. What does she know about star power or beauty? No wonder she couldn’t see Tiffany’s potential.” “The book wasn’t even that good. It’s only a hit because Chase is carrying it. This author just got lucky—a blind squirrel finding a nut.” I stared at the screen, feeling a jagged rip open in my chest. Seven years of waiting, of building a life with him, and in one heartbeat, I finally let go. 1 Midnight hit. Chase missed my birthday. Again. Thirty minutes later, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the foyer. My eyes drifted toward the door as he tossed his designer coat onto the rack without a word. When his gaze snagged on the small, untouched cake on the dining table, his brow furrowed with a flicker of irritation. “I was busy today, June. Birthdays happen every year. Missing one isn’t the end of the world.” He pulled out his phone, his thumb tapping the screen with practiced indifference. “I just Venmoed you five thousand. Buy yourself whatever you want.” A bitter sting rose in my throat, my eyes heating up. Always the same line. Always the same price tag on my feelings. Yesterday’s headlines were still burned into my brain: Chase Montgomery Drops Multi-Million Dollar Endorsement to Make Time for Dinner with Tiffany Blaire. If this had been a month ago, I would have screamed. I would have demanded to know why she was worth a multi-million dollar sacrifice while I wasn’t worth a single night off. Now, my voice was just cold. “You’re right. A birthday isn’t a big deal. And neither is this relationship. We’re done.” Chase froze for a half-second, the words seemingly failing to register. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Is this because I forgot a gift? I literally just gave you the money, June.” He let out a sharp, condescending exhale. “Fine. If you want to throw a tantrum, throw it. But don’t expect me to come crawling back this time.” A ghost of a smile touched my lips. When had he ever crawled? Every time we fought over Tiffany, I was the one who smoothed things over. I was the one who apologized for being “insecure.” Not this time. I stood up, picked up the cake, and dumped it into the trash can. I didn’t look back as I walked toward the bedroom. Behind me, I heard him dial a number. His voice was loud, intentionally loud. “Does anyone suspect anything about me and Tiffany? Fine. Put out a statement. Call her my ‘rumored girlfriend.’ We need the buzz for the movie anyway.” “Don’t worry,” he added, his voice dropping into a dismissive mumble. “She won’t make a scene.” The ‘she’ was me. A single tear escaped, hot and trailing down to my lip. It tasted like salt and regret. He used to tell me, “You’re the only girl for me, June. One day, I’m going to stand in front of the whole world and hold your hand so firmly no one will ever doubt it.” Now, he was announcing his love for someone else to the world, and I was just the ghost in his apartment. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my mother. “That arrangement you mentioned? The one with the family friend? I’m in. When do we start?” 2 The next morning, the sound of my suitcase wheels clicking against the hardwood floor filled the silent apartment. Chase was in the kitchen, a cup of espresso in his hand. He went still, his eyes narrowing at the luggage. “Where are you going?” I didn’t meet his gaze. “To a hotel for a few days.” He studied me, looking for a crack in my resolve, then let out a low, mocking scoff. “June, come on. You’re really doing this? You’re jealous because I’m filming with Tiffany?” “I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s just a co-star. You’re the girlfriend. Stop making up scenarios in your head.” He stood up slowly, reaching out to grab my arm, but I pivoted away. His hand hung in the air, empty, and his face instantly darkened. “You think you’re being tough? If you walk out that door today, don’t you dare think about coming back.” I didn’t answer. I turned the deadbolt, pulled the handle, and walked out without a second glance. A loud crash echoed behind me—the sound of a glass shattering against the floor. I didn’t stop walking. By the time I’d hailed a car, checked into a hotel, and unpacked, it was late afternoon. My phone buzzed. It was a text from the director of the film. Tonight was the wrap party for the first week of shooting, a massive celebration because the buzz was already breaking records. He’d invited me as the author. He was an old friend of my mother’s; I couldn’t say no. As I reached the door of the private lounge at the Soho House, a roar of laughter erupted from inside. “Chase and Tiffany were together back in college! They were each other’s first loves!” My hand froze on the door handle. College? Chase had always told me about a girl from his university days—the one who broke his heart, the one he could never quite get over. That girl was Tiffany Blaire? Chase and I grew up together in a group home. When I was seventeen, my mother—who had been searching for me for a decade—finally found me and brought me back into a world of wealth and privilege. When I reconnected with Chase years later, he was a struggling actor. I didn’t tell him who my mother was. I wanted him to love me, not my inheritance. Inside the room, Tiffany gave a performative pout. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Chase has a girlfriend. What if she hears you and gets the wrong idea?” The room erupted in even louder laughter. “Chase doesn’t have a girlfriend, Tiff! We’ve all seen it for months—his heart is clearly taken.” “I even heard Chase personally demanded Tiffany for the lead role. He wouldn’t take no for an answer!” I stood paralyzed. When my mother had passed my manuscript to the director, he’d loved it instantly. As for Tiffany… she was the polar opposite of how I’d written the protagonist. I’d assumed the director had made a casting choice based on some industry trend. It wasn’t the director. It was Chase. I looked through the crack in the door. He was looking at Tiffany with a soft, indulgent smile. He didn’t deny a word of it. Tiffany’s eyes swept the room and landed right on me. “Oh my gosh, who’s that at the door? For a second, I thought a stalker had broken in. You scared me!” Chase’s brow furrowed when he saw me. He hesitated for two painful seconds before looking back at Tiffany. “Just an old acquaintance. She probably saw me through the window and wanted to say hi.” Tiffany’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. She raised her voice so the whole room could hear. “Oh! I remember her now! I’ve seen her before.” “That day Chase drove halfway across the city just to get me that specific iced matcha? She was standing under a tree across from the shop, just… staring at us for the longest time.” “Her eyes were red like a rabbit’s. I thought she was going to burst into tears. Why? Are you a fan of Chase or something?” A young assistant with a messy bun piped up, “Wait, I remember too!” “That was the day Tiffany got a little upset because she thought Chase was being followed. Chase later explained it was just some girl he knew from the foster system. Said she was a mess—apparently, she’d been caught trying to sleep with her teachers back in middle school just to get better grades.” Another crew member shook his head, looking at me with pure disgust. “She looks so plain and innocent. Who knew she was such a cliché? No wonder she’s here trying to sink her claws into a star like Chase.” The room went quiet for a few beats, every gaze on me heavy with unshielded contempt. 3 I felt like I was made of glass, ready to shatter. My mind raced back to eighth grade. My homeroom teacher had lured me to his house under the guise of extra tutoring. It was Chase who had sensed something was wrong. He was the one who kicked the door down and pulled me out before anything could happen. But afterward, the rumors spread like wildfire. They said I’d seduced him. They said I was “fast.” I looked at Chase, my heart screaming. He knew. He had seen me shaking, huddled in the corner of that teacher’s living room, unable to breathe. He jerked his gaze away, staring at the floor, unable to meet my eyes. Tiffany walked over to me, her movements feline and graceful. She reached out and took my hand with a sickeningly sweet touch. “Don’t be mad at Chase,” she whispered, her voice loud enough for the people nearby. “I totally misunderstood who you were to him back then, so he had to tell me the truth to calm me down. I didn’t realize people would start gossiping.” “Chase is just like that. He can’t stand to see me upset.” I pulled my hand back, my voice remarkably steady despite the roar in my ears. “My eyes were just irritated that day. I wasn’t crying.” “And as for Chase? We’re just old acquaintances. You don’t need to worry about me.” Chase’s mouth opened, a protest dying on his lips. But Tiffany was faster. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward the center of the party. I left immediately. I couldn’t be in that airless room for another second. Fast footsteps echoed behind me. Chase caught up to me in the hallway. When he saw the shimmer in my eyes, a flash of genuine guilt crossed his face. “June, look. I’ve told you—this is all for the brand. If it weren’t for the movie, I would have gone public with us ages ago.” “And about that story… if you hadn’t been standing there staring at us like a ghost, people wouldn’t have asked questions. I had to say something to protect Tiffany’s reputation.” I let out a hollow laugh. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten that I’d texted him that day, telling him I was nearby and asking if he wanted to grab a coffee. He never replied. When I saw him, he was handing a drink to Tiffany, laughing at something she said. I’d texted him again while standing under that tree. He’d glanced at his phone and typed back: “In a meeting. No time. Go home.” I didn’t want to argue anymore. I started walking. Chase moved to follow me, but his phone chirped. He checked it, and his expression softened instantly. “Tiffany? Don’t worry, I’m coming right back.” He looked at me, hesitating for a heartbeat, then turned and ran back toward the party. The next morning, a headline exploded across the tabloids: “Chase Montgomery’s Secret Girlfriend Exposed—and It’s NOT Tiffany Blaire!” The photo was from years ago—a grainy shot of me and Chase eating at a dive bar when he’d just booked his first commercial. The second headline followed minutes later: “Tiffany Blaire Seen Crying in Her Trailer: ‘I Won’t Stand in the Way of True Love.’” I checked my phone. Over a hundred missed calls from Chase. The second I picked up, his voice slammed into me, raw with rage. “June! Have you lost your mind? Are you so desperate for a title that you’d leak old photos to ruin my career?” “The studio is breathing down my neck, telling me I can’t be seen with Tiffany anymore. Is this what you wanted? Are you happy now?” I gripped the phone, my heart sinking into my stomach. I hung up. I didn’t have the energy to explain that I hadn’t leaked anything. When it came to Tiffany, he never believed me anyway. A moment later, Chase’s official statement hit Twitter. “I have a purely platonic history with Ms. June Porter. I helped her out years ago because I felt sorry for her situation, but lately, her behavior has become obsessive. I am currently and happily pursuing a relationship with Tiffany Blaire. My heart is hers, and hers alone. Please do not harass her for the actions of a confused fan.” The comments section became a bloodbath. “Chase’s loyalty is everything! Leave Tiffany alone!” “June Porter? I know her. She’s the girl who slept with her teacher in middle school. Now she’s trying to social-climb her way onto Chase?” The insults got darker, more graphic. Someone leaked my burner phone number. The threats started pouring in. And then, the sound of heavy footsteps and shouting came from the hotel hallway. “We tracked the GPS! She’s in room 412!”

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