My mother was in the hospital, and a crisis at the office was screaming for my attention. I begged my husband, Logan, to take a meal to her. He didn’t even look up from his phone. “She’s your mother, Riley. Why is it my job to play delivery boy?” I practically got on my knees, swallowing my pride until he finally, begrudgingly, gave a stiff nod. When I finally sprinted back to the hospital, heart hammering against my ribs, I found my mother alone. Logan was nowhere to be found. He’d simply ordered DoorDash and left it at the nurses’ station. My mother, still weak and unable to feed herself, had sat there while her blood sugar plummeted to dangerous levels. Even then, she squeezed my hand, her voice a thin reed. “Don’t fight with him because of me, honey. He’s just… a busy man. Men have their own burdens.” A week later, she was discharged. Afraid of being a “burden” to our marriage, she refused my invitation to recover at our place. She took a bus back to her quiet house in the suburbs, alone. That same evening, my mother-in-law, Martha, was admitted for a routine procedure. Logan leaned against the kitchen island, his eyes searching mine with a sudden, needy intensity. “The doctor says Mom needs surgery. You’ll need to take a week off to look after her. You’re better at the hospital stuff anyway.” I felt a cold, sharp laugh bubble up in my chest, though my face remained a mask. My mother was an inconvenience. His mother was “our” mother. If he wanted the lines drawn so clearly, I decided right then to give him exactly what he asked for. 1 My mother hadn’t wanted the surgery. I’d forced her into it. I’d watched my father ignore the small aches until they became the cancer that took him, and I refused to let history repeat itself. On the first day of her hospitalization, Logan actually showed up. My mother looked at him like he was a visiting saint. She struggled to sit up, gesturing for him to take the only comfortable chair, offering him the fruit I’d just peeled for her. He stayed for ten minutes. By the time I returned from speaking with the surgeon, the chair was empty. I called him. “Where are you?” “Work’s blowing up, Riley. You’ve got this handled.” I hesitated, my voice trembling. “Logan, I’m an only child. I don’t have a sister to tag in. I need you here for the night shift so I can close my eyes for an hour.” Before we married, he’d promised my parents he’d be the son they never had. Now, his voice was tight with irritation. “Being a companion isn’t hard work. The nurses do the heavy lifting. I’ve got too much on my plate. I’ll try to stop by later, okay?” He didn’t. For the next two days, I was a ghost. During the day, I pushed my mother’s wheelchair through sterile corridors for pre-op tests. At night, I dozed in a plastic chair, waking every time she stirred. My body felt like it was made of lead. On the day of the surgery, Logan appeared again. I was helping the nurse slide my mother back onto the bed, her face pale and slack from the anesthesia. I felt a surge of relief—surely, he was here to take over. “I have a massive board meeting today,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Tie my tie for me? I can never get the Windsor knot right.” That was why he was here. Not for my mother. Not for me. For a knot in a piece of silk. As I looped the fabric around his neck, I kept my voice low. “I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours, Logan. Can you please stay tonight? Just one night.” He frowned, looking at his reflection over my shoulder. “I’m a guy, Riley. It’s awkward for me to help your mom with… you know, the bathroom stuff.” I went still. Part of me—the part that had been conditioned to be the “good wife”—actually thought, Maybe he’s right. He glanced at my sleeping mother, checked his watch, and walked out without a second look. That night was the longest of my life. As the morphine wore off, the pain flared. My mother didn’t want to wake me, so she suffered in silence, her hospital gown soaked through with cold sweat. When I realized what was happening, the guilt hit me like a physical blow. I didn’t close my eyes again. By day six, my mother finally regained a bit of appetite. She whispered that she wanted a specific chicken soup from a deli across town. I was halfway out the door when my boss called. A file was missing—a massive contract—and I was the only one who knew the filing system. My mother gripped my wrist. “Go,” she rasped. “Your job matters, Riley.” Torn and desperate, I called Logan. I begged. I pleaded. “I told you, I’m busy,” he snapped. “Busy doing what?” I yelled, the fatigue finally breaking my filter. “What is so important that you can’t bring a bowl of soup to my mother?” “I’ll be blunt,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s your mother. Why are you always making her my problem?” My hand shook so hard I almost dropped the phone. I hung up. Ten minutes later, he called back, sounding bored. “Fine. I’ll get the soup. But tell her I can’t stay.” I told him she needed help eating. She couldn’t hold a spoon yet. When I finally finished at the office and raced back to the hospital, I found my mother grey-faced. The nurse was hanging a glucose drip. “Her blood sugar crashed,” the nurse said, her eyes judging. “No one fed her.” On the bedside table sat a cold plastic container of soup from a random takeout joint. No Logan. He’d just dropped it and left. I picked up the container and threw it into the trash can. The thud echoed in the silent room. My mother reached for my sleeve. “Don’t fight with him, Riley. He’s just focused on providing for your future.” Tears burned my eyes. She was dying of neglect in a hospital bed and still worrying about my marriage. I had to step out into the hallway just to breathe. I wiped my face, went downstairs, and bought a warm, soft porridge. I fed her myself, one spoonful at a time, until she drifted off. Finally, she was well enough to leave. When I checked the bill, the insurance coverage was better than expected. She only owed a few thousand dollars. She clutched the receipt, a tiny smile on her lips. “Good. I didn’t drag you down too much.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. No matter how much I begged her to stay with us, she insisted on going home. She didn’t want to “intrude.” I watched her through the window of the Greyhound bus, her small hand waving until the bus turned the corner. I stood on the sidewalk and let the tears fall. I went home and crashed into a deep, dreamless sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night to Logan’s phone blaring. He sat bolt upright, his face turning ashen. “Riley, wake up. It’s Mom. She’s in the ER.” 2 Outside the OR, Logan was a wreck. He paced the floor, his breathing shallow, looking like a lost child. In spite of everything, I tried to comfort him. I offered him water. I sat beside him. Then, he grabbed my hand, his grip bruising. “You need to take the week off work. You have experience with the hospital routine now. You know how to talk to the doctors. Mom will recover so much faster with you looking after her.” He added, “I’ll help you, of course.” Help me? The phrasing stung. As if Martha was my primary responsibility and he was just a volunteer. I opened my mouth to argue, but then the “Surgery in Progress” light flickered, and I swallowed my words. The surgery was a success. Martha was awake by the afternoon, though she was tethered to a catheter and couldn’t move. The moment she was moved to a ward, Logan’s father, Arthur, marched in with ten relatives in tow. They acted like they were at a tailgate party, loud and oblivious. The nurse eventually pulled me aside and told me to clear them out. When I asked Arthur to lower his voice, he huffed. “Some people have no respect for family,” he muttered loudly to a cousin. The other patients in the room were glaring at us. I felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up my neck and stepped out into the hall. Inside, I heard someone ask who was staying for the night. Logan’s cousin spoke up, her voice matter-of-fact. “Riley will stay, obviously. It’s her mother-in-law. Who else would do it?” No one questioned it. Not even Logan. It was the natural order of things in their world: the daughter-in-law serves. Logan was a “man”; he didn’t do “caregiving.” Eventually, the circus moved on. Logan told me he was taking the relatives out to dinner. “Can’t have them coming all this way on an empty stomach,” he said. After they left, a nurse gave me a dizzying list of instructions. I took notes, pushing down the simmering resentment. This was Martha’s health, after all. Logan returned late with a bland hospital meal for his mother. He didn’t bring anything for me. My head started to spin. My own blood sugar was dipping. I had to ask the lady in the next bed for a piece of toast just to keep from fainting. Logan looked briefly guilty and went out to buy a “Deluxe Combo” from the cafeteria. “Here, Riley. Eat up.” I’d barely taken two bites when Martha started calling out. She was itchy. She was thirsty. She was uncomfortable. By the time I settled her, my food was cold and my appetite was dead. The doctors needed an hourly log of her urine output. It was critical for tracking her kidney function. I found Logan on the small cot. “You need to help me with the log tonight. I can’t stay awake another twenty-four hours.” Guilt-tripped by his earlier forgotten meal, he actually agreed. Two hours later, Logan was snoring so loudly it shook the walls. I tried to shake him awake, but he just groaned and rolled over. I could have left it. I could have let the log stay empty. But I couldn’t do that to Martha. I stayed awake all night, measuring, recording, and watching the clock. The next morning, Martha woke up to find her “devoted” son sitting by her bed, while I had finally collapsed into a ten-minute nap on the chair. Her voice was sharp with disapproval. “Since when does the nurse sleep longer than the patient?” 3 My head was throbbing with a migraine. I’d slept for maybe thirty minutes total. I told Logan I was going home to shower and change, and that he needed to stay. Martha, looking much more energetic, called out as I reached for my bag. “Riley, I’m feeling so sticky. Could you give me a sponge bath before you go?” I looked at Logan. He looked at the ceiling. “I’m a guy, Mom. It wouldn’t be right.” Fine. I dragged my exhausted body to the basin, filled it with warm water, and scrubbed her down. I finally made it home and collapsed onto the bed. Ten minutes later, my phone rang. Logan couldn’t find the nebulizer. I told him where it was and hung up. Ten minutes later: How do you hook up the oxygen flow? Ten minutes later: Where did the nurse put the charts? In three hours, he called me ten times. My migraine intensified until I was nauseated. Finally, he whined, “Riley, I really can’t handle this. You need to come back.” When I walked into that hospital room, Logan looked at me like I was a life raft. Martha immediately waved him away. “Go on, honey. Riley’s here now. Go back to the office; I know how important your work is.” Logan patted my shoulder. “Thanks, babe. My boss has been riding me all morning. I’ll leave Mom in your capable hands.” The second the door closed behind him, Martha’s face contorted. “Quick! Get the bedpan!” She’d been holding it. She’d waited for her son to leave so he wouldn’t have to deal with the “unpleasantness” of her bodily functions. She was a “good mother”—she shielded her son from the reality of illness, while using me as a human shield. The smell was overwhelming. I looked at the mess, the stained sheets, the bedpan, and I actually gagged. Martha took offense instantly. “Riley! I’m your mother. How can you be so heartless?” I’m your mother. Logan’s voice echoed in my head: She’s your mother. Why are you always making her my problem? The room started to spin. I walked out into the hallway, fumbling for my phone. A professional-looking woman in scrubs—a private health aide—was walking by. 4 By the time I walked back in, the aide had cleaned everything up with practiced efficiency. She saw the state I was in and put a hand on my arm. “You look like you’re about to break, sweetie,” she said. “I do this for a living. If you need a break, here’s my card.” I was mid-sentence, asking about her hourly rate, when Martha shrieked. “No! I don’t want a stranger touching me! I want my family!” She glared at me, her eyes wet with staged tears. “You’d do it for your own mother, but for me, you want to hire a servant? You’re so unfilial!” The woman in the next bed chimed in. “She’s right, dear. It’s a bit selfish, isn’t it?” I turned to Martha. “I’ve been awake for days. I am physically failing. This woman is a professional. She knows how to do this better than I do.” “It’s a waste of money!” Martha barked. “You just don’t care about me. When I took care of my mother-in-law, I didn’t sleep for two weeks. We didn’t even have these fancy cots back then. Young women today are so soft. You can’t handle the slightest bit of hardship.” I realized then: this wasn’t about care. It was about power. She had suffered under her mother-in-law, and now she wanted her turn to hold the whip. I stood at the foot of the bed, my voice ice-cold. “Do you know how many times Logan came to help when my mother was in this same hospital last week?” Martha paused, then sniffed. “Logan is a son-in-law. It’s a miracle he went at all. You can’t expect a man to do nurse’s work.” “He didn’t even stay to feed her,” I said. “He sent DoorDash.” “He’s a provider!” Martha snapped. “He’s out there making a living. Why would he waste his time wiping tables?” Where was that money, though? He hadn’t spent a dime on my mother’s care. I looked at her—her entitlement, her casual cruelty—and I saw Logan. The apple hadn’t just fallen near the tree; it was rooted in the same bitter soil. I had spent our entire marriage believing that if I were the “perfect” daughter-in-law, Logan would eventually see my worth. That he would step up when my family needed him. I was a fool. To him, his mother was “our” responsibility. My mother was mine alone. I pulled out my phone and sent Logan a text. [Your mother, your problem. I’m done.]

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I pushed the door open and froze. It was my house, but I didn’t recognize a single piece of furniture inside. The sofa was gone. The curtains were different. Even the color of the walls had been altered. Standing in the entryway, staring at a sea of pink florals, only one thought flickered through my mind: I’ve been on a business trip for three months. Did I get robbed? No. Burglars don’t redecorate. I walked deeper into the living room, my heels clicking hollowly on the hardwood. There, on the coffee table, sat a picture frame. It was a photo of a couple. My husband was grinning, his arm wrapped tightly around a woman I’d never seen before. The background of the photo was my living room. 1. My name is Nora. I’m thirty-two. I work as a regional manager for a multinational firm, which means I spend about a third of the year living out of a suitcase. This latest stint was in Seattle, handling a branch merger. It was supposed to take three months. The project wrapped early, and I didn’t tell a soul. I wanted to surprise my husband. Well, I got my surprise. I stood in the center of the room, spinning slowly. The sofa was dusty rose with a micro-floral print. The curtains were sheer pink lace. The wallpaper was a matching floral pattern. Even the tissue box on the table was encased in a pink quilted cover. I remembered the original space vividly. I had spent three months overseeing the renovation myself. Modern, minimalist. A charcoal grey sectional. Crisp white walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows with sleek motorized blinds. I’d visited dozens of showrooms to find the perfect textures. Now, it was all scrubbed away. I picked up the frame. In the photo, my husband, David, was holding a younger woman. She had long, flowing hair and a sweet, practiced smile. She was wearing loungewear, leaning her head against David’s shoulder. The background was my sofa. No—it was that pink floral sofa. Which meant this photo was taken right here. In my house. I set the frame down and walked into the master bedroom. It had been gutted, too. New bed. New nightstands. A vanity was now squeezed into the corner, overflowing with makeup and skincare products. I slid open the closet door. Rows of women’s clothes hung there. Dresses. Silk camisoles. Lace lingerie. None of it belonged to me. Where is my life? I searched the room, eventually finding the answer in the hallway storage closet. I shoved aside a vacuum cleaner to find several cardboard boxes taped shut. I tore one open. It was my clothes. They had been crammed inside, wrinkled and forgotten, shoved into a dark corner like old newspapers. I knelt on the floor, staring at my silk blouses. I pulled out a white button-down—my favorite—and noticed a yellowish stain on the collar. I stared at that stain until a laugh bubbled up in my throat. It was sharp and brittle. My house. My home. Occupied by another woman. And my entire existence had been relegated to a cardboard box marked Trash. I stood up, pulled my phone from my bag, and dialed David. “Hey, babe?” He answered on the second ring, his voice breezy. “Wait, I thought you had another month in Seattle?” “I’m back early.” My voice was eerily steady. “Oh! That’s… that’s great. Where are you? Want me to pick you up at the airport?” “I’m at the house.” The silence on the other end lasted two full seconds. “The house?” he repeated, his tone shifting. “Which house?” “Our house,” I said. I paused, letting the weight of the words hang in the air. “Or I guess, the house you share with someone else now.” More silence. Longer this time. “Nora, look, I can explain…” “I don’t want to hear it.” I hung up. I stood there, looking at the pink walls, the lace curtains, the stranger’s makeup. I found myself wondering: How many times did they change this place? How long has she been here? And most importantly: What exactly was I to him? 2. I bought this house before we even met. I’d worked my tail off for five years, saved every bonus, and with a little help from my parents, I put down a massive down payment. Eventually, I’d been promoted enough to pay off the mortgage entirely. The deed was in my name. Only my name. David was thrilled when we started dating and he found out I owned a place. “One less thing to worry about for our future,” he’d said. I didn’t think much of it then. My house would become our home. Who paid for it didn’t matter as long as we were building a life together. God, I was naive. I opened my phone and scrolled through my texts with David from the last three months. Every day, a message. How’s work, honey? Get some rest, don’t overwork yourself. Missing you. And I would reply. It’s okay. You too. Miss you more. The words made me feel physically ill now. He was texting “miss you” while sleeping in my bed with a stranger. Who was she? I went to David’s Instagram. He didn’t post much—mostly work stuff, the occasional sunset. He hadn’t blocked me, but he was smart enough not to post her there. But his “Following” list was public. I scrolled until I found a profile with a familiar face. “Riley.” Long hair. Sweet smile. The girl from the photo. Her profile wasn’t private. It was a curated gallery of her life. Lattes. Selfies. Landscapes. And my house. She had a post from last March. A photo of the living room—the pink floral sofa. The caption read: *Finally finished the new place! Hubby says it’s so cozy now. ~* Last March. Over a year ago. I scrolled further down. Eighteen months ago: A photo of my kitchen. The caption: First time cooking in our own home. Pure bliss. Back then, the kitchen still looked like mine. White cabinets, quartz countertops. Which meant she’d been living here for at least a year and a half. I kept scrolling. Two years ago. A photo of the bedroom. My bed. My curtains. Caption: Day one in the new nest. So happy! Two years. For two years, this girl, Riley, had been living in my house. And I had been a ghost in my own life. I went even deeper. Three years ago. My heart skipped a beat. A photo of David and Riley at a restaurant, clinking glasses. Caption: Happy one-year anniversary, babe! Three years ago. One-year anniversary. That meant they’d been together for four years. David and I had only met four and a half years ago. He’d been so charming at that New Year’s party. Dinner dates, flowers, telling me he’d never met anyone like me. I thought I’d found the one. In reality, he’d had her all along. I set the phone down and looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the pink room. I hadn’t turned on the lights. A realization hit me like a physical blow. David and I got married three years ago. At that time, they had already been together for a year. He brought another woman into our marriage from day one. I wasn’t a wife. I was a landlord he was sleeping with to provide a home for his mistress. The doorbell rang. I went to the door and opened it. David was standing there, his face a mask of pale anxiety. “Nora…” “Come in.” I turned and sat on the pink floral sofa. He followed, hovering by the coffee table, too afraid to sit. “Nora, please, just let me explain.” I looked at him. “Go ahead.” “She’s… she’s a colleague. Her lease ended and she had nowhere to go, so I just—” “So you let her move into my house?” “It was supposed to be temporary. Just a few days…” “Two years.” He flinched. “She’s been here for two years,” I said, my voice cold. “He didn’t block me from his life, but he forgot to tell her to block me on social media. I saw it all, David.” His face went from pale to ghostly. “How many times did she redecorate?” I asked, gesturing around. “When did the pink wallpaper happen? When did you toss my sofa?” He remained silent. “And the vanity in the bedroom? The clothes in the closet? They’re all hers. Mine are in cardboard boxes in the hallway.” “Nora, I know I messed up…” “You did,” I interrupted. “But not the way you think.” I stood up. “I bought this house with my own money before we ever said ‘I do.’ My name is the only one on the title.” David looked at me, a flicker of something—fear, or maybe realization—crossing his eyes. “You let another woman live in my home for two years and let her renovate it three times,” I said, each word a slow, deliberate strike. “Did you really think I’d just let this go?” He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 3. David stood there, a mess of conflicting emotions. Panic, guilt, and underneath it all… a sliver of resentment. “Nora, you need to calm down.” “I am very calm.” “Can we just talk? Please?” “Fine.” I sat back down. “Tell me who she is. For real this time.” He hesitated. “She’s a coworker.” “Her name.” “…Riley.” “And your relationship?” “It’s… it’s complicated.” I laughed. “Complicated? Does a ‘complicated’ coworker live in your house for two years?” Silence. “Does a coworker throw my belongings into boxes?” Nothing. “Does she call you ‘hubby’ on Instagram and post about her ‘new home’?” David’s face twisted. “Are you going to keep lying to me?” I asked. He stared at the floor for a long time. Finally, he let out a jagged sigh. “Fine,” he said. “You want it? Here it is.” “She was my girlfriend.” I tilted my head. “Before you,” he continued. “We were together for years. We broke up, got back together… we could never really quit each other.” “And then?” “And then I met you. And I did want to make it work with you, Nora. I really did. But she… she wouldn’t let go.” “So your solution was to move her into my house?” “She said she had nowhere else to go. I felt sorry for her.” “For two years?” He didn’t answer. “You felt so sorry for her that you let her erase me from my own home?” “She did the decorating herself. I didn’t—” “You didn’t know?” I pointed at the floral sofa. “You didn’t notice this?” He looked away. “The wallpaper? The curtains? The vanity?” “She said she liked the style… and you were never here anyway,” he muttered, his voice taking on a defensive, almost whiny edge. I blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?” “You’re always traveling, Nora!” He looked up, and there it was—the audacity. “You’re gone half the year. Do you have any idea how lonely it is here? I’m in this big house by myself. I text you that I miss you, and you give me one-word answers. Did you ever stop to think about how I felt?” I stared at him for several heartbeats. Then, I started to laugh. “David, you are truly something else.” “What?” “You cheated. You moved your mistress into my house for two years. You let her throw my life away. And you’re telling me it’s my fault because I work?” He opened his mouth to protest. “You’re actually blaming me for this?” “I didn’t say it was your fault—” “Then what was the point of that little speech?” He went quiet again. I stood up and walked toward him. “Let’s get a few things straight, David. Who paid the down payment on this place?” “…You did.” “Who paid off the mortgage?” “…You.” “Who paid for the original renovations?” “…You.” “Then what gave you the right to let anyone, let alone her, move in?” His lip quivered. “I…” “What did you bring to this marriage?” I asked. “A marriage license? Is that it?” His face flushed a deep, angry red. “Don’t talk to me like that.” “How should I talk to you?” my voice was a whisper now, sharp as a razor. “Tell me, David. What is the appropriate tone for a woman who just found out her husband is a parasite?” He stood there, paralyzed. I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. “I’m not going to argue with you anymore tonight. Just answer one question.” “What?” “Where is she now?” David blinked. “Who?” “Riley.” His expression shifted into something guarded. “She’s… she’s out.” “Out?” I smiled. “She thinks this is her home. She’ll be coming back, won’t she?” “What are you going to do?” “I want to meet her.” “Nora, please—” “Don’t call me Nora.” My voice went cold. “You lost that right. Now, I’m staying here tonight. Tell her to come back. We have things to discuss.” 4. David left. He said he was going to find Riley and “explain the situation.” I didn’t stop him. I needed the silence. I walked through the house again, this time looking closer. The dishes in the kitchen were new. In the bathroom, two towels hung on the rack. A blue one and a pink one. Two toothbrushes in the holder. The laundry room was stocked with detergent and softener brands I never used. I opened the fridge. It was full. Produce, meat, expensive cheeses. There was a cake box with a label: Happy Birthday, Ry! I checked the date. It expired in three days. He’d celebrated her birthday here, just a few days ago. In my kitchen. I shut the fridge and kept moving. In the office desk drawer, I found a folder full of papers. Renovation contracts. I flipped through them. There were three. The first was from two years ago: Paint, curtains, new sofa, coffee table. The note read: Client requests light, cottage-core aesthetic. The second was from eighteen months ago: Master bedroom overhaul. New bedframe, vanity installation, closet expansion. Note: Female client requested additional storage. The third was from last year: Living room phase two. Full wallpaper installation. Note: Pink floral theme. The total for all three contracts? Nearly thirty thousand dollars. Where did that money come from? I pulled up my banking app. David’s salary went into a joint account, but his personal spending was on a card linked to my primary account so I could track our “household” expenses. I scrolled back. Two years ago: a five-thousand-dollar withdrawal. Note: Home repairs. Eighteen months ago: ten thousand dollars. Note: Furniture upgrade. Last year: another ten thousand. He had used his income—money that should have been part of our marital savings—to renovate my house for his mistress. Three times. I stared at the numbers. It was absurd. For two years, I thought he was home, waiting for me. I thought when I came back from my trips, we were building a future. Instead, he was playing house with another woman. Using my kitchen. Sleeping in my bed. Turning my home into her sanctuary. While I was treated like an intruder, my clothes stuffed into cardboard boxes. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But all I felt was a cold, searing fire in my chest. The lock turned. I looked up. David walked in, and behind him was the woman from the photo. Riley. Long hair, slender frame. She was wearing a white sundress and a soft, practiced smile. Up close, she looked younger than she did in the photos. “You must be Nora,” she said, her voice sweet and light. “I’ve heard so much about you.” I stared at her. “You’re Riley?” “I am.” She walked in, setting her designer bag on the floral sofa with an air of total belonging. “It’s finally nice to meet you.” I was the one who felt like a guest in my own home. “Ry…” David muttered, looking nervous. “It’s okay, David.” Riley glanced at him. “We need to clear the air.” She turned back to me. “Nora, I know this is a shock. But I think we should be honest with each other.” “Fine,” I nodded. “Be honest.” “David and I… we’re in love,” she said, her tone dripping with mock-sincerity. “He was mine long before he was yours. He only married you because of family pressure. But his heart has always been with me.”

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At my cousin’s wedding reception, I handed over a fifteen-hundred-dollar check in a card. My new sister-in-law, Tiffany, didn’t even open the envelope before she slid it back across the linen tablecloth with the tip of her manicured finger. “Ben, honey, you’re making the big bucks in Chicago,” she said, her voice carrying just enough to kill the conversation at the head table. “Is fifteen hundred really all you could manage?” The clink of silverware died. My parents sat next to her, staring at their plates. “Your Uncle Pete and Aunt Sarah chipped in fifty thousand,” Tiffany continued, her smile as sharp as a razor. “This is your only cousin’s big day. Don’t you think it’s a little embarrassing?” I looked at my parents. Just last month, they’d called me crying about “unexpected repairs” and “medical bills,” asking for another two thousand. Where the hell did they get fifty thousand dollars? I stayed silent, the confusion visible on my face. Tiffany saw it and let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Oh, don’t tell me. You didn’t know? Your parents sold the family estate in Connecticut. The developer payout was over a million. Did they really keep you in the dark?” The room started to spin. It felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus. I felt a ringing in my ears as I turned slowly toward my father. “Is that true?” I whispered. “What happened to the rest of the money?” My father couldn’t look me in the eye. He rubbed his weathered hands together, his face turning a deep, shameful crimson. He grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the table, toward the quiet hallway near the restrooms. “We spent it on Tyler’s wedding, Ben,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “He’s family.” “All of it?” I asked, breathless. “Six hundred thousand for his house. A hundred thousand for the honeymoon and the new car. Thirty thousand for tonight… and the fifty thousand we just gave them as a gift.” My mother joined us, her eyes red-rimmed. “You’re successful, Ben! You’ve always been the smart one, the one who could handle himself. But Tyler… if we didn’t help him, he’d never have anything! He’d be alone!” I looked at them—really looked at them. For ten years, I had been their safety net. I’d paid their mortgage, their insurance, their lifestyle. And here they were, exhausted and broke, having bled themselves dry for a cousin who had never worked a day in his life. I nodded slowly, a single, bitter laugh escaping my throat as the tears finally came. “I get it now,” I said. “I was never the son. I was just the bank.” I looked my mother in the eye. “From this moment on, consider me dead. You don’t have a son anymore.” 1 I turned on my heel and walked. I was halfway across the grand ballroom when Tiffany’s voice rang out over the speakers. “Bennett Miller! You forgot your gift!” I stopped. The room went silent. I turned back, my gaze fixed on the happy couple on the stage. Tyler was wearing a smug, “nice guy” mask, holding a microphone. “Hey, come on, Tiff,” Tyler said, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Big city life is expensive. A thousand or so is plenty for a guy like Ben. It’s the thought that counts, right?” I realized then that I still hadn’t taken my check back. I walked back to the head table through a sea of stunned faces. I snatched the envelope, then reached over and took the microphone right out of the MC’s hand. “Good evening, everyone,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “Since my cousin’s house, his car, and every single flower in this room were paid for using my family’s inheritance—money my parents conveniently forgot to tell me existed—I have a public announcement to make.” I looked directly at my parents. “From this day forward, Tyler and Tiffany will be responsible for my parents’ retirement, their medical care, and eventually, their funerals. Since they have the money, they have the duty.” I looked back at the crowd. “As of today, I, Bennett Miller, am officially done with this family. No more checks. No more favors.” I looked at Tyler. “Keep the change, cousin. I hope she was worth it.” I dropped the mic. The thud echoed through the hall as I walked out the double doors and never looked back. The second I hit the sidewalk, my phone started screaming. My dad called, then my mom. I declined them both and blocked the numbers. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me straight to the airport. I didn’t care where I was going, as long as it was back to my life in the city. By the time I unlocked my apartment door, the “Extended Family” group chat was a war zone. I had dozens of messages from my parents’ burner accounts. “Bennett, you went too far! Do you have any idea how embarrassed your uncle was?” “We’re family! Helping Tyler was a family decision! Why are you acting like a child?” “Tiffany almost called off the wedding tonight because of the scene you made! You need to come home tomorrow and apologize!” I scrolled through them with a numb heart and deleted every single one. I opened the group chat—over a hundred unread messages. My parents were in there frantically telling everyone I was “just stressed” and “joking.” I typed out one final message: “Every word I said at the wedding was the truth. I am legally and emotionally done with the Millers. Whoever took the money can take the responsibility of caring for my parents. Goodbye.” I hit send and left the group. A second later, my Aunt Martha called. She didn’t even say hello before she started screaming. “Are you insane? Your father’s heart is weak, and you’re in there starting fires! He’s in the ER right now because of your stunt, and your mother’s blood pressure is through the roof!” “Then call Tyler,” I said. “He has six hundred thousand dollars of my father’s money. He can pay the hospital bill.” “How can you be so cold?” she gasped. “It’s just money, Bennett! You’re talking about your own flesh and blood over a few hundred grand!” “’Just’ a few hundred grand?” I let out a jagged laugh. “If it’s so little, Martha, why don’t you write me a check for it?” Silence. Then, the excuses started. “Tyler just… he doesn’t have your grit, Ben. He needed a head start. Your parents did it because they love him. They said it was just a loan, he’ll pay it back eventually.” “With what? He’s thirty years old and still ‘finding himself.’ He can’t even pay for his own Netflix. They’ve been giving him ‘loans’ my entire life, and not a single dime has ever come back.” I felt a heat rising in my chest. “I’ve spent seven years grinding in this city, and every promotion I got, half the raise went back to them. Three years ago, when they wanted to remodel the house? I gave them sixty thousand dollars—my entire savings. Two years ago, when Dad broke his hip? I was the one who flew back and paid for the private nurse. Last year…” My voice cracked. “Last year, when Mom’s kidneys were failing, I was the one who went under the knife. I gave her my literal kidney so she could live. And this is how they repay me? By giving my future away to a spoiled brat behind my back?” Martha stayed quiet for a long time. “You did those things because you’re a good son, Ben. But—” “I gave them my money, my time, and a piece of my body,” I interrupted. “I’ve paid my debt for being born. Tell them that from now on, whether they live or die is no longer my concern.” I hung up and blocked her, too. I blocked every cousin, every uncle, every family friend who tried to ‘mediate.’ Finally, the silence was absolute. But inside, I felt like a hollowed-out tree—wide open and aching. 2 My screen lit up again. This time it was my landlord. “Hey Ben, just a heads-up. Starting next month, your rent is going up by three hundred. Are you planning to renew?” I stared at the text. “Everywhere else is going down, Mrs. Gable. Why the hike?” “Location, honey. You’re right next to the tech hub. I’ve got a dozen people asking for that unit. I’m giving you a deal at three hundred.” I opened my banking app. $3,500 in my checking. Plus the $1,500 check I’d taken back from the wedding. Five thousand dollars. That was it. After eight years of high-level marketing work, I didn’t even have fifty thousand dollars to my name. I didn’t own a car. I didn’t own a home. I had spent my youth building a foundation for people who had just set fire to mine. I couldn’t stay in this apartment. Not anymore. A week later, I found a place. It was an hour and a half outside the city, a tiny basement studio in a house owned by a grandmotherly woman who only charged eight hundred a month. The commute was a nightmare—four hours a day on the train—but it was the only way I could start saving for a life that was actually mine. A month passed. I lost weight. The bags under my eyes became permanent fixtures. One evening, after a grueling twelve-hour shift, I walked out of my office building and stopped dead. Two figures were standing by the fountain, clutching worn duffel bags. My parents. My mother’s face crumpled the moment she saw me. “Bennett! Oh, thank God. We’ve been waiting for hours!” I felt a flicker of something—pity, maybe—but it was quickly extinguished by a cold wall of granite. “How did you find me?” “We called your old roommate,” my father said, his voice small and desperate. “You blocked us. We didn’t know what else to do.” “We brought you those lemon bars you like,” my mother said, holding out a plastic container. “I remember you said you lived close to the office. Can we go home? I’ll make you a real dinner.” “I moved,” I said shortly. My mother blinked, confused. “Moved? Why? You loved that place.” I didn’t answer. My father looked around at the towering glass buildings, uncomfortable. “Well, wherever it is, let’s go. It’s cold out here, and your mother’s legs are bothering her.” “You aren’t coming to my home,” I said. “I told you. We’re done.” My father’s face hardened. “Bennett, enough of this! We drove six hours to see you! You can’t just turn us away like dogs!” “I didn’t ask you to come.” He went red, the old entitlement flaring up. “I don’t care! We’re here now! You aren’t leaving us on the street!” I sighed, pulled out my phone, and booked the cheapest motel nearby. I sent the confirmation to his phone. “You’re staying there tonight. Tomorrow, you go back to Tyler.” I turned to walk away. My mother grabbed my sleeve, thrusting the lemon bars at me. “Ben, please, just take these…” “I don’t want them.” I shoved the container back, and it hit the pavement, the bars scattering across the concrete. My father exploded. “Are you happy now? Your mother spent all day in a hot kitchen making those for you! Look at her hands—she burned herself twice!” I looked at her hands, and for a second, my heart twisted. But then I remembered the million-dollar check they’d signed over to Tyler. “You’ve always done that,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You give me these cheap, meaningless gestures—cookies, a hand-knit scarf—to prove you ‘care.’ But when it comes to the things that actually matter—my future, my security, my dignity—you throw me to the wolves. If you had an ounce of conscience left, you’d leave me alone.” I gave them one final warning: “If you show up at my office again, I’ll quit. I’ll move to another state and change my name. Don’t test me.”

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After the “Best Actor” and I went public, his fans absolutely incinerated me. I couldn’t take the heat, so I decided to dump him. But then, while filming a high-profile dating reality show, he beat me to the punch. He started playing up a “perfect couple” narrative with the industry’s favorite sweetheart, a rising starlet named Brianna. The internet went wild for them. “Relationship goals,” they called it. “A match made in heaven.” Honestly? I was thrilled. I’d had my eye on the “puppy-dog” rookie contestant, Ryder, for a long time. This was my chance. But the moment I wrote down Ryder’s name for our first one-on-one date, the movie star himself—my supposed ex—snatched the slip of paper right out of my hand. In front of a dozen rolling cameras, his eyes turned a bruised, frantic red. “Dumping me wasn’t enough for you?” he hissed, his voice trembling with a raw, public fury. “Now you’re going to humiliate me by cheating on national television?” 1 My boyfriend—well, my complicated situation—was Nate Cross. Yes, that Nate Cross. Oscar winner, critics’ darling, and the man whose face sold a billion luxury watches. And me? I started out as a “chaos-energy” lifestyle streamer. I was the girl who went viral for doing high-fashion makeup tutorials while eating greasy ribs or reviewing prestige dramas while wearing a dinosaur onesie. I was “relatable” and “authentic,” which in Hollywood terms means “unpolished.” I stumbled into the industry when a talent scout saw me demolish a bucket of fried chicken at a roadside stand. He thought I had “the look.” Curiosity and a craving for something more than a webcam got the better of me, and suddenly, I was the lead in an indie darling. I was green, sure, but I had a face the camera loved. Overnight, I went from a girl in her bedroom to a rising starlet. But fame came with a price tag: the labels. “Eye candy.” “No talent.” “A fluke.” Then came the night that changed everything: a high-stakes fashion gala in Manhattan. That was the night I met Nate. In this industry, he was a god. A man whose silence on screen held more weight than most actors’ monologues. And in person? He was devastating. After the gala, the glamour evaporated. I was a low-priority guest. My manager had vanished into some after-party, and the car service the studio promised was nowhere to be found. I was huddled in a dark corner of the parking garage, shivering in my borrowed couture, trying to call an Uber. Then, a charcoal-gray Rolls Royce Spectre pulled up. The window glided down with a whisper, revealing Nate Cross. “No ride?” he asked. His voice was like expensive bourbon—smooth, dark, and slightly intoxicating. I nodded dumbly. “I’m fine. I’ll just… wait. Thank you, Mr. Cross.” He didn’t listen. He just gave a small, impatient flick of his hand. “Get in.” The interior of the car smelled of sandalwood and success. I sat as far from him as possible, staring at the leather stitching. The silence was thick, heavy with the kind of tension that makes your skin itch. “Why are you staring at the door?” he asked suddenly. “Do I look like a kidnapper?” I shook my head violently. “No, no! I just… you’re very handsome. Even more than on screen. It’s a bit distracting.” It wasn’t a lie. Up close, his features were sharp enough to draw blood. He leaned in, his shadow falling over me. I could feel the heat radiating off him. “I’ve spent my life studying people’s eyes, Cassie. Yours are telling me you’re lying.” I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You’re sharp, Mr. Cross. I’m just nervous. Ha-ha.” He leaned closer. His face was inches from mine, exquisite and terrifying. “I hate lies. Tell me the truth.” I felt like a kid caught whispering in the back of a classroom. My brain short-circuited. I closed my eyes and the words just tumbled out: “I was wondering if you were about to offer me a role in exchange for sex!” The silence that followed was deafening. I wanted to swallow my own tongue. Really, Cassie? The casting couch cliché? If he actually wanted to sleep with me, looking at the two of us, he was the one doing me a favor. The driver’s hands slipped on the steering wheel. Nate froze. The air in the car turned to ice. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears, loud and frantic. Then, he laughed. It was a low, breathless sound of genuine disbelief. “Well,” he murmured, his eyes dancing with a strange light. “That sounds like the girl I’ve seen on Twitch. But tell me… if I was making that offer, would you take it?” Destiny is a funny thing. After that night, our paths crossed everywhere. Award shows, charity galas, table reads. It was messy, it was fast, and somehow, inexplicably, he became mine. 2 We went public after a paparazzo caught us holding hands outside a bistro in Greenwich Village. We figured, why not? Let’s just tell the world. I expected some backlash, but I wasn’t prepared for the execution. In the court of public opinion, the man is almost always forgiven. The woman? She’s the intruder. Nate remained the untouchable king; I became the social climber who’d bewitched him. The night of the announcement, my phone practically melted. “A literal YouTuber? She’s not even in his league.” “She’s using him for clout. Her acting is trash.” “Get out of his life before you ruin his career, you parasite.” Then, a new hashtag started trending: #NateAndBrianna. Nate and Brianna Wells. She was his co-star in his upcoming blockbuster. She was “Classy.” She was “Old Hollywood.” Someone had started buying bot accounts to flood the feeds with “leaked” behind-the-scenes clips of them looking cozy. Even I had to admit, the edits were beautiful. I shoved my phone under Nate’s nose one evening. “Your fans are talented. I’m almost rooting for you two myself.” I expected a joke, or at least a reassuring hug. Instead, Nate frowned, a flicker of cold annoyance crossing his face. He reached out and clicked the screen off. “Stop looking at that garbage,” he said. “You’re in the big leagues now, Cassie. You need to learn the difference between what’s real and what’s a PR stunt.” “And what’s real, Nate? Tell me.” “The noise will die down in a few days,” he said, turning back to his script. “I’ll have my team put out some counter-narratives. It’s just business.” Something in me snapped. I slammed the phone face-down on the mahogany table. The noise made him jump. “I shouldn’t have to be ‘business’ to you! I’ve been ripped apart for three days straight. I’m exhausted.” “Are you looking for a fight?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. “I’m looking for an exit,” I spat. “I’m done, Nate. We’re over.” He closed his leather-bound script and looked at me with the cool, analytical gaze he used for his characters. “If you’re ending this because you can’t handle a little internet gossip, then you aren’t cut out for this industry. It’s a transaction, Cassie. You trade privacy for privilege. If you can’t balance the ledger, that’s on you.” His face was a masterpiece of emotion, but his words were cold, hard steel. I started to laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You’re so rational, aren’t you? So, using that brilliant logic of yours, you should know we’re a terrible match.” That hit a nerve. I saw his jaw tighten. It was true. We were two different species. He lived at the gym; I lived on my sofa. He studied Chekhov; I memorized TikTok trends. He was the gala; I was the after-party. I didn’t even know why he’d pursued me in the first place. Was I just a “wild” phase? A bit of “abstract” flavor to spice up his curated life? I couldn’t live like that. “We’re over,” I said, my voice steady for once. “Say anything else,” he said, “but don’t say that. You don’t understand how this works. I can explain—” “I don’t want a lecture! Get out!” He blinked, looking around the room. “Cassie… this is my house.” My face burned. The last shred of my dignity evaporated. I ended up sobbing as I scrambled out the door and into the night, looking like a total wreck. 3 “I mean, who does he think he is?” I wailed. Maddie, my manager, patted my shoulder and handed me a tissue. “Couples fight, honey. But Nate Cross? He’s famously difficult. You might have been a bit… impulsive.” I blew my nose with enough force to rattle the windows. “It’s not just the fight. He doesn’t love me. He treats me like a pet. A shiny little bird he can keep in a cage until he’s bored.” “Being Nate Cross’s pet bird pays pretty well, though,” Maddie muttered. I stared at her, horrified. “Not you too!” Maddie sighed, her expression softening. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Stop crying.” “I can’t even cry now? Is Hollywood a ‘no-sobbing’ zone?” “No,” Maddie said, leaning in. “But these tissues are five dollars a box at the studio, and you’re on box four.” When it rains, it pours. My life was a country song. I started sobbing even harder. Finally, Maddie pulled out her secret weapon. “Look, I brought you here for a reason. Look at this before you dehydrate yourself.” My eyes were swollen like golf balls. “What is it?” “It’s an offer for The Final Lover,” she said. “The new dating reality show everyone’s talking about. It’s huge. Every agency is trying to get their rookies on it. It’s your chance to pivot, Cassie. Show the world who you are away from Nate. Build your own brand.” The crying slowed to a hiccup. “Really? But I’m a mess. My mentions are a war zone.” Maddie sat next to me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why do you think they want you? You’re the hottest topic in the country right now! We’ll play it smart. We’ll lean into the drama, then give you a redemption arc. You’ll be fine.” I guess the industry really does squeeze every drop of blood out of you. “I’ve never done a reality show. Is there a script? What do I do?” Maddie smiled, the sharp, predatory grin of a woman who knows she’s won. “Now you’re talking. Of course there’s a ‘direction.’ We want you to pair up with Ryder Brooks.” “Ryder Brooks?” Suddenly, my back stopped aching, my headache vanished, and the Nate-shaped hole in my heart felt a little smaller. “The Ryder Brooks? The one who just won that talent competition? The one with the dimples?” Maddie eyed me suspiciously. “What are you planning?” I grabbed her hands, my eyes bright. “Maddie, I stayed up until 4:00 AM voting for that boy to win. I am a fan.” “I thought Nate was your idol?” “Nate is the past,” I said firmly. “I’m looking toward the future. And the future has great hair and a TikTok-famous smile.” Maddie laughed. “If you actually like him, this is even easier. The producers want a ‘rivals-to-lovers’ arc. You’ll start off bickering, then have a big romantic payoff. You’ll get some hate at first, but we’ll fix it in the edit.” She handed me a folder. “Here’s the breakdown. But listen, Cassie—this is the first show that’s going to be live-streamed 24/7. You have to be careful. No slips. Keep the ‘sparks’ flying, but don’t actually burn the house down.” She looked at me with a mix of affection and exhaustion. “Just think of it as a paid vacation. Eat some good food, look pretty, and try not to start a scandal.” I puffed out my chest. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” Maddie muttered under her breath, “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” 4 The filming took place at a sprawling estate in the Hudson Valley. By the time the city lights faded into the dark, misty woods of upstate New York, we had arrived. I peeked through the tinted windows of the SUV. The courtyard was lit with Edison bulbs. Long, white wooden tables were set with champagne and fruit. Three male contestants and two female contestants were already there, mingling under the watchful eye of several cameras. The producers had saved me for the “Grand Entrance.” They were all laughing in the evening breeze. One girl, in a white sundress, looked like a literal angel; the other was a “sporty-chic” girl with an effortless vibe. The guys were already circling them like sharks. The door opened. I stepped out, dragging my suitcase, and the world seemed to pause. Unlike the “angel” in white, I went for “femme fatale.” I was wearing a blood-red silk slip dress that hugged every curve. I looked like a rose in a field of daisies—loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore. I could feel the shift in the air. The “wow” factor was real. I walked toward the group, my heels clicking against the stone path, keeping a steady, rhythmic beat. The men’s eyes drifted away from the other girls, landing on me with a mix of curiosity and naked admiration. I gave them my best “streamer” smile—bright, bold, and just a little bit dangerous. “Hey everyone! Sorry I’m late. Did I miss the good snacks?” I flicked my hair over my shoulder, leaning into the character. The live-stream chat was probably exploding right now. Half of them wanting to be me, the other half wanting to bury me. One of the guys snapped out of his trance and handed me a glass of sparkling cider. “I’m Marcus. You look like you had a long trip. Drink up.” I thanked him sweetly, my eyes scanning the group. And there he was. Ryder Brooks. He was even better-looking in person. He had that “boy next door” charm that made you want to tell him your secrets. Another guy stepped forward to take my bag. “I’m Silas. But you can call me Sy. And you are?” “Cassie,” I said. “But my friends call me Cass.” The introductions went around. The “angel” was Sierra, and the sporty girl was Maya. Ryder was the only one who seemed a bit reserved. I remembered the “rivals” script—I was supposed to start off on the wrong foot with him. I sighed internally. Being mean to that face was going to be hard work. Just as I was about to head inside to drop off my bags, the sound of a heavy engine echoed through the courtyard. A black SUV—the kind used by Secret Service or A-listers—rolled to a stop. The cameras pivoted instantly. I felt a chill crawl up my spine. This wasn’t in the briefing. The door opened. A pair of long, expensive-looking legs stepped out, followed by a face that had haunted my dreams for months. Nate Cross. But he wasn’t alone. Following him was Brianna Wells. She was in a soft pink off-the-shoulder dress, looking like a dream. She hopped out and immediately caught Nate’s arm, throwing him a look so sweet it could cause cavities. The temperature in my blood dropped to zero. The other contestants started whispering, the tension thick enough to choke on. I felt like the world was shrinking, the cameras closing in on my face to catch the exact moment my heart hit the floor. I forced my features into a mask of bored indifference. Nate and Brianna walked toward us. Brianna addressed the group with a practiced, radiant smile. “Sorry for the surprise, everyone! The producers asked us to join you as ‘Relationship Mentors.’ We’re here to give you some guidance and hopefully help you find what we’ve found.” Nate’s eyes swept over the group. He didn’t linger on me. He looked at me as if I were a piece of furniture he was thinking about replacing. “I hope you all find what you’re looking for,” he said, his voice cold and professional. The group erupted into applause. The producers had hit the jackpot. Tomorrow’s headlines were already written. It was going to be a massacre.

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The day my father’s heart finally started to fail, I sold the diamond pavé necklace Nate had given me as a wedding gift. I needed thirty thousand dollars for the emergency surgery, and I needed it by morning. The next day, Nate found out. He bought the necklace back, walked into our penthouse, and threw it at my face. It hit my cheek with a cold, metallic sting. “Gold digger,” he whispered, a sharp, effortless smirk playing on his lips. “I knew you’d show your true colors eventually.” From that day on, the rotation of girls in Nate’s life changed weekly. He didn’t hide them; he flaunted them. Every time he spent a small fortune on another woman—a Birkin, a trip to the Maldives, a Cartier watch—he’d send me a screenshot of the receipt. Then, he’d Venmo me exactly ten cents. She’s young, she’s vibrant, and she’s worth the millions I spend on her, his messages would read. As for you? This is your market value. I endured it all until the night my father’s condition spiraled again. He needed eighty thousand dollars for a life-saving procedure. I swallowed the last of my pride and went to the club where Nate was holding court. I found him with his arm around his latest plaything, his eyes cold and distant. When I begged him for the money, he didn’t even look up. Instead, he used the toe of his bespoke Italian loafers to tap a bottle of high-proof bourbon on the table. “Back for more, Rebecca? Fine. You want the cash? Earn it.” He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “Ten thousand dollars a glass. You thirsty?” I stared at him, my heart breaking in the middle of that neon-lit room. I could feel the mocking stares of his friends, the silent judgment of the waitresses. But I thought of my father in that sterile hospital bed. I reached for the glass. The first shot burned like liquid fire. By the fourth, my stomach was a knot of agony. By the eighth, I had to bite my tongue until it bled just to stay upright. As I drained the final glass, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the hospital. They told me that because the treatment hadn’t started in time, my father was gone. … 1 By the time I reached the hospital, they had already moved him. In the morgue, the air felt like it was made of lead. I pulled back the white sheet, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip the fabric. My father looked so small. The illness had carved him down to nothing but bone and pale, translucent skin. My tears fell onto his face, and I tried to brush them away, but my hands were clumsy, useless. The grief I’d been suppressing all night finally shattered. I collapsed onto the freezing linoleum floor, clutching his hand, and let out a sound that didn’t even feel human. “Dad… please. Don’t leave me alone in this. Not like this.” The hospital staff, weathered by a thousand deaths, waited until I was hollowed out, until my eyes were dry and my throat was raw. Then, a nurse handed me a clipboard. “Mrs. Beckett, I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said softly. “This is the final statement for your father’s care. You can settle it at the billing office on the first floor.” I took the paper with numb fingers. $35,659. I opened my banking app. My balance was forty-three dollars. Not even enough for the tip on the Uber ride here. I was rehearsing a plea in my head, wondering how to ask a hospital for a payment plan for a dead man, when a notification popped up. Nate had sent a transfer. Exactly $80,000. The “blood money” I had literally poisoned myself for tonight. It was useless now. A second later, his text arrived. [See? I knew you were faking that stomach condition. You can certainly hold your liquor when there’s a check on the line.] [Honestly, Rebecca, is there anything you won’t do for a dollar?] This was my life now. Ever since he decided I’d married him for the Beckett name and the trust fund, the humiliation was a daily ritual. The world saw me as the ultimate social climber—the girl who traded her soul for a penthouse in the city. But it was Nate who had begged me to marry him. It was Nate who asked me to quit my career in architectural design to stay home and care for his ailing mother when she was sick. I had never asked him for a dime. I used my own savings for the groceries, for the utilities, for everything. When my father first got sick, Nate was away on a business trip in a dead zone. I couldn’t reach him. My savings were gone, drained by the specialists and the mounting bills. Selling that necklace was my last resort, my only way to save my father. But that one act of desperation had broken the spine of our marriage. It made me a “gold digger” in his eyes, and he refused to hear a single word of explanation. [You want money? Just say it. Don’t lie about your father’s life, he’d said back then, his face twisted in disgust. You want to get paid, Rebecca? Then start acting like an employee.] Now, standing in the hospital corridor, the bourbon finally caught up with me. My stomach revolted. I barely made it to a trash can before I was retching, the acid searing my throat. It was nothing compared to the pain in my chest. I wiped my mouth and turned off my phone. In the billing line, two women in front of me were whispering. They smelled of expensive perfume and cigarettes—likely regulars at the clubs Nate frequented. They were watching a video on a phone. I recognized the man instantly. It was Nate. He was at a table covered in bottles that cost more than my car. He was looking at a young girl—maybe twenty-two—with a look of pure, indulgent adoration. He was laughing as she poured a vintage bottle of champagne over her hands just to “wash” them. “God, Nate is so obsessed with Amber,” one of the women sighed. “He bought her eighty-eight bottles of Louis XIII tonight. If he’s this generous now, imagine when they’re married.” “He has to get rid of that poor-trash wife first,” the other replied. “I heard she’s a total leech. She’ll never sign the papers; she’d rather die than lose the paycheck.” I walked out of the hospital at 3:00 AM. The early winter wind cut through my coat like a serrated blade. Holding my father’s death certificate, I felt a sudden, terrifying sense of vertigo. I had no idea where to go. Since the necklace incident, Nate had restricted me to a “stipend” of two thousand dollars a month for the entire household. To pay for my father’s extra care, I’d been driving for a ride-share app twelve hours a day. My legs would be so heavy by the end of a shift I could barely walk. I hadn’t minded the work. I just wanted my father to have a little more time. I just wanted Nate to listen to me for five minutes. I remembered how he used to defend me. When we first got engaged, people whispered that I was “punching above my weight.” Nate would get red-faced and furious, telling them he was the lucky one, that it took him a year to convince me to even go out with him. Now? “They were right about you,” he’d sneered the first time he brought a woman home. “You’re just a sophisticated grifter. I can’t believe I didn’t see the con earlier.” When I finally snapped and screamed at him, he’d slapped me. He told me I’d already sold our love for thirty thousand dollars. He told me he was paying two thousand a month for a “cheap maid,” so what right did I have to be angry? I couldn’t understand how the man who once promised me the world had become the man who wanted to destroy mine. But as I stood on the sidewalk, the realization finally clicked. It didn’t matter why he changed. It only mattered that he was gone. There was nothing left to save. I reached for my phone to call him and tell him I wanted a divorce, but he beat me to it. “Five thousand dollars,” he said as soon as I picked up. “I’m at 88 Longwood. Amber and I need a ride to the hotel. Be here in fifteen minutes. Every minute you’re late, I dock a grand.” He hung up before I could breathe. I closed my eyes and forced the bile down. Fine. Some things are better said in person. When I arrived at the address, he was standing on the curb with a group of friends, all of them polished and glowing with expensive liquor. He checked his watch and tutted. “Two minutes late. That’s two thousand off your fee.” Before I could tell him I’d been drinking and shouldn’t be driving, the group erupted in laughter. “Careful, Nate! She’s going to have a heart attack over two grand!” one guy shouted. “Hey, Nate’s just being a gentleman,” another chimed in. “The hotel is only two blocks away, but he doesn’t want Amber’s feet to hurt.” The girl—Amber—stepped forward. She had been with Nate for a month now, a record for his post-necklace phase. She looked at me with a performative, sugary pity. “Rebecca, honey, I’m so sorry to drag you out so late.” She pulled twenty Benjamin Franklins out of her designer clutch, counting them slowly. “Nate and I realized we’re out of… protection. Could you be a doll and run to the pharmacy? Get the ultra-thin ones, Nate doesn’t like the other kind. You can keep the change as a tip.” She held the money out, but just as I reached for it, she flinched like she’d touched something filthy. The bills fluttered to the wet pavement. “Oops. My germaphobia is acting up. Do you mind picking those up yourself?” I looked at Nate, my teeth gritted so hard I thought they might shatter. He just arched an eyebrow. “Is that not enough? I thought your dad was dying and you were desperate. Go get the condoms, Rebecca, and I’ll throw in another twenty thousand. Deal?” He shouldn’t have mentioned my father. Not tonight. Not with that smirk. “What’s the matter?” he mocked. “Grown a conscience all of a sudden? Or is the price just going up?” He saw my fists trembling at my sides and his expression went cold. “You want to hit me? Go ahead. But don’t forget who’s paying for your father’s ICU bed. You lay a hand on me, and he’s out on the street by morning.” Every word was an arrow. Sharp, poisoned, hitting every vital organ. I felt the blood in my chest, the metaphorical skin and hair being ripped away. Amber and her friends were giggling, watching Nate treat me like a stray dog. A sudden, violent cramp seized my stomach. Before I could say a word, I felt the warm, metallic rush in my throat. I couldn’t stop it. I coughed, and a spray of bright, crimson blood splattered across the front of Nate’s white dress shirt. The world went silent. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to stay upright, trying to cling to the last shred of my dignity. But the ground began to tilt. As the darkness rushed in, I thought I heard a voice—sharp, panicked, and stripped of all its cruelty—shouting a name I hadn’t heard him use in a year. “Rebecca!”

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I was Harper’s oldest habit. When I left for my doctoral program in London, she found a stand-in—a man who looked enough like me to fool a casual observer, but with none of the history. Three years later, I came back. Harper kept her boy-toy on the side, tucked away in a downtown loft, while she walked down the aisle with me. But secrets in New York high society are like oil spills; they eventually blacken everything they touch. I found out. Of course I found out. I cried. I screamed. I begged, using the title of husband like a shield, hoping it would protect me from the truth. Harper just looked at me with that aristocratic disappointment she’d perfected over the years. “Enough, Mason. Can you stop being so dramatic? Caleb isn’t like you. He doesn’t care about these petty jealousies.” She smoothed the lapel of my jacket. “What I promised you hasn’t changed. I am still your wife. Forever.” But my pride—the quiet, stubborn kind that runs in my family’s blood—couldn’t stomach a marriage with a third person in the bed. I found the body double privately. I played the role of the lawful husband. I told him to get out of our lives. That night, Harper had her security team drag me to a private clinic off the books. The anesthesia was a thin veil; it didn’t block the pain, only my ability to scream. I felt the scalpel trace a line of fire across my skin. I felt the hollow ache as my kidney was torn from me, harvested to save the sickly dog Caleb had just adopted. It was absurd. It was grotesque. Harper looked down at me, her eyes arctic. “Mason, I told you. Don’t touch Caleb.” I died on that table, bleeding out into the sterile white sheets. When I opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic was gone, replaced by the scent of expensive hairspray and lilies. I was back. It was the morning of our wedding. This time, I didn’t rush her to get to the church. I didn’t check my watch with anxious excitement. instead, I picked up my phone and dialed my mentor back in London. “Professor Banks,” I said, my voice steady. “That research position you offered? I’ll take it.” “I’ll be there in seven days.” … 1 “Mason, listen to me—I’ve been in a minor accident. Go to the chapel, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Harper’s voice was frantic on the other end of the line. Before I could speak, the line went dead. In my past life—the one where I died—I had panicked. I had called every hospital, every mutual friend, terrorclawing at my throat. This time, I simply pressed the side button and watched the screen go black. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The tuxedo was midnight blue, the fit impeccable. I looked like the perfect groom. I smiled, a dry, humorless quirk of the lips. It was my first time wearing the horns of a betrayed man, knowingly. Seven days. That was enough time to untangle our finances, sign the papers, and vanish from Harper’s life like smoke. On the drive to what was supposed to be the venue, I saw them. Harper’s Porsche had clipped a guardrail. But she wasn’t alone. A man in a tailored suit was leaning on her, his hands gripping her shoulders. His leg was bleeding sluggishly. So, the crash was real. Compelled by some dark curiosity, I pulled over, keeping the engine running. Through the window, I saw him. Caleb. He was handsome in a fragile, boyish way. He was clutching a stack of photos like they were holy scripture. “Harper, I’m not going to the hospital! I just need to raise money for these kids in the mountains. They need schools, they need food. I’m doing this for them.” He looked at her with wide, pleading eyes. “You wouldn’t see me, so I had to intercept you here.” Harper took the photos, her brow furrowed in that way I used to think meant she was thinking deeply, but now realized meant she was annoyed. “Caleb, I understand. But do you realize today is my wedding day?” “Does that man matter more to you than the lives of these children?” Caleb shouted, throwing his arms wide, wincing theatrically. “If you don’t help me, they could die!” Harper hesitated. Silence stretched for three seconds. Then, she reached out and took his hand. “Okay. Shh. I’m listening. Whatever you want.” Her voice dropped to a soothing coo. “Let me get you to a doctor first.” I watched, feeling a phantom ache in the scar that didn’t exist yet. Harper knew how to be gentle. She just never chose to be gentle with me. I pulled out my phone and typed a message. My suit button popped. Bad omen. The wedding is off. Don’t bother coming to the reception hall. I hit send. A hundred feet away, Harper checked her phone. Her shoulders visibly relaxed. The tension left her body as she helped Caleb into the passenger seat. In my last life, when she finally showed up at the wedding—hours late, disheveled—our friends looked at me with a mix of pity and morbid fascination. I still remember the burn of their gazes. Things I couldn’t understand then were crystal clear now. Everyone knew. Everyone except me knew that Harper had been in love with someone else for years. Why would the heiress of the empire wait three years for a poor academic? Since she wanted him so badly, this time, I would let her have him. 2 The City Clerk’s office was quiet. I handed over my ID and the paperwork to the clerk. She typed for a moment, frowned, and looked up. “Sir, your marital status is listed as ‘Single’.” I stood there, frozen. A cold shockwave rattled my bones. “That’s impossible. Check again. My wife is Harper. We’ve been married… well, we signed the papers.” She shook her head, turning the screen slightly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jiang. There is no record of a marriage license.” I started to laugh. It was a wet, jagged sound. Tears hot and fast, spilling over my lashes. It was all fake. Even the paper binding us had been a lie. I forced myself to walk out, my legs feeling like lead. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor, because I ran into them again near the park entrance. Harper was sitting on a stone bench, her expensive coat draped over the dirt, massaging Caleb’s ankle. Her long, elegant fingers—fingers I had kissed a thousand times—traced the line of his jaw. “Don’t be sad, Caleb,” she murmured. “The wedding with Mason was just a show for the board of directors. The certificate is a forgery. It’s not real.” Caleb beamed, a bright, victorious smile. My heart felt like it was being carved out with a dull knife. I had tried to use that piece of paper to bind her to me. She treated it like confetti. I had used my title as “husband” to drive Caleb away. In return, she had carved me open. “He’s just a bookworm,” Caleb sneered, his voice carrying on the wind. “What does he have on you? Even if you married him, that paper doesn’t mean you belong to him.” “Let’s get you home,” Harper said, standing up and kissing his forehead with a tenderness that made me nauseous. “I’ll handle the donation. Just rest.” She looked happy. Truly, radiantly happy. In my previous life, she never kissed me first. Even when I begged for intimacy, she looked at me like I was a chore she hadn’t gotten around to outsourcing. I wiped my face. The pain in my palm where my nails dug in grounded me. They disappeared into a black SUV. I took out my phone and opened the airline app. I changed my flight. I was leaving in two days, not seven. Why wait? The show was over. I looked at my lock screen—a selfie Harper sent me last New Year’s Eve. I felt a hollow, arctic wind blow through my chest. Back then, I was guarding a phone screen, thinking I was the luckiest man alive. Who was she holding while she typed that message? That evening, I went back to the house—technically her house—to get my things. In the living room, Harper was changing the dressing on Caleb’s leg. When she saw me, she froze for a split second, then smoothed her expression into a mask of casual indifference. “I had a car accident,” she said effortlessly. “Caleb saved me. He was injured in the process, so I’m helping him.” I nodded, playing the fool one last time. “Thank you, Caleb.” “It’s late, and he’s hurt,” Harper said, not looking me in the eye. “Clear out your room. He can sleep there tonight. You can sleep in my room.” My smile felt like it was painted on. The first time we would share a bed, and it was only to make space for her lover. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll take the sofa.” I walked past them to the guest room—my room. It was already mostly empty. Just the suitcase I’d brought back from London. My imprint on this house was as ghostly as my marriage. I packed the last of my toiletries and wheeled the suitcase out. Caleb was leaning against the doorframe, smirking. “So, you’re Mason?” “I’ve heard about you,” he whispered, low enough that Harper couldn’t hear from the living room. “You smell like poverty. Harper doesn’t love you. You get that, right?” I tried to step around him. He grabbed my arm. “You have no shame, do you? Clinging to her like a parasite. You’ve been together seven years—has she ever asked for you? In bed? I’ve known her three years, and let’s just say… we’ve been busy.” Something snapped. I shoved him off me. It wasn’t a hard shove, but Caleb collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. He hit the floor with a thud that sounded rehearsed. “Mason! I was just trying to help you with your bags!” he wailed, his voice pitching up into a victim’s tremolo. “I know you hate me because I’m close to Harper, but you didn’t have to attack me!” I turned around. Harper was standing there, her face a mask of thunder. 3 “Mason, what the hell are you doing? Are you really this petty?” Harper marched over, helping Caleb up. “All these years you were abroad, did I ever question you? And now you’re assaulting the man who saved my life just because I helped bandage him?” “He saved me, Mason. Do you understand that?” I looked down, saying nothing. Seven years ago, I gave her a kidney. I saved her life. She seemed to have rewritten that history entirely. My silence only fueled her rage. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “I’m telling you one last time: Caleb and I are just friends. He is my savior!” I closed my eyes. I was too tired for this. “Okay. I understand.” “You understand? Then get on your knees and apologize to him.” Caleb let out a pained gasp, clutching his side. The memory of the cold table, the scalpel, the night wind on my open skin… I started to tremble. Not from fear, but from a cold, visceral revulsion. I was leaving in forty-eight hours. What did dignity matter to a dead man walking? I clenched my fists and lowered myself to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I said to Caleb’s shoes. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.” Caleb leaned into Harper, looking like a wounded saint. “It’s okay, Mason. I get it. You’ve been in academia too long; you’re socially stunted. Just… don’t hurt Harper in the future.” Harper shot me a look of pure disgust and helped Caleb into her bedroom. I stood up, my knees cracking, and dragged my suitcase back into the shadows. The next morning, I was about to leave to run an errand when the front door was kicked open. “Mason, you son of a bitch! What did you say to him?” Harper stormed in, wild-eyed. “I went out to get breakfast and he’s gone!” I stood there, blinking. “I didn’t say anything.” She crossed the room and slapped me. The sound cracked through the air like a whip. She shoved her phone in my face. A text message from Caleb: Harper, I’m leaving. I can’t stay and ruin your relationship with Mason. He offered me five million to stay away from you. I can’t take the money, but I can’t stay. I’d rather die. “I warned you, Mason. Don’t touch him.” Her voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “If anything happens to him, I will make you wish you were dead.” “You think I don’t know?” she hissed. “Seven years ago, it wasn’t you who saved me. It was Caleb. I only kept you around out of pity, you pathetic charity case.” “You are just a dog I keep, Mason. Do you understand?” She grabbed my collar. “You have three hours. Find him. Or I will have your parents’ graves dug up and their ashes scattered in the sewer.” A chill went through me. So that was it. She thought Caleb was the donor. My heart hit the floor, shattered, and then… silence. A strange, weightless peace settled over me. I looked into her eyes. “Okay. I’ll find him.” I intended to agree just to get out the door and head straight to the airport. But Harper wasn’t stupid. She had two bodyguards flank me. Three hours later, I was strapped to a surgical table again. A large screen on the wall showed a live feed of a cemetery. Men with shovels were standing over my parents’ headstones. “Harper, please!” I strained against the straps. “I didn’t do anything to Caleb! Check the house cameras! Check my bank accounts! I never offered him money!” “Please, leave my parents out of this! For the sake of seven years ago—when I saved you!” Harper frowned, her expression bored. “People like you aren’t worth my time.” She smiled then, a cold, jagged thing. “Since you insist you gave me a kidney seven years ago… let’s take the other one. Now we’re even.” She waved her hand and walked out. The door clicked shut. I could hear the sweat dripping from my forehead onto the vinyl. The cold blade touched my abdomen. I screamed until the darkness took me. I woke up with a fire in my gut. A long bandage was taped over my side, covering the old scar and the new incision. I heard a bodyguard on the phone in the hallway. “Miss Harper, yes. We opened him up. There was… only one kidney. We couldn’t harvest anything.” Silence on the other end. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to sit up. The pain was blinding, white-hot. I dragged myself to my suitcase. I pulled out three things. The proof that our marriage license was a forgery. The donor agreement I had signed seven years ago, stained with a drop of old blood. And a conch shell she had given me three years ago at the airport. If you miss me, she had said, put this to your ear. The ocean sounds like my love for you. I left them on the bed. The bodyguards were changing shifts. I knew the rotation. I slipped out the back service entrance, clutching my side. My phone buzzed. Flight Boarding Now. As I limped into the terminal, I blocked Harper on everything. Phone. Email. Socials. Goodbye, Harper.

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I liked my wife. I liked that she was a Bishop, I liked that our merger solidified the market share for both our conglomerates, but mostly, I liked that she was clinically, obsessively fastidious. Camilla had germaphobia. She treated physical contact with the grim necessity of a surgeon scrubbing in. Her boundaries were electric fences. So, when I watched her peel a jumbo shrimp at the company gala—stripping the shell with bare, manicured fingers—and drop the pink meat onto her male assistant’s plate, I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t say a word. I simply went home, stopped by the fish market on the wharf, and bought ten pounds of raw, unpeeled shrimp. When she arrived at the penthouse, I dumped the icy, grey pile onto the marble dining table. “Peel them,” I said, my voice smooth as aged scotch. “Since you enjoy the labor so much.” A woman without boundaries is like a bad investment: if she can’t be corrected, you liquidate the asset and move on. After all, I have my own compulsions about cleanliness. 1 When I walked into the private dining room at Le Bernardin, a boy I didn’t recognize was already sitting there, using his own fork to spear a piece of sea cucumber from Camilla’s plate. Not a serving spoon. His fork. I smiled, nodding to the board members, but my eyes locked on the boy who hadn’t bothered to stand up. The sales director next to him looked nervous. “This is Mr. Montgomery. Our President’s husband.” The boy finally stood, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He had that soft, artfully messy hair that Gen Z seems to favor. “Hello, sir. I’m Rory, the new executive assistant. First time meeting you. Please take care of me.” I looked down, hiding a smirk, and didn’t take the bait. I just took the nearest seat. I went through the motions—the small talk, the corporate pleasantries—but my attention was a laser focused across the table. I watched Camilla eat the sea cucumber Rory had contaminated. Then, I watched Rory stare helplessly at a large langoustine on the seafood tower. He bit his lip, his eyes wide and pleading as they drifted to Camilla. Camilla frowned, just slightly. Then, she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, cracked the shell with efficient grace, and tossed the meat into Rory’s bowl. I narrowed my eyes, pulled out my phone, and texted Arthur, our house manager. Buy ten pounds of shrimp. Boil them. Leave them on the dining table. Just as I hit send, Rory, who had been quiet, suddenly spoke up. “Mr. Montgomery, I honestly envy you. You have such a good life. You married a powerhouse like Ms. Bishop, and now you just get to stay home and enjoy the fortune. Unlike us corporate cattle, slaving away just to survive.” I looked up. My gaze lingered on his young, symmetrical face. “You’re definitely new,” I said, my tone dry. “Your manners are nonexistent.” Rory froze. He clearly hadn’t expected the trophy husband to bite back. Immediately, his face crumbled into a look of practiced vulnerability. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just unfiltered—I speak from the heart. Please don’t hold it against me.” His eyes dropped explicitly to my Patek Philippe and my custom Armani suit. “It’s just… seeing you so well-dressed, spending so freely… it makes my heart ache for Ms. Bishop. She sacrificed so much to get the company to where it is today.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I propped my chin on my hand and just looked at him. The rest of the table, however, looked terrified. The Product Director slammed his glass down. “What the hell are you saying? Do you think Mr. Montgomery is some idle socialite? In this room, we call him Mr. Montgomery out of respect, but out there, he is CEO Montgomery.” Rory blinked, looking genuinely lost. The sales manager next to him whispered harshly, “Mr. Montgomery and Ms. Bishop are a merger of two dynasties. He is the sole heir to the Montgomery Group. Stop talking before you get us all fired. Apologize!” Rory’s face went pale. He bit his lip, and his large, doe eyes filled with instant, misty tears. He looked at Camilla for rescue. Camilla met my amused gaze. She shook her head, a sigh escaping her lips. “Apologize to him, Rory. Watch your words in the future. Learn the hierarchy. If you don’t know, ask.” Rory turned to me, his voice trembling. “Sir… I’m sorry.” I stood up, not bothering to look at him. “I have another engagement. Enjoy the rest of the meal.” It was 10:00 PM when I finished my own meetings. Camilla was waiting for me in the underground garage, leaning against the hood of her Maybach. She opened the passenger door for me, same as always. The drive to our estate in the Hamptons was quiet, the air conditioning humming a steady rhythm. When we got home, she went to shower. When she came out, wrapped in white silk, I dumped Arthur’s ten pounds of shrimp onto the table. They were cooked perfectly, piled high in crystal bowls, stretching the length of the table. A grotesque buffet of pink. Camilla looked at the mountain of shellfish, then at me. I smiled, warm and terrifying. “Honey. Peel them for me.” 2 “Did you not eat enough at dinner?” Camilla asked, bewildered. “Why buy so much? You can’t possibly eat all this.” She reached for the bell to summon Arthur. “Stop,” I said softly. “I want you to peel them. With your own hands.” Camilla paused. A flicker of annoyance crossed her perfect features. “Declan, you know I have germaphobia.” “Do you?” I leaned back, loosening my tie. “Because tonight, I watched you peel shrimp for your little assistant with remarkable dexterity.” She froze, then let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, is that what this is? You’re jealous?” She sat beside me, draping an arm over my shoulders, the scent of her expensive body wash filling the space between us. “I rarely see you possessive. I thought the great Declan Montgomery was always unflappable.” She kissed my forehead, patronizing and sweet. “He’s just an intern, Declan. He’s fresh out of college, knows nothing about the world. He speaks without thinking. I just saw a kid struggling and helped him out. If it bothers you, I promise I won’t do it again.” I looked at her face. We had been married three years. She was thirty now, and time hadn’t touched her; it had only refined her, like polishing a diamond. I reached up and touched her cheek. “Camilla, do you know why I chose you out of every eligible heiress in New York?” She tilted her head. “Because you were clean,” I said. “Your parents told me you hated physical contact with strangers. That you were obsessive about your boundaries.” “It was perfect. Because I’m the same way.” I held her gaze until her smile faltered. “Our marriage is a binding contract between the Montgomery and Bishop empires. We have a good partnership. But I expect this marriage to remain sterile. Efficient. Clean. Whether it’s you and me, or our companies, I need things to run without contamination. Don’t disappoint me.” I stood up, bent down, and kissed her lips. “Peel the shrimp. Consider it penance for letting another man breach your perimeter. Be a good girl.” I went to bed early. I don’t know when she came to sleep. The next morning, the dining table was covered in bowls of perfectly peeled shrimp meat. Camilla was gone—an emergency board meeting, Arthur said. Arthur stood silently by the table. “You have a big family, Arthur?” I asked. “Yes, sir.” “Take these home. My wife peeled them by hand. They should be very clean. Don’t let them go to waste.” Life returned to normal. The incident felt like a blip, a dash of vinegar in an otherwise bland dish. If anything, she was more attentive. I didn’t have the time to track who she interacted with. I was running the Montgomery Group; I had acquisitions to finalize. A month later, she came to pick me up for a family dinner at the Bishop estate. As the car pulled up and the window rolled down, I didn’t see an empty seat. I saw Rory’s smiling face in the passenger seat. I frowned. 3 “Hi, sir! You look dashing today!” Rory seemed oblivious to the temperature drop in the air. He beamed, radiating that toxic mix of naivety and entitlement. Camilla’s expression was neutral. She didn’t see the problem. I didn’t smile. I walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and stared at him. “Get out.” Rory’s smile froze. “Sir… Ms. Bishop was just giving me a ride home. It was on the way. I get carsick in the back.” He turned, casting a desperate look at Camilla. Camilla looked at me, saw the set of my jaw, and decided this wasn’t the hill to die on. She stayed silent. “Get out,” I repeated. “Let Mr. Montgomery sit,” Camilla finally said. Rory bit his lip, eyes glistening, and climbed out with dramatic slowness. He reached for the back door handle. “Who said you could get back in?” I asked. Rory stopped. I reached into my breast pocket, pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. “Can’t afford an Uber? Life is tough. Here. This covers it. Go home. Safe travels.” Camilla looked uncomfortable. “Declan…” I turned to her, smiling brightly. “Camilla, this reflects poorly on you. If your staff is so destitute they can’t afford a ride, that’s a failure of leadership. Starting tomorrow, raise the travel stipend for all level-three employees by 10%. Bill it to the Montgomery Group.” Rory’s eyes were now brimming with tears. He had the ‘brave victim’ look down to a science. “Sir,” his voice trembled. “I may be poor, but I have dignity. You can’t just use your money to humiliate me because you’re the CEO!” I laughed. I actually laughed. “You’re too poor for a cab, so you mooch off your boss, but me paying for your ride is an insult? Does your dignity require the CEO personally chauffeuring you to remain intact? That’s some expensive dignity. In the time we’ve wasted here, your boss and I have made millions. How do you plan to reimburse us? With your personality?” I scoffed, ignored his flushed face, and got into the car. Slam. Camilla started the engine in silence. In the side mirror, I saw Rory standing on the curb, biting his lip, looking like a discarded puppy. The silence in the car was heavy. I let it sit there. “He rents an apartment near the estate,” Camilla said eventually. “It really wasn’t out of the way…” “Camilla.” I met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I told you I liked your cleanliness. Because I have boundaries too.” “Peeling shrimp for another man? Strike one. Putting him in my seat? Strike two.” “I give everyone around me three chances. You have used two.” “My standards aren’t high. Keep your distance from other men. Maintain the perimeter. It isn’t hard.” “Don’t disappoint me again.” 4 She didn’t speak again. I didn’t care if she was sulking. I grew up an only child in a dynasty; I never learned to walk on eggshells. We arrived at the Bishop estate. I took her hand as we walked in, looking every bit the power couple. “You know this marriage is bigger than us,” I murmured as we approached the door. “If you don’t want the stock prices to tank tomorrow, smile. We’re adults. Don’t be childish.” I was smiling, but my voice was ice. Camilla forced a tight, camera-ready smile, and we walked in. My mother-in-law, Eleanor Bishop, greeted me with a hug. “Declan! You get more handsome every time I see you. Sit next to me.” The dinner was loud and lively. The Bishop clan was large. Eleanor kept piling food onto my plate. “The joint venture is moving fast,” she said. “You’re doing incredible work, Declan.” “We’re family, Eleanor. It’s what we do.” Eleanor’s expression shifted. She turned to Camilla, who had been pushing food around her plate. “What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you talking? Take care of your husband.” “You two were talking shop,” Camilla muttered. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Eleanor tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear. “I heard you hired a new assistant. A troublemaker?” Camilla’s fork hit the china with a clink. She looked from her mother to me. Eleanor continued, casual as a shark. “I called HR. He’s fired. An intern with no skills and no sense of place? Useless. I gave him three months’ severance to go away.” Camilla slammed her fork down. “Mother! I run the company now. If you want to fire my staff, you go through me!” Eleanor calmly placed a prawn in my bowl. “You’re good at strategy, Camilla, but you have a blind spot for strays. You’re young. You’re soft.” She looked at her daughter with steel in her eyes. “The Bishop-Montgomery alliance is the bedrock of our future. When we chose you as heir, it was because you were rational. You knew how to assess value. Don’t lose your edge.” I ate my dinner, smiling pleasantly, saying nothing. The ride home was tense. The moment we stepped into our foyer, Camilla spun around. “We need to talk.” Her voice vibrated with suppressed rage. 5 I walked to the powder room to wash my hands. “Talk.” “Did we have to involve my mother in our marriage?” I dried my hands on a fresh towel and looked at her. “You think I went crying to your mommy?” Camilla’s eyes were dark, colder than I’d ever seen them. “Didn’t you? Declan, I can tolerate your arrogance, but bullying a kid? Getting him fired? You’re pathologically jealous.” I narrowed my eyes. I was starting to realize that perhaps my assessment of her intellect had been generous. “You went too far,” she continued. “You humiliated him, and you undermined my authority in my own company. You know I hate interference!” “Are you finished?” I cut in. “Are you angry because your mother overstepped, or are you angry because your pet boy got his feelings hurt?” “I’m angry because you refuse to admit you’re wrong!” she shouted. “Wrong?” I stepped into her space. “Wrong for not applauding when you blurred the lines with a subordinate? Wrong for not stopping your mother when she saw a leech and salted it?” “Or was I wrong for not divorcing you the moment you peeled that first shrimp?” Camilla flinched. I stepped back, looking her up and down with genuine disappointment. “Camilla, I told you. Three strikes. You just struck out.” She stormed out that night, slamming the door. The cold war began. I didn’t chase her. The Montgomery Group was expanding into Europe; I didn’t have time for tantrums. A week later, I saw the photo in the Post. Camilla, attending a high-profile charity gala. On her arm was Rory. He was wearing a tuxedo that cost more than his student loans, a diamond brooch sparkling on his lapel. They looked like a couple. A power couple. I stared at the photo. I nodded. Then I called my legal team. “Draft the papers. Full separation.” The merger was complex, so the divorce would be a surgical extraction. We were deep in the clauses when Eleanor called. 6 “Declan, what is this nonsense in the papers?” Eleanor sounded frantic. “It looks like a fight,” I said, flipping through the draft agreement. “It looks like Camilla isn’t clean anymore.” “She lost her head,” Eleanor pleaded. “I will make her apologize. I will fix this.” “No need, Mrs. Bishop,” I said. “The divorce papers are being couriered to your estate. Review them.” “You can’t be serious!” “I am.” “Declan! Over a trifle? Over an assistant?” “It’s not a trifle. I gave her three chances. She failed. I don’t make exceptions.” “Think about the stock prices! Think about the scandal! You are a son of the Bishop family by marriage—you can’t just walk away because of some boy! Think of your father!” I laughed, a low, dark sound. “Mrs. Bishop, let’s be clear. Outside this house, people call you ‘Mrs. Bishop.’ But they call me ‘Mr. Montgomery.’ I am the head of my house. I don’t answer to anyone.” “You chose to live in your husband’s shadow. I chose to own the sun. I don’t need to explain myself to you, or my father, or the shareholders. I will manage the risk.” I hung up. I took the papers and drove to the Bishop Tower.

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The company scrapped the annual gala this year. Instead, they cut checks for each department to host their own private dinners. I was stuck in a gridlock on the BQE, running late, and arrived just in time to hear the new intern, Madison, dragging my name through the mud inside the private dining room. “Gary has to be, what, in his mid-thirties? He’s always hovering around my desk. He actually thinks he has a shot with me? As if. I’m not playing nice with him anymore.” “In a few minutes, I’m ordering ten of the most expensive things on the menu. If we can’t finish it, everyone just take a doggy bag home. I’m making Gary foot the bill.” The room erupted in cheers. People were shouting about how she was “Gen Z goals,” finally “taxing the corporate patriarchy.” I stood there, my hand hovering over the cold brass doorknob. I waited in the hallway, listening until she had racked up a bill close to twelve thousand dollars. Then, I let go. I walked away, pulled out my phone, and dropped two messages into the department Slack: [Something came up at home. I won’t be making it to dinner.] [The company’s $800 stipend for the meal has been transferred to the group fund. Enjoy yourselves.] 1. I sat in the back of the Uber, watching the notifications blow up my screen. The “Marketing Squad” group chat was in a state of absolute meltdown. Three minutes ago, I’d sent those two sentences, Venmoed the stipend into the shared account, and immediately left the group. But I’d forgotten I was still in the main “General” channel—the one without the big bosses. Messages were flying in at a rate of twenty per second. Madison was tagging me relentlessly. [@Gary, what the hell is this? You were literally at the door and then you just ghosted?] [Are you seriously this pathetic? You’re the Department Manager. This dinner was supposed to be on you!] [Eight hundred dollars? What is this, a Happy Meal? We’re adults!] [Get back here and pay the tab right now. Don’t make me lose the last bit of respect I had for you!] Then came the photos. Platters of Wagyu beef. Bottles of Opus One, three of them already uncorked. A literal mountain of high-end seafood towers. I could still hear her voice echoing in my head from when I was standing outside that door. She hadn’t been whispering; she’d been performing. “This, this, and that. I want the most expensive ones. Ten orders of each!” “Server, open the wine now. Let it breathe.” “What are you guys worried about? Someone else is picking up the tab today. Our ‘dear’ manager Gary has plenty of cash. He’s been thirsting after me for weeks—consider this the entry fee.” The room had been buzzing with excitement. Someone—maybe Bob—had tried to intervene: “Madison, is this too much? Gary’s not even here yet.” Madison’s voice had turned sharp, mocking. “If we can’t finish it, I’ll take it home to feed my dog for all I care. It’s time to teach these creepy, middle-aged bosses a lesson. He needs to know I’m not someone he can just toy with.” “Exactly! Get him, Madison! Gen Z is built different!” “Gary’s always been a bit of a tightwad anyway. Let him bleed a little.” I let go of the handle. I had intended to go in. I was going to apologize for being late, maybe buy a round of drinks on my personal card to smooth things over. But I couldn’t stomach that meal. Not now. The phone vibrated non-stop. Bob, a senior analyst, DM’d me: Gary, you seriously left? The food is already on the table. The bill is pushing fifteen grand. Who’s paying if you aren’t here? I typed back: Whoever ordered it pays. The company budget was $800. I sent every cent of it. Bob: Stop playing around. Madison’s just a kid, she doesn’t know how things work. Don’t take it out on the whole team. Just come back. The server is standing here with the check and everyone is freaking out. Me: I’m not. Bob: You’re leaving us all hanging! The wine is open. We can’t send it back! Me: Madison said she wanted to ‘shake up the workplace.’ I’m giving her the opportunity. I switched my phone to silent and shoved it into my pocket. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Where to, man?” “Home,” I said. As the car merged into the neon-lit flow of the city, I closed my eyes. All I could hear was Madison’s smug, entitled tone. I’m thirty-two. It took me eight years of grinding, of staying late, of eating desk salads, to claw my way up to Department Manager. Madison started as an intern last month. She’s pretty enough, sure, but her work is a disaster. She messes up basic formatting. She loses data sets. Because she’s new, I tried to mentor her. I pulled her into my office to go over her mistakes. I took her along to client meetings so she could see how the business actually moves. And in her head, that translated to me “thirsting” over her. I was just another “creepy boss” she could use to fund her lifestyle for a night. Fifteen thousand dollars. I have savings, but I’m not a goddamn ATM. The screen lit up again. An incoming FaceTime from Madison. I declined. She called again. I blocked the number. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a call from Greg, the Assistant Manager. Greg has been gunning for my job since the day I got promoted. We maintain a thin veil of professional courtesy, but the knives are always out. I answered. Greg’s voice was thick with a poorly concealed smirk. “Hey, Gary. This is a bad look, man. Everyone’s waiting. You just walked away and left the whole room stranded?” 2. “I had an emergency.” “What’s more urgent than a team-building dinner? Madison’s practically in tears. She’s saying you’re bullying the new hires.” “I provided the $800 stipend.” “Eight hundred? The bill is ten times that! Who pays the rest? We all split it? That’s everyone’s rent for the month! You’re ruining their holidays, Gary.” “Whoever ordered the food pays for it.” “Gary, you’re the lead. You have to take responsibility. Madison is young, she doesn’t know the etiquette. You’re the veteran here—don’t you know how this works?” “I know the rules perfectly. The company policy for this dinner was eight hundred dollars. Anything beyond that is the responsibility of the person who authorized it.” “You’re really not coming?” “No.” “Fine. Your call, Gary. But this isn’t over.” Greg hung up. I stared out the window at the passing skyscrapers. In the past, I was always the one to “take responsibility.” I took the blame for missed deadlines, I cleaned up everyone’s messes, I played the martyr for the sake of “team harmony.” I’d paved the way for them to believe I was an easy target. When I got home, I took a long, hot shower and went straight to bed. For the first time in years, I slept like a baby. The next morning, I walked into the office at 9:00 AM sharp. The moment I stepped onto the floor, the atmosphere curdled. People were staring at me—eyes full of disdain, anger, and that particular brand of corporate schadenfreude that comes when people think a superior is about to fall. Madison was sitting at her desk. Her eyes were puffy and red—she’d clearly put effort into looking like she’d spent the night crying. The second she saw me, she slammed her folder onto her desk and stood up. “Gary! Are you even a man?” The office went silent. Every head turned. I walked to my cubicle, set down my briefcase, and looked at her. “It’s nine in the morning, Madison. Lower your voice.” She stormed over to me, pointing a finger in my face. “Don’t you dare play dumb! Last night was a setup, wasn’t it? You said you were hosting, and then you bailed! You forced every single one of us to cough up over five hundred dollars just so we wouldn’t get arrested!” The other colleagues started closing in. Bob’s face was dark. “Gary, that was cold. We’re all just trying to get by. Most of these kids barely make enough for groceries. Losing half a paycheck on one dinner? That’s messed up.” Another colleague, Sarah, let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I mean, our Manager makes six figures. He clearly doesn’t care about us. Some of us actually have families to feed, Gary.” Greg leaned against a partition, arms crossed, wearing a jagged little smile. “Last night, while everyone was scraping their bank accounts to pay that bill, they were saying some pretty colorful things about you, Gary. Madison had to put the rest on a credit card she can’t afford. As a leader, this is pretty heartbreaking to watch.” I looked at their angry, self-righteous faces. None of them looked like this when they were shoveling Wagyu into their mouths. They weren’t complaining when they were cheering Madison on for “getting” the boss. They were happy to be part of the heist as long as they thought I was the one being robbed. I looked at Madison. “When did I ever say I was personally footing the bill?” Madison’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have to! It’s a team dinner. It’s common sense that the manager pays! And when I was ordering, you didn’t say no!” “I was stuck in traffic.” “That’s a lie! You just wanted to see me humiliated! This is because I rejected you, isn’t it?” Her voice climbed an octave, drawing in the few people who were still trying to pretend they were working. “Everyone, look at him! Look at this pathetic, small-minded man. Is this who we want leading us?” “Rejected me?” I asked, my voice flat. “When exactly did I ever pursue you?” “Oh, please! Always calling me into your office, insisting I go on ‘client visits’ with you… we all know what you were after. I didn’t give in, so you decided to trap me with a bill I couldn’t pay!” She started to sob—a well-practiced, cinematic tremble of the shoulders. She was playing the victim perfectly. 3. The whispers grew louder. “Disgusting. Using his position to harass an intern.” “I knew he was a creep. Look at how he dresses. Total ‘nice guy’ energy.” “He should be fired. Immediately.” I had taken her to client meetings because she was a junior and needed to learn the ropes. I called her into my office because her weekly reports were a nonsensical mess of typos and bad data. I’d spent hours of my own time trying to fix her career. And this was the narrative. I was a predator. “Madison, be very careful with your words,” I said coldly. “Last night, you ordered the food. You ordered ten of everything. You told the table you were going to ‘teach me a lesson’ and told everyone to pack up the leftovers. Now that the bill has come due, you’re trying to drown me in your own mess?” “I was trying to lighten the mood!” Madison shrieked. “And I thought you were coming! If you couldn’t afford it, you should have said so! Don’t act like a big shot if you’re actually broke!” “The company budget was $800. I transferred it to you in full.” “Eight hundred doesn’t even cover the wine!” Madison reached into her designer bag and whipped out a stack of receipts, slapping them onto my desk. “Fourteen thousand, eight hundred dollars! Subtract your measly eight hundred, and you owe us fourteen grand! You’re paying us back. Every cent.” I didn’t even glance at the paper. “Whoever ate the food pays for the food.” “You—!” Madison was shaking with rage. “You’re a monster! You’re not even human!” “Gary.” Greg walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. His voice was low, “caring.” “Don’t blow this up more than it already is. We all work together. This money is a lot, but you can afford it. Just pay the bill, apologize, and let’s move on. If this gets to HR or the CEO, it’s going to get ugly for you.” He was threatening me. Using my career as a hostage. A year ago, I might have folded. For the sake of “the team,” for the sake of my reputation, I would have swallowed the poison and paid. But looking at Greg’s fake smile, Madison’s blatant greed, and the mob-like entitlement of my coworkers, I realized something. I didn’t want this job anymore. Not if this was the price. “Greg, if you’re so worried about the ‘team,’ why don’t you pay it?” I looked him dead in the eye. Greg’s smile faltered. “That’s not the point, Gary. You’re the one who caused this mess.” “I caused it?” I laughed. “Madison ordered the food. Madison opened the wine. You all drank it. I didn’t eat a single bite. I didn’t drink a drop. I didn’t even set foot in the building. How is this my mess?” “Because you’re the Manager!” Madison screamed. “The Manager is responsible!” “The Manager is responsible for the work, not for subsidizing your delusions of grandeur.” I swept the receipts off my desk and onto the floor. “I’m not paying a single dime.” “Ah!” Madison let out a piercing scream, as if I’d struck her. “Gary! You’re going to regret this! I’m going to report you! I’m going to make sure everyone in this city knows exactly what kind of person you are!” She turned and sprinted toward the CEO’s office. Greg looked at me and shook his head. “You’re done, Gary. Madison has connections. And in this climate? An older male manager ‘trapping’ a female intern? You’re walking into a buzzsaw.”

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After being lured into an overseas cyber scam compound, I became their top-performing scammer. I worked like a machine—no food, no sleep, opening my eyes every day solely to scam. The other victims trapped with me all said I had lost my mind. “Don’t you realize we’re in a living hell? Run with us!” But not only did I refuse to run, I turned around and reported everyone who tried to escape. Everyone thought I was just a brainwashed, broken lunatic. But only I knew that this was just one piece of my master plan. 01 “Anyone who dares to betray this organization ends up like this!” Marcus, the compound’s ruthless boss, shot a dark look at his enforcer. The massive guard immediately raised a whip soaked in saltwater and brought it down viciously on the woman lying in the center of the dirt courtyard. No, you couldn’t even call her human anymore. She was just a corpse whose chest was still faintly rising and falling. There wasn’t a single patch of intact skin left on her body. Her back was covered in blackened, bloody brand marks, and her face was slashed so brutally it was terrifying to look at. The whip cracked sharply through the air. When it struck her, she didn’t react, her body only convulsing purely out of involuntary reflex. The onlookers surrounding the courtyard showed expressions of sheer terror. Some who knew the story whispered with their heads bowed. “I heard she was an undercover informant. She infiltrated the compound on purpose and got caught trying to run with a flash drive of data.” “Marcus is ruthless. Every time a new batch of victims arrives, he drags her out to torture her publicly. He’s just keeping her alive, refusing to let her die.” “Dying isn’t that easy here. Making her wish she was dead is the perfect way to make an example out of her.” Hearing this, the others were so terrified they didn’t even dare to breathe too loudly. The woman was roughly dragged away. I silently dug my nails into my palms, but my face remained completely expressionless, as if I had seen this a thousand times. Marcus nodded in satisfaction and waved me over. I walked toward him obediently. “This is last year’s top performer, Riley.” After a brief introduction, he looked at the terrified, anxious faces of the new arrivals, smiling sinisterly. “Since you’re here, don’t even think about running. Here, performance is everything. Do well, and you’ll enjoy endless privileges. But if you fail to meet your quota…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the threat in his voice was clear. The compound was massive, surrounded by high, electrified fences. Heavily armed guards patrolling with attack dogs were everywhere. A look of profound despair settled on the faces of the newly lured victims. “Riley, train them well.” He was about to leave when I suddenly called out to him. “Marcus. I’d like to report a few people. They’re planning to run.” My words instantly sent a ripple of commotion through the quiet crowd. After all, the horrific image of that tortured woman was still fresh in their minds. “Who?” Marcus’s face darkened, a completely undisguised, freezing chill rolling through his eyes. “Them.” I pointed at the three people who had just been whispering. “Riley, don’t you dare frame us!” One of them panicked for a second before flying into a rage, shouting at me. A massive guard beside him instantly rushed forward and slapped him brutally across the face twice, his expression lethal. “Watch who you’re talking to.” The man’s mouth bled, his face swelling up immediately. He didn’t dare speak again. I smirked, completely unfazed. As the top performer, I had earned this level of privilege. “Proof.” Marcus stared at me intensely, a probing look on his face. I knew that having only been here for a year, despite my best efforts to act completely brainwashed, a seasoned cartel boss like him would still harbor some suspicion. But that didn’t matter. After today, his doubts would be completely erased. I pulled out my phone—which had its signal blocked and could only be used for offline entertainment—and played a recording. “Riley, don’t you know this is a scam operation? Wake up, run with us!” “You want to run? Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” “Afraid of what? We’re just pretending to be brainwashed. We’ve actually secretly planned an escape route! If you want to go, meet us in the small garden tonight at midnight…” The recording ended, and the three of them looked ashen. “Looks like we really have some people who aren’t afraid of dying.” Marcus seemed to find it highly amusing, a slow smile spreading across his face. 02 “Marcus, we lost our minds for a second! Please have mercy, give us one more chance! We’ll never do it again!” The three of them sobbed pathetically, crawling to his feet and kowtowing desperately until their foreheads bled profusely. “Pardon you? If the rules are broken, how can I keep order? Drag them away!” Marcus kicked them away forcefully, a bloodthirsty glint in his eye. “Riley, you ungrateful bitch, betraying us like this! I’m dragging you down to hell with me!” Just as they lunged toward me… A deafening gunshot rang out in my ear. The man leading the charge was killed instantly. The sight of his brains splattering across the dirt was horrific. The atmosphere in the courtyard instantly plunged into dead silence. Marcus raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue. Clearly, compared to killing a man, wasting a bullet bothered him much more. “Riley, you did well reporting them. I’ll let you handle these last two rats.” I smiled on the surface, but my eyes were filled with murderous intent. “Wolves that can’t be tamed are better off fed to the dogs.” Marcus was highly satisfied with my answer and personally ordered his men to bring in a ten-foot steel cage. Inside were massive, aggressive Mastiffs specially bred by the compound. Just one look was enough to inspire terror. Not to mention, these dogs had literally been raised on human flesh. “Bark! Bark! Bark!” I kicked the two pale-faced men directly into the cage. As expected, the hunting dogs inside immediately began tearing into their “delicious” prey. The scene quickly turned into a gruesome mess. The blood seeping into the ground was mixed with the agonizing screams of their final moments. Eventually, two eyeballs rolled over to my feet, and I crushed them directly under my boot… Everyone watching was trembling in fear. They clearly couldn’t understand how I, a fellow victim, could be so unimaginably cruel. Even if those three wanted to escape, I could have just turned a blind eye. Especially since they were intending to save me, too. What they didn’t know was that from the very moment I entered this compound… I had abandoned my conscience and my moral bottom line. I would never trust another person again! As the top performer, even if I didn’t escape, I didn’t have to be bought and sold like regular “pigs” (the compound’s term for victims). Furthermore, to maintain control over the internal staff, Marcus frequently showed me blatant favoritism. That alone was enough to make me a massive target in everyone’s eyes! It was true that those three wanted to take me with them. But if I hadn’t secretly overheard them planning to rape me and kill me out of pure jealousy over my performance and commissions… Maybe I really would have let them live… “From today on, you will all take orders from Riley!” “Anyone who dares to cross her, crosses me!” The moment Marcus finished speaking. Under the shocked and terrified gazes of my peers, I finally secured the explicit endorsement of top management. Compared to the scam division, my physical appearance would have easily allowed me to make a fortune for them in the compound’s “entertainment” sector. But Marcus deeply admired my talent for scamming, which was why he intentionally kept me here. Under my ruthless management, even the newly arrived “pigs” managed to close small deals worth ten grand. If things kept going like this, becoming a scam supervisor in the compound wasn’t out of the question. After my promotion, I moved into a single dorm room, no longer having to sleep in the mixed-gender barracks. Here, it was heaven for some and hell for others. Even when separated by only a single wall from the agonizing screams of “pigs” being electrocuted or scalded with boiling water… I had long grown accustomed to falling asleep with complete peace of mind. 03 Over the next few days, I locked onto my next target: an elderly woman in a rural town back in the States. When Marcus heard about this, he was highly dismissive. “Riley, what is there to scam out of an old country woman? Your time is money!” His face showed a harsh, impatient scowl. If it were anyone else, they probably would have switched targets immediately, but I shook my head. “Marcus, this old woman is different.” I had the tech department build a “Miracle Doctor” website and swapped my profile picture to one promising a cure for all ailments. Once that was done, I sent out a mass message offering a free health consultation. The moment the user [Spring Arrives Late] clicked the link, I initiated the chat. [Hello, how can I help you today?] [Can you really cure any disease?] Perfect, the fish took the bait. But just doing this was far from enough. I used AI deepfake technology to initiate a live video consultation. Not only did I not charge any fees, but participating in our raffle could even win them physical prizes shipped to their doors. At the same time, our backend system connected me with countless, non-repeating AI patients. There was an older woman with terminal cancer who claimed to be full of energy after just one treatment cycle. There was a child born disabled who claimed I restored their sight. The chat log of the livestream was flooded with feedback and gratitude from patients, and everyone started sending digital gifts. I stated that I was doing these consultations voluntarily, that I was already at retirement age, and that continuing to treat patients was solely for the greater good of humanity. In less than three days, [Spring Arrives Late] was logging over a dozen hours of watch time every single day. Finally, the moment I went live again, Mrs. Miller couldn’t wait to request a call! “My friend, please tell me what’s bothering you.” Using a voice changer, my speech slowed down significantly, deliberately adopting the authoritative tone of an expert. It made her believe me implicitly. “Miracle Doctor! You have to save me!” Before Mrs. Miller could even explain her situation, I accurately listed off the chronic illnesses that had plagued her for years. “You are truly amazing! You can tell just by looking through the screen!” I sighed, dropping a heavy, meaningful hint. “People your age need to start treating themselves better. If you don’t take care of your body, I’m afraid you won’t even live to see your grandchildren.” Mrs. Miller was terrified by this. Following my suggestions, she placed several massive orders for “health supplements” right there in the livestream. In reality, these were just cheap, useless herbal scraps. Forget curing illnesses; drinking too much would just give her diarrhea. “After a few cycles, although your vitality has improved, the purple tint to your lips is not a good sign. “Why don’t you buy another liver-protecting longevity supplement? It’s only fifty thousand dollars.” I painted a grim picture, suggesting she could drop dead at any moment. In truth, the purple lips were just a symptom of severe sleep deprivation from staying up 24/7 to watch my livestreams. On the other side of the screen, Mrs. Miller was highly conflicted. Fifty thousand dollars for a rural woman… It was an astronomical figure. Besides, the family savings didn’t belong to her alone. But that didn’t matter. I helpfully introduced her to a “health supplement loan program.” I tricked her into mortgaging her house online, instantly securing a loan of five hundred thousand dollars! She followed the process step-by-step, guided by my gentle coaxing. “Riley! The money cleared!” It was time to reel in the net… Mrs. Miller: “When will I receive these supplements?” I sneered and replied: “You can collect them in hell.” 04 Marcus couldn’t help but clap his hands. “I didn’t expect you to squeeze half a million out of an old rural woman! Impressive! “I wonder if her family will even acknowledge her after this.” I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “She’ll be lucky if they don’t kill her themselves.” I knew that better than anyone. Years ago, my parents, favoring boys over girls, tossed my sister and me aside like garbage after my little brother was born. That was when Mrs. Miller from our village reached out her sinful hands toward us. She gathered the most “worthless” girls in the village. On the surface, she claimed she was taking us to the city to find work, but behind the scenes, she used a mix of manipulation and threats to force us into selling our bodies. And she, acting as the middleman, took a cut from both ends. When she encountered girls who refused, she simply hired thugs to force them. Orphaned, rootless girls like us had no choice but to be manipulated. My sister, heartbroken over my weak health, willingly sacrificed herself to buy my survival, even after learning the horrific truth. She used the money she made from selling herself to buy me medicine and pay for my treatments. My sister was forced by Mrs. Miller to meet quotas, working day and night. At night, looking at my sister’s bruised and battered skin, besides fear and endurance… My heart was filled with pure, unadulterated hatred! When I got a little older, my sister used my education as an excuse to send me to the city. Relying on a steady stream of girls lured from the village every year, Mrs. Miller’s business boomed. Although she was just a rural woman, in the end, she even stooped to the vile business of human trafficking. [You scammer! I’m calling the cops! [Give me my money back… [I’m begging you, you’re driving me to my death!!] Looking at the texts flooding the account, I smiled easily. [Then go die.] I couldn’t guarantee if Mrs. Miller’s son would actually drive her to suicide. But I had heard that she did have an unfilial son who, unable to find a wife, beat his elderly parents daily. Now that his “wife fund” had been completely wiped out, that old hag probably had nothing left to pay with but her life… Maybe because she had done so many evil things over the years, she always felt her days were numbered. And in her desperate panic for a cure, she finally sent herself straight to the grave. Seeing me handle the situation so cleanly, without a shred of shame or moral hesitation… Marcus sighed in admiration. “Riley, a talent like you would get rich no matter where you went. “I heard you were a top university graduate.” I didn’t avoid the topic, just smiled. “Marcus, the big cities are full of top graduates.” From the moment I handed over my “initiation fee”… My background had been thoroughly investigated. “I’ve been poor, and I never want to live that miserable life again.” The ambition in my eyes was undeniable. As the saying goes, wealth is found in danger! Since I had ended up here, it was naturally to chase fame and fortune. There was no logic in being a worthless, disposable “pig.” Marcus stared at me intensely. After a long gaze, he patted my shoulder. “Keep up the good work. Your best days are still ahead of you!” After shift, the “pigs” who met their quotas returned to their eight-person dorms. The remaining few who didn’t meet their targets had to undergo the daily, mandatory punishment. This was also the rule here! “Riley, I’m begging you, let me off this once! We’ve known each other! “You’re a woman, but you’re a vicious snake! “If you dare touch a hair on my head, I swear I’ll…” Before he could finish his sentence, the enforcer standing nearby stepped up and brought a machete down with a sickening thwack! 05 The man’s toes were chopped off, one by one. Every time the skin was severed but still clung to the bone, it was brutally ripped away. The reason they didn’t chop off hands was, of course, because hands still had value. Once all ten fingers were chopped off and ruined, they would be sent for blood testing. The younger ones could be sold off piece by piece for around eight hundred thousand dollars. The older ones, at the very least, could be drained of their blood for a few thousand. At this moment, it would be a lie to say I wasn’t terrified. But since I had already descended into hell, fearing death was the most ridiculous thing of all… “Alright, he’s the only one taking the punishment for you all today. Tomorrow, you might not be so lucky.” I waved my hand dismissively. As the scam champion, I had that much authority. The enforcer nearby looked at me with a fawning expression. He had stepped up for me earlier naturally hoping for a reward. I casually pulled fifty thousand out of the bonus Marcus had given me and tossed it over. Here, money was only considered yours if you lived to spend it. Otherwise, there were plenty of people who earned fortunes but never lived to enjoy them! The man whose toes had just been chopped off was released. The excruciating pain caused his face to spasm uncontrollably. “Riley, you’ll die a horrible death!” “Oh? Is that so? You want me dead?!” I deliberately raised my voice, having already noticed Marcus lurking in the corner. I leaned in closer on purpose, putting myself within his reach. I watched helplessly as he opened his mouth and bit down hard on my carotid artery. Suddenly, an explosive roar erupted from the corner. “What are you standing there for?! Save her!” This was the first time I had ever seen the cold, calculating Marcus lose his temper. How rare. But a boss is a boss, and his intimidation was undeniable. Even though the man in front of me desperately wanted me dead, the moment he heard Marcus’s voice, his jaw instinctively loosened. The next second, Marcus forcefully pulled me into his arms! Seeing the look in Marcus’s eyes—a look that wanted to swallow the man whole—I quietly let out a sigh of relief. “Marcus, what should we do with him?” “Sell him!” After the situation was handled, I clutched my neck, pretending to be in immense pain. “I’ll take you to the compound clinic.” “No need, Marcus. I can go myself… I don’t want the lower-level staff to see.” There was an unspoken rule in the compound: romantic relationships between staff were strictly forbidden. Especially between a high-level manager like him and a disposable “pig” like me. If we were caught getting too close, not only would I be sold off to another compound… Even a leader like him would face severe beatings and public punishment. Hearing this, Marcus gave me a deep, meaningful look. He grabbed a hundred thousand from the desk and shoved it into my arms as compensation. My eyes instantly lit up, and I smiled, giving him a deep bow. “Thank you, Marcus!” As I walked out the door, I slowed my pace and overheard the enforcers next to Marcus joking around. “That Riley really is obsessed with money.” “Tsk, trash like her will be sent to the brothels sooner or later.” “You’re right. I’ve been wanting to play with her for a while…” I quietly looked back. And saw Marcus standing perfectly still, his gaze sweeping inexplicably over the enforcers who were just talking. The men immediately fell silent, shutting their mouths tight. Early the next morning, I was the first to boot up a company computer. After thinking for a moment, I typed in a number I knew by heart. [Hello, are you interested in a brushing scam for cash back? Paid per order!] The message was sent, but there was no immediate reply. The “pigs” slowly filtering in to start their shifts glared at me with absolute hatred. “Riley, nobody falls for that ancient scam tactic anymore. You think you’re going to land a big whale with that? “Keep dreaming!” Lin Shan, the “sales” runner-up, mocked me endlessly. He only scurried back to his assigned workstation and nervously swallowed when Marcus appeared. “Brushing scams? How much do you think you can pull this time?” I thought for a moment before dropping a number. “Not much. Maybe five million.”

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When I was seven, my older brother was too busy chasing a scholarship girl to watch me, which resulted in me being kidnapped. By the time I finally escaped and made it back home years later, that same scholarship girl had essentially taken my place, living as the fake heiress of our family. Wearing an outrageously expensive princess dress, she pinched her nose and looked at me with undisguised disgust. “She smells terrible. Do you think she has some kind of infectious disease?” And just like that, the way my parents looked at me shifted. My brother’s face was filled with outright revulsion. “Why did you have to come back and ruin our perfect lives?” That was the moment I realized the fake heiress was also my brother’s fiancée! In the end, I was tortured to death by her, while my parents and brother watched, completely indifferent to my suffering. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to being a five-year-old. This was the exact year my parents’ corporate rivals targeted my brother, intending to kidnap him to force my parents into surrendering a massive contract. This time, I chose to be selectively blind. My useless brother and my heavily biased parents can all go straight to hell! 1 “Little girl, go tell your mom and dad to drop the current project, or they’ll never see your brother again.” A middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap and a surgical mask growled at me viciously. His hand was clamped tightly around my brother’s arm. At this time, my brother was just a little kid—not tall, not strong, and not yet the malicious monster he would become. The look he gave me wasn’t filled with hatred, but with pure terror and desperate pleading. A large, dark wet spot was spreading across the front of his Spider-Man jeans. My brother had peed himself. I feigned an expression of utter horror, nodding my head frantically like a woodpecker. Satisfied, the kidnapper scooped my brother up and swaggered away, tossing him into a black Honda. He didn’t even bother to cover or remove the license plate. What kind of amateur kidnapper was this? “Wow, that smells so good! What is that?” I sniffed the air, following the sweet scent until I found myself in front of a small convenience store. The colorful cotton candy looked absolutely delicious. By the time I happily waddled home clutching my cotton candy, my parents had already returned. Seeing me alone, they looked confused. “Where’s your brother?” I took a small lick of my cotton candy, answering in my sweetest, most innocent toddler voice: “I don’t know~ The cotton candy is so yummy! Do Mommy and Daddy want a bite?” My parents searched the house for a while, then combed the neighborhood multiple times. Finding absolutely no trace of my brother, panic finally set in, and they called 911. But in an era before security cameras were on every corner, finding human traffickers was like finding a needle in a haystack. The police officer looked puzzled: “This doesn’t make sense. Your gated community has excellent security. How could kidnappers even get in? I just spoke with the guards, and they didn’t see anyone suspicious entering or leaving.” My mother collapsed onto the floor, wailing uncontrollably. My father was yanking his own hair out, consumed by grief. I sat on the edge of the planter box, swinging my little legs, watching them unblinkingly with my wide, innocent eyes. They looked so heartbroken, so devastated. So why, in my past life, when they watched me being tortured to death right in front of them, were they so utterly indifferent? Right. My brother’s life mattered to them. Mine didn’t. Since that’s how it is, then none of you deserve to have a good life. 2 By that afternoon, missing person flyers with my brother’s face were plastered across every street and alley, and the story was broadcast on the local news, offering a $30,000 reward. In this era, $30,000 was a massive sum of money. Initially, I had wondered if the kidnappers would reach out to negotiate privately. But the moment those flyers went up, I knew my brother was never coming back. A private ransom exchange was now completely off the table. With countless major and minor cases occurring every day, my brother’s kidnapping case was eventually moved to the cold case files. In my past life, because I remembered the license plate number and told the police, they easily tracked down and rescued my brother. His repayment for my saving his life was negligently allowing me to be kidnapped when I was seven. After all, we were biological siblings; the same blood ran in our veins. Returning the favor is only fair, right? … As I grew, I gradually revealed my intelligence and business acumen, occasionally suggesting highly profitable investment ideas. Slowly, these successes pulled my parents out of the abyss of losing their son. My father happily ruffled my hair: “Mia really is our lucky charm. She’s helped Mom and Dad make so much money.” I giggled sweetly: “I saw on TV that rich people live in huge houses with giant swimming pools in the front! It looks so cool!” “Mom, Dad, let’s move to a big house too! If we live next to other rich people, maybe we can share ideas and make even more money!” “I heard people say that your social circle is the most important thing!” My words struck a chord. My parents exchanged a look. The money we were making now was more than enough to buy a luxury villa. But deep down, they were still holding onto the hope that my brother might be found. What if he came back and they had moved? So, I had to completely sever that hope and erase every last trace of my brother from their lives. My father nodded decisively: “Alright, we’ll listen to Mia. Your social circle is everything.” The very next day, my parents started house hunting. They eventually spent a fortune on a massive estate in the city center, surrounded by neighbors who were either old money or political heavyweights. With my adorable looks and sweet talking, I easily won over the neighbors. Carrying plates of my mother’s homemade cookies, I visited several of the surrounding households and quickly built a rapport with them. Because of these connections, my parents secured several major contracts. Even though they intentionally bid low to the point of breaking even, the crucial relationships were established. I took the opportunity to speak up: “Mom, Dad, you guys are always so busy with work, and it gets so quiet and lonely at home when I’m by myself. Why don’t we adopt a brother so he can play with me?” Why a brother? Because I needed to completely obliterate my biological brother’s position in my parents’ hearts. If he miraculously managed to find his way back, my deeply misogynistic parents would immediately hand all my hard-earned accomplishments over to him. Acting as his stepping stone? Not a chance in hell. At this point, my parents doted on me completely and agreed without hesitation. 3 You can’t choose your biological parents, so if they’re garbage, you’re stuck with them. But I could choose an adopted brother. Naturally, I was going to pick one that suited my exact needs. I have a severe allergy to stupidity, so anyone dim-witted was immediately disqualified. Ugly ones were out too; it ruins the appetite. The most important criteria were a good personality and a genuinely kind heart. I absolutely refused to deal with a second ungrateful, backstabbing brother. After scouring every orphanage in the city, I finally found a boy who met all my requirements. What really sealed the deal was the faint glint of fierce determination hidden deep in his eyes. In my past life, I dealt with monsters and demons of all kinds. A kid with that kind of edge would be hard to control if I met him as an adult, but grooming him from a young age? That sounded incredibly rewarding. “My brother got lost. Do you want to be my brother?” I pulled a piece of premium milk candy from my pocket and placed it in his slender hand, my voice soft and sweet: “I have so many toys and snacks, and I can share half of everything with you. Do you want to come home with me?” No little boy could resist a kid as cute as me, and he was no exception. He carefully took the candy from my hand, making sure his fingers didn’t brush against mine, seemingly terrified he might get my hands dirty. I, however, proactively grabbed his hand and happily paraded him in front of my parents. “Mom, Dad, I really like this brother.” My parents were pleased with his appearance. After asking him a few questions and finding him to be exceptionally well-mannered and polite, they agreed to the adoption. … I gave him a new name: Julian. Julian Vance. Because his eyes were as beautiful as a starry night. He moved into the bedroom directly across from mine. The layout was identical to my room. It was the room my parents had been saving for my biological brother, but now, it belonged to Julian. At the dinner table, he sat in the seat to my father’s right—the seat that used to belong to my brother. Gradually, he truly replaced my brother’s presence entirely. My parents started taking him everywhere out of habit. Even in private conversations, they casually referred to him as “our son.” At first, Julian was a bit timid, but under my influence, he grew outgoing and fiercely confident. However, my initial display of adorable vulnerability must have left a permanent imprint on him. Because of it, he truly treated me like a fragile little sister who needed constant protection. Every night, he read me fairy tales until I fell asleep. He would quietly transfer the vegetables I hated from my plate onto his and eat them without a word. If I accidentally bumped into a table and bruised myself, he looked like he wished he could absorb the pain for me. 4 In the blink of an eye, we were in high school. Surrounded by love and support, Julian had blossomed into a brilliant, radiant young man. The moment he stepped onto campus, he caused an absolute sensation. Even though he was older, we were in the same grade and the same class. It was both my parents’ wish and his own insistence, so he could protect me more closely. Simultaneously, an old acquaintance made her appearance: Chloe Jenkins. The very same fake heiress who had personally orchestrated my torture and death in my past life. She looked delicate and fragile. Every smile, every frown radiated a pitiful, “damsel in distress” aura. Her large, watery eyes were specifically engineered to elicit sympathy. “Julian, look at three o’clock. Do you think that girl is pretty?” Julian followed my gaze and saw Chloe, standing there in a plain white sundress, her long black hair blowing in the wind. He looked confused but answered seriously, “I don’t know. Maybe she’s the type other guys like?” More than just what guys like, I thought. She was the exact type my biological brother would be obsessed with. He was so obsessed he watched his own sister suffer a fate worse than death just to please her. I licked my lips and asked, “Do you like that type?” A flash of absolute disgust crossed his eyes, though his face remained perfectly composed and polite. “I don’t.” I chuckled. “Then what type do you like?” He looked down at me, raising an eyebrow. “I like girls who are arrogant, demanding, bossy, and totally unreasonable.” Me: ? … Chloe was in our class. She didn’t test in; she was an access student. The designated “scholarship case.” Every year, our elite prep school admitted a few scholarship students to maintain the illusion of an egalitarian, merit-based tradition. In reality, these scholarship kids were usually bullied relentlessly, considering everyone else was either a corporate heir or old money. In my past life, because my biological brother acted as her aggressive, violent bodyguard, she basically ruled the school. But this time, my brother wasn’t here. I couldn’t wait to see how she planned to survive. The first period was dedicated to self-introductions. Everyone confidently walked up to the podium, completely unfazed. We were all used to large crowds and high-pressure situations, so a simple classroom introduction was nothing. When it was Chloe’s turn, her face flushed crimson. She acted painfully shy, twisting her hands together, refusing to walk up. “I… I’m too embarrassed.” The teacher smiled kindly. “It’s okay! We’re all meeting for the first time, don’t be nervous. Class, let’s give her a warm round of applause!” The class applauded politely. Seeing I didn’t clap, Julian kept his hands resting on his desk as well. But after three rounds of applause, the class was visibly annoyed. Chloe still hadn’t moved. She bit her lip, her face turning even redder, and tears began to well up in her eyes. What an absolutely pathetic display.

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