1 When I first drifted back to consciousness, my wife was pinned beneath another man, locked in a desperate, wet kiss. The nasal cannula pinched my nose, sealing my voice deep in my throat. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream. All I could do was listen to their heavy, sticky breathing filling the quiet room. “Gentler,” Danielle whispered, her voice trembling. “Don’t press on Ray’s legs. I spent two hours massaging them today.” The man didn’t seem to care, his movements remaining heavy. “He’s just a living corpse. Do you honestly think he’s ever waking up?” Four years ago, a horrific car crash had reduced me to a persistent vegetative state. “If he hadn’t shielded me with his own body, I’d be dead,” Danielle murmured, her voice laced with a complex grief. “Thank God you transferred to this hospital to take care of him.” “It’s exhausting. When is he finally going to die?” the man suddenly muttered. Danielle stopped. She reached over to adjust my oxygen tube, keeping her silence. The next morning, Dr. Gould, the neuro-rehabilitation specialist, did his routine rounds. He stood at the foot of my bed and delivered the final verdict. “I’m sorry, but the patient is officially brain dead.” Danielle broke down instantly. “No! That’s impossible! You’re a fraud! My husband was perfectly fine last night!” My best friend, Devon, stepped forward and pleaded with the specialist. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gould. She’s just hysterical. Ray is still so young. Please, take another look.” The specialist turned to a young woman standing at the back of the ward. “Dr. Nora, you just returned from your residency abroad. Come and evaluate his condition.” A pair of warm, soft hands gently took mine to perform a muscle strength test. This was my last chance. I summoned every ounce of soul left in my shattered body, squeezing my finger against her palm. Once. Then again. Three short, rapid pressure points, followed by three long, deliberate ones. Nora’s hand froze. The patient had moved. It wasn’t a muscle spasm, nor was it an involuntary reflex. It carried a deliberate, haunting rhythm. Having participated in a radio communications club during her university years, she recognized it instantly. It was the universal call for help in Morse code. S.O.S. Suddenly, another hand shoved Nora aside, snatching my hand back. “Dr. Nora.” Danielle stared at her husband with tear-brimmed eyes, her voice trembling with protective possessiveness. “My husband has undergone countless surgeries since the accident. He has fought so hard to stay with me.” Nora studied her quietly. Danielle took a wet wipe from the head nurse, gently cleaning my pale, vein-mapped hand. Her entire posture was defensive, like a guard dog protecting its bone. “I mean no harm, it’s just a routine check,” Nora said, keeping her tone strictly professional. “The patient just moved.” The ward fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Dr. Gould stepped forward to examine me again. After a moment, he delivered his usual clinical sigh. “It’s just a pathological reflex common in vegetative patients.” “No, it wasn’t,” Nora insisted, her voice quiet but resolute. Every eye in the room locked onto her. The temperature in the ward seemed to plummet. Devon suddenly burst into tears, squeezing past Nora to the foot of my bed. “Dr. Nora, please. Don’t give us false hope anymore.” He checked the warmth of my feet, then tucked the blanket around me with practiced care. As he leaned in, a familiar scent drifted into my nose. My instincts had been correct. The man who had been holding my wife in his arms last night carried this exact same scent. When the truth finally laid itself bare, a delayed, agonizing wave of pain crashed over me. The soles of my feet, where Devon had just touched, began to burn. The phantom pain shot up my legs, piercing straight through my heart. I wanted to move my finger again. I wanted to tell Nora that my loyal brother of fifteen years and my devoted wife were sleeping together right next to my helpless body. But my index finger remained limp, as useless as the rest of my paralyzed limbs. Dr. Gould cast a sympathetic look at Danielle. “We need to document the official time of death.” The head nurse calmly checked her watch, preparing to write. Danielle’s hand shook as she gripped my forearm. “Ray… don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.” The room was filled with weeping, but amidst the chaos, Devon reached out and pulled the nasal cannula from my nose. A sharp buzz rang in my ears. My final countdown had begun. On the monitor, my heart rate began to plunge. My oxygen levels dropped, and my blood pressure bottomed out. The air in the room grew thin, suffocating me. My heart felt like an ancient machine, its gears slowing to a agonizing crawl. The crying around me grew louder. Everyone’s face was painted with grief, knowing that the patient was taking his final, ragged breaths. Beep— The cardiac monitor flattened into a solid, continuous line. Nora bolted to the machine. “Why is the monitor disconnected?!” Devon scrambled, his hands shaking as he checked the wires. “The leads fell off.” Nora stared at him, her eyes cold and sharp. “Nurse Devon, this is a severe, life-threatening oversight.” Devon hurriedly pressed the electrodes back onto my chest. “Dr. Nora, I swear it was an accident.” The head nurse frowned. “Devon, you’ll be working overtime to reflect on this.” She quickly adjusted the oxygen levels back to a therapeutic range. A fresh rush of oxygen flooded my nose. Like a drowning fish thrown back into the water, I gasped internally, reeling back into existence. “This is ridiculous,” Dr. Gould muttered, his face turning red. He was a highly paid specialist hired by Danielle’s wealthy family. One second he was declaring a patient dead, and the next, a mere resident was openly challenging his authority. “Nora, watch your words,” Dr. Gould hissed. “The patient was clinically brain dead years ago. We only kept him on life support because his family couldn’t let go.” The only sound left in the room was the steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor. “The patient was communicating with me,” Nora said. Danielle looked up in shock. “What did you say, doctor? My husband is still alive?” Nora walked directly to my bedside and took my hand again. My finger didn’t move. She waited for a full, agonizing minute. No miracle occurred. Her expression gradually grew heavy. Had she made a mistake? Was it really just an involuntary reflex? Just as Nora began to pull her hand away, my index finger hooked around her palm. A faint warmth seemed to flow into my hand, thawing the stiffness of the past four years. I gathered every shred of willpower I possessed. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. I tapped out a name in Morse code. H-I-M. Nora gasped, her eyes scanning the room. Nurse Devon. The male orderly. Dr. Gould. She squeezed my hand tight, tapping a question back into my palm. W-H-O? Before I could answer, Devon stepped forward with a penlight. He peeled my eyelids open, and the harsh light flooded my vision. Through the glare, I saw Dr. Gould’s furrowed brow, Danielle’s desperate gaze, and Devon’s hypocritical mask. “There is no pupillary tracking, and he isn’t responding to sound,” Devon reported smoothly. “Dr. Nora, whatever movement you felt was likely just a random muscular spasm common in comatose patients.” Dr. Gould nodded in agreement. They had run these tests a thousand times over the last four years. Danielle buried her face in her hands, weeping. Devon closed my eyes, plunged me back into darkness. Suddenly, Nora snatched Devon’s ID badge with two fingers. Her voice carried an icy, aggressive edge. “Since when does a nurse override a doctor’s diagnosis? Would you like to take my coat and sit in my chair, Nurse Devon?” “Dr. Nora, I didn’t mean…” Devon stammered. My index finger twitched twice more. This time, everyone saw it. “He moved! He really moved!” the head nurse cried out in disbelief. “Ray’s finger is moving!” Nora’s voice was resolute. “Since the patient has regained partial consciousness, I suggest we formulate an entirely new treatment plan immediately.” “Treatment?” Danielle reacted violently to the word. “Dr. Nora, the accident shattered his skull. Dr. Gould had to perform two craniotomies just to save him. He suffered terrible seizures during recovery. If he has to go through that hell again, I’d rather let him rest in peace!” She grabbed Dr. Gould’s sleeve, treating him like her final lifeline. “Dr. Gould, I want to withdraw treatment. I’m signing the papers.” Dr. Gould’s lab coat was pulled askew by her desperate grip. Outside the ward, other families had gathered, some even holding up their phones to record the scene. With so many eyes on him, Dr. Gould softened his tone. “Calm down. Let’s start with a brain MRI to assess the damage first.” Danielle nodded numbly. This was the first time a comatose patient had shown signs of recovery in this ward, and the news spread like wildfire. “Nora, in my office. Now,” Dr. Gould muttered. The head nurse and the orderly began wheeling my bed out for the scan, transferring me away from that nightmare of a room. Yet, my mind was filled with dread. As they adjusted the pillows under my head, the head nurse whispered, “Don’t worry, just close your eyes.” The heavy hum of the machine enveloped me, and I drifted into sleep. When I woke up, I was being moved back onto the gurney. The radiologist handed the report to the head nurse, who looked at it and immediately stepped away to make a phone call. Was the damage too severe? My heart twisted with anxiety, but I could do nothing but wait. In the office, Dr. Gould took off his lab coat. “You were recruited directly by the Chief of Medicine,” he began, looking out the window toward the newly constructed rehabilitation wing. “When I was a resident, I kept my mouth shut and followed orders.” Nora stood her ground. “Yes, Doctor.” “Do you have any idea how much money has been spent keeping him alive over these four years?” Gould asked, turning back to her. “The surgeries, the specialized equipment, the imported medications. None of it is covered by insurance. I hear his wife’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy just trying to keep him here. If you hadn’t made that scene today, his passing would have been a quick mercy for them.” The phone rang, interrupting him. The urgent MRI results were ready. Gould opened the file on his computer. Patient Raymond: Brainstem structure intact. Significant preservation of cortical function. Nora leaned in, pulling up his scans from four years ago. “Doctor, he’s showing clear signs of waking up!” She looked at Gould with genuine excitement, only to find him smiling at her with cold, calculating eyes. “Nora, I can pull some strings to shorten your residency by a year and get you transferred to the prestigious new wing,” he offered softly. It was a massive temptation. Nora felt a chill run down her spine. Raymond’s desperate plea for help flashed before her eyes, his thin, needle-scarred hands trembling on the bed. “What do you need me to do, Doctor?” she asked quietly. Gould’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Just write a statement admitting to a misdiagnosis. Say you mistook a common neurological reflex for signs of recovery.” He patted her shoulder reassuringly. “We all make mistakes when we’re young. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you.” “Is that so?” Nora stood up straight. She reached over and spun his computer monitor around. On the screen was the hospital’s internal group chat. Raymond’s MRI report had already been uploaded. Dr. Gould: The patient in Bed 5 is waking up. The message had already been forwarded dozens of times. Gould’s face turned white. “Nora, how dare you…” “You are a brilliant physician, Doctor. I still have so much to learn from you,” she said, slipping out of the office. Once in the hallway, she wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. She had taken a massive gamble, and she had no idea if she would win. But she remembered her oath to protect life. The patient wanted to live. She was going to help him. In the staff restroom, Devon was panicking. He had heard the rumors, and he immediately dragged Danielle into the emergency stairwell to talk. “Danielle, if Ray wakes up, I’m finished,” Devon whispered, his hands shaking. “Will he remember what happened that day?” Danielle slapped his hand away. “Devon, you’re crossing the line.” Devon stared at her, his face turning pale. Danielle’s lips curved into a soft smile. “When Ray wakes up, I’m going to give him the wedding of his dreams. I owe him that much.” Whenever she spoke of Ray, her eyes softened with genuine affection. It was a terrifying contrast. Did she love him? Yet just last night, this same woman had been clinging to Devon’s waist, whispering sweet nothings right beside her husband’s bed. After Danielle left, Devon took out his phone with trembling fingers. “Auntie, Ray is getting worse. The doctor says we need a direct family member to make the final call.” Up on the landing, Nora watched them through the gap in the stairs. She had stumbled right into a sickening web of betrayal. The weeping wife and the devoted best friend were nothing but monsters wearing masks of grief. Suddenly, her palm tingle with memory. Two short taps, three short taps, one long. H-I-M. The “him” Raymond was warning her about was Devon. Nora quietly followed Devon back to the ward. Inside, the head nurse was changing my IV bag. I lay there in a daze until the heavy door creaked open. “Ray… my baby…” My mother’s voice sounded exhausted. “Careful, Auntie,” Devon’s voice was gentle as he guided her to the bed. My mother grabbed Nora’s hand, tears streaming down her face. “Is my son… is he really leaving us?” Nora looked at her. “Are you the patient’s mother? His current state is—” “Doctor, my son has suffered far too much,” my mother interrupted, sobbing. My heart clenched. I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, that I wasn’t going to die. My father sighed heavily. “Martha, don’t cry. Time is running out. Let’s say our goodbyes.” “Dad, what are you saying? Ray is going to be fine!” Danielle cried out. Nora watched them, disgusted by the sheer hypocrisy in the room. The unfaithful wife was begging to keep her husband alive, while the parents seemed eager to bury him. My mother sat down, her hand gripping mine. These hands used to cook for me and brush my hair, but now they felt rough, calloused, and worn down by the years. “Ray,” she whispered, pulling my hand down to rest on her stomach. I felt a sudden jolt. My mother had lost so much weight, yet her stomach was rounded and firm. Had she fallen ill because of the stress I caused her? My mother let out a small, weary smile. “Sweetheart, Mom is pregnant with a baby boy. You’ll have a little brother to take care of us now. You can go in peace.” The words hit me like a physical blow. A sharp, violent alarm shattered the silence of the ward. My blood pressure spiked, and my heart rate soared from fifty-eight to over a hundred and forty beats per minute. The monitors screamed in protest.

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1 Five years after I cut ties with my mother, the Chief of Homicide, I live-streamed a murder on the dark web. The very woman who once swore she wouldn’t care if I died in a ditch had personally extradited me, locking the heavy steel cuffs around my wrists. In the interrogation room, my mother looked as if she had aged a lifetime overnight. Her hair was shot with gray, and her hands shook so violently she could barely point her finger at me. “Zachary, how did you turn into this?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “A total disregard for human life, three cold-blooded murders, and a live broadcast to mock the law. I wish I had never brought you into this world.” Watching her chest heave with righteous anger, I curled my lips into a mocking smile. “You never liked me much when I was obedient anyway,” I said, leaning back. “Your heart has always belonged to your precious adopted son, hasn’t it?” I pulled a blood-stained commendation medal from my pocket and tossed it onto the metal table between us. “You always said he was better than me, that he was the one destined to inherit your legacy. So how come he couldn’t even beat a failure like me?” My mother’s pupils dilated. She lunged across the table, grabbing me by the collar. “What did you do to Dominic?!” I didn’t answer. I just stared into her eyes and smiled. Just as the air was leaving my lungs, she abruptly let go of me, stumbling backward. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone. “No, it’s not possible, it can’t be,” she mumbled to herself, desperately dialing Dominic’s number. The words My Baby Boy flashed on the screen in bold letters. But there was no answer. And there I sat, her biological son, right in front of her, lacking even the right to be in her contacts list. After her fifth call went straight to voicemail, she snapped. “It was you!” she screamed. “Dominic told me he won a vacation voucher. You lured him out of the country!” If the deputy hadn’t held her back, she would have torn me apart with her bare hands. “Dominic just graduated from college, Zachary! How could you do this to him?” At the thought of the other three young victims who had died on my live stream, my mother looked as if she might faint. The deputy grabbed his radio, his voice urgent. “We have a fourth victim. All units, initiate an immediate search for Dominic’s location!” My mother carefully picked up the blood-stained medal from the floor, clutching it to her chest as if it were a holy relic. When I was a child, she wouldn’t even let me look at her medals; yet she had let Dominic wear this one as a lucky charm every single day. “Zachary, where did you hide him?” I shrugged. “Find him yourself. You never believed a word I said when we lived together, so why start believing me now?” My mother clutched her chest, her face pale with fury. The look she gave me was filled with pure hatred. “When I adopted Dominic, I only wanted to give you some company,” she hissed. “I never blamed you for being less capable than him, but your mind was always twisted. When he got top marks, you chose to cheat on your exams instead of studying harder.” She took a ragged breath. “When you wanted to drop out, I found you a decent job at the factory, but you couldn’t even keep your head down. You ran around with thugs. Dominic went to convince you to return to school, and you hired people to beat him up!” Her eyes were bloodshot, her knuckles white. “Dominic was the one who cried and begged me not to lock you up. He didn’t want you to have a criminal record. I gave you money for a prep school, and you took it and ran off to some lawless border town to make quick cash.” She slammed her palm onto the table. “I have spent thirty years in force, putting monsters behind bars, and I end up raising a murderer for a son!” The deputy and the recording officer stared at me with undisguised disgust. Ever since Dominic had entered our home, everyone had looked at me with those exact same eyes. I was used to it. I let out a cold snort, closed my eyes, and met her anger with absolute silence. My silence only enraged her further. She pulled a small, tarnished gold locket from her pocket and threw it at me. “When your father was alive, we had nothing. He worked extra shifts assembling cheap holiday lights until he nearly went blind just to buy you this locket. He said you deserved to have what other kids had. After he died in that crash, this was the only thing you had left of him, and you pawned it for a pack of cigarettes!” Her voice trembled with disgust. “It was Dominic who used his own allowance and scholarship money to buy it back for you! And just because I wouldn’t let him hand it back to you until you sorted your life out, you went around telling everyone Dominic was my secret bastard!” At the mention of my father, my breathing caught. I stared fixedly at the little gold locket resting on the metal table. Seeing that her words had finally pierced my armor, my mother softened her tone. Her hands, which used to swing me high into the air when I was a little boy, now pressed flat against the cold table. “Zachary, tell me where Dominic is,” she pleaded. “You’re still young. If you cooperate, we can still ask for a lighter sentence.” I let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Are you kidding me, Mom? I’ve killed people. What kind of lighter sentence are you talking about?” I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You just want to wrap this up quickly so you can send me to the gallows and get back to your precious adopted son.” “You!” My mother choked on her words, her face turning crimson. The deputy quickly stepped in, handing her a bottle of blood pressure medication. When he turned back to me, his eyes were filled with disgust. “Zachary, you’ve gone too far,” the deputy said, his voice cold. “I’ve been to your mother’s house. The walls are still covered in your elementary school certificates. They’re yellowed with age, but she never had the heart to tear them down.” He took a step closer. “Dominic lived in a small, curtained-off corner of the living room for years, while your bedroom was kept exactly as you left it. Your mother dusted it every single day, keeping it spotless. Whenever colleagues praised Dominic, she always made sure to clarify he was her adopted son, never once speaking ill of you. She didn’t even change his last name to hers. Her love was silent, and you warped it into this?” My mother wept quietly into her hands. “Zachary, do you know why Dominic worked so hard to get into the police academy?” she sobbed, throwing the medal onto the table. “He felt guilty. He thought his presence in our home divided my love and brought you unnecessary pressure. He gave up his own dreams to inherit my badge so you could live your life without any burden.” She covered her face, crying like a lost child. “He was disqualified during the background check because of his biological mother’s record, and he wept for days. You had the chance, and you threw it away. I failed as a parent. Why did I ever adopt him? If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.” This was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry. To me, she had always been an invincible shield, a guardian of justice. I stared at the medal on the table, a bitter smile playing on my lips. She claimed to love me, yet she had forgotten that my dream, my very first dream, had also been to wear that uniform. She had forgotten how she used to ruffle my hair, teaching me self-defense moves, playing cops and robbers with me in our tiny backyard. The person who had systematically destroyed that dream, ensuring I could never wear the badge, was the very boy she was mourning. “Zachary, if you still consider me your mother, tell me where he is,” she pleaded, looking up. “Is he alive?” I stared at my silver handcuffs. Once, I had worn a silver bracelet she had made for me. It had been lost so long ago I couldn’t even remember what it looked like. Just like I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be loved. “Susan, if you still consider me your son, go to my father’s grave,” I said quietly. “The clue you want is there.” The moment the words left my mouth, my mother bolted out of the room. The station mobilized every available officer, rushing to seal off the local cemetery. But there was no sign of Dominic there. Inside the columbarium, right beside my father’s urn, they found only a small, dusty digital voice recorder. My mother returned to the interrogation room, her face pale, holding the recorder in her hand. “This is your clue?” she asked, her voice tight. “This device has been sitting in that grave for five years. What does this have to do with Dominic?” The technician spent a grueling hour restoring the corrupted audio files from the dusty recorder. The file was two hours long. When the audio began to play, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room. The sound of a teenager crying and begging for mercy echoed through the speakers, desperate and raw. My mother slammed her fist against the wall. “Zachary! You recorded yourself bullying Dominic five years ago? Were you trying to drive him to suicide?!” I laughed so hard tears began to stream down my face. “Susan, everyone says you’re a brilliant detective, that you love me so much. Have you managed to brainwash yourself too? If you actually cared about me, how can you not even recognize my voice?” I stood up, the chains of my handcuffs rattling against the metal table. “That’s me, Susan! That was me being tormented, begging for mercy, and being ignored! It was me! It was me!” My mother’s eyes widened in horror. The audio continued to play. Then, Dominic’s voice came through the speaker, light and dripping with malice. “Scream, Zach. Scream louder. Let your dead dad hear how his precious little boy is being broken, haha.” My voice on the tape was raw from screaming. “You’ll pay for this, Dominic! My mother is going to lock you up!” A sharp, violent slap echoed through the recording. “Your mother?” Dominic sneered. “Are you still living in a fairy tale, Zach? It’s survival of the fittest. You think she’s going to choose you? A failure who cheated on his exams and can’t even get into a community college, or a straight-A student on a scholarship? Who do you think Susan will believe?” Even though I had known the answer back then, my younger self on the tape kept screaming, stubborn and desperate. “My mother is the Chief of Homicide! She won’t be fooled by a monster like you! Your mother was a murderer she caught! She took you in out of pity, but you’re rotten to the core! You framed me for cheating, you stole my locket, you paid those thugs to violate me!” The audio suddenly glitched, looping on the words violate me over and over again, like a curse echoing in the small room. My mother stood frozen, turning into stone. Everyone in that room knew who Susan had chosen to believe five years ago. And even now, she struggled to accept the truth. “This… this isn’t real,” she whispered, her lips turning blue. “You forged this, didn’t you? You made this up to frame Dominic!” The technician looked down, his voice barely audible. “Captain Beckett, the audio is completely genuine. There are no signs of editing or digital manipulation.” My mother collapsed into her chair, her face completely blank. Looking at the tiny recorder, my mind drifted back to that cold afternoon five years ago. After months of being framed by Dominic, I had bought that cheap recorder to gather proof. I had gone to my father’s grave to cry and tell him what was happening, only to be cornered by Dominic and three older thugs he had hired. As they dragged me down, I managed to slip the recorder into the gap beside my father’s urn. It had stayed there for five years, waiting for the light of day. “How could this happen?” my mother murmured. Just then, the door was kicked open. “Captain! We found the fourth victim!” The officer handed a stack of photos to my mother. In the pictures, Dominic was kneeling, his arms stretched out and pinned to a wooden cross in a decaying offshore warehouse. His head hung low, frozen in a posture of eternal repentance. His body was pale and cold, having been dead for days. My mother’s chest heaved, and before she could take another breath, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor. The next time I saw her was the day before my trial. She wore civilian clothes, her shoulders slumped, her spirit completely broken. In the visitation room, she slowly picked up the receiver. “Zachie.” The nickname felt as if it belonged to another lifetime. “Why didn’t you tell me Dominic was hurting you?” I toyed with the black telephone cord. “I did tell you. You just chose not to believe me.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “I taught you to use the law to protect yourself. Why did you have to kill them?” I stopped playing with the cord and looked her straight in the eyes. “Susan, even now, you still don’t believe me.” I let out a soft sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. After tomorrow, your wish will finally come true.” “What do you mean?” The guard tapped my shoulder, signaling that my time was up. I hung up the phone and walked away, ignoring her hand slamming against the glass partition. The next day, the courtroom was packed to the brim. “The defendant, Zachary Beckett, committed four counts of homicide in an offshore territory, three of which were broadcasted live on the internet with extreme cruelty, causing severe social harm…” The gallery erupted into shouting. The families of the victims wept and screamed for justice. “My daughter was so young! He stabbed her to death!” “My wife had a heart attack watching that stream! He destroyed our family! He deserves the death penalty!” I remained silent, looking toward the back row. My mother sat with her face buried in her hands, refusing to look at me. “I have nothing to say,” I told the judge. The gavel fell. Death penalty. The courtroom erupted into cheers. I closed my eyes and whispered in my heart: Mom, your wish has finally come true. Susan walked out of the courtroom in a daze. When she finally came to, she found herself sitting on her old sofa, staring at a faded photograph in her wallet. It was a picture of me when I was seven, missing a front tooth. I had lost that tooth in a schoolyard fight. She remembered holding me that day, telling me: “When you are bullied, tell Mom. But while you are waiting for me to get there, you must protect yourself. Strike back if you have to.” Strike back? Susan’s face turned white. She grabbed her keys and bolted back to the police station. “Pull up the live stream of Zachary’s murders! There is something wrong with this case!”

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1 My arch-nemesis and I both suffer from highly specific, incredibly inconvenient disorders. I have skin hunger, a physical condition that leaves me desperately touch-deprived. He has episodic amnesia, and when his memory wipes, I am the only person he remembers. So, we made a deal. He said, “Let’s partner up. I’ll help ease your skin hunger, and you play along whenever my brain resets.” It sounded like a reasonable transaction. What I didn’t expect was for his amnesiac self to genuinely believe I was his girlfriend. He would kiss me, touch me, and make out with me until my lips were completely swollen. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I looked him dead in the eye during one of his episodes and lied, “Actually, I’m your sister.” His world shattered. But a second later, he looked at me with dead-serious eyes and asked: “So, are we doing the whole forbidden taboo thing?” 2 My touch starvation had flared up out of nowhere. I practically dragged myself across campus to find Owen, my childhood friend turned rival, only to find him cornered by a girl confessing her love. She was reading some cheesy love poem, holding out a bouquet of flowers, and dragging the whole thing out forever. I tried to hold it together, standing on the edge of the crowd. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my eyes grew hot and watery from the sheer, agonizing itch under my skin. Owen’s best friend spotted me. Seeing my state, he muttered to the guy next to him, “Holy crap. Look at Nora. She hates Owen so much her eyes are literally bloodshot.” If it were any other girl, people would have assumed I was heartbroken over the campus golden boy getting taken. After all, Owen was the resident heartthrob, and the line of girls wanting to date him could easily wrap around the university twice. But I was Nora West. Owen’s sworn enemy. Sensing something, Owen glanced up. His eyes locked onto me through the crowd. His expression shifted instantly, and he shoved the bouquet back into the poor girl’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for a relationship. Thank you, though,” he said, blunt and final. The girl’s face went pale. She stood frozen in the middle of the whispering crowd, completely mortified. Owen’s buddy groaned. “Bro, come on. You didn’t have to humiliate her like that.” Owen shot him a dark look. “Shut up.” I was losing my mind. The proximity of all these random people was making my skin crawl. “Owen, get over here. We need to settle this,” I snapped. Giving him a sharp glare, I turned on my heel and walked away. If I stayed any longer, I was going to lose my composure. Owen trailed right behind me, his long strides easily keeping pace. Behind us, his friends watched in genuine concern. “Man, how deep does their grudge go? They’re totally going to throw hands.” We didn’t throw hands. Instead, the moment we were behind closed doors, we crashed into a tight, desperate embrace. “Better?” Owen muttered, his voice laced with his usual irritation. I swallowed a pathetic whimper, gripping him tighter. “Give me a second.” Seeing how bad my touch starvation was, Owen reached down, yanked his shirt over his head, and tossed it aside, leaving his chest bare. Then he pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his strong arms around me. To tease me, he bounced his leg slightly, causing me to jolt up and down against him. I glared at him, but he just smirked. “Your condition is seriously freaky, you know that?” I reached out and pinched his bare collarbone, twisting the skin until he winced. “What is your problem?” he hissed, baring his teeth. “Do you want me to drop you on the floor?” “Shut up,” I muttered, closing my eyes to focus on the soothing sensation of skin-on-skin contact. Owen took one look at my exhausted face and fell silent. I rested my cheek against the warm crook of his neck, and every single tense muscle in my body slowly began to unravel. “I didn’t mean to ruin your peacocking session out there,” I murmured. “You should probably go back and clear things up with that girl.” Owen’s public persona was always the polite gentleman. Even when he wasn’t interested, he usually had the decency to let a girl finish her speech. He would give a vague nod, then find a private moment later to let them down easy. Some people called him a player for it; others praised his high emotional intelligence. I, on the other hand, didn’t play those games. I shut guys down before they could even finish their first sentence. That directness almost cost me last month when a guy, driven mad by rejection, tried to throw acid at me. If my reflexes hadn’t been lightning-fast, my face would have been ruined. Just thinking about it made my blood boil. “Hey, Nora. If you’re in a bad mood, take it out on a punching bag, not my chest,” Owen grumbled. I blinked, realizing I had subconsciously balled my hand into a fist and thumped his bare skin. “Oh, please. A little tap won’t kill you.” Owen and I had known each other since we were in diapers. Since we shared the last name West, everyone in school used to assume we were siblings. I used that misconception to screw him over countless times. Whenever I picked a fight with someone outside of school, I’d leave them with his name: “You got a problem? Go talk to my brother, Owen West!” By middle school, he had been forced into the role of the local bad boy, constantly dealing with idiots trying to challenge him. In high school, our rivalry shifted to academics. We made a bet: whoever got the lower grade on any test had to call the other “Mom” or “Dad.” To two teenagers with pathologically inflated egos, failing a test was practically a death sentence. Over those three years, I had to call him “Dad” twenty-five times. He called me “Mom” forty-nine times. Every single time the words left our mouths, we wanted to strangle each other. God, he was infuriating. At least my GPA was slightly better, meaning I held the ultimate bragging rights. But after graduation, our dynamic took a sharp, bizarre turn. Out of nowhere, Owen developed a strange form of episodic amnesia. It was completely unpredictable, striking at any given moment without warning. The kicker? When the fog rolled into his brain, I was the only constant left. Not only did he remember me, but he was also utterly convinced we were dating. If I tried to deny it, he would spiral so violently he’d turn suicidal. The first time I told him the truth, he broke down, grabbed a blade, and slit his wrists, landing himself in the ICU. Honestly, I had never seen so much blood in my life. After a few terrifying episodes, I learned my lesson. Owen West was a certified psychopath when he lost his mind. Once he snapped back to his senses, the rational Owen proposed a truce. “Look,” he had said, rubbing his temples. “You have skin hunger, and I have this memory issue. Let’s make a deal. I’ll be your physical anchor when you need touch, and you play along whenever my brain resets.” It seemed like a fair trade. But I hadn’t factored in just how intensely the amnesiac Owen would commit to the boyfriend role. He would kiss me, touch me, and even try to drag me to bed. When his memory finally returned, I’d be sitting there with swollen, bitten lips. Owen would stare at my mouth, clear his throat, and mutter, “Sorry. I’ll tell myself to be gentler next time.” A surge of pure fury would wash over me, and I’d slap him across the face. He never fought back. He just took it. Naturally, to compensate for our bizarre private arrangement, our public hostility grew even more extreme. We acted like we wanted each other dead. Even the classmates who didn’t know us personally knew about the legendary feud between Nora and Owen. If I was invited to a party, Owen wouldn’t show up. If Owen was there, I was a no-show. It was a classic case of mutual exclusion. I let out a heavy sigh at the memory. Still holding me close, Owen smirked, his voice dripping with arrogance. “What’s with the sigh? Is my chest not comfortable enough for you? You should check around campus, girls would pay a fortune to be where you are right now.” My eye twitched. I reached up, grabbed a handful of his dark hair, and started shaking him. “Ow! Nora, you psycho!” Owen yelled, trying to swat my hands away. “This is why you’re single! No sane man would ever want you!” As if I gave a crap about what some hypothetical man wanted. We ended up wrestling on the floor. He pinned my wrists, and I wrapped my legs around his neck in a chokehold, both of us straining with every ounce of strength we had, refusing to back down. Suddenly, the classroom door flew open. A group of students froze on the threshold, staring at our tangled bodies. Owen and I scrambled apart, desperately trying to untangle ourselves and stand up. Owen, showing an infuriating amount of calm, casually grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it over his bare torso. “It’s not what it looks like!” I gasped, my face flushing scarlet. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to think there was anything romantic going on between us. “Holy shit!” one of the guys whispered loudly. “Nora just absolutely wrecked Owen! She literally tore his shirt off!” “That is brutal. How much does she hate him to literally rip his clothes?” It didn’t help that there was a fresh, angry red scratch on Owen’s pale cheek where my fingernail had caught him during our struggle. Against his fair skin, it looked like a major battle wound. Owen and I stood there in dead silence. Unbelievably, not a single person suspected anything other than sheer, unadulterated violence. Naturally, as the rumor mill spun, the story morphed into something legendary. A simple wrestling match turned into me viciously disfiguring the campus golden boy. To make matters worse, Owen had to take the next few days off due to family matters. His sudden absence practically confirmed the rumors. I didn’t bother correcting anyone. Once Owen showed up with an intact face, the rumors would die down on their own. Some people, however, couldn’t let it go. A group of girls cornered me near the library. The ringleader’s eyes were red and swollen, and she glared at me with pure venom. “Nora West,” she demanded, her voice trembling. “You need to go to the police station and turn yourself in right now.” I stared at her, wondering if I had temporarily lost my hearing. But she stepped closer, repeating her ridiculous demand. “Go turn yourself in! I know Owen is too sweet and gentlemanly to press charges against you, but you can’t just assault someone and ruin their face! That is a crime!” My expression didn’t flicker. Having dealt with insane situations my entire life, I had developed a remarkably thick skin. “First of all, his face is perfectly fine,” I said coolly. “Second, if you think I committed a felony, feel free to call the cops yourself.” I tried to push past them, but they blocked my path. “Nora, don’t you dare walk away!” I scoffed, losing my patience. “Look, who even are you? Do I know you? What is your connection to Owen? I know his entire social circle, and I’ve never seen your face. Who do you think you are?” The girl puffed out her chest. “My name is Gemma Harrington! I am Owen’s girlfriend. That gives me every right to stand up for him!” I burst out laughing. The claim was so absurd she might as well have claimed to be his long-lost mother. Gemma’s face turned red with rage. “You toxic, miserable girl! You think you’re so special just because your family has money? You’re going to get what’s coming to you!” “Please,” I sighed. “Owen’s family is just as wealthy as mine. If he wanted to sue me, he would have done it already. Speaking of which…” I gestured with my chin over her shoulder. Everyone turned around to see Owen walking toward us, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Nora, I’ve been waiting for you for four hours.” I immediately went on the offensive. “Hey, your ‘girlfriend’ here is cornering me with her squad.” Owen’s eyes swept over Gemma and her friends, his expression instantly darkening. Under his cold gaze, Gemma shrunk back, her confidence evaporating. Owen was clearly in a terrible mood and had zero intention of playing nice. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said, his voice flat. “And when I do date, it will only be with someone from a family of equal standing.” It was a harsh reality, but Owen and I had accepted it long ago. We had no desire to rebel against our families for some dramatic, doomed romance. Besides, who said you couldn’t find a genuine connection within your own social class? My parents had an arranged marriage and ended up madly in love. It worked out fine. Gemma gasped, looking deeply humiliated. “Owen! I’ve been chasing you for months! I literally saved up for weeks to buy you that two-thousand-dollar watch!” Her friends chimed in, glaring at him. “Seriously, Owen? Gemma sacrificed so much for you. The least you could do is respect her feelings!” “I never accepted the watch,” Owen countered coldly. “I’ve made it clear to everyone: don’t buy me things. If I had to date every girl who showed interest in me, I’d need a harem. Back off.” Tears finally spilled over Gemma’s cheeks. “You jerk!” she screamed, then turned and bolted down the path, sobbing hysterically. Her friends looked at each other, then ran after her. “Gemma! Wait up!” I crossed my arms and looked at Owen. “So, you waited four hours, and your fangirl wasted ten minutes of my life. Let’s call it even.” Owen scoffed, stepping closer. “She isn’t my girlfriend. And you definitely made me wait on purpose.” I absolutely had. Tonight was his mother’s birthday dinner, a joint celebration with our families. Owen had come to pick me up early. I figured making him wait was a perfectly reasonable way to keep him humble. He glared at me, his jaw clenching. “You are unbelievable, Nora. Just wait.” I smirked, thoroughly enjoying his irritation. But as it turned out, karma was a fast-moving beast. By the time we arrived at the West estate, the dining room was already full. No matter how much Owen and I tore at each other’s throats, our parents remained thick as thieves. During the main course, Owen’s mother looked over at me with a warm smile. “So, Nora, darling, when are you going to bring a boy home? You’re graduating soon. It’s about time you started dating.” Instantly, every eye at the table locked onto me. I opened my mouth to offer some polite, generic excuse, but before I could speak, Owen reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and announced, “Actually, we’re already dating.” My father dropped his fork with a loud clatter. My parents and his exchanged wild, bewildered glances. “Is this… a joke?” my mother managed to ask. At that exact moment, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Of all the times for his amnesia to flare up, he chose his mother’s formal birthday dinner. Before I could react, Owen grabbed my shoulders, pulled me toward him, and pressed his lips to mine. He didn’t just give me a polite kiss; he kissed me deeply, parting my lips and making a very audible, very embarrassing sound right in front of our parents. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Okay, we believe you! Stop!” his father yelled, shielding his eyes. “Owen! Get your hands off my daughter!” my dad roared, half-rising from his chair. My mom quickly grabbed his arm, pulling him back down. Needless to say, dinner ended abruptly. Since everyone knew we supposedly despised each other, I knew I was in for a brutal interrogation the second we got home. “Sweetheart,” my dad said gently once we were back in our living room. “You have to be mature about this. You can’t just pretend to date Owen as some twisted way to get back at him.” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “I know, Dad. I’ve got it handled.” But inside, panic was setting in. This had to stop. If people thought I was dating Owen, I’d never find a decent guy. Besides, the idea of being publicly linked to him was nauseating. The next morning, Owen met me on campus. For once, he looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry about last night,” he muttered. “When the amnesia hits, I can’t control my actions. You know that.” Seeing Owen swallow his pride was a rare sight. He practically had to drag his ego through the dirt to say those words. Seeing my cold expression, he quickly tried to justify himself. “Come on, Nora. I’ve bailed you out plenty of times when your touch starvation flared up. Remember last week? I was in the middle of a critical ranked match, and I abandoned my team because you called. My friends still think I have some secret, needy girlfriend.” He wasn’t wrong. We had a mutual arrangement, but his episodes were getting progressively worse. Now that our parents were involved, we were playing with fire. What we did in private was one thing, but letting it spill into our real lives was a recipe for disaster. As Owen kept talking, his voice suddenly trailed off. The frustration in his eyes faded, replaced by a blank, hazy look, which quickly morphed into pure, radiant joy. “Norie,” he whispered, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I love you so much. You’re my girl, right?” Oh, great. He was slipping under again. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Was this going to be my life? Constantly locking lips with my sworn enemy? I didn’t want this. His mother was right, I needed to find a real boyfriend. I shook my head, stepping back. “No, Owen. I’m not your girlfriend.” His brows furrowed. “That’s not true.” Terrified of triggering another self-harm episode, I scrambled to fabricate a convincing lie. “Listen to me, Owen. We can’t date. We’re siblings. I’m Nora West. We share the same last name because we’re brother and sister.” Owen’s eyes widened, his pupils trembling as he tried to process the information. I held my breath, praying this wouldn’t send him into a downward spiral. Instead of panicking, he just stared at me, his face a complicated map of disbelief and intense conflict. “Oh, god,” he whispered, looking utterly devastated. “I’m in love with my own sister.” Then, looking at me with absolute sincerity, he asked: “So, are we doing the whole forbidden taboo thing?” What was wrong with this guy? He had the nerve to call my skin hunger freaky, but his amnesiac brain was on a whole different level of twisted. Owen’s eyes were rimmed with red. “Nora, please. I don’t care about the rules. I love you. I can’t live without you.” Looking into his intense, desperate gaze, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness. He was so completely different from his usual self. The amnesiac Owen had no defenses. He only loved me, only remembered me, and his eyes followed me like I was his entire universe. And now, he was begging me to break the ultimate taboo. “Owen, we really are siblings,” I lied, trying to sound gentle. “If you don’t believe me, you can text our parents.” He frowned. “Who are our parents?” I sighed, pulling out my phone. I opened my chat with my mom and shot her a quick message: What’s the relationship between Owen and me?

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1 Everyone always said that marrying Sebastian Ward was a massive step up for a girl like me. They said it so often that, eventually, I started believing them. So, I kept Sebastian at a polite, respectful distance. I never asked where he was going, and I never spent a single dime of his money. We split our daily living expenses straight down the middle, calculated right to the last cent. Then Sebastian died. To my absolute shock, he left his entire estate to me, turning me into a very wealthy widow. But a widow gets lonely. After a year of grieving, I couldn’t help but slip into a secret relationship, hidden from Sebastian’s high-society friends and family. The new guy was perfect. He was attentive and incredibly sweet, constantly sending me money and gifts while never demanding any kind of official label. I thought this peaceful arrangement would last forever. Until last night, when I walked into a quiet bar and saw my dead husband sitting in a booth, very much alive. Sebastian was nursing a drink, complaining to his best friend. “What am I supposed to do? I think my wife is actually falling for another guy.” His friend rolled his eyes. “Bro, both of those guys are you. You’re the one who came up with this twisted scheme. Deal with it.” That was the exact moment I realized my perfect online boyfriend was actually my dead husband. I had always suffered from a severe lack of self-worth. When people tell you you’re not good enough your entire life, it eventually becomes your inner monologue. Sebastian and I had met through a completely normal matchmaking service. Yet, his wealthy social circle treated me like a gold-digging social climber who had hit the jackpot. They whispered that a plain, middle-class girl like me would be kicked to the curb the moment he grew bored. I was terrified of that happening. To protect my dignity, I insisted on a strict fifty-fifty split on everything after we got married. I couldn’t afford my half of his massive estate, so I made him move into a tiny apartment with me. I spent years scraping together every penny just to pay my half of the down payment. Sebastian had tried to stop me countless times. “Sasha, you don’t have to do this,” he would plead, running a hand through his hair. “What’s mine is yours. Let me take care of you.” I would only sigh. Men always say that when they are in love. But if things soured, he could easily turn into one of those nightmare exes you read about online, demanding his money back down to the cost of a cheap takeout dinner. I wasn’t going to let myself be humiliated. In the end, Sebastian couldn’t change my mind. He resigned himself to my strict financial boundaries. We split the utilities, the groceries, even the cost of toilet paper. If he bought me a gift, I made sure to buy him something of equal value. Eventually, he grew so frustrated with my stubbornness that he made a rule: “Fine. But whatever the husband wears, the wife has to buy. And whatever the wife wears, the husband has to buy. It’s for marital unity. You have to listen to me on this one.” I thought it made some sense, so I agreed. But the execution was disastrous. Because he was incredibly wealthy, he showered me with designer clothes and fine jewelry. Meanwhile, because my salary was modest, I could only afford cheap clothes for him. A billionaire heir was walking around in faded, worn-out shirts, and he refused to replace his underwear even when they had holes in them. I was constantly broke from trying to pay off my half of our mortgage. I couldn’t afford the thousand-dollar designer silk boxers he was used to. Instead, I bought him a three-pack of cotton briefs from a supermarket discount bin. Every time I handed them over, he would smile warmly and say, “It’s fine, sweetheart. When you get that big promotion, you can buy me the fancy ones.” A mix of guilt and affection would swell in my chest. Looking at his gentle, patient nature, I had to admit the gossips were right. I really had married up. His kindness motivated me to work myself to the bone. By the end of the year, my hard work paid off. I landed a major promotion and my salary tripled. Feeling rich for the first time in my life, I immediately went to a high-end boutique and splurged on a pair of thousand-dollar designer boxers. I wanted his pampered backside to finally get the luxury it deserved. But as I walked up the stairs to our apartment, a chorus of loud, agonizing wails echoed down the corridor. My heart sank as I realized the sound was coming from our door. The front door was wide open. Inside, white funeral flowers and ritual paper money were scattered across the floor. My in-laws were collapsed on the rug, weeping hysterically. The moment my mother-in-law saw me, she grabbed my hands, her voice cracking with grief. “Sasha, oh my god… Sebastian was in a horrific car crash! He’s gone!” My mind went completely blank. The expensive shopping bag slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor in slow motion. Sebastian’s funeral was a blur. Before I could even begin to process my grief, my in-laws dragged me to a lawyer’s office to sign some paperwork. My mother-in-law wiped her swollen eyes. “Sasha, Sebastian left a will. He signed over his entire fortune, his estates, his investments, everything to you. Please, sign the papers.” I stared at her, tears suddenly streaming down my cheeks even though my mind felt numb and detached. And just like that, I became an incredibly wealthy widow. Life moved on in a quiet, empty routine. The apartment felt massive with only one person in it. I only had to buy groceries for one, never having to worry about what anyone else wanted for dinner. But suddenly, my phone was blowing up with new friend requests. People I barely knew were suddenly eager to introduce me to eligible bachelors. Even though I was technically still grieving the Ward family’s heir, my new massive net worth made me the most desirable bachelorette in the city. When I hesitantly mentioned the matchmakers to my in-laws, they only smiled gently. “Sasha, life goes on,” his father said, patting my hand. “Sebastian is gone, but you are still young. If you find someone who treats you well, you should take the chance. We will always consider you our daughter.” I was stunned by their generosity. Sebastian was their only son, yet they were actively encouraging me to move on. I felt incredibly lucky to have them. I lowered my head, so lost in my thoughts that I missed the fleeting, awkward glances exchanged between my mother-in-law and father-in-law. Determined to honor their kindness, I resolved never to officially remarry. But as the months dragged on, the loneliness became a heavy, physical ache. I decided I would allow myself a quiet, secret relationship. If nobody found out, I could still be the faithful widow to the public, while keeping myself from going mad with isolation. After filtering through dozens of profiles, I finally selected one guy. The sheer volume of men pursuing me was overwhelming, and I knew deep down they were only interested in my inheritance. But this one seemed different. The moment we connected on the app, he sent three messages: Hi, I’m Ashton. You don’t need to feel pressured. It’s completely fine if you don’t like me. I don’t need a public label or any commitments. You can walk away whenever you want. Reading those words, my heart skipped a beat. He was offering the exact arrangement I needed without me even having to ask. I quickly typed out my reply: Are you sure? I’m not as perfect as you think. I’m a widow, and my loyalty lies with my late husband’s parents. They’ve been wonderful to me, and I can’t leave them behind. His reply came instantly: I understand. But to me, you are the absolute best. My chest tightened with warmth. Nobody had ever called me the best before. We started texting every day. Ashton was a master of emotional validation. If I told him I had managed to drink a full glass of water, he would find a way to make it sound like a heroic achievement. His constant, lavish praise made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I constantly tried to downplay his compliments: Stop teasing me, I’m really not that special. But he refused to back down: Sasha, I mean every word. You are the strongest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met. I began to worry. Was Ashton a romance scammer? The only people who had ever flattered me this intensely were sales associates working on commission. It reminded me of the time I went to get a haircut, and the stylist insisted I would look like a runway model with rainbow hair. He used rainbow literally, dyeing my hair seven different colors. Being too polite to say no, I let them work their magic. The bill was a staggering five thousand dollars. Sebastian had paid it without a single complaint. “It’s normal for a husband to pay for his wife’s hair,” he’d smiled. “You can cover my next haircut to make it even.” I had kept that ridiculous seven-colored hair for less than thirty minutes before running to a different salon across the street to dye it back to dark brown. To test Ashton’s intentions, I sent him a transfer of three hundred dollars. Within a second, he rejected it. Before I could type a question mark, my phone began to buzz with notification after notification of cash transfers from him. I counted twenty transfers of five hundred dollars each. He texted: Buy yourself some flowers, Sasha. I don’t want your money. My jaw dropped. How had I managed to find a man who genuinely wanted nothing to do with my fortune? I continued our relationship with a mix of excitement and absolute terror. Exquisite, ridiculously expensive gifts began arriving at my doorstep almost daily. I felt a deep sense of guilt. Carrying on a secret relationship was already bad enough, but accepting these diamond necklaces and designer bags made me feel like a thief. When I tried to return them, he simply texted: Sasha, these jewels were made for a beautiful woman. They have no value if they aren’t draped over your skin. My fingers trembled as I read his words, my heart hammering against my ribs. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing the dizzying thrill of romance. But a quiet, ugly voice inside me kept whispering that I didn’t deserve it. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I wasn’t beautiful. I had a faint, reddish birthmark the size of a coin right near my temple. If you looked closely, it was impossible to miss. My biological parents had always claimed that birthmark was a curse, a financial black hole that kept our family in poverty. They blamed every misfortune on me. On Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. I was surprised to find my in-laws standing on the porch, holding a beautifully decorated cake. “Mom, Dad! What are you doing here? You should have called first.” My mother-in-law took my hands in hers. “Sasha, sweetheart, it’s your twenty-sixth birthday. Did you forget?” Staring at my name iced onto the cake, my throat tightened. It was the first time anyone had ever celebrated my birthday. His father smiled warmly. “Sasha, you were only married to our son for a year before he was taken from us. It’s not fair to keep you tied to a ghost. If you meet someone good, you have our blessing to marry. We want you to be happy.” Tears spilled over my eyelashes. I felt a crushing weight of guilt. Their son had been dead for barely a year, and I was already carrying on with another man. I felt like an absolute monster. My mother-in-law gently wiped my cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. We mean it. You are gorgeous, hardworking, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have you.” I kept my mouth shut, too terrified to admit that I was already seeing someone. After my in-laws left, Ashton called. His deep voice filtered through the speaker. “Hey, beautiful. Did you miss me today?” Anxiety gripped my chest. “Ashton, I think we’re moving too fast. My husband hasn’t even been gone that long.” There was a brief silence on the other end. Then he said softly, “Sasha, you can’t let a ghost hold you back. You deserve to live your life. He’s gone, and the past is in the past. Let me take care of you now.” “But I don’t deserve this,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Everyone always said I was beneath Sebastian. They said I was lucky he even looked at me.” “Sasha, Sebastian married you because he adored you. I bet he thought he was the lucky one. You deserve everything this world has to offer, especially the love and gifts of someone who cares about you. Drawing lines and rejecting gifts only hurts the person trying to give them to you.” His words hit me like a physical blow. I suddenly remembered Sebastian’s face when I had insisted on splitting our bills fifty-fifty. Had I hurt him back then? “Okay,” I whispered. “I understand.” After we hung up, I sat in the quiet apartment, my mind spinning. The doorbell rang again, interrupting my thoughts. On the porch sat a massive bouquet of crimson roses with a small card: Happy Birthday, Sasha. Love, Ashton. I stared at the velvety petals, that familiar, suffocating feeling of unworthiness creeping back in. But then Ashton’s words echoed in my head: Rejecting gifts only hurts the person trying to give them to you. I picked up the heavy vase, carried it inside, and shot him a text: Thank you. They are absolutely beautiful. From that day on, I forced myself to stop saying no. Every time a package arrived from Ashton, I accepted it gracefully, sending him sweet messages of gratitude. By our third month together, my spare bedroom was overflowing with designer clothes, jewelry boxes, and expensive silk scarves. One evening, as I walked past Sebastian’s portrait in the hallway, I stopped and gently touched the glass covering his smiling face. “I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I whispered. “But I think I’ve fallen in love with him. I want to try being happy.” My heart couldn’t lie to me anymore. I was genuinely happy when I talked to Ashton. I closed my eyes, making a decision. I had spent our entire marriage pushing Sebastian away out of fear. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Ashton. I opened my phone and sent him a message: Let’s meet tomorrow. A few agonizing minutes passed before his reply arrived: Okay. My chest tightened with nervous excitement. Meeting in person would change everything; he would become a real, permanent part of my life. I spun around in the empty living room, immediately rushing to my closet to try on outfits. Later that night, my friend Violet texted me, begging me to join her at a popular downtown lounge. I was about to type an excuse when she sent another message: Don’t you dare say no. You need to get out of that apartment. You can’t spend the rest of your youth mourning Sebastian. It’s time to meet some new guys! I sighed, smiling slightly. I actually wanted to find a quiet moment to tell her about Ashton. I put on a simple black dress and left the apartment, deciding to enjoy one last night of freedom before starting my new chapter tomorrow. The lounge was packed and deafeningly loud. I quickly navigated through the crowd and headed toward the second-floor VIP booths, where it was significantly quieter. As I pulled out my phone to check Violet’s room number, a familiar voice drifted from a semi-private alcove just around the corner. “Seriously, dude, what is your deal? You’re driving me insane. You’ve been moping around like a rejected lover for months.” It was Marcus, Sebastian’s childhood best friend. I instinctively stepped back against the wall, wanting to avoid an awkward conversation. But then, another voice answered him. “Marcus, what am I supposed to do? I think my wife is actually falling for another guy.” My heart stopped. My fingers went entirely numb, and my phone nearly slipped from my grasp. I knew that voice. I would know it anywhere, even in a crowded, noisy bar. I slowly peeked around the corner, my eyes widening in sheer disbelief. There, sitting in the dim light of the booth, was Sebastian. He was alive.

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1 Late at night, an email landed in my inbox. The sender address was my own, but the digital timestamp read ten years into the future. I unzipped the attached folder. Inside was a collection of explicit, degrading photos. The face in those photos was mine, but the eyes were hollow, stripped of any life. The body of the email dripped with absolute despair. “Do not touch the sweet almond stew tonight.” “Grace drugged it. She needs to clear Tyler’s debt with the loan sharks, and she is selling you tonight to pay for it.” “By the time you die from internal bleeding in some backroom, they will be happily using the fifty thousand dollars they got for your body to put a down payment on a brand-new house for Tyler.” My fingertips went numb. I stared at the screen, my chest tightening as a cold sweat broke out across my neck. I had spent years working myself to the bone, sending every spare dime home, hoping for just a shred of maternal love. It turned out that in their eyes, I was worse than livestock. A soft knock rattled my bedroom door. Grace stood outside, holding a steaming white porcelain bowl, her face twisted into an unnaturally sweet smile. “Ava, sweetheart, you are working too hard. Have some stew and get some rest.” When I didn’t answer immediately, the knocking grew louder, the wood rattling under her palms. “Ava, open up.” “I spent two hours simmering this sweet almond stew for you. Drink it while it is hot.” Her voice carried a rare tenderness, a gentle maternal warmth she almost never showed me. If this had happened thirty minutes ago, I probably would have wept with gratitude. I shut my laptop, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Grace stood there with a beaming smile, holding the bowl. Steam rose from the liquid, dotted with red dates and sweet cherries. It was a miracle. Usually, these expensive ingredients were locked away in her pantry, reserved strictly for my younger brother, Tyler. “Drink up,” she urged, pushing the bowl closer to my face. “You have lost so much weight from all that overtime. It breaks my heart.” I looked at the sweet liquid, and my stomach churned. “I am not really thirsty, Mom,” I said, taking half a step back. “Just leave it on the desk. I will drink it after I finish this report.” The warmth vanished from her face instantly. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes turned cold. “What?” she snapped. “I made this with my own hands, and you are turning your nose up at it? These almond flakes are the premium kind from the organic market. I wouldn’t even let Tyler touch them. You are drinking this tonight, or you don’t care about your mother at all.” Seeing the frantic desperation in her eyes, I stopped resisting. I took the bowl and forced myself to gulp it down right in front of her. The warm, thick liquid slid down my throat, sickeningly sweet. Grace let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The greedy grin returned, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. It was the face of a woman who knew fifty thousand dollars was finally within her grasp. “That is my good girl. Go to bed right after. Don’t ruin your health.” She snatched the empty bowl and locked the door behind her as she left. The moment the latch clicked, I bolted to the bathroom. I turned the faucet on high to drown out the noise, shoved two fingers deep down my throat, and gagged myself. The sweet, heavy broth came rushing back up along with my lunch. Tears and sweat poured down my face. I kept pushing, scratching the back of my throat until nothing was left but bitter, yellow bile. Splashing cold water on my face, I stared at my ghostly reflection in the mirror. What had I been clinging to for the past twenty-four years? Every payday, I kept barely enough for groceries and transferred the rest to her account. I bought them expensive gifts while I survived on stale bread and instant noodles. I thought blood was thicker than water. I thought if I just poured my soul into this family, I could finally warm their frozen hearts. Instead, I was just a walking ATM. A slab of meat to be sold by the pound. Even a pig gets a decent meal before the slaughter. I got a bowl of poison. When I was five, we had a rare treat of homemade chicken pot pies. Grace carefully picked out every single piece of chicken, placing them all into Tyler’s plate. When I looked at the food longingly, she slapped me across the face. “What are you staring at, you greedy brat? This is for your brother’s growth. You only deserve the scraps.” Tyler sat beside her, shielding his plate and sticking his tongue out at me. I kept quiet, thinking I just wasn’t being good enough. To please her, I stood on a wooden stool every weekend, washing the family’s laundry until my hands cracked and bled from the winter cold. My reward was another beating. “You useless child, look how much laundry detergent you wasted! Water doesn’t grow on trees!” When I was fifteen, I scored the highest marks in the entire school district. The acceptance letter from a prestigious regional academy arrived at our doorstep. I thought she would finally be proud. But when I got home, she was merrily counting a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. It was a dowry from creepy old Harlan, a bitter neighbor with a permanent limp. Grace didn’t even look at my acceptance letter. She flicked her lighter, threatening to burn it. “School is useless for girls. Harlan offered ten thousand dollars and two breeding pigs. You are marrying him next month to pay for Tyler’s wedding fund.” That night, I climbed over the fence barefoot. I walked ten miles in the pitch black, my feet bleeding, until I reached my teacher’s house and begged her to help me secure a scholarship. During college, I worked three jobs, waitressing, delivering flyers, and washing dishes. I paid my own tuition, but Grace still demanded five hundred dollars every month. I tolerated it all, foolishly hoping that one day, she would hand me a plate at the dinner table and say she was proud of me. Last month, Tyler got his leg broken by loan sharks over gambling debts. Grace ran to my apartment, screaming and rolling on the floor, holding a bottle of bleach to her mouth. “If you don’t save your brother, I will drink this right here! I raised you, and you won’t even help your own family? You are trying to kill your mother!” Under the judgmental stares of my neighbors, I handed over my entire savings of thirty thousand dollars. I thought that would finally pay my debt of birth. I was wrong. That money only whetted their appetite. I wiped my face dry, pulled a dusty duffel bag from under my bed, and packed a few clothes. My ID and bank cards went into my backpack. I muted my phone and lowered its screen brightness to the absolute minimum. The apartment was deathly silent, except for the ticking clock. Suddenly, the front door lock creaked. The heavy door groaned on its ungreased hinges. Then came a flurry of hurried footsteps, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic click of wooden crutches. Tyler, with his broken leg, was already out of bed to act as a pimp for his own sister. “Mom, is it done?” Tyler whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. “She drank it all. A whole packet of the powder. She should be completely out by now,” Grace replied, her voice eager. “Gavin, right this way. Watch your step,” Tyler said, his voice dripping with sycophancy. A gravelly, rough voice cut through the quiet house. “Is she really in there? Don’t screw with me. If she is ugly, I will break your other leg.” “I wouldn’t dare, Gavin!” Tyler stuttered. “The drug you gave me is incredibly potent. She is completely helpless. Just write off the fifty grand I owe you, and she is yours. She is beautiful, a virgin. Once you are done, you can put her in your club to work off the rest.” Grace chimed in, “She is strong, used to hard labor. She can handle it. We will keep watch outside. If she wakes up and struggles, just hit her. I can get you some duct tape to seal her mouth.” I pressed my ear against the bedroom door, my stomach twisting in raw disgust. These were my blood relatives. They had branded a price tag of fifty thousand dollars on my body and my future. “Just don’t kill her,” Grace added quietly. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We are here for profit, not a corpse,” Gavin laughed. The footsteps approached my door. I moved quickly to the window. We lived on the third floor of an old brick building. Outside the window was a rusted iron fire escape. The emergency latch on the metal grate was unlocked. I pushed the heavy metal open, feeling the cold night air rush against my face. I stepped onto the shaky air conditioning unit outside, my shoes slipping slightly on the dust. Behind me, the bedroom doorknob rattled violently. “Why is it locked?” Gavin grunted. “She must have locked it out of habit. Let me kick it open,” Tyler offered. The wooden door began to splinter. I squeezed into the narrow gap between the AC unit and the wall, gripping the cold brickwork. If I fell, I would die or be paralyzed. If I survived the fall, Grace would just sell my broken body to the highest bidder anyway. The door gave way with a loud crash. “Where the hell is she?!” Gavin roared. Flashlights cut through the darkness of my room. “She was supposed to be asleep! The bowl is in the kitchen!” Grace panicked. They tore the room apart, throwing open the closet and flipping the mattress. “My fifty grand! If she is gone, Gavin will ruin me!” Tyler screamed, his crutches thudding angrily. “We should have tied her up!” “That ungrateful bitch! I should have drowned her at birth!” Grace shrieked. “We fed her and clothed her, and she won’t even help her brother? It is her duty to sell herself for this family!” Footsteps approached the window. Tyler ripped the curtain aside. He leaned out, shining his bright flashlight down into the dark courtyard. The beam swept over the brickwork, brushing past the rusted metal grate. I curled into a tight ball, holding my breath, my bloody fingernails digging into the rough concrete wall. The pain kept me focused. The light hovered barely a foot above my head. I could hear Tyler’s ragged, angry breathing just inches away.

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My mother spent her life performing sainthood, a portrait of untouchable grace who never fought and never demanded. When a well-educated gold digger got pregnant and tried to usurp her place, I secretly ended the mistress’s pregnancy and destroyed her reputation. My mother only reprimanded me for being ruthless. She claimed the girl had a difficult past and quietly wired her a million dollars in compensation. When my father’s first love returned from abroad demanding a divorce, I used the tech empire I built from scratch as leverage. After weighing his options, my father abandoned the idea. Yet at our family gathering, my mother publicly shamed me, calling my methods extreme and unladylike. When my deadbeat uncle was sold to a South American cartel over gambling debts, Mother wept before me every day. I fought my father tooth and nail until I screamed he was cold-blooded and unworthy. He slapped me, threw me from the car into the pouring rain, and a truck shattered every bone in my body. Watching me die broke my father. Grief-stricken, he spent a fortune rescuing my uncle, cut ties with his mistresses, and swore to be a devoted husband. At my funeral, Mother held my brother’s hand, her voice serene as she looked at my casket. She sighed that my ambition and cutthroat nature brought this fate upon me. I called it poetic justice. I bled in the trenches while she reaped every benefit with clean hands. It was utterly pathetic. When I opened my eyes again, I was reborn to the day my father’s mistress first appeared at our door. 1 “Lydia, let’s have a little chat.” A stunningly beautiful woman with immaculate makeup steps into the private parlor. She walks right in and makes herself comfortable on the velvet sofa. Resting her left hand on her waist, she gently strokes her slightly swollen belly with her right. She looks at my mother with a sugary smile and drops the bomb. She tells her she is pregnant, and the baby belongs to Richard. Her voice is remarkably calm, yet dripping with a ruthless ambition. Watching this familiar scene play out feels entirely surreal. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. I have come back from the dead. I am right back at the exact moment Lily, my father’s mistress, came to stake her claim. The agonizing memories of my past life flash through my mind like a silent movie stuck on fast forward. Lily pulled this exact same stunt back then. I easily deflected every dirty trick she threw our way. I set a trap that caused her to lose the baby, dug up enough corporate dirt on her to ruin her career, and ensured she could never show her face in Manhattan high society ever again. I handled the threat cleanly and perfectly. But my mother just looked at me with eyes full of holy compassion. She sighed, saying the poor girl came from nothing, got blinded by the Winston family’s wealth, and took a wrong turn. She actually called the homewrecker a victim of circumstance. Then, she turned her judgmental gaze on me. She criticized my heavy-handed tactics. She called me a murderer for harming an innocent life. She told me she had already booked a retreat for me at a secluded monastery so I could cleanse my soul of its heavy sins. To top it all off, she secretly wired that mistress a million dollars to ease her guilt. I was left completely powerless and exhausted. For as long as I can remember, my mother has always been like this. Playing the untouchable ice queen. Never fighting. Never showing greed. She would always look at me with that serene, infuriating calmness. She would say the world isn’t always about winning or losing. Sometimes, not fighting is the ultimate victory. Those who understand you need no explanation, and those who don’t will never believe you anyway. My heart used to ache for her. I begged her to divorce my father, promising I would build an empire and take care of her myself. She refused. She fed me some nonsense about how loving a man means accepting every broken piece of him. So, I became her shield. I stood on the front lines, taking the bullets, scheming and plotting in the shadows just to keep her safe. She got to play the saint. I played the villain. She scooped up all the rewards without lifting a single manicured finger. And in the end, it was because of her worthless brother that I picked a fight with my father and ended up dead on the asphalt. But her? She used my bloody corpse as a teaching moment for my little brother. I can still hear her light, breezy tone at my funeral, telling him my death was the natural consequence of my own toxic ambition. Great. Absolutely fantastic. I fed my bleeding heart to a stray dog. In this life, I will not lift a single finger to fight her battles. 2 My mother stares at Lily’s belly for a long moment, then slowly shifts her gaze up to the younger woman’s face. A flicker of shock breaks through her composed expression. The color drains from her cheeks, leaving her looking fragile and pale. Seeing my mother look like a ghost, Lily rests her chin on her hand and smiles brightly. She asks if her face looks familiar. She casually mentions that twenty years ago, Richard only settled for Lydia because he was forced to break up with Seraphina. Seraphina Dupont. The golden girl of the Dupont dynasty. My father’s untouchable first love. Back then, my father was just a nobody from the wrong side of the tracks. The Dupont family despised him. They forced Seraphina to dump him and shipped her off to Europe. During his darkest days, my mother quietly stayed by his side. When my father finally built his fortune, he married her out of obligation. But Seraphina’s memory has always been a poisoned thorn buried deep in my mother’s heart. Against an opponent like my mother, who only knows how to strike pretty poses, Lily holds all the cards. Lily leans forward, her voice dripping with venom. She tells my mother she is nothing but a second-rate substitute. But Lily? Lily is the mirror image of Richard’s one true love. “Between a substitute and a replica,” Lily purrs, “I think the replica holds a little more weight, don’t you?” “Because we really do look alike. Don’t we?” The moment the words leave her mouth, my mother sways on her feet. She grips the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turn bone white, yet she desperately tries to keep her face entirely blank. Someone is rubbing her nose in the dirt, and she is still trying to maintain her zen, above-it-all persona. In my past life, I never understood her. After dying once, everything makes perfect sense. My father chose her back then specifically because of that quiet, submissive energy. He used to praise her for being gentle, generous, and completely undemanding. From that moment on, my mother carved that persona directly into her bones. When you wear a mask for twenty years, it fuses to your skin. She truly believes this fake purity is the only advantage she has over Seraphina. Besides, why should she ruin her image? Any dirty work, any vicious fighting, would always be handled by her loyal attack dog. Me. She just needs to look pretty, act innocent, and let the world believe she is an angel. 3 My mother is losing ground by the second, and Lily refuses to let up. “Let’s talk credentials,” Lily smirks. “I graduated top of my class from Yale. I am Richard’s executive assistant. And you?” She pauses, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You are just a useless housewife.” My mother’s eyes turn raw and red. She bites her lower lip, looking the picture of absolute misery. But true to form, she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t defend herself. Lily scoffs at the theatrical display. She leans back, confidently declaring she is younger, smarter, and far more loved by Richard. She tells my mother she has already lost the war. Panicking, my mother shoots a desperate, pleading look in my direction. I don’t even blink. I casually pick up my phone and start drafting a reply to a work email. If this were my previous life, I would have already flipped the table. I would have torn Lily to shreds with a vicious smirk, humiliated her, and kicked her out onto the street. Afterward, I would have hugged my mother, promising her she didn’t need to worry about street trash like that. I would have sworn to fix everything. Not anymore. Clean up your own messes. You are a grown woman. Stand on your own two feet. Seeing my absolute indifference, a flash of pure disappointment crosses my mother’s eyes. Makes sense. She is so used to treating me like a loaded gun. But today, the gun has jammed, and it must be terribly frustrating for her. Because of my mother’s desperate glance, Lily finally acknowledges the silent girl sitting in the corner. She flashes me a sickly sweet smile. She introduces herself and promises that once she becomes my new stepmother, she will make sure I am taken care of. She clearly has no idea who I am. After graduating, I refused to join my father’s empire. I built my own tech company from the ground up, and right now, my firm is making serious waves in the industry. Lily is severely underestimating me. Her tone is arrogant, practically begging for a fight. That arrogant spark ignites a fresh wave of hope in my mother’s eyes. She knows exactly what I am capable of. She knows I have a zero-tolerance policy for disrespect. Lily serving up this kind of blatant insult is practically a death wish. As long as I go to war, my mother can fade into the background and keep her hands perfectly clean. Too bad I am about to disappoint her again. I completely ignore Lily. I turn to my mother, my voice flat and professional. I tell her they should continue their chat. I mention a critical issue with a project at my firm and say I need to head to the office immediately. I grab my designer bag and stand up. A workaholic in both lives, my excuse is completely bulletproof. Realizing I am actually leaving her to face the wolves alone, my mother’s mute act finally shatters. She grabs my wrist. Her eyes glaze over with genuine tears, her voice trembling. She asks how I could possibly abandon her here. I frown slightly, gently peeling her fingers off my arm. I speak to her the way one speaks to a toddler having a tantrum. I tell her not to be dramatic and reiterate that I have an emergency at work. I pat her shoulder, telling her I believe she can handle this minor hiccup and that I fully support whatever choice she makes. My mother’s face turns a sickening shade of gray. Beside us, Lily actually bursts into laughter. I turn on my heel and walk out. Without me leading the charge this time, I can’t wait to see how Lydia, the untouchable saint, manages to win back her cheating husband and defend her throne from a ruthless gold digger. 4 For the next few days, I practically live at my office. Between late-night meetings and out-of-state conferences, I don’t step foot in the Winston mansion. Word through the grapevine is that my father hasn’t been home for days either. That is incredibly rare. Richard has plenty of toys on the side, but unless he is on a business trip, he never spends the night outside his own house. I once called him out on it, mocking him for trying to act like a family man while sleeping around. My mother was actually pleased by his behavior. She used her holier-than-thou voice to lecture me, saying my father knew his boundaries. She said it was normal for powerful men to play around, but as long as he came home to her, those other women were just cheap motel distractions. Over the decades, not a single one of those distractions ever dared to cross my mother. She genuinely believed being the official wife gave her some sort of divine dignity. A classic case of delusional self-comfort. But now, Lily has ripped that pathetic illusion to shreds. Even my zen mother can’t sit still anymore. She stood outside in a torrential downpour for two hours, successfully catching a brutal fever. Using the ultimate damsel-in-distress tactic, she finally forced my father to come home. My car pulls up to the estate right behind Richard’s. Walking into the master bedroom, I see my mother lying under the heavy silk covers. Her cheeks burn with an unnatural, feverish red, while her lips are deathly pale. She looks like a fragile, broken porcelain doll. It takes me one second to realize she used makeup to enhance the sickly look. For someone who claims not to care, she certainly puts on a hell of a production to keep my father’s attention. She is in her forties and has birthed two children, yet she starves herself to keep the figure of a teenager. Her expensive skincare routine ensures she barely looks thirty. Right on cue, Richard’s heart melts. He rushes over, pulling her into his arms, asking how she got so terribly sick. Lydia keeps her voice barely above a whisper. She tells him it’s just a minor cold. She says she explicitly told the maid, Martha, not to bother him because he works so hard and she doesn’t want to be a burden. Martha stands in the corner, her head bowed, looking incredibly wronged but too terrified to speak. Anyone with half a brain can see Martha is the designated scapegoat. That used to be my permanent job. Now that I am out of the picture, Martha is taking the heat. As a fellow victim of my mother’s collateral damage, I deeply sympathize. I have to bail Martha out. I cross my arms, putting on a terrifying scowl. I snap at Martha, asking how she could be so incompetent. I accuse her of ignoring my mother’s direct orders and letting her health deteriorate. I point at the door and yell at her to pack her bags, screaming that she is fired. Terrified of losing her livelihood, Martha completely snaps. She waves her hands frantically, swearing she is innocent. She cries out that it was Lydia who ordered her to call both me and Richard. Martha sobs, spilling everything. She tells us the storm was raging, but Lydia insisted on standing in the freezing rain. Martha begged to give her an umbrella, but Lydia refused, doing it all on purpose just to get sick. When you push someone into a corner, they talk. And Martha just sang like a canary. 5 The massive bedroom falls into a suffocating, dead silence for several seconds. Lydia looks like she is about to suffer a genuine stroke. Richard stares at her in absolute disbelief. His gaze turns ice-cold. He asks her why she would intentionally stand in the freezing rain. He reminds her he canceled a million-dollar board meeting just to rush home. “You are forty years old, Lydia, not fourteen. Grow the hell up,” he spits. Lydia’s eyes brim with tears. She puts on her classic wounded expression, silently telegraphing that if he truly thinks so lowly of her, she won’t even bother defending herself. This is the exact moment I am supposed to jump in. In my past life, I would have aggressively attacked Richard. I would have screamed at him for neglecting his wife and told him to look in the mirror before judging her. But now? I flash a bright, innocent smile and play the peacemaker. I tell my dad to go easy on her. I casually mention the old saying about people getting more childish as they age, noting that since she is getting older, it’s totally normal for her to throw a toddler’s tantrum. Lydia is absolutely terrified of aging. What does aging mean to her? It means losing her looks, her youth, and ultimately, her husband’s favor. Women always show their years faster than men in this brutal society. Richard is three years older than her, yet he doesn’t have a single deep wrinkle. He is still strikingly handsome, radiating the silver-fox billionaire charm. I drove a knife right into her deepest insecurity. Lydia clutches her chest, her face turning from flushed red to a furious, sickening purple. Smoke is practically coming out of her ears. Just as the tension reaches a breaking point, Richard’s phone buzzes. Lily’s voice practically echoes through the quiet room, sobbing hysterically. She calls him ‘Daddy’ and cries about a horrific nightmare where she was bleeding out and lost the baby. She begs him to come save her because she is so scared in the dark. She calls him Daddy? Gross. It’s truly a match made in hell. Richard looks momentarily embarrassed, but that quickly shifts into brazen justification. His voice drops into a sickeningly soft register as he promises to be right there. Hanging up, he turns his back on his feverish wife to go comfort his pregnant mistress. Panic finally shatters Lydia’s zen facade. She lunges forward, grabbing his sleeve, her voice cracking as she begs him to stay. Richard looks down at her with zero remorse. He recites the ultimate cheater’s playbook. He tells her Lily has had a miserable life, grew up in poverty, and is just a frightened young girl carrying his child. He says she needs his protection. He looks at Lydia with utter disgust, asking if a woman of her age is seriously going to be jealous of a helpless kid. It is true. Lily’s life is a mess. Disabled father, sick mother, gambling-addict brother. In my past life, when Lydia ultimately won the war, she used those exact same words to make me pity the mistress. Now, the boomerang has swung right back to smash into Lydia’s face.

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1 On the day of our senior yearbook photos, the photographer told the couples in our class to stand closer together. But Gemma pressed her hand against my shoulder, pushing me toward the very edge of the lineup so that Asher could take my place next to her. “Asher and I are the top graduates in science and humanities,” she said, her voice smooth and practical. “It looks better for the school if we stand together.” It was far from the first time she had pushed me aside. Whenever I brought my AP Calculus practice sheets to her, she would glance at my mistakes and sigh, telling me my foundation was too weak and that I was wasting her time. Yet, when Asher struggled with his math assignments, she would stay up until two in the morning, meticulously breaking down every single formula into its simplest steps for him. I once asked her to study with me at the library, but she frowned, claiming my presence was too distracting. Yet, when Asher’s class rank slipped by a single spot, she skipped an entire afternoon of classes just to walk along the harbor with him to ease his mind. The photographer smiled, teasing them from behind the lens. “Are you two a couple? You look perfect together, and your grades certainly match.” Gemma looked at Asher, her smile warm and filled with a quiet pride. “We have always been the perfect team.” Asher lowered his head, his cheeks flushing pink as the rest of our classmates began to cheer and hoot. I stood at the absolute edge of the crowd, my fingers tightening around the glossy photo reservation ticket I had kept in my pocket. I had spent the previous evening picking out my outfit and styling my hair, foolishly hoping to get a picture of just the two of us. The space next to her had never actually belonged to me. And now, I didn’t want it anymore. I stared down at the crumpled ticket in my palm, suddenly finding the whole situation ridiculous. I walked over to the nearest trash can and tossed it inside. A few minutes later, I walked into the guidance counselor’s office. The counselor handed me my final transcript, offering a supportive pat on the back. “You did well, Amber. Go home and start finalizing your college applications.” He paused, looking at me thoughtfully. “I heard you plan on following Gemma to Boston? Boston’s cutoffs are incredibly high, and honestly, your scores won’t get you into a top-tier program there. As your counselor, I advise you to prioritize your own future.” I thanked him, clutching the transcript tightly. As I stepped out of the office, I ran right into Gemma and Asher. They both froze when they saw me, but Asher quickly recovered, jogging up to me with a bright, friendly smile. “There you are, Amber!” He held out a cup. “We went to get some drinks, and Gemma made sure we got one for you too.” I looked down at the cups. They were holding matching iced matcha lattes with “couples combo” stickers plastered on the sides. The drink he was handing me was a bright yellow mango smoothie. I have a severe mango allergy, and Gemma knew that. I forced a faint smile, took the smoothie from his hand, and walked over to drop it into the recycling bin next to the lockers. Asher’s smile faltered, his eyes welling with tears as he looked helplessly at Gemma. Gemma’s brow furrowed instantly, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Amber, what is your problem now?” She sounded exhausted, her patience entirely spent. “Just because I asked you to step aside for Asher earlier? That was my decision, so why are you taking your anger out on him?” “I already explained it to you! We are the top students in our respective tracks, and standing together is good publicity for the school. Besides, didn’t I promise I would take a private photo with you afterward?” I stared at her, suddenly lacking the energy to argue. She had promised. But after the group photo ended, she never looked for me. On our classmates’ social media feeds, she had already posted a dozen private photos with Asher. She had spent the last hour laughing with him, holding him close, and buying drinks, entirely forgetting my existence. Everything had shifted the moment Asher transferred to our school. As the top humanities student, his name was constantly paired with hers, the top science student. I had strained myself to the limit just to keep up with them, often struggling to understand the academic jokes they tossed back and forth. Gemma used to be patient with my academic struggles. But as she spent more time with Asher, her attitude toward me turned into nothing but irritation. Seeing my silence, Gemma let out a sharp sigh, her patience gone. “Fine, we will take the photo now. Are you happy?” Without waiting for my reply, she snatched my phone from my hand and tossed it to Asher. Asher caught it, looking slightly uncomfortable. Gemma stood beside me, but she kept a distinct distance between our shoulders. Before I could even adjust my posture, she grabbed the phone back from Asher and shoved it into my palm. “There, no more tantrums.” “Now wait here while I help Asher gather his final transcripts. We will go home together after.” She turned, grabbing Asher’s sleeve as they walked into the office. I stood in the empty hallway, unlocking my screen to look at the photo. The camera had shaken, capturing only a blurry shot of the gray linoleum floor and the hem of her jacket as she walked away from me. I stared at it for a long time, then let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I deleted the photo, blocked Gemma’s number, and walked out of the school gates. I was done waiting for her. That evening, a few close friends dragged me out to a local diner for a farewell dinner. Halfway through our meal, the guy sitting next to me nearly choked on his soda. “No way, did Asher just make it official?” He flipped his phone onto the table. It was a social media post from Asher showing two movie tickets with a simple caption: Official. In the corner of the photo, a girl’s wrist was visible, wearing a braided red thread bracelet. My chest tightened, a dull ache spreading through my throat. I had begged Gemma to wear a matching couples bracelet months ago, but she had dismissed the idea, calling it childish. Yet, she had started wearing it recently. I had secretly allowed myself to feel happy, thinking she had simply changed her mind for me. How pathetic. My friends began to gossip, trying to identify the girl. “Who is she? Is she from our school?” “He’s always with Gemma. I thought those two were already dating.” I kept my voice flat. “It is Gemma.” They looked up, startled by my tone, and the table went quiet. “Amber, your eyes are incredibly red. Are you okay?” I lowered my head, picking at the fries on my plate. “The hot sauce is just really spicy.” Before anyone could reply, the diner door swung open. Gemma and Asher walked in together. She was carrying his backpack over her shoulder, holding his jacket in her hand. When they sat down at a nearby table, one of our classmates called out, “Gemma, we knew there was something going on between you two!” Gemma noticed me and paused, but she quickly regained her composure, walking over to our table as if nothing was wrong. “What a coincidence,” she said smoothly. “Mind if we join?” She was so utterly casual about it, making my silent agony feel like nothing more than a pathetic overreaction. “Are you two actually dating?” someone asked. Gemma glanced at Asher’s post, letting out a soft laugh. “That? He was talking about the movie release being official. You guys didn’t actually believe that, did you?” Asher lowered his gaze, blushing, but offering no correction. The table resumed its noisy chatter, but my focus was fixed on the glossy lip gloss on Gemma’s lips. It was a shade she only wore when she wanted to look her best. Gemma slid into the booth next to me, her hand reaching under the table to squeeze my fingers, just like she used to do. I pulled my hand away. Her hand froze in the empty space, her expression hardening. She stood up and moved to the other side of the booth, sitting right next to Asher. Their shoulders brushed, and Asher’s face turned bright red. For the rest of the night, the conversation revolved around the two of them, their future college plans, and how their children would probably inherit genius-level IQs. I sat there like an uninvited guest. I wanted to leave, but Gemma was sitting on the outside of the booth, blocking my exit. I could only stare at my plate, my stomach twisting in pain. When Asher reached for an ice-cold soda, Gemma quickly snatched it away. “Your stomach is sensitive, you shouldn’t drink cold things.” The table erupted into more teasing. Gemma finally looked at me, as if suddenly remembering I was there. “Your face is flushed, Amber. Was the food too spicy?” She slid the cold soda toward me. “Here, have some.” I had struggled with chronic stomach issues since childhood, and cold drinks always triggered a painful spasm. Gemma used to protect me from them. But she had forgotten. I didn’t reach for the can. Gemma’s forehead creased with irritation. “Amber, how long are you going to keep acting like this?” I swallowed the lump in my throat, grabbing my backpack as I slid out of the booth. “I don’t feel well. I am going home.” Asher’s expression turned anxious, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Did I say something to upset you, Amber? I am sorry.” Gemma slammed the soda can onto the table, her voice cold. “Ignore him, Asher. He is just being dramatic over nothing.” The table went dead silent, everyone watching the three of us in awkward confusion. I covered my eyes as tears finally spilled over my fingers. Turning my back on them, I ran out of the diner. I cried the entire walk home, my throat raw. When I walked through the front door, my father looked up from the television. “Did you and Gemma have another fight? She messaged me saying you blocked her.” I remained silent, my heart aching. “She just wanted to remind me to make sure you fill out your college applications,” my father continued, sighing. “She wants you to choose a school close to hers in Boston. Gemma is a good girl, Amber. It is a shame you two never worked out. You are average, and she is brilliant, so I suppose it makes sense she doesn’t see you that way.” I didn’t argue. “We don’t know much about these prestigious universities,” he added. “You should ask Gemma for advice. I saw her helping Asher with his applications the other day, she was incredibly thorough. They spent days working on it, even staying up late together.” My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. “Gemma even told him she would help him get into the best program at MIT, making sure not a single test score went to waste.” I stood in the hallway, feeling a cold weight settle in my chest. Gemma and I had promised to go to the same city. But when I had asked her to look over my choices, she had barely looked up from her phone. “I don’t know much about those middle-tier state schools, Amber. Just pick whatever is close to Boston. The major doesn’t really matter for someone with your grades anyway.” I had defended her back then, telling myself that as an elite student destined for MIT, she simply didn’t understand the complex admissions process for regular universities. I couldn’t deceive myself anymore. “Your guidance counselor called me too,” my father said. “He thinks Boston is too risky for you. What do you think?” “I am not going to Boston,” I said, forcing a smile. “I want to go to the university in Denver. My scores are high enough to get me into their honors program.” I walked into my room and shut the door, sinking to the floor as the tears finally came. The distance between our hometown and Boston was substantial, but Denver was in the opposite direction. It was far enough that I would never have to chase after her shadow again. When my acceptance letter finally arrived, my father’s hands were shaking as he held the envelope. “Amber, you actually got into Denver.” He reached for his phone to call our relatives, but I gently pressed his hand down. “Let us wait until after I leave for campus.” I spent the rest of the summer indoors. My father knew I was hurting, but he didn’t know how to comfort me, so he kept urging me to go outside and get some fresh air. I didn’t expect to run into Gemma and Asher at the airport terminal. They were dressed in matching cream-colored jackets, looking every bit like a couple. Gemma’s eyes brightened when she saw me, but her expression quickly turned frosty. “Still throwing a tantrum? Are you still ignoring my texts?” “Is this why you followed us here?” I stared at her, suddenly remembering the couples vacation package she had booked before our exams. She had promised we would go together once high school was over. The departure date was today. Asher bit his lip, taking a step back with a polite, fragile smile. “If Amber is going, I should probably stay behind.” Gemma grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Don’t be ridiculous, Asher. You spent weeks planning for this trip. You are going.” I felt a bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. She cared so much about the effort Asher had put in, completely forgetting that the entire itinerary had been researched and written by me during those sleepless post-exam nights. “Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “I am not going.” Asher waited until Gemma went to print the tickets before leaning closer to me, his voice dripping with condescension. “You should know by now, Amber, some gaps can’t be bridged by hard work. Gemma needs someone who can stand beside her, not someone dragging her down. I asked her to be my girlfriend the night of graduation. Want to guess what her answer was?” I looked at him, my heart entirely numb. “If you want her, she is yours.” Asher’s smile faltered, his expression turning ugly at my indifference. Gemma returned, handing me a single ticket. “There was only a standing ticket left for the train connection. Asher has a bad back, so you will have to stand.” She checked her watch, pulling Asher toward the security gate. “We need to go. We will meet you at the resort!” Asher shot me a triumphant look as they walked away. I looked down at the ticket in my hand. Gemma hadn’t even noticed that the ticket she had printed was for a train departing three months from now. I crumpled the ticket, tossed it into the trash, and boarded my flight to Denver. A few weeks later, I returned home to gather the rest of my belongings before moving into my dorm. As I walked up to my building, Gemma blocked my path. Her face was pale with anger as she grabbed my wrist. “Where is Asher’s acceptance letter?” I winced at her grip. “What are you talking about?” “Stop lying, Amber!” she yelled. “His official letter from Harvard was delivered to my address by mistake, and the courier said someone from this building signed for it. You have been home all week! Who else could it be? If you are angry with me, take it out on me! Why do you have to ruin Asher’s future?” I stared at her, completely stunned. Asher stepped out from behind her, his eyes red and tearful. “If you are upset about how close Gemma and I are, I can apologize, Amber. I promise I won’t speak to her again. But please, give me my letter back. I worked so hard for that spot!” “I didn’t take your letter!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “I just got back from my trip today!” Gemma ignored my words, her eyes falling on the thick cardboard envelope I was holding. She lunged forward, snatching it from my hands. “Give that back, Gemma!” I cried, trying to reach for it. She held it high above her head, looking at my desperate face with utter coldness. “I am going to count to three.” “Give us Asher’s letter, or I will rip your precious Denver letter to pieces.” “I don’t have it!” I screamed, tears of frustration streaming down my face. “I just picked this up from the mailroom! You can check the cameras!” “One.” “Gemma, please…” “Two.” She didn’t hesitate. With a sharp rip, she tore my Denver acceptance letter right down the middle, scattering the pieces at my feet. I stared at the white fragments on the pavement, unable to make a sound. Before Gemma could speak, her family’s housekeeper came running down the driveway, holding a pristine white envelope. “Gemma! I found the letter! It was mixed in with the old newspapers on the kitchen counter. I forgot to mention it earlier!” Asher’s fake sobbing stopped instantly. Gemma froze, slowly turning her head to look at me, her lips trembling as she tried to find the words. I didn’t give her the chance. I knelt down, gathered the torn pieces of my letter, and walked inside, slamming the heavy front door behind me. The next morning, I found a first-class flight ticket to Boston slid under my door, accompanied by a small note: Let’s go together. I threw both into the trash, packed my bags, and left for Denver two days early. Two days later, Gemma and Asher knocked on my father’s door. She was holding a large suitcase, her voice carrying a rare, hopeful lightness. “Mr. Arthur, I am here to pick up Amber so we can head to Boston together.”

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1 Five years into my life in London, my fiancé changed his profile picture. It was a shot of a family of three. Anyone looking at it would think they were the picture of domestic bliss. Before I could even call to interrogate him, his message popped up. “My wife gets jealous easily. Deleted you.” I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat and typed back. “Who the hell is this? And since when did my boyfriend add you?” My fiancé sent back a string of question marks. Then came a barrage of identical texts. “Who the hell are you? Amy is my girlfriend!” At that exact moment, the financial news channel on my TV was broadcasting a segment about the new head of the Manhattan based Lancaster empire. Victor Lancaster. A reckless idea sparked in my mind. I typed out that unfamiliar name and hit send. Sometime later, at a high society gala in Manhattan. My former fiancé was screaming like a madman, demanding to know what gave the man sitting at the head table the right to steal his woman. “Girlfriend?” The man raised a dark brow, his gaze shifting to me standing right in the center of the spectacle. Just as my heart leaped into my throat, his lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. “Come on then. Why don’t you tell everyone exactly what is going on, Miss Sinclair?” It was snowing heavily in London. The usually bustling streets were practically deserted. A fire crackled in the hearth as I stood by the window wrapped in a thick cashmere shawl. My eyes were still swollen from crying. Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper who had looked after me my whole life, stood nearby with a face full of worry. She gently suggested that if I was still feeling down, she could accompany me for a walk. I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. I told her I was fine and that she should go get some rest. She knew my stubborn personality better than anyone, so she didn’t push it. Half an hour later, a private investigator back in the States sent me a fifty page dossier. It turned out that by my second year abroad, Tristan Kensington was already sleeping with the maid’s daughter, Daisy. The only reason he hadn’t gone public with her was that he couldn’t bear to let go of the Kensington family’s staggering wealth. Tristan was the illegitimate son of the Kensington dynasty, only brought back into the fold when he turned eighteen. He was incompetent. To ensure the family empire didn’t crumble under his lack of skill, Old Man Kensington offered up a massive dowry, practically begging my family to agree to a marriage alliance. At the time, my family’s corporate funding had hit a brick wall. My parents were pulling their hair out, begging for investors all over the city. I couldn’t stand seeing them suffer, so I agreed to the arrangement. The first time I met Tristan was at a high-end French restaurant. He brought me a bouquet of fresh roses and sat across from me, looking genuinely nervous. When the waiter brought out the steak, he naturally took my plate and cut the meat into perfect bite-sized pieces for me. He drove me home afterward, and we talked the entire way. I had grown up navigating the toxic vanity of high society and had seen every type of fake person imaginable. But Tristan felt different. He was tall, handsome, and impeccably polite. Even though he had clearly suffered through a rough life before being claimed by his rich father, his eyes still held a bright, genuine light. We started seeing each other regularly. Every time we met, he had some small, thoughtful surprise waiting for me. I fell for him. I couldn’t stop myself. When he finally confessed his feelings, I said yes. Every single day of our relationship felt like a dream. I had a terrible temper and was prone to throwing fits. Aside from my parents, he was the only person in the world who tolerated my tantrums unconditionally. Six months into our relationship, we got engaged. Right around then, my family’s business took another devastating hit. Left with no other options, my parents shifted their entire focus overseas to London, desperately trying to find a lifeline for the company. As their only daughter and the future heir to the Sinclair Group, I didn’t hesitate. I booked a flight to join them, refusing to stay behind in New York living off my trust fund while they fought in the trenches. It poured rain the day I left. Tristan came to the airport to see me off. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked completely heartbroken, promising he would wait for me forever and begging me not to forget him. During my time in London, I texted him every single day to share the little details of my life. At first, his replies were instant. Gradually, I found myself waiting two or three days, sometimes even a full week, just to get a single message back. Love doesn’t just fade out of nowhere. There is always a trail of breadcrumbs. Now that Old Man Kensington had passed away, Tristan didn’t have to pretend anymore. He didn’t have to answer to anyone. No wonder he couldn’t wait to change the matching profile pictures we had used for years the second his grandfather was buried. My parents flew back to New York a week ahead of me to attend the funeral. I stayed behind in London to wrap up the final business negotiations. After years of relentless grinding, the Sinclair Group had successfully clawed its way back from the brink of death. Business was booming, and we were preparing to move our global headquarters back to Manhattan very soon. I instructed my assistant to pack my schedule to the brim. Aside from eating and sleeping, I worked until my eyes bled. If I kept moving, I wouldn’t have time to spiral. I knew perfectly well that crying over a man, especially a cheating bastard, was the stupidest thing a woman could do. But humans are emotional creatures, and sometimes logic just takes a backseat. I allowed myself to have bad judgment. I allowed myself to make mistakes. I allowed myself to grieve a failed relationship. But I absolutely refused to let it destroy me. I had half a month left before my flight home. During that time, Tristan bombarded my phone every single day. His texts were unhinged. He accused me of betraying him and swore he was going to hunt down and slaughter my so-called “wild man.” It was hilariously ironic. His kid with Daisy was practically old enough to run around the house, yet he had the absolute audacity to demand I stay pure and loyal to him. I didn’t reply to a single text. The day of my flight back to New York finally arrived. Mrs. Hughes made me a steaming bowl of shrimp wonton soup first thing in the morning. Watching me finish every last drop, the deep frown she had worn for days finally dissolved into a warm smile. With a full stomach, a long-lost sense of genuine joy washed over me. I was finally saying goodbye to London and going back to the city where I grew up. But I never expected that my welcoming committee would include Tristan. My parents were stuck in terrible traffic on the way to JFK Airport. As I walked out of the arrivals gate, the first person I saw was my ex-fiancé. And he wasn’t alone. Daisy and the kid were right there with him. Tristan marched toward me, radiating pure fury. He grabbed my wrist in a vice grip, his teeth practically grinding together. He demanded to know where the bastard was and why he didn’t fly back with me. Terrified he was actually going to hurt me, Mrs. Hughes completely lost it. She started kicking and hitting him with her purse, not caring who he was. Tristan winced in pain, his brows knitting together, but he absolutely refused to let me go. “Are you deaf, Amy? Answer the damn question!” I just gave him a dead, silent smirk. I wasn’t going to give him a single word. My silence only made him more psychotic. His grip tightened painfully around my bones. He glared at me like he wanted to rip my throat out. He called me a shameless tramp, accusing me of going abroad just to sleep around behind his back. He screamed that I owed him an explanation. I had seen shameless people before, but this was a whole new level of garbage. He was the one playing house with another woman, yet here he was, trying to nail me to a cross and play the victim. My parents had warned me back then. They said Tristan lacked proper education and had spent his youth running with street trash. They told me that even if he acted like a polished gentleman, I shouldn’t trust him completely. I thought he was the exception. The truth was, he was just a phenomenal actor. In the middle of that suffocating standoff, Daisy walked over holding the little boy’s hand. She spoke in a sickeningly soft, fragile voice. She told me that even though she and Tristan were married and had a child, his heart had always belonged to me. She scolded me, saying what I did was unfair to him and that as a woman, I needed to have some self-respect. She looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over. She kept her volume low, acting as if she was terrified of me. To me, she sounded like a yapping stray dog. I didn’t even waste a second glance on her. I looked at him coldly, asking if he really wanted an explanation. Tristan puffed up his chest confidently. “Damn right I do! We haven’t officially broken off the engagement. Legally, you are still my fiancée. You parading around with some random guy is a direct slap to my face.” Talk about the audacity of men. My patience completely evaporated. I raised my free hand and slapped him across the face with everything I had. I hit him so hard my own palm went numb, the stinging shock traveling all the way up my arm. A bright red handprint blossomed instantly across Tristan’s cheek, swelling up within seconds. He clearly never expected me to get physical. He dropped my wrist, clutching his face in absolute shock. He stammered, asking if I really just hit him. I stared blankly at the man shrieking like a maniac in the middle of the terminal. I told him he deserved a lot worse. I admitted I was an idiot five years ago for buying his lies, but I made it crystal clear that as of today, we were completely done. A flash of genuine panic crossed Tristan’s eyes, but he quickly forced himself to calm down. “Amy, don’t say things you don’t mean out of anger.” He spun a pathetic web of excuses. He claimed he didn’t love Daisy. He said four years ago, someone slipped a drug into his drink, and Daisy sacrificed her own virtue to save his life. When she ended up pregnant, he had no choice but to take responsibility. As for the profile picture and the text messages? He swore it was just a punishment for losing a bet during a poker game. He told me to go ask his frat buddies if I didn’t believe him. He admitted he married Daisy, but swore it was only to protect Noah. He didn’t want the boy growing up being called a fatherless bastard, especially since he knew exactly how much that hurt from his own childhood. I couldn’t care less if a single word vomiting out of his mouth was true. It didn’t matter. Betrayal is betrayal. I wasn’t interested in his tragic backstory or his pathetic justifications. I looked at him with absolute ice in my veins. I asked him what exactly he expected. Did he seriously think I was going to pretend nothing happened and jump right back into his arms? Tristan’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He immediately tried to grab my hands again. He praised me for always being so understanding, promising that he just couldn’t give me the official title right now. He swore that once Noah was a little older, he would divorce Daisy. His greedy calculations were practically smeared across his forehead. Right on cue, Daisy chimed in. She played the tragic martyr, saying she knew her place and would never cling to Tristan. She even offered to let me legally adopt Noah if I wanted. It sounded incredibly generous, but it was nothing but a calculated trap. My parents only had me. I was already holding a high-level executive position in our empire. If that kid became my legal son, he wouldn’t just skip the social ladder entirely. He would be handed the keys to the kingdom. I wasn’t falling for her manipulative guilt trips. But Tristan ate it right up. He held Daisy’s hand, looking at her like she was a wounded angel. He called her the most understanding woman he had ever met and promised Noah would always know her as his real mother. My stomach violently turned. The sheer disgust finally overwhelmed me, and I turned to the side and threw up. Mrs. Hughes went into a frenzy, rubbing my back and frantically searching for a bottle of water. Tristan, on the other hand, went completely dark. His face twisted into an ugly scowl as he harshly demanded to know if I was pregnant with the other man’s bastard. He reached out to grab me again. Just in the nick of time, my parents finally arrived. The second Tristan saw my father, his aggressive bravado vanished into thin air. He immediately put on a sickeningly polite smile, greeting them and acting like a devoted son-in-law. My parents didn’t give him the time of day. They treated him like toxic waste. Tristan stood there awkwardly, too terrified to even breathe loudly. The speed at which he changed his tune was giving me whiplash. If I didn’t already know that his current real estate project was tanking and heavily relied on Sinclair Group’s core tech to survive, I might have actually believed he respected my parents. My parents carefully helped me into the backseat of the Maybach. As the car pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Tristan had instinctively taken a few steps to chase after the car. Then, the quiet little boy started wailing. Tristan’s attention snapped right back to him. For some unknown reason, Daisy started sobbing too. Tristan was stuck on the sidewalk, frantically trying to comfort the crying kid and the weeping woman. Tsk. Look how busy he is. Inside the car, my mother couldn’t stop cursing his name. She called him absolute scum, regretting that she and my father ever agreed to the engagement. My father sat tall, his aura terrifyingly cold. He swore that since Tristan dared to humiliate his daughter, he was going to make the boy wish he was never born. I squeezed their hands, comforting them. I told them we dodged a massive bullet and cutting our losses now was a blessing. Once we got to our penthouse in Manhattan, I crashed into bed and slept for a full twenty-four hours. When I finally woke up, I could hear faint voices drifting from the living room. It was my parents talking to our family doctor. I rubbed my throbbing temples, sitting up slowly. It took me a minute to process their conversation. The doctor told them I was suffering from severe exhaustion and needed strict bed rest. My parents were anxiously asking him for a list of precautions. After a while, the living room fell silent. My bedroom door clicked open, and my mother walked in. Seeing me awake, she immediately plastered on a bright smile. She asked what I was craving for dinner, offering tomato beef stew or a nourishing pork rib soup. I didn’t have an ounce of appetite, but I couldn’t bear to make them worry. I thought about it and asked for the beef stew with a side of stir-fried greens. My mother gently stroked my hair. She casually mentioned that a Mr. Lancaster was hosting a massive gala at the Century Grand Hotel tonight, and our family had received a VIP invitation. She told me that since she and my father were preparing to step back from the spotlight, I needed to start showing my face at these elite gatherings. I nodded and agreed to go. My brain was still foggy from the long sleep. I completely forgot to ask who this mysterious “Mr. Lancaster” actually was. My mother smiled in relief, whispering that her little girl was finally growing up. The gala was set for eight o’clock. I had plenty of time. Time to eat, time to pick out an appropriately lavish gift for the host, and time to get my hair and makeup done perfectly. By seven, I was sitting in the back of the Maybach wearing a stunning, fiery red evening gown. Before leaving the house, I had stood in front of the full-length mirror for a very long time. I was twenty-eight. Young, beautiful, vibrant, and proud. This was the absolute prime of my life. In a daze, a memory surfaced. Ever since I started dating Tristan, I rarely wore bright colors. He didn’t like it when I looked too flashy or commanding. He preferred women who looked soft, subdued, and easily controlled. The car sped through the dazzling city lights. For the first time in a long time, my heart felt completely at peace. I arrived at the ballroom twenty minutes early. Several socialites and business tycoons who recognized me came over with champagne flutes to welcome me back to the city. I navigated the small talk flawlessly. The event officially kicked off, but I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the elusive host. I did, however, run into three incredibly unwelcome guests. Tristan, Daisy, and that hostile little kid. Tristan ditched Daisy and the boy, storming over to me with a face like thunder. He sneered, saying he was surprised I had the nerve to show my face in public. Absolutely delusional. He was the one who should be hiding in a sewer. When I completely ignored him, Tristan started losing his temper. He raised his voice, mocking me, saying he couldn’t wait to see if my wild man had the guts to show up. He was raving like a lunatic. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck my sleep-deprived brain. It finally clicked. The host’s last name was Lancaster. My mother had respectfully called him “Mr. Lancaster.” There was only one man in the entire city of New York who commanded that level of absolute reverence from my mother. A cold sweat broke out on my palms. Just as I was turning to find a quiet exit, the massive double doors of the grand ballroom swung open. The man leading the entourage was incredibly tall. His features were striking and flawless, his aura radiating a terrifying, aristocratic chill. He owned the room just by stepping into it. It was too late to run. I tried to shrink into the shadows, backing into the most inconspicuous corner I could find. But in the very next second, Tristan, being the absolute idiot he was, charged straight at the billionaire. He pointed a finger, screaming like a madman. “Victor Lancaster, I don’t care how much money or power you have! Today I am exposing you for the scum you are! Everyone, look at this despicable bastard! He stole my girlfriend!” Instantly, every single pair of eyes in the ballroom snapped directly to me. And here I thought these billionaires didn’t care about tabloid gossip. Apparently, everyone in the room knew exactly who I used to be engaged to. Victor didn’t even blink. He completely ignored Tristan, walking past him to take his seat at the center table. “Girlfriend?” He raised a dark brow. His voice was like ice, reminding me of a biting winter storm. It was heavily commanding. Lethal. I ducked my head in absolute panic, wishing the marble floor would open up and swallow me whole. I had heard the rumors about this man. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. A monster in a bespoke suit. The seconds dragged on like hours. My heart was practically beating out of my chest. The silence in the room was suffocating. I slowly peeked up, only to lock eyes with a pair of abyss-like, pitch-black irises. The man’s lips curved into a faint, dark smile. “Come on then. Why don’t you tell everyone exactly what is going on, Miss Sinclair?”

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The yacht was going down. A massive whirlpool spun in the dark ocean, and water was rapidly filling the cabins. My wife, Chloe, was already on the rescue boat with her childhood sweetheart, Julian. She tossed me a single lifebuoy. Looking back at me with impatience, she yelled, “Ethan, you’re a strong swimmer, but Julian has a phobia of water! If he doesn’t take the lifeboat, he’ll die!” With that, Chloe abandoned me. I could only watch as the rescue boat carrying them sped away into the night. But she forgot one thing. Ten years ago, the person who nearly drowned and developed a crippling fear of water to save her life… was me. As the freezing, pitch-black ocean swallowed me whole, I felt myself slipping into the deep. I died. When I regained consciousness, I was floating above the ocean as a ghost. Looking down at the calm, silent water, a deep, instinctual terror gripped my soul. The memories of my death came rushing back like a nightmare. The sinking yacht, the panicked screams, and the cold, disgusted look in my wife’s eyes. When the whirlpool first hit, the vessel shook violently. My first instinct had been to shield Chloe in my arms. The impact threw me against a heavy wooden table, bruising my spine. My vision blurred, and my chest throbbed with excruciating pain. But Chloe didn’t even spare me a glance. She pushed me away in a panic and stumbled through the chaos toward Julian. I watched her gently help Julian up, checking him for scratches with an tenderness she had never shown me. A dull, aching pain bloomed in my chest. Then, someone yelled, “The hull is breached! It’s sinking! Get to the lifeboats!” Terrified, Chloe grabbed Julian’s hand and ran. I stared at their retreating figures, a bitter taste in my mouth. It was always like this. Whenever Julian was around, Chloe became completely blind to my existence. Yet, I was her legal husband. As the water rose to my waist, I forced myself to stand, desperately fighting the pain in my back to escape. Luckily, a coast guard member spotted me and dragged me out to the deck. But before I could even feel relief, Chloe’s voice pierced through the wind, freezing me in place. “What do you mean there are only two spots left on this lifeboat?” The rescue officer nodded grimly. Chloe noticed me coming out. Her brows furrowed, torn between her choices. Julian, his face pale and weak, spoke up. “Chloe, you and Ethan should go. He’s your husband. I… I’ll be fine.” Chloe’s expression changed instantly. “No way! You saved my life once, Julian. I will never abandon you!” She turned to me, biting her lip, and said decisively, “Ethan, you know how to swim. I’ll leave the lifebuoy for you.” With that, she turned around and helped Julian onto the rescue boat. I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. Swallowing the immense grief rising in my throat, I begged, “Chloe, please. Don’t leave me here. You know I—” Chloe looked back, cutting me off with pure irritation. “If you don’t stay, who will? You saw it yourself—there are only two seats left. Do you expect me to stay behind?” “No, that’s not what I mean…” “Then what is your problem? You’re a great swimmer. You have the lifebuoy. You’ll be perfectly fine!” Her eyes flashed with annoyance, as if I were a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. “But Julian is different. He has a severe phobia of water. If he doesn’t get on this boat, he will die!” Her tone grew harsher. “I tolerate your petty jealousy on normal days, Ethan, but this is a matter of life and death! Can you stop being so incredibly selfish?” I froze, feeling as though she had plunged a dagger straight into my heart. But if I stayed here, I would die too. Yes, I used to swim. But she forgot that ten years ago, after I nearly lost my life saving her from drowning, I became terrified of the water. I hadn’t stepped into a pool since, let alone the ocean. It was me who had the phobia, not Julian. Julian smirked triumphantly behind her back, though his voice remained meek. “I’m terrified of the water, and Chloe knows that. I’m sorry to trouble you, Ethan. Don’t worry, Chloe and I are just friends now. We will send help for you as soon as we land.” “Why are you even explaining things to him, Julian? Ignore him. A toxic mind only sees toxicity,” Chloe snapped. And just like that, I was left behind, watching them disappear into the fog. Seconds later, the yacht went under. Cold, salty water rushed into my nose and throat. Recalling my final moments, a sharp pain radiated through my spectral body. So, even souls can feel heartbreak.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit me, and my spirit was pulled violently through the air. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in our house. Staring at the familiar living room, my eyes stung, but as a ghost, I had no tears to shed. I heard a noise coming from the master bedroom. Joy sparked in my chest—Chloe was home! She was a notorious workaholic, always staying late at the office or traveling for business. She was rarely home during the day, and even when I was bedridden with fever, she wouldn’t come back. I didn’t know how long I had been dead, and I thought I’d never see her again. I rushed toward the bedroom, instinctively reaching for the doorknob, but my hand passed straight through it. Right. I was dead. I floated through the door, but the sight inside froze me in my tracks. The warmth in my chest vanished, replaced by an icy chill. Why was Julian in our house? Why was he lying in our bed? Rage consumed me. I lunged forward, trying to drag him off the mattress. “Get out! Get the hell out of my house!” But my hands sliced through his body, and I fell helplessly to the floor. I had to watch as Julian leaned weakly against the headboard while Chloe blew on a spoon of hot soup, carefully feeding him. “My old symptoms are acting up again. I hate making you come home to cook for me every day, Chloe. You’re working so hard,” Julian murmured. Chloe smiled gently, shaking her head. “You don’t have any family in this city, Julian. It’s only right that I take care of you. Don’t thank me.” I sat on the floor, completely numb. But I was alone here too. When we got married, Chloe’s old-money family disapproved of me, so I packed my bags and moved across the country to her city, starting from scratch to build a life for us. I worked myself to the bone just to give her the lifestyle she deserved. Yet, every time I fell ill, Chloe would only complain about how inconvenient it was. If she was in a good mood, she’d toss a bottle of pills at me. If she was annoyed, she wouldn’t even ask. Watching her tend to Julian with such devotion, my heart suffered a slow, dull ache. So, she did know how to care for someone. She just never wanted to care for me. After finishing the soup, Julian asked with feigned concern, “It’s been a week now. Still no word from Ethan?” Chloe’s face darkened, and she slammed the bowl onto the nightstand. “Don’t bring him up. Just thinking about him ruins my day. He’s a grown man, yet he’s so incredibly petty! He’s probably hiding somewhere, refusing to call just to make me feel guilty.” “Could something have happened to him? The ocean can be so unpredictable,” Julian said, his eyes gleaming with hidden satisfaction. “What could happen to him? He’s a strong swimmer, he had a lifebuoy, and we already reported his location to the rescue teams. He’s fine,” Chloe replied, though she sounded slightly agitated. Chloe wasn’t done venting. “Ethan is getting completely out of hand! Whether he’s alive or not, he should have at least sent a message. He’s definitely throwing a tantrum because I left him behind. I don’t get it. How can a grown man be this spiteful?” I let out a hollow laugh. I was dead. How was I supposed to text her? Through a Ouija board? “If Ethan were even half as considerate as you, Julian, my life wouldn’t be this exhausting,” she sighed. There it was again. In her eyes, Julian was a saint, and everything I did was a crime. Because of her job, Chloe spent long hours in front of a computer, which gave her chronic back and eye strain. Worried about her health, I bought her the best massage chairs and wellness supplements, constantly reminding her to use them. My reward? Angry outbursts. *”Can you stop nagging me, Ethan? Don’t you have your own life? Stop suffocating me, I’m not your prisoner!”* Yet, Julian only had to offer a few cheap, empty words of comfort, and she would beam with joy. “Don’t say that, Chloe. He only acts that way because he loves you so much. Since his whereabouts are still unknown, maybe you should call the search and rescue team again?” Julian suggested. “There’s no point,” Chloe dismissed coldly. “If he’s dead, it’s his own damn fault.”

Listening to Chloe’s heartless words, I realized something shocking—my heart didn’t hurt as much anymore. After all, what could I expect from a woman who didn’t care about her missing husband, yet treated her ex-boyfriend’s mild cold like a medical emergency? My only regret was realizing her true nature so late. I didn’t want to watch them play house anymore, but the moment I saw Chloe, I felt an invisible chain binding me to her. I couldn’t move more than a few yards away from her. I felt like an absolute clown. I was miserable while alive, and now I was forced to watch my wife and her lover as a ghost. Frustrated, I turned my gaze to the empty wall in the hallway. Our wedding photo used to hang there. A bitter feeling washed over me. After all these years together, did Chloe really have no feelings for me at all? Suddenly, a phone vibrated. Julian had fallen asleep. Chloe quietly stepped out of the bedroom, eagerly grabbing her phone. But when she saw the caller ID, her excited expression instantly collapsed. It was Marcus, my one and only best friend in this city. “What do you want?” Chloe’s tone was incredibly sharp. Marcus’s voice came through, cold and dark. “Chloe. Where the hell are you?” Chloe rolled her eyes. “None of your business. State your purpose, I’m busy.” A heavy silence fell over the line before Marcus exploded. “Busy with what?! Busy playing nurse to that pathetic loser, Julian?! Do you have any idea what happened to Ethan—” “Don’t shout at me, Marcus!” Chloe barked back. “Watch your mouth, or go to hell!” Marcus took a deep, shaky breath. “Let me ask you something. Have you even checked the rescue updates for Ethan recently?” “No. He’s a grown man. Can’t he find his own way home? He survived the crash and didn’t even bother to text me. His ego is getting way too big,” Chloe scoffed. “He can’t text you, Chloe! He will never text you again! Because he is dead! Ethan is dead! You are his wife, how can you be this fucking heartless?!” Marcus roared into the phone. Chloe let out a condescending laugh. “Oh, please. Does Ethan know his best friend is making up fake deaths for him now?” Marcus gasped, utterly bewildered. “You don’t believe me?” “Why should I? Use your brain, Marcus. Ethan can swim, and he had a lifebuoy. Staying afloat until help arrived would be a piece of cake for him. Besides, he’s too stubborn to die.” Marcus was practically hyperventilating with rage. “He *used* to swim, Chloe! That was ten years ago! Ever since he almost drowned saving your worthless life, he developed a severe phobia of water! He hasn’t touched water since!” “Chloe, you are a monster. Ethan was your husband. He loved you more than life itself, and you left him to die alone in the dark!” Chloe froze. “What rubbish are you talking about? Julian was the one who saved me back then.” “Bullshit! Julian didn’t show up at the hospital until hours later! If you had waited for him to save you, you’d be a skeleton by now! Think back to that day, Chloe! Who actually dragged you out of the water?!” “That’s impossible… I clearly remember…” Chloe’s voice trailed off. The annoyance on her face cracked, revealing a sliver of panic. Marcus let out a humorless laugh. “What’s the matter, princess? Memory coming back?” Ignoring his mockery, a sudden dread crept into Chloe’s eyes. Her voice trembled. “You… what did you say happened to Ethan just now?” “He’s dead, Chloe! He’s dead!”

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My twin brother and I look exactly alike, but our parents have only ever loved him. Even after I got early admission to Harvard with a full ride, my mother got down on her knees and begged me to take the SATs for my brother, Dylan, who was failing all his classes. I told them it was a federal crime, but my father kicked me so hard he broke my ribs, watching me gasp for air on the floor. “If you won’t take the test for him, you might as well die.” In sheer despair, I agreed. But once I got into the exam room, I wrote “DUMBASS” in giant letters on every single page of the test. I completely destroyed Dylan’s dream of getting into an Ivy League school. In fact, he wouldn’t even be allowed to retake the test… “You selfish brat! You got your golden ticket to Harvard, but you’re going to let Dylan’s future rot? You know his grades are terrible! What kind of brother are you?” My mother’s face was twisted in rage as she screamed at me, as if I had committed some unspeakable crime. But all I did was refuse to commit exam fraud by taking the SATs under Dylan’s name. It was illegal. If we got caught, my Harvard admission would be revoked, and I could even face prison time. But my mother wouldn’t listen to a word. After she finished screaming, she dropped to her knees with a heavy thud. She sobbed, begging, “Ethan, please. I’m begging you. Just take the test for him! Have you forgotten what you did to him? You pushed him down the stairs when you were kids! If you hadn’t pushed him, he’d be a hundred times smarter than you. He wouldn’t be struggling to get into college! You ruined his life, and now you won’t even help him with this? How can you be so heartless?” I hadn’t forgotten. How could I ever forget? When we were kids, Dylan wanted the last piece of cake in my hand. He tripped and fell down the stairs trying to snatch it. But when he woke up, he told our parents that I pushed him. From that day on, I was branded as the evil twin. No matter how much I explained, they never believed me. Dylan got double the cake, double the toys, and all the love because of his “injury.” In the years that followed, he framed me over and over again. My life became a living hell, and my parents treated me like I was invisible. Even now, my mother’s heart only beat for Dylan. She wanted me to take all the risks, face prison, and throw my life away just for him! But I was her son, too! Richard, my father, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke. “I’m not asking for a perfect score. Just get a decent score so Dylan can get into Columbia or NYU. You are twins. I raised you to support each other. Are you really going to be this selfish when your brother needs you?” Because of my refusal, my father’s face was dark. He looked like a wild animal ready to tear me apart if I said no again. His cold glare made me shiver, and my heart bled. Before I could speak, Dylan, who had been staring at his phone like a ghost, finally looked up. He smirked at me with pure disdain. “Look at this coward, scared of his own shadow. Just shut up and go, Ethan. We have the exact same face. No one at the testing center will ever know.” My mother quickly chimed in, “Exactly! You two look identical. Even we can barely tell you apart sometimes, let alone a bunch of exam proctors.” I felt a wave of absolute despair. How could they say they couldn’t tell us apart? We looked the same, yes, but since we were kids, they always managed to identify Dylan perfectly whenever there was a toy to buy or delicious food to give. All their love went to him. And now, they wanted me to ruin my life for him. What about me? What would happen to me if we got caught? In their eyes, was Dylan’s life meant to be bright and glorious, while mine was meant to rot in the mud? I wanted to fight back. I wanted to run away. But looking at the deep wrinkles on my parents’ faces, I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and forced myself to speak. “Exam fraud is a federal crime. If they find out, I will go to prison. How about this? Starting today, I will tutor Dylan every single day. We still have time before the test—” Before I could finish, Dylan’s fist slammed into my face. The rest of my words were cut short, drowned in the metallic taste of blood pooling in my mouth. Dylan glared at me, his eyes filled with fury. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Trying to rub your high grades in my face? If I could study, would I need you to take the damn test for me? I’m letting you do this because I’m throwing you a bone. Don’t be ungrateful!” With that, Dylan threw me to the floor and turned to scream at our parents. “Look at the perfect son you raised! So selfish! He gets to go to Harvard while I don’t even get into college! I already made a bet with the guys. If I don’t get into a top school, they’re going to break my hands! You’re trying to ruin me! I’ll just go die! Is that what you want? Are you happy now?!”

Dylan kicked the coffee table over with a loud crash. The boiling hot soup on the table splashed all over me, burning my skin. My vision went blurry from the sharp pain. My mother, who had been kneeling on the floor just a moment ago, scrambled up to grab Dylan’s hands, crying tears of pity. “My poor baby! Your hands are so beautiful. What would you do without them?” Then she whipped her head around to glare at me, her eyes filled with pure malice. “Look at what you’ve done to your brother! How did I ever give birth to a monster like you?” She acted as if I was the one who made the bet, as if I was the one threatening to chop Dylan’s hands off. Faced with Dylan, she was a loving mother. Faced with me, she was a vengeful enemy. It was as if I wasn’t her son, but her mortal foe. My father finally threw off his fake mask of civility. He walked over and slapped me hard across the face. “I told you this ungrateful little shit wouldn’t help. You wanted to negotiate with him, Eleanor? I say we just beat him until he learns to obey.” The slap made my ears ring loudly. I couldn’t hear anything for a long time. When the ringing finally faded, I heard my father’s voice. “If you don’t agree to take the test for Dylan today, I will beat you to death, you ungrateful bastard.” My father raised his hand to strike me again, but my mother stopped him. For a split second, a tiny spark of warmth rose in my battered heart. But then, my mother said, “Don’t hit his face, Richard. We never hit Dylan’s face. People at the testing center will get suspicious.” Ah. They were just worried about getting caught. Of course. Since we were kids, whenever I was beaten until I bled, Dylan was coddled like a fragile glass doll. If he even scraped his knee, they would rush him to the ER. “Are you going to do it or not, you piece of shit?” Dylan snapped, losing his patience. Looking at my “family” standing over me like a pack of wolves, I suddenly let out a bitter laugh. So this was the family I had been craving love from. Seeing me laugh, my father lost his temper completely. He lunged forward and kicked me squarely in the chest. A sharp, sickening crack echoed in my ears. A wave of agonizing pain exploded from my chest, radiating to every nerve in my body. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, and I coughed up a mouthful of blood as I collapsed onto the floor. Looking up at them standing over me like demons, feeling the cold touch of impending death, I finally gave in. I didn’t want to die… So, I had to agree. Once I agreed to take the SATs, Dylan suggested that I should start “living his life” to get used to the identity. As soon as my broken ribs healed enough for me to move, I was forced to go to Dylan’s school pretending to be him. The moment I walked through the school gates, a guy with a messy, loose outfit slung his arm over my shoulder. “Yo, Dylan! You’re finally back.” I glanced at him but didn’t say a word. He kept talking, “You promised to buy the boys drinks to celebrate your upcoming graduation and your new sports car. You’ve been MIA for days, man. We’ve been waiting!” I didn’t want to talk to these people, but his words caught my attention. “What new sports car?” “Come on, Dylan! You said your parents promised you a new Mustang once you graduate high school. Don’t tell me you’re backing out now!” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a sleazy whisper. “Besides, didn’t your mom sign that exclusive contract for your brother with that tech firm? Your family must be loaded right now! How about lending some cash to your boy?” A tech firm contract… An alarm went off in my head. I suddenly remembered a shady, third-rate tech startup that had offered me a “technical advisor” position a few weeks ago. I had researched them. The company was notorious in the industry for wage theft, extreme exploitation, and senior executives who sexually harassed interns. The contract was a predatory 20-year binding agreement. They only recruited top-tier students from elite schools to use them as cheap labor and positive PR before tossing them aside. Signing it meant throwing away your entire life. I had rejected them outright. I never imagined my mother would forge my signature and sign it behind my back. She was selling my future! A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. The guy beside me kept rambling, “Man, your mom is awesome! Selling your brother’s future just to buy you a sports car!” Yes. My parents were so good to Dylan. They forced me to commit a federal crime for him, signed away my life to a toxic company, and used the signing bonus to buy him a luxury car. What about me? My parents had never given me a single penny of allowance. I was so poor I couldn’t even afford lunch at school. When I got sick, I had to endure it alone. I almost died of a high fever in my dorm room once. But whenever I asked them for money, they would scream at me, calling me a financial burden, telling me to drop out of school and work in a factory. We were born from the same parents, so why was there such a brutal difference? What did I do wrong? Looking at my stolen future, a wave of helplessness washed over me. I couldn’t even take another step. I just wanted to collapse on the pavement and scream.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that Dylan was incredibly popular at school. He spent money like water, constantly buying drinks and fast food for his classmates and teachers, so everyone loved him. Meanwhile, because I always wore old, ragged clothes and couldn’t afford to pay for class activities, I was constantly bullied and isolated. Only my desk mate, Daisy, was kind to me. She never looked down on me. My chest still throbbed with pain, making it hard to speak, but I forced myself to stay at school until the final bell. I knew if I went home early, my parents would only find something else to scream at me for. Back when I was studying for my own exams, they never cared. But now that I was taking the test for Dylan, they watched me like hawks, terrified I would ruin his chance. Even when I was recovering from my broken ribs, they piled SAT prep books on my bed, forcing me to study. When I finally walked through the front door, they were already eating dinner. Sitting at my spot was a paper plate and a plastic fork, with a pile of cold, leftover rice. I couldn’t remember when it started, but I was always forced to use paper plates and plastic forks, treated worse than a stray dog. Meanwhile, Dylan always ate from the finest china, and when he was angry, he would throw those heavy plates right at my head. And today was no exception. The moment I walked in, Dylan muttered, “Ugh, my appetite is ruined,” and slammed his plate onto the table. The beautiful ceramic plate shattered into pieces. My mother gasped. “Oh, my sweet boy!” Then she turned to me, screaming, “Grab your garbage plate and get upstairs! Stop ruining our dinner!” Then she turned back to Dylan, her voice dripping with honey. “Dylan, honey, you need your nutrition. Have some more lobster.” Looking at this family that I would never be a part of, the urge to run away flared up again. I sighed inwardly, picked up my paper plate, and turned to head upstairs. Suddenly, Dylan’s tone changed. He let out a nasty, mocking laugh. “Hey, come here. I want to show you something.” He pulled out his phone and played a video. Seeing the intimate, blurred figures on the screen, my heart stopped. A cold, suffocating terror gripped my throat. Dylan chuckled, “That little fat girl is actually pretty fun in bed, though she kept crying and calling out your name. Annoying as hell.” He burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “By the way, dear brother, that stupid girl is Daisy, right? She actually thought I was you. She kept crying, ‘Ethan, please stop…’ It was fucking hilarious!” Daisy… The only person in the world who was kind to me, the only person who gave me warmth! And she was defiled by this monster, Dylan! If she found out it wasn’t me, if she knew there was a video… she would be completely destroyed! How was I supposed to face her now? My blood ran cold, and my heart felt like it was about to explode. Looking at the face that looked exactly like mine, I threw a heavy punch right into his laughing mouth. In that moment, I genuinely wanted to kill him. I agreed to take his test. I gave him my future. I gave him everything. But why did he have to touch Daisy?! He took my parents’ love, he took my toys, he took my entire life, and now he had destroyed the only beautiful thing I had left. I went feral, pinning Dylan to the floor and slamming my fists into his face. But watching his bloody, crying face didn’t bring me any peace. I only felt a deep, agonizing ache in my chest, and tears finally spilled over. The chaos ended when my mother slammed a heavy wooden rolling pin against the back of my head, knocking me out cold. In the days that followed, they locked me in my room, forcing me to study until the day of the SATs. During those dark days, something inside me broke, and then rebuilt itself into something cold and sharp. Originally, I just wanted to get it over with, let Dylan have his Ivy League spot, and leave this family forever. But now, I wanted to destroy him. I wanted him to regret ever touching Daisy. I wanted to burn his entire world to the ground. If he wouldn’t let me live, I wouldn’t let him win. On the day of the exam, my parents escorted me to the testing center like prison guards. Before I got out of the car, they warned me, “You better get a score high enough for Columbia, or we’ll skin you alive.” I nodded obediently. But once I sat down in the quiet exam room, surrounded by nervous, hopeful students, I calmly wrote Dylan’s name on the bubble sheet. Then, on the essay section and every single page of the test booklet, I wrote “DUMBASS” and “LOSER” in giant, bold letters. I wrote down every disgusting, vile insult my parents and Dylan had ever thrown at me. You want to go to Columbia? Go work at a drive-thru, you piece of trash. I let out a quiet smirk, unable to wait to see the look on their faces when the results came out.

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